"If you've come to finish what you started, please make it quick. And if you're still looking for an apology… you can forget it."
Just as the computer had promised, Jonathan found Malcolm in the Brig, unguarded and seemingly quite ignored. He lay on his side on the provided cot, facing the room. Rather than activate the comm system, Jonathan had simply opened the door. He was pretty confident Malcolm couldn't have hurt him even if he had wanted to, and he was reasonably convinced in his own mind that Malcolm wanted nothing less. Malcolm's first words to him seemed to confirm that to some degree, though Jonathan wasn't sure why they made him feel that way.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Jonathan said.
Then it came to him. In flashing pieces, Jonathan remembered going down to the Dolizet homeworld and finding a beaten Malcolm there. He remembered a rather off-hand discussion of Malcolm's injuries… a complete indifference as to who had inflicted them… and then Malcolm had gone after Phlox for some reason. And Jonathan remembered the role he had played in that moment.
The memory stunned him, because he knew he had meant to really hurt Malcolm, maybe even kill him, not merely do the minimum to disable him. And Malcolm, knowing about such things, had clearly understood that too. But he had lain there and taken it without even an attempt to protect himself.
Jonathan's remark now prompted Malcolm to raise himself up on one elbow and actually take a look at him. Malcolm's eyes were dark with hurt and suspicion, but beneath that there was a faint flicker of something else… not quite hope, more like the thought that there might be hope. But hope for what?
But then the look faded, and Malcolm sighed, dropping back onto the cot, "I don't know what game this is, but I'm afraid I haven't the energy to play."
Stepping inside the Brig, Jonathan wasn't surprised to see a brief shudder run through Malcolm at this development. But Malcolm looked no more prepared to fight back now than he had been before.
Not sure what else to do, Jonathan went over and crouched down in front of Malcolm, who didn't turn away from him, yet refused to look him in the eyes.
"I think I'm missing a few pieces here, Malcolm," Jonathan admitted with a sigh, "And I'd really appreciate it if my tactical officer could help me fill in the gaps."
There was no trust in Malcolm's eyes as he said, "What do you want to know?"
A million questions tried to claw their way out all at once, but Jonathan swallowed them all back and said, "Well… let's start with an easy one. Like… why the hell are you in the Brig?"
"You should know," Malcolm scoffed, clearing his throat with a harsh sound, "You put me here."
While Jonathan digested that tidbit and decided to accept it at face value, Malcolm began the evidently rather laborious process of sitting up. Jonathan's first instinct was to help him, but the look Malcolm favored him with was undeniably marked by animosity. Not that he looked like he was in any condition to protest or fight back, but there had been as much fear as forbidding in that glare, and Jonathan didn't need to make Malcolm more uneasy than he already was. Pushed far enough, Malcolm might clam up entirely… not that he'd said much of value yet.
"You really have no idea what's going on," Malcolm remarked when he'd settled into his new, just slightly more upright, position, "Do you?"
He seemed surprised, which Jonathan supposed was understandable, considering that up until now Jonathan had been making logs about Dolizet and mushrooms as if nothing were amiss.
Jonathan sighed, standing up and beginning to pace around the cell, "The last thing I remember is that planet with the acid pools, which is obviously not where we are anymore. According to the dates on my logs, we haven't been there in almost three weeks. I remember leaving…" he stopped pacing, and turned towards Malcolm, "I don't know why, but I think you do."
Malcolm sighed heavily, and looked at the floor without answering. His diminutive size and quiet, rather nervous nature frequently made him seem a good deal younger than he actually was. But just now he looked every one of his years, plus about three decades. Those three unremembered weeks had clearly not been kind to him.
"Malcolm," Jonathan prodded when the silence began to agitate him, "I need your report."
"And I need you to be the captain of this ship," Malcolm practically snarled, looking up sharply. Apparently there was a last glimmer of fight left in him after all. But then he exhaled roughly, his gaze dropping to the floor again, "But I guess we can't all get what we need, can we?"
"You're not thinking straight," Jonathan declared finally.
"You're not exactly walking a line, yourself," Malcolm said dully.
"Don't mind him," Trip's voice unexpectedly coming from behind made Jonathan jump, "He's just a little behind on his medication. Somethin' about it interferrin' with the healin' process or somethin'."
