§ 8 §

Damn it, Lieutenant, get your act together!

Malcolm shifted his eyes away from the relentless numbers on the count-down clock, which were not helping him keep the calm he needed. Haste was never a good ally, especially under pressure. Leaving that screen, where the request to lift the emergency partitions was also still flashing urgently, he rolled his chair over to another computer and called up the medical database. It was larger than he had imagined.

He gave it a glance-over, the unfamiliar medical terms appearing like a blurred mumbo jumbo. His brain seemed to be always a step ahead of his eyes – or maybe it was the opposite. Never mind. It was no use getting Phlox the info on that Lunar colony virus at this point. But perhaps he should save the database for future reference, though, in case by some miracle they made it out of there alive. Looking around frantically, he saw a stack of padds and took one randomly, hoping he wouldn't erase some vital information, and that it had enough memory.

After starting the download he moved on to searching the network for the latest research carried out at the station. If Trenton had worked on a cure, as Phlox had said some trace of that work should have remained. More unfamiliar terms popped up, and he scrolled through them, rubbing an absent hand on his chest. The weight there was definitely bothersome now, and anxiety had increased his heart rate, which wasn't helping his breathing. His lungs felt like two wet sponges and sweat dripped down his back, but he forced his mind away from his physical lack of well-being and tried to remember what Phlox had said about the virus. Blood-transmitted... Air-transmitted... Genetic… bloody hell! Why was his mind so empty? It must be that pathogen.

The deafening sound of the recorded message and alarm had not stopped for one second. Focussing was a real challenge. Malcolm's eyes shifted of their own accord to the countdown on the other screen: 15:34, 15:33, 15:32... A sudden moan prompted him to turn: Trenton was blinking back to consciousness.

Forget the damn computers. In a flash he was on his feet and on top of him.

"Look, I doubt you planned to actually blow up with this station, right?" he growled. "But unless you give me that cure, that's exactly what's going to happen, because I refuse to spread an incurable infection to other people, especially my crew."

He made sure that if Trenton's unfocused eyes missed the deadly look on his face, his tone of voice conveyed it full well.

Trenton blinked some more and, coming out of his confusion, shifted his gaze to the countdown.

"Do you have a cure or don't you?" Malcom pressed, seeing for the first time anxiety make an appearance in the man's eyes.

Trenton reached with a trembling hand into his lab coat, and Malcolm's hand flew to his phase pistol; but the Doctor only produced a padd.

"In here is the genetic map of the altered virus, and the way to counteract it," Trenton said hoarsely.

Malcolm's mouth went dry. Could it be so simple? The change from defiant to compliant had been a bit too sudden; it might be a ruse. He licked his lips.

"How do I know you are telling me the truth?" he barked. He had to make sure. He had to make sure.

"You don't," Trenton replied impatiently. "Obviously you'll have to trust me."

"I don't trust snakes," Malcolm spat out. "Get to your feet and come with me."

Lifting the Doctor bodily from the chair his sight fogged for a moment; but there was no way he was going to yield to weakness now. Clenching his jaw, he dragged the man out of the control centre and along the corridor, back to the main laboratory.

Phlox, still sitting at the desk, had collapsed with his face on top of it, and didn't look good at all. Sahak was unconscious. Malcolm rushed to the Denobulan and put a hand on his shoulder, while still holding Trenton firmly with the other.

"Phlox!" he called, shaking him.

A low moan was his answer. The Denobulan's eyes fluttered open for a brief moment; then closed again.

"Phlox! I need you to wake up!"

Trenton twisted forcibly out of his grip; Malcolm instantly reached for his pistol.

"There is no time, you fool!" the Doctor shouted, eyes wild with fear shifting from the weapon to Malcolm's face. "Let's raise the partition and get out of here!"

Malcolm narrowed his eyes cuttingly. "I'm not leaving anyone behind," he said in his darkest voice. "And I still don't know whether you are telling me the truth about that cure."

There was a moment of silence, as they sized each other up. Trenton brought a hand to his neck, and it was then that Malcolm realised the Doctor was breathing heavily, and that beads of perspiration covered his brow. Was he getting ill too?

The thought must have shown on his face, because Trenton croaked out, "Yes, it seems I got infected too. That should convince you I'm not lying." He broke into a nervous laugh which had no mirth in it at all. "If I didn't have a cure, would I ask to leave the station? I don't know about you, but I'd rather be blown to pieces in an instant than slowly suffocate."

Malcolm quelled the part of him that wanted to believe him. He had to make sure. He couldn't take any chances. Trenton's short breath and perspiration might only be the result of his fear regarding the destruction of the station. He might have immunised himself against the virus, and be trying to trick him into letting him out of the station.

"Show me what's on that padd.," he ordered harshly.

Trenton switched it on, called up some file, and handed it over with a shaking hand.

"Get down on your belly, hands behind your head." Malcolm sped up the procedure with a shove to the Doctor's back.

He tried to focus on the padd., but his sight was swimming. The pain radiating from his nose through his skull was beating in rhythm with every pounding throb of his heart. How the hell was he going to make sure...

His communicator! He had found it in the control centre, abandoned on a desk, and had absent-mindedly put it in his pocket.

"Reed to Enterprise."

"Lieutenant."

Hoshi's voice was like a breath of fresh air.

"Ensign, I'm uploading some medical information; I need T'Pol to look at it urgently. It should contain the genetic map of a virus and the way to counteract it. Ask her to compare the pathogen with the one that infected the lunar colony six years ago. There should be similarities. Fast!" he insisted. "We only have about ten minutes before the station self destructs."

"Right away, Sir," Hoshi's tense voice replied.

Seconds ticked by, and they were the slowest of Malcolm's life. Finally T'Pol's voice sounded.

"Lieutenant, everything that you said is correct. The pathogen shows similarities with the one that struck the lunar colony."

Malcolm closed his eyes; but it still wasn't enough. "Do you think you can synthesise the cure?" he enquired, silently crossing his fingers. "Phlox has been infected and is in no condition to do it."

"I don't anticipate any problems," the serene Vulcan voice came back.

"Start working on it, then, Commander," Malcolm instructed. "We'll need it, and in quantity."

He cut the conversation unceremoniously, and made another page.

"Reed to Archer." He didn't wait for a reply. "I have the cure. I'll raise the partitions. Carry the doctors onto the shuttle, and have one of the MACOs come to get Trenton into custody. If Trip is still willing, I could use his help, now."

"On our way," the Captain came back.

The next moment a red beam split the air. "Sorry," Malcolm muttered to the unconscious Trenton, as he replaced the phase pistol in its holster. He needed to have his hands free; and a stun blast had never killed anyone.

Hang in there, Phlox – he silently told the Denobulan – We're getting out of here.

His legs felt like lead as he rushed back to the control centre. According to his calculations they had about eight minutes left, before the station blew up.

He ran into the room, pushed the chair out of the way and glanced at the count-down: 8:08... 8:07... Sometimes he wished he wasn't so bloody good at keeping time – despite what Archer had thought, that time with the Romulan mine. Though he could have erred on the short side, and then it would've been even worse.

Bending over the desk, he authorised the computer to lