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3

Someone was tugging at his hair. It was surprisingly painful, as if they were using a pair of sharp pincers on him. Pincers... Phlox had some in sickbay. Surely it couldn't be the doctor who was pulling at his hair, could it? "You may disagree as usual, Lieutenant, but I do believe that you would benefit greatly from the removal of your cilium." Not Phlox, no. Trip, maybe? You could never know what counted as humor among the Yanks. It might seem a hilarious practical joke to Trip to pull someone's hair out while they were sleeping.

Bugger. They were being quite persistent. Which probably meant that he should do something about it, even though he really didn't want to leave the dark, comfortable place where he seemed to have stashed himself. He had an inkling that things would rapidly go downhill once he opened his eyes. Not only did the surface he was lying on feel very much unlike the bed back in his quarters; there was also a strange noise, a soft, repetitive sound that unsettled him. Waves? For some reason, he knew that it was the sound of waves washing against a shore.

Malcolm opened his eyes, and found himself looking at a bird. It looked rather like a large seagull, with a thin red streak running down its head and tapering off at the beak. It didn't seem frightened by his presence, or by the fact that the strange, furry rock it had been pecking at could move and had a body attached to it. In its beak, Malcolm could see a tuft of the hair it had pulled out. The bird eyed him suspiciously, and for a moment they were locked in a staring contest, like two would-be contestants of a duel.

After a second or two, Malcolm blinked and looked away. Next to him, Trip was still unconscious, sprawled on the sand, his face turned away from Malcolm. The top part of his uniform was crumpled like an unwashed towel, the sleeves twisted and torn. For a moment, Malcolm found it difficult to remember exactly what had happened after he had stumbled out of the water. He had checked Trip's life signs, hadn't he? But what if Trip had stopped breathing, slowly choking on a residue of water in his lungs while Malcolm lay unconscious?

Malcolm reached out to turn him over and found that Trip's black uniform shirt was almost dry. It was rather warm here on the beach, almost too warm; a fact that had escaped him until now.

Trip limply flopped over on his back. The left side of his face was covered by a fine layer of sand, which crumbled away as his head tilted to one side. His chest rose and fell, and when Malcolm touched his face to wipe away the rest of the sand, his skin felt warm under Malcolm's fingers.

"Trip?" The word came out as a hoarse croak. Malcolm swallowed, but to little avail; the saltwater had left him parched and sore, as if a piece of sandpaper had gotten stuck in his throat halfway down. "Trip, can you hear me?"

The bird had been watching them curiously, as if trying to make sense of the strange scene. Now it minced closer and aimed an experimental peck at Trip's head. Malcolm made a shooing movement.

"Go away."

The bird was not impressed and dipped its head down again, pulling out several blond tufts to add to the brown ones.

"I said, go away!" He clapped his hands, which seemed to irritate the animal. It backed off a little, eyeing him beadily. Malcolm clapped again and threw a little piece of driftwood, his aim poor so that the piece of wood sailed past the bird and fell into the sand.

"Buzz off!"

The bird fluttered, then spread its wings and lifted off, the tufts of hair firmly clamped in its beak. Malcolm felt oddly relieved to see it go.

"That... was one fat seagull," a hoarse voice said, and Malcolm looked down to find that Trip's eyes were open, squinting at him in the bright sun. Trip licked his lips, lifting a weak hand to touch the top of his head. "It wasn't... pullin' at my hair, was it?"

"Actually, it was," Malcolm said. "That's how I woke up. I suppose it was gathering nest-building material."

He blinked. The sun was awfully bright, and the pounding in his head made it hard for him to think.

Trip tried to sit up and failed. "The... the shuttle?"

Malcolm blinked again, trying to ignore the notion that it would be nice to just lie down again and get some sleep. "It sank, remember? When we were swimming away from it."

Trip nodded at that, and Malcolm noticed the thin film of sweat on his face. His broken ankle must be giving him hell, never mind the smashed toes.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, inwardly cursing the slowness of his thoughts and the sluggishness that seemed to have taken hold of his mind. He needed to help Trip, get things going instead of sitting around like a prize idiot.

Trip only shrugged, which was answer enough in itself for Malcolm. He shrugged off the backpack and opened it. As he had expected, the equipment inside turned out to be wet, but it wasn't soaked as he had secretly feared. He took out the medkit and set it on the sand next to Trip.

"I'm going to give you another dose of painkiller," he said, partly to inform Trip and partly to tell his own sluggish brain how to proceed from here. "After that, I'll try and find a place where we can stay until they come to get us." He took out the hypospray he had used before and adjusted it to another two units. "Might be more comfortable somewhere in the shade."