Jonathan turned towards Trip, who was leaning in the doorway of the Brig with his arms crossed. Despite his flippancy, there was a strained look in his eyes that gave lie to the apparent levity. Whatever was going on, Trip was evidently in on it, and probably more coherent than Malcolm at the moment.
"Trip, what the hell is going on with my ship?" Jonathan demanded, growing impatient.
"We're turnin' her into a fungus farm, sir," Trip replied.
"A what!?"
Trip held up a hand, "Phlox has got a better handle on this thing than I do. I just work here," he nodded towards Malcolm, "Don't be expectin' any straight answers outta him until this afternoon when Phlox gives him his next dose. He clears up for a couple hours and then it's back to the drawing board. Between times, he's mostly just full of piss and vinegar."
When Jonathan stepped out of the Brig and Trip pressed the button to close the door behind him, Trip added in a low voice, "Not that I can blame him. We really screwed up, Cap'n. And Malcolm took the worst of it by far. Phlox says he's given us a fighting chance though."
"A fighting chance to do what?" Jonathan asked.
"Survive."
"Parasites. And lots of them."
When they had first arrived in Sick Bay, Phlox had not even looked up from his work, simply informing Trip that he had no further news to offer and was very busy. But when Jonathan had cleared his throat, Phlox had straightened up and taken notice. Finally, Jonathan had gotten to ask what the hell was going on, and receive a straight answer. Not that it did him much good.
"Parasites?" Jonathan repeated, glancing at Trip, who simply nodded while Phlox went on cheerfully.
"Oh yes, every member of the crew is full of them. Except for Lt. Reed of course. The parasites he's carrying have been so thoroughly inhibited when it comes to feeding and reproducing that he has comparatively few of them," Phlox said.
Trying to follow the conversation, Jonathan recalled, "I thought you said the spice was safe."
"Oh they're not in the spice," Phlox said hurriedly, "In fact I'm not certain how they got on board. The only explanation I can come up with is that the Vixlettes brought them, and the liquid secretions they left wherever they went served as the medium by which the crew was infected."
Jonathan remembered only too well those slimy, grabbing tentacles that went for anything or anyone that happened to be nearby. He suppressed a shudder just thinking about it.
"I don't know a great deal about them yet," Phlox went on before Jonathan could ask any more questions, "But what I do know is that the medication Lt. Reed's been taking interferes with their natural processes in much the same way as it does that of the JAKs. The parasites don't die, but they lose organization, focus, drive to reproduce. It slows them down, and stops them from controlling their host's behavior… at least for awhile."
"Controlling behavior? How?" Jonathan asked, deciding not to bother with what a JAK was and why Malcolm was taking something that inhibited whatever those were.
Trip fielded this one, "You remember I said Enterprise was becomin' a fungus farm? Well, turns out the spice is made from mushrooms. Everyone on board is completely obsessed with the stuff. We've got ourselves a whole 'shroom cult goin' on. Way I figure, another few weeks of this and we'll be writin' songs and prayer books about that stuff."
"It's possible that the parasites feed on some sort of chemical our bodies produce in quantity when we consume the spice," Phlox offered helpfully, "They could be farming us as we now intend to farm the mushrooms. Or it could be a kind of… defense mechanism. If we're kept passive and interested only in the spice, we'll never get rid of the parasites, and would become disinclined to become involved in any conflict unrelated to the spice. Possibly it's even a reproduction strategy. After all, we became infected with the parasites only because the Vixlettes came on board with the express intention of conducting trade… specifically trading the spice to us."
"You think a microscopic parasite could be that sophisticated?" Jonathan wondered incredulously.
"Hardly sophisticated. I'd imagine that their prompts are relatively simple, it's our comparatively complex brains that do the extraordinary with it. Imagine some animal in a jungle became infected with a parasite. The parasite reproduced until there was no room left. Then what? Kill the animal and die off? Or find another animal and spread themselves out a bit more? What better way than to instruct the host to find and make physical contact with another animal? A very simple instruction, that plays off the animal's pre-existing impulses to find a mate and reproduce itself. The astonishing part of this is the tremendous variety of species these parasites seem able to infect. Most such parasites are exclusive to one or only a few species, because each species is so unique in its genetics and behavioral patterns."
"So once all the spice is on board and we're all set to farm it for ourselves..." Jonathan frowned, "We'd just…what? Go back to exploring?"
