"Three!?" Tucker's voice shouted through the communicator, "Why that's hardly worth the effort!" he sounded as if he was blaming Reed personally for this unforeseen tragedy, as if Reed had any control over how many mushrooms he'd found in the cave, "You're sure there's just three?"
"That's all I saw," Reed said passively.
He was too tired to fight anymore. He had a migraine so bad he was seeing white spots, his stomach was upset, he was bruised and battered from his earlier scuffle with Tucker, and he was weary of hiking through the uncut jungle and then crawling through half-collapsed passageways he could barely fit through, looking for something he didn't even want to find in the first place. All he wanted was to just sit down before he fell down, not get yelled at by Tucker some more.
"Captain Archer isn't gonna be happy about this," Tucker growled.
Briefly through Reed's mind flitted all the times his mother had said the equivalent. "Just wait until your father gets home. He won't be pleased about this at all, Malcolm." And he invariably wasn't, because there wasn't a thing in the world Reed could do that would please that man. In his father's view, Reed was just a never-ending cause of problems, a nuisance, and a massive disappointment. Reed had always felt certain that Archer must, or eventually would, share that view. It too was inevitable.
Taking a breath, Reed shook out his thoughts and clung to the present.
"Tell him to take it up with the mushrooms," Reed advised Tucker, "Or maybe the Dolizet for harvesting them into near extinction in the first place."
"That's not funny, Malcolm," Tucker snapped.
"It wasn't meant to be."
He looked around the cave he was standing in again, not because he expected more mushrooms, but just as a matter of trying to gather his thoughts, and ignore Tucker's senselessly berating commentary.
The cave was fairly large, and there were several tunnels that connected to it, though Reed's scanner couldn't detect if or where they let out. The cave itself was lush with softly glowing purple something or others growing on every surface of rock they could find, except in the center, where there was a distinct lack of ceiling. There was an irregular hole in the rock roughly the size of a shuttle, though a shuttle wouldn't fit through it on account of its unevenness. The hole was partially covered over with vines and above that was a canopy of trees, making the sunlight that reached down into the cave quite indirect, which seemed to be the preferred growing condition of the three mushrooms he'd found.
Semi-dark and dank.
The humidity in here was far worse than out in the forest proper, and it wasn't doing Reed any favors. Nor, he suspected, was his proximity to the mushrooms.
"Alright," Tucker declared after he'd run out of insults and paused to take a breath, "Leave 'em there. We can't risk damagin' 'em now. Maybe when we get a better handle on the domestic varieties, we'll have a better idea how to remove these ones and grow them safely. Until then, I guess we'll just have to leave them on their own for now."
Reed waited, but it was another ten or fifteen seconds before Tucker finally said, "Me and Travis will go ahead back to the Dolizet village. We'll see you when you get there."
The Dolizet had put the visiting Enterprise crewmen up in a burrow that Trip supposed might be their equivalent of a hotel. It certainly had enough rooms. But it was low-roofed, the passageways were cramped and there were virtually no windows to the outside except near the entrance.
But, trying to think with the open mind T'Pol always recommended, it occurred to Trip that these things all made sense for a smallish race that usually went about on all fours, and that had evolved from some manner of creature that Trip imagined was similar to a warthog or maybe a naked mole-rat.
Despite their attempts to accommodate more humanoid types outside of their burrows, there wasn't a great deal the Dolizet could do about their home designs, or perhaps they were merely unused to guests from other worlds staying the night. But, given the time it took to go up and down with the shuttles, and their limited space for crew, making a temporary base of operations on the Dolizet homeworld itself was the only practical solution, and it would have been rude to refuse to stay in the space the Dolizet had so generously offered to share with their human visitors. At least, that was how Captain Archer saw it, and Trip had to bow to the man's authority on the matter.
Anyway, Trip was too tired, sore and discouraged when he got back with Malcolm and Travis to complain about the accommodations. Besides, he had a much more sensible target for his annoyance. Malcolm had not only assaulted a senior officer, but he'd also failed to find the mushrooms they'd been sent to look for, and Trip wasn't entirely convinced it was simply because they weren't there to be found. Malcolm's heart wasn't in this mission, and hadn't been from the start. He wasn't just being lazy, and today he'd blasted on past ornery, going straight to violent. There was no excusing that.