Trip's face relaxed as soon as Malcolm had injected the painkiller into his neck. "You call Enterprise?"

There was a touch of unease as Malcolm remembered his futile attempts to call the ship for help. It wasn't exactly a surprise that the communications console was broken after the tumble they had taken, but the rescue team should have arrived by now. T'Pol must have seen the crash on her sensors, and Captain Archer would have launched Shuttlepod II before they had even hit the surface, more likely than not tearing after them himself like the bloody cavalry. So why weren't they here yet? It couldn't be that hard to detect two human bio signs on an uninhabited planet.

"Malcolm?"

Malcolm realized that Trip was still waiting for an answer. "I tried to," he said. "I couldn't reach them, though. Communications must've been damaged on the way down."

Trip frowned. "Wish I knew what happened. It was like we flew into a giant forcefield or somethin'..." He coughed, and Malcolm pulled the water bag out of the backpack.

"Here," he handed it to Trip after unscrewing the cap for him. Trip drank a small sip, then gave the bag to Malcolm.

"Thanks."

Malcolm lifted it to his own lips and drank a mouthful. The water was cold and refreshing. He resisted the temptation to have another sip and handed the bag to Trip.

"Here, drink as much as you like." He rummaged through the backpack until he found the phase pistol, and noted with relief that the water hadn't done any damage to the power cell. Quickly, he checked the setting, then put the weapon into Trip's hand. "I'll be right back. Just call me if anything happens, okay?"

The corners of Trip's mouth twitched a little as he glanced down at the phase pistol. "That for shootin' the seagull when it comes back?"

Malcolm knew that under different circumstances, Trip's joke might have irritated him. As it was, his mind was far too slow to rouse the energy for anything more than a weak smile.

"I'll be right back."

He got to his feet, and almost fell down again when his legs decided that they'd rather not do any work right now. Malcolm closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had Trip to take care of. He could do this.

"Mal, you all right?"

Malcolm opened his eyes again. "Yes, Commander."

Malcolm had hoped that Trip would tell him to call him Trip, for God's sake, and drop the damn "Commander". They could throw a few teasing remarks back and forth, and Trip would forget about Malcolm's condition. It had worked before. "Y'don't look all right to me, "Trip said, refusing to rise to the bait. "Why don't you sit down again and let me check you up."

Malcolm shook his head. "I'm fine, Commander, and I really need to-"

Trip sighed. "Sit down, Malcolm, that's an order."

Malcolm's legs seemed to have acquired a mind of their own, and this time they decided that sitting down was a good idea. He sat, or rather plopped down in the sand next to Trip, and suddenly everything seemed overly bright, as if someone had turned up the light.

"Really, I'm-" –fine, he wanted to say, but what came out instead was a small burp and a sudden and entirely unexpected heave. A moment later, he was bringing up more water than he could remember swallowing, and it was only by lucky coincidence that he hit the sand and not Trip. The retching continued for quite a while even after the vomiting had stopped, and when it was over Malcolm felt as if someone had turned him inside out and given him a good shake.

Trip was watching him. "Feelin' better?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes." He looked down, and found that his hands were shaking.

Trip had managed to prop himself up on one elbow and take the bio scanner out of the medkit. "You've got a concussion," he said with a glance at the display.

Malcolm nodded; he had surmised as much. "I know."

Trip frowned at him. "Then you gotta lie down. The Cap'n's gonna be here soon, there's no need for you to go and make it worse."

Malcolm's legs very much agreed with the idea, as did his still queasy stomach. Ignoring them, he shook his head. "I've got to do a recce of the surroundings. We can't stay here, and I need to secure the perimeter before we move."

"Malcolm..."

Malcolm began to get to his feet again. "Trip, I'm only going to have a look around. I won't be long."

He was almost surprised when Trip only nodded and laid back down in the sand, the phase pistol held loosely in one hand. "'kay."

Malcolm gave him a long look. The injection seemed to have taken care of the worst of the pain, but Trip was quite obviously not well.

"I'll be right back," he said, and was relieved when Trip nodded again. For a moment there, he had thought that the other man had passed out.

Malcolm's legs wobbled as he walked up the gentle slope of the beach, but they seemed willing to cooperate and it was all that mattered at the moment. Emptying his stomach of the salty water had helped; his thoughts had cleared, and the sunlight didn't seem quite as glaring as when he had first woken up. In fact, it felt almost pleasantly warm now, very much unlike the cold water of the sea.

