AN: Thank you so much for your reviews, I love getting them!

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2

The water came with a roar, as Malcolm had known it would. It sounded like a cry of triumph, even though Lieutenant Reed, terrified as he was, clung to the idea that the water was not a living thing out to get him. Then, it surrounded him, tearing at him, engulfing his neck, knocking the air out of him, and he knew that Lieutenant Reed was wrong. He had been all along.

Coward Malcolm wanted to scream, but there was no air to do so, only the awful sight, seen as though he were looking through a wobbling, half-immersed camera, of the shuttle filling with water. The shuttle sinking. And he was in the middle of it. The water, bursting in through the opening like a medieval battering ram, had carried him away from the hatch and he was now floating in the middle of the shuttle. The small buffer zone of air between the pod's ceiling and the surface was rapidly shrinking as more water poured in.

It wasn't Lieutenant Reed or coward Malcolm who started swimming towards the open hatch. It was a part of him that didn't need to think about what it was doing; the part that was most likely to survive. His left arm clamped around Trip, Malcolm used his right arm and his legs to kick and struggle, his head twisted so that he could see the hatch. It was only about a meter away, but the current of the water coming through the hatch was strong, and it seemed determined to keep him and Trip away from the opening that would allow them to escape. It wanted to carry them to the back of the shuttle, and once it had, there was almost no chance that they would manage to return to the hatch in time.

Coward Malcolm was back, and he seemed quite calm for a change. You're going to die, he told Malcolm. You're both going to die. Just look at the air that's left, it'll be gone in two minutes at the most.

Malcolm grabbed Trip harder and kicked and punched at the water.

The water's going to fill your mouth first... you'll refuse to let it go down, you'll breathe through your nose, but at some point there'll be no air left to breathe, and it'll taste cold and salty and you'll cough under water, which will hurt as if your throat was being torn apart. Your windpipe will spasm and try to close up to, but you'll have swallowed too much water already. And then you'll feel it, in your lungs, in every little air sac, filling you from the inside, and you won't pass out even though you're wishing for it, and you'll try to breathe and you'll breathe in death, and then, at some point, you won't feel anything at all anymore but your brain will refuse to die, your eardrums will burst from the pressure and you'll watch your own arms and limbs go still, and at some point you won't be able to see anymore but only feel the cold and the dark and then, maybe, eventually...

Malcolm drew a lungful of air – yes, there was still air, he was not dying - and kicked as hard as he could, holding on to Trip.

Leave him, coward Malcolm said, still quite calm.

Suddenly, Malcolm's left foot found something soft but solid. One of the chairs. He placed his foot on it firmly, then pushed himself off as hard as he could. He hadn't expected it, but the momentum did carry him to the hatch, his right hand grabbing its steel framing like the life line that it was. There was only a small pocket of air left between the ceiling and the water surface; the hatch was completely immersed by now, which meant that he would have to dive through it if he wanted to get out.

You do that, coward Malcolm said. See how it feels under water. Get used to it.

"Bloody arsehole," Malcolm whispered, inhaled as much air as he could and dived. Bloody arsehole, he thought as he swam through the opening, trying to ignore that it was really happening, that the water was all around him. Bloody, bloody, bloody, bloody arsehole.

His eyes were burning, and he could hardly make out the shuttle's outer hull after he had passed the hatch. His lungs seemed about to explode.

Bloody arsehole, he thought again, and somehow it silenced coward Malcolm's hysterics. Bloody arsehole, I made it, and I will get to surface. We both will.

He tightened his arm around Trip as his foot found the frame of the hatch and kicked it to gain new momentum.

His head broke through the surface. Sound and light inundated him, although he could hardly see a thing; he was looking through the lens of the underwater camera again, only that this time it had been dropped and was now tossed and tumbled around by the waves .

He coughed, and there was another cough that was not his own. Coward Malcolm had been wrong. Trip wasn't dead. There was water running out of his mouth and his eyes were open – half open, yes, and a little unfocused, but very much an indication that Trip was alive.

Malcolm did his best to keep Trip's head over the surface as he swam away from the shuttle. Waves washed over them, and while they were half a meter at the most, they did nothing to ease his progress. His wet uniform was pulling him down, as were his boots - and Trip of course, as coward Malcolm instantly supplied.

You might have a chance if you let go of him now.