"Possibly. More likely, we'd emphasize trading. It wouldn't be enough to simply meet other species on view screens. We'd need to meet them on their planets or on their ships. Trade between most species is nearly always conducted in person at some point, and very often involves a physical contact of some kind. In the case of humans, a hand shake is quite common… though given that the parasite seems to prefer a fluid environment, you might well all take up spitting in your hands before doing so."
"What's the end result?" Jonathan wanted to know.
"At a best guess given what knowledge I've acquired thus far, including running a scan on myself to assess my own physical condition… the parasites will kill us all within… oh… six months to two years, depending on our species' resistance, our overall health and perhaps how many parasites we were initially infected with."
"So the fact that I feel a bit hollow inside..."
"Is probably accurate," Phlox finished when Jonathan trailed off, "We are being eaten alive, and rather quickly. Which explains the urgency to get the spice on board rapidly, and the singular aggression towards anyone who even slightly questions the process."
Jonathan's mind flashed back to Malcolm in the Brig. Beaten, utterly defeated and locked away. For what? Probably nothing, as it turned out, which would explain why Jonathan had this lingering sense that he'd been angry with Malcolm over something but couldn't recall what for.
"Malcolm's been a big help to us so far, whenever he's clear enough in the head to be," Trip said, "He's been researchin' this stuff for weeks. I didn't even know he had the first clue about biological science."
"He doesn't particularly, and he was on the wrong track altogether," Phlox continued, "But his research has proven an invaluable starting point for my own. Given our time frame, that's positively essential."
"Time frame," Jonathan repeated, "I thought you said we had months."
"Before we die from the parasites, yes," Phlox acknowledged.
"But I'm already gettin' funny looks from the engineering team refitting the Armory," Trip said, "Like they want to eat me alive. Like they know I'm not one of 'em anymore."
"How would they know?"
"Who knows?" Phlox shrugged, rather indifferently Jonathan thought, "There's any number of possible explanations for it. The important thing is to realize that, once the crew turns on us, it'll be over for us as much as it was for Lt. Reed. Only it will probably escalate to violence much sooner."
Jonathan sighed.
"The curious thing, if I had to name only one, is how completely switched off we all were to the possibility of parasites. The allergy medication I prescribed Lt. Reed was for his reaction to the spice, though it's now clear to me that he never was allergic to it. At least, not severely so. He's allergic to the parasites. Which explains why Ensign Mayweather could stop eating the spice and thus have no further need of the medication, while Lt. Reed continued to suffer extreme allergic reactions. But the thought that it wasn't the spice never so much as crossed my mind. Not once."
Jonathan found he had no curiosity about that. Instead, he found himself remembering bits and pieces of the last few weeks, and wondering just where in the hell he'd been while a member of his crew was badgered, bullied and battered around like a dog's chew toy. He had not only stood by while two of his senior officers tore the other one down, but had actively condoned and even participated in it.
And of course it had to have been Malcolm, who was in one way the most vulnerable of them all. It had taken over a year for Jonathan to start making a dent in that wall of fear disguised as self-possession and perpetual quiet dread that masqueraded so convincingly as confidence that Malcolm used to protect himself. The progress had been slow but steady, and Malcolm had finally begun to relax just fractionally, and be a bit more open to socializing and being part of life aboard Enterprise.
But then this happened. That look was going to be back. The one Malcolm used to get whenever Jonathan questioned why he'd done something a certain way, or asked him an even vaguely personal question. It was more than mere discomfort and awkwardness. There was fear in Malcolm's eyes. Jonathan had always been less interested in how it got there than he was in how to get rid of it, and he'd been succeeding. But this… Jonathan glanced at Trip.
Trip had a dismayed look in his eyes that matched the way Jonathan felt. No one had worked harder to befriend Malcolm than Trip had this past year. And no one in the last few weeks had worked harder to get rid of Malcolm, or even kill him, than Trip. Malcolm's captain and his friends had turned on him so completely it was sickening just to contemplate. It was too much to ask forgiveness for, regardless of the reason, and it seemed unlikely that Malcolm would be able to simply move on and put this thing behind him like it wasn't a big deal. This was that other shoe he'd been expecting to drop since his first day on board. That it had hurt him was undeniable. That it might serve to destroy any chance of him finally coming out of that shell of his seemed highly likely.
Worst of all, Jonathan had no idea how to even begin trying to repair the damage he'd caused.