"You keep clear of me, ya hear?" Trip hissed at Malcolm, neither considering nor caring that even a whisper could be heard throughout the small dining space they were in.
It was better that everyone knew anyway. Malcolm was a problem, and there was no reason in the world why that should be a secret anymore. Not after today. In fact, Trip half-considered announcing to the room that Malcolm was slated for a court martial in the near future. But he decided that would be too disruptive to the work they had to get done down here. Besides, it had been a long day of work for everyone, and they just wanted to enjoy some food and go to bed, not deal with the drama Malcolm insisted on generating everywhere he went these days.
Malcolm offered no response to Trip, but merely drifted to the far side of the room and sat down. He looked like he knew his career was over and was just waiting for that final hammer to fall. Trip had no sympathy. Malcolm had made his bed. Let him lie in it.
The dinner tables were low, constructed out of planks of wood brought in from the outside and held together by some sort of glue-like substance and laid atop a series of flat stones. Fringed mats served in place of chairs. Trip was surprised when he sat on one and found that he wasn't actually sitting on a flat surface. Underneath the mat, the dirt had been dug out into a rough butt shape for comfort. It occurred to him that the Dolizet must have done that specially for the Enterprise crewmen, because it wasn't shaped to suit the Dolizet's form at all. He wondered if the Dolizet had done that in advance, or if they had observed the discomfort of their guests and taken such steps as they could to alleviate it.
Either way, the Dolizet were a thoughtful bunch, and Trip appreciated their hospitality, though he could've done with a few more technological luxuries.
But things were not as entirely primitive as they looked. The burrows were not constructed to allow proper airflow and ventilation all on their own, there had to be some sort of hidden air conditioning systems for it to all work properly. Trip hadn't managed to spot so much as a control panel yet, but he could practically taste the artificially filtered and cooled air around him. There was also just something distinct about a meal made from a protein resequencer, though the ones the Dolizet had were clearly superior to what was on board Enterprise.
However, even they had not been able to replicate the spice using artificial means. They had to plant, grow, harvest and refine the mushrooms all by hand. And damn were they ever good at it. They had a perfect handle on the exact right amounts of the spice to use, and how to combine spices made from different strains of the mushrooms to make the most amazingly flavorful dishes Trip had ever had.
Never had he heard more appreciative sound effects coming from people at a dinner table than he heard that night in the Dolizet burrow. Hardly anybody took a mouthful of food that didn't then stop to moan or sigh fondly, Trip included. It was just so good.
Only Malcolm remained silent. Of course, he was over there eating from a ration packet, refusing to participate with the rest of the group. As usual. His silence was a sore reminder of his refusal to be part of the team or get along with anybody, and it seemed like he was actively trying to spoil dinner for everyone. His very presence was becoming toxic to good morale.
Between courses, one of the Dolizet serving as primary connection between the majority of the Dolizet and the visiting humans decided to address himself to the disheveled state in which Trip and Malcolm had arrived here this evening, and in particular the bruise that had formed behind one of Trip's ears; the result of his sharp introduction to the ground at the end of the fight.
The Dolizet had a proper name, but it was a name that no one with a human-like vocal apparatus could say. The Dolizet were accustomed to such difficulties and had recommended that the humans give them nicknames. In turn, the Dolizet had come up with names for the humans that they could say. Their translators did the rest of the work from there, translating the nicknames into the correct names just as they translated words. The upshot of this was that every Dolizet effectively called him Trip, and he knew this particular Dolizet as Frankie.
"I hope you did not find your journey overly troublesome," Frankie whistled, the translator having assigned a high, reedy voice to him, "The path to the caves is very overgrown, and I fear the bridge to reach it is quite overdue for maintenance."
"Oh I didn't get this from the bridge," Trip said, pointing briefly at the bruise Frankie had been scrutinizing with his little, deep-set eyes. Trip nodded in Malcolm's direction and spoke rather harshly, "I got it from him."
A pair of Frankie's ears rotated back in Malcolm's direction, a gesture which seemed to have the same meaning as the sidelong glances the crewmen nearest Malcolm gave as a result of Trip's statement.