Wishing he could do something to silence the bloody bastard for good, Malcolm spared a glance back. The shuttle was gone. Bubbles were rising up at the place where it had been only moments ago, and he could still make out a dark, blurred silhouette under the surface. If he had stayed next to it, the whirlpool created by the sinking pod might have been strong enough to pull him under; even at a distance of more than five meters, he could feel it tugging at his legs. Coward Malcolm winced at the idea.

"Oh shut up." Treading water, Malcolm turned his head away from the sinking shuttle. His eyes were tearing from the constant onslaught of salty water, and he had to blink several times before he could make out the coast in the distance. It had to be four hundred or five hundred meters, maybe more.

It is more. You of all people should know that at sea, distances always seem smaller than they really are. Not that it is of any importance, of course. It could be four hundred kilometers for all it matters, because somewhere along those four hundred meters you're going to go under, drown because you're so bloody noble and heroic and won't do what's necessary to save at least your own sorry-

"Shut up!" Malcolm yelled, and right then a wave came at him, leaving him coughing and gasping. Trip was coughing, too.

"Didn'... say nuthin'..."

Malcolm tightened his grip on the other man. "Trip?"

Trip coughed. "Yeah..."

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut as another wave washed over him. Paddling one-armed and treading water to keep them both afloat was hard enough; it would be impossible if Trip started to panic.

"I'm going to get us out, all right? Just..." Another wave washed over their heads, and Malcolm paused to catch his breath before he could continue. His throat was rough and burning from the saltwater. "Just try to keep your head up, okay?"

Trip didn't answer, but he didn't seem about to panic, either. A moment later, Malcolm felt a movement next to his own kicking feet and realized that Trip was trying to tread water with his uninjured foot.

"Don't," Malcolm wanted to say, but he thought better of it when he saw another wave coming at them. He had already swallowed too much water, and talking cost energy he could ill afford to waste. As coward Malcolm kept reminding him, it was a long way to the coast.

After he had been swimming for a while, he noticed that Trip's movements had grown stronger and were in sync with his own. The additional momentum actually seemed to help propel them forward.

Coward Malcolm seemed to have nothing to say this time, and Malcolm tried to concentrate on the mental image of the coast, automatically closing his eyes when another wave surged in front of him. He knew that he could not think of how many gallons of water there were between him and solid ground, that the water was tugging at his clothes, trying to pull him under. Coward Malcolm seemed to wait for an opportunity to slip into panic mode, to scream and yell and thrash and drown Trip, and it was only the sight of the coast that kept the bastard under control. There was land, a bright stretch that was growing larger every time he twisted his head to see it, and if he kept his cool, there was a chance that he might feel solid ground under his feet again.

Malcolm wasn't sure how much time had passed when Trip's foot ceased moving, his body growing limp in Malcolm's arm. Obviously, with the blood loss and the pain the exertion had become too much for him and he had passed out.

Malcolm turned his head to look at the coast, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. His right arm was aching fiercely, and it seemed that the pull of the water had grown stronger, as if it sensed that he was getting weaker. As if it were waiting for him to pass out as well, ready to pounce.

Nonsense, Lieutenant Reed said sharply. Nonsense. Water cannot pounce. That's rubbish.

It wasn't, and Lieutenant Reed didn't seem all that convinced of what he was saying, for he didn't speak up again. The coast, Malcolm thought. In spite of coward Malcolm's pessimism, it did seem closer now than it had been, close enough for him to see that the silvery streak was actually a beach. Slender trees with blue, brush-like tops grew on it, and in the distance Malcolm thought he could make out a forest.

Yes, and why don't you add a little fish and chips shop and a bingo parlor for all it matters, coward Malcolm commented, but his sarcasm had lost its venom. Maybe he was getting tired; Malcolm knew he was. Every time he moved his right arm for another stroke, it seemed like he wouldn't be able to muster the energy for another one. Tears were trickling from the corners of his eyes, brought on by the saltwater and maybe the exertion, and the dull pain at the back of his head had developed into a full-blown pounding.

Can't be more than a hundred and fifty meters now, Lieutenant Reed said, ignoring coward Malcolm's sneer. Stroke, kick, stroke, kick. He could keep that up for a hundred and fifty more meters, couldn't he?

A wave caught him unawares, filling his mouth with water. He tried to spit it out and somehow managed to catch another mouthful, which made him choke. The sea and sky blurred before his eyes.

Here we go. You did remember that the waves grow stronger the closer you get to the coast? You did remember that, didn't you?