At the top of the slope, Malcolm glanced around. Under different circumstances, this would have been the ideal place for "a little R and R", as the Captain called it. Adjoining the beach was a small forest of the blue brush trees, providing the shade he had been looking for. Rope-like fruit stalks weighed down the trees and moved in the breeze like a giant beaded curtain. Malcolm caught one of the red fibers in his hand and found that the fruits growing on the stalks looked very much like redcurrant. Some of the larger berries burst when he touched the stalk, and their juice dripped onto the sand below.

He let go of it, careful not to touch the fruits or the juice in case they were poisonous, and surveyed his immediate surroundings. There was more than enough room to set up camp under one of the brush trees, preferably one that didn't bear fruit. Malcolm had noticed that some of the smaller trees had no stalks hanging from their tops. He chose one that would allow him a direct view of the beach and began to clear the area below it, brushing away driftwood and dried fruit stalks until the sand looked reasonably clean. It would do for a few hours. It couldn't be much longer now until Shuttlepod II came to take them back to Enterprise.

Malcolm stacked some of the driftwood to one side, thinking that he might use it to get a fire going. Not that they really needed the protection; except for the seagulls, the coast didn't seem to harbor any larger life forms. Well, if nothing else, they could use it to warm up some of the ration packs and dry their boots. It seemed like a good idea to get a fire started, even as a precautionary measure. Satisfied with the thought, Malcolm nodded to himself. Apparently, his brain was finally catching up with the situation, allowing him to fall into the tactical routine he knew so well. Secure the perimeter. Find a campsite. Take stock of the supplies. Those were things he knew, things he could rely on.

Malcolm began to walk back the way he had come, squinting as he stepped out of the forest into the bright sun. The pounding behind his eyes had lessened to a mild throb at the back of his head, and his legs seemed to have resigned to the idea that it was going to be a while until they got to rest.

Must have been the saltwater, he thought. Saltwater was poison for the metabolism; every sailor knew that.

You're not a bloody sailor.

Trip lifted his head when Malcolm came back and tried for a weak grin. "Find us a nice bed'n'breakfast, Loo-tenant?"

Malcolm smirked. "As a matter of fact, I have. The accommodation's a little sub-standard, but the view is great."

Trip's smile faltered and turned into a pained grimace before he could stop himself. Malcolm didn't comment, although it worried him that the analgesic had worn off so quickly. It wasn't long until Trip would be in terrible pain, and Malcolm wasn't sure whether it was a good idea to keep an injured man constantly doped up.

"Well, let's... have a look at the place," Trip said. Malcolm had heard the hitch in his voice, but he wasn't going to say anything about it. He had been where Trip was now, and knew that sometimes it helped to act the tough guy who could crack jokes even when he was almost crying with pain. Hoshi would no doubt roll her eyes at this, but it was true.

He closed the backpack and shouldered it, then held out his hand. "Come on."

He couldn't carry Trip in his concussed state, and knew that Trip wouldn't let himself be dragged up the slope like a sack of potatoes, even if it meant putting strain on his injured foot.

Maybe Hoshi has a point, and this "guy stuff" does need some working on.

Trip grabbed his hand and allowed Malcolm to pull him to his feet; or rather, his uninjured foot. Malcolm wrapped one arm around Trip's waist to keep him steady and pulled one of Trip's arms across his shoulders. Trip's weight was almost entirely on him, and for a moment Malcolm considered trying to carry the Commander in spite of his concussion. He couldn't see how they were going to get anywhere like this.

"What... are y'waitin' for?"

Malcolm glanced at Trip, then back up the slope and sighed. He had made it out of the sinking shuttlepod and to the shore. In comparison, this should be child's play.

They started walking, or rather, Malcolm did. Trip was hopping alongside him on one foot, his left leg bent at the knee. He grunted with pain at every step, and Malcolm did his best to carry both of their weights, thinking that they must look like a strange, Starfleet-blue spider crawling up the slope.

Malcolm hadn't expected them to make it all the way up without an incident, but they did. The last few meters he more or less carried Trip rather than supporting him, and the other man seemed too exhausted to make much of a protest. When they had finally reached the campsite, Trip's face was white and gleaming with sweat.

Malcolm helped him lie down, then knelt in the sand next to him. He knew he had to take care of the injured foot, but that could wait until he had given Trip another dose of painkiller.

Trip exhaled and raised his head to look down at the sea and the horizon, where no shuttlepod had appeared so far.

"Where... the hell's Enterprise?" he asked. "It's 'bout friggin' time."

Malcolm glanced at the sky. "They'll be here soon."

I hope.

TBC...

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