"I am unfamiliar with the customs of your species," Frankie admitted (though it hardly needed to be said, since Enterprise and her crew were the first humans the Dolizet had ever seen), "Is this level of rowdiness unusual?"
"Rowdiness!?" Trip repeated, half choking on all the words that wanted to follow that one, "I like a little good-natured rowdiness as much as the next fella. But what he did," Trip pointed at Malcolm, shaking his head emphatically, "That wasn't 'rowdiness.' He assaulted a superior officer. I dunno if you guys have a ranking system like ours, but in simple terms, that's a big no-no for us. We're not supposed to go around beating each other up to begin with, but in our system, basically anyway, subordinates aren't even meant to talk back to, never mind assault, superiors. Malcolm could've killed me," Trip took a moment of silence to simmer down, and then nodded, concluding more passively, "Yeah, I'd say it's a little unusual."
Frankie had listened to this with at least two pairs of ears and a slight tilt to his long head, though Trip still hadn't had much luck trying to read Dolizet facial expressions, so he wasn't sure how Frankie was processing the information.
"It is impudent of me to ask, but I cannot ignore curiosity once sparked," Frankie said, "So I must ask: what sort of justice will be applied as a result? Or do such things go unjustified among your kind?"
Trip just sort of blinked at that sentence for a moment. The translator had apparently fumbled the ball a little on that one. But not so badly that Trip couldn't gather that the question had to do with crime and punishment, or correction. Or what some called the judicial system.
"Well, to some degree, that's up to Cap'n Archer. This far out in space, it'd take a long time to hear back from any of the folks on Earth. But I imagine that Malcolm'll be relieved of duty and confined to the Brig. We'll probably offload him when we can, either swingin' back to Earth ourselves or transferrin' him to another ship. Back home, there'll be a court martial, a career endin' one, I'd expect."
"Is it safe?" Frankie asked, "This Brig of yours?"
"You mean can somebody bust outta it?" Trip clarified, then mulled it over, "I don't suppose they've made a brig yet that can't be gotten out of… but I don't think Malcolm'll be the one to do it. So I'd say it's pretty safe."
"And in the meantime?" Frankie further inquired, rotating a second pair of ears in Malcolm's direction, "He roams freely and continues to perform his function?"
"Malcolm's not goin' anywhere," Trip reassured Frankie.
He didn't explain how he was so sure of that, in part because the explanation he had felt woefully inadequate. Malcolm's allergy to the mushrooms was getting the better of him already, and humidity for him was as bad as desert air was for Trip, and so simply as a matter of survival, Malcolm wouldn't take off. Antisocial as Malcolm was, there was no way he wanted to survive in the wilderness of a planet all by himself. And it was a sure bet that the Dolizet wouldn't have much to do with him if he did take off, on account of wanting to keep good relations with humans. But, much as that sounded like a good enough reason, Trip still felt it wasn't adequate.
The reality was that Malcolm was willing to tear himself apart (literally) to accomplish his goals. A little thick jungle wasn't going to stop him if he aimed to depart from human company. Yet Trip felt oddly confident. Malcolm wasn't going anywhere, and he wasn't going to be causing any more trouble down here. He just couldn't... quite place… why he was so sure of that.
But then the second course was served and the subject was dropped for the moment. Still, Trip found himself continually glancing in Malcolm's direction. He just felt odd about the tactical officer. Somewhere behind the feeling of anger and hurt betrayal was something else that Trip couldn't pin down. It felt like there was something staring him right in the face, and yet he couldn't see it.
Malcolm didn't look up throughout the dinner, he just ate slowly and mechanically, and seemed to stare at nothing in particular. As well he might. Even without listening to Trip explain the situation to Frankie, Malcolm had to know that this was the end of his Star Fleet career. And Malcolm had once made it clear to Trip that he was really only in Star Fleet because he had nowhere else to go.
Trip thought he should feel something. Despite what he'd done and the outrageous way he'd been acting, Malcolm had been Trip's friend. It seemed like Trip ought to feel a little sorry for him, or worried about what would happen to him. But Trip just didn't really give a damn about Malcolm anymore. He almost thought it would be preferable for Malcolm to disappear after tonight, so that neither he nor Captain Archer would have to deal with the Lieutenant any more.
The sun had set hours ago, but Reed was still plagued by spots of light in his vision. The quarters the Dolizet had given the landing parties during their stay were cramped to the point of being claustrophobic, though Reed didn't feel they meant anything by it. The Dolizet were simply small, not upright and burrowers. Low-roofed, windowless underground rooms seemed like just the right sort of accommodations to them.
Anyway, everyone had dispersed to the single-person bedrooms that spread out in a wheel around the central communal room where they all ate and talked over the day's schedule before heading out to work, or discussed the day's events before turning in for the night.
But Reed couldn't sleep. The pressure in his head wouldn't let him, nor would the queasiness of his stomach or completely blocked nasal passages. The only thing for it was to lie there and wait for morning with all the patience he could muster, and hope he could somehow survive the next two or three days before returning to Enterprise.
From there, he could only hope that he'd at least be allowed a medical injection before they locked him up in the Brig. Or after. He supposed it didn't really matter either way. It wasn't like he had a plan anymore. By then, he'd be too choked, dizzy and weakened to put up much of a fight, much less force Phlox to take the injection meant for him. Besides, if he did that, chances were he wouldn't live long enough to find out if it worked. Anyway, it didn't seem to have improved Tucker's disposition towards him any. There was no reason to think Phlox would be any different.
Not that it really seemed to matter. Who did he think he was anyway, getting in the way of what his captain wanted to accomplish? It was no wonder everyone was coming to despise him. He hadn't really achieved anything in resisting this process, except to inconvenience and annoy everyone. And for what purpose? To stop people from having the food seasoning they wanted? Why? Because he couldn't enjoy it? Was he really as petty as all that? Just because he was miserable, he wanted everyone else to be miserable along with him? And then to play the victim, act like it was everyone else who was in the wrong? What kind of prick pulled that kind of thing on his crew mates?
Reed turned over on his side so he could face the wall next to the too-small bed. Not that he could see it in the dark, but the sense of facing something solid somehow eased the guilt that had crept in and was now crawling all over him like a hundred angry spiders.
With some surprise, he realized he'd started to shiver, though not from cold. He wasn't sure why, actually. It was just something that was happening. And, oddly, it felt like it was well deserved. He didn't have any good reasons for why it should be. Maybe it was because he felt bad mentally and emotionally, so it followed that he should also feel bad physically. Or possibly it was just low blood sugar resulting from the fact that he hadn't been able to keep anything down since they'd landed on this God-forsaken hell hole of a planet.
No, that was unfair. The planet was pretty in its way, the people friendly to an almost disturbing degree, not unlike how the Vixlettes had been but harder to translate. It was only in Reed's imagination that it was hideous and awful. He'd come here wanting to hate the place, and so he did.
Finding it harder to breathe, Reed rolled onto his other side, and sensed the relative openness of the room he now faced but couldn't see. It didn't help. Finally he had to sit up. He coughed a couple times until his throat was cleared enough that he could breathe a little easier, then he leaned against the head of the bed, staring into the darkness around him, feeling desolate and alone, and like he deserved to feel that way. Maybe he should just sit here until he died. Maybe he would. Why not?
He never knew exactly who came after him that night. But he did know why. Tucker had been sour all through dinner, letting everyone in earshot know that Reed had assaulted a superior officer, all because he was violently opposed to the mission that Captain Archer had sent them down here to accomplish. Probably only the members of the Enterprise crew currently working with the Dolizet cared, but Reed would never have been able to swear no Dolizet were there.
The only warning he got was the sound of footsteps outside his quarters. Then the door banged open, light flooded the room and blinded his darkness adjusted eyes, and the beating commenced. Reed defended himself with the instinct of a fighter, but the numbers were against him and in all probability his assailants could see what they were doing, and were able to breathe.
He maybe hit a few of them, probably only glancingly, before they simply overwhelmed him, brought him down, and pummeled him until his consciousness fled. Maybe they continued after that, but he would never be sure of that either. It was hard to be sure of things when you were unconscious.
It was all over in a couple of minutes. And then the lights and footsteps faded, and the darkness rushed in to reclaim its rightful place, while silence descended like a heavy curtain.