Of course he had. And even if not, it seemed only natural that it would be so. It made sense to attack your enemy when he was getting weaker. Tactical thinking, that was called, and to hell with Lieutenant Reed and his idea that the sea had no mind of its own. Even his father, hell, bloody generations of Reed Navy men would have told him that the opposite was true.

Stroke, kick, stroke, kick. He took another look at the coast. He could see now that there were long red fibers growing from the tops of the brush trees. Maybe they were fruits; maybe they were even edible.

Stroke, kick, stroke, kick. The waves were bearing down on him, slapping in his face. His head seemed to be under water more than half of the time, and he knew that Trip's must be, too. He couldn't be getting enough air, but there was nothing Malcolm could do about it now. This was what being keelhauled must feel like, he thought, and a crazy, light-headed part of him almost breathed a laugh at the idea. Lieutenant Reed, I don't like the state the Armory's in. Tie him to a rope, mateys, and toss him over board, let's show 'im what we do with land lubbers like 'im. Arrgh.

This time, a chuckle did escape him and instantly he swallowed more water, enough so that there was no way he could spit it out again. Another wave crashed into his face, and he choked.

That was when the cramp struck in his right arm.

Kick, kick, kick. It wasn't enough to keep them afloat, not with the waves coming down on him like that, not with Trip's additional weight pulling him down. He tried moving his arm despite the cramp and would have screamed, if there had been enough air left to do so. It felt as if the arm were being wrenched from its socket, the muscles and tendons twisted by an invisible and malevolent hand.

Waves washed over him, pouncing like he had known they would, pushing him under. Coward Malcolm was freaking out, this close to thrashing and screaming because the water was all around him, because it would drown him.

Except that it wouldn't. His left arm had let go of Trip and was doing the strokes his right arm refused to do. Kick, stroke, kick, stroke. He hadn't expected it, but the knot he had tied behind his back was still there, keeping Trip close to him. He knew he couldn't rule out the possibility that coward Malcolm was right and Trip had drowned somewhere along the way, but even if he had, Malcolm wasn't going to leave him in the sea.

Another wave came at him, but this time instead of crashing down on him it only gave him a light shove, as if pushing him out the door. And then his foot hit something solid. Soft ground.

Malcolm raised his head. The waves were small now, almost non-existent, and both his feet had found the bottom, as suddenly as if it had been there all the time. He was still thirty or forty meters away from the shore, but it seemed that the beach descended in a gentle slope into the sea, a slope that would allow him to wade the rest of the way.

He smiled, or at least tried to. The sea had a mind of its own, yes, but the land did, too. And unlike the water, the land was not his enemy.

His left arm wrapped around Trip's still body, Malcolm began to wade, the pressure of the water easing off with every step. Something touched his leg and he glanced down to find that he was walking through a forest of seaweed. Like pale blue hair, it was floating in the clear, turquoise water that allowed him to see straight to the bottom. Tiny translucent fish whizzed off into hiding as they became aware of the strange presence in their underwater world.

The slope was getting shallower the further he walked, and soon the water came up only to his waist. Malcolm tested his right arm by stretching it and found that the muscle-wrenching pain had subsided, leaving a slightly unpleasant tingling behind. Well, it would do. He reached behind himself and, still holding on to Trip with his left arm, began to untie the knot he had made of Trip's uniform sleeves. His fingers were numb and the wet fabric was hard to grasp, but eventually he felt it give way. Once the knot was undone, Malcolm grabbed Trip under both arms and half-waded, half-stumbled on. The going was getting harder, not that he gave a rat's arse of course. The big ache that was his body, the pounding in his head and the trembling of his arms and legs were nothing compared to the euphoria of leaving the water behind.

He fell down several times during the last few meters, his shaking arms refusing to carry Trip's weight, but every time he got up again and pressed on. Coward Malcolm was just that, a coward, and right now he was sulking in a corner, refusing to believe that it had actually happened. Malcolm Reed had faced the water and survived.

That'll learn ya, as Trip would say. And no, he hasn't drowned, no matter what you say. I just saw him breathe. He's not dead.

Malcolm wasn't quite sure how he managed the last couple of meters and where he found the energy to drag Trip out of the surf and onto dry land. His arms and legs seemed to move on their own volition, and as soon as Trip's feet were no longer in the water, they went on strike. Malcolm fell to his knees, then down in the sand next to Trip, and somehow managed to stay conscious long enough to ensure that Trip was still breathing.

Then, his hand resting on Trip's stomach, Malcolm's head dropped into the sand, the ocean behind him lapping gently at the shore.

TBC...

Well, he did it :). Please let me know what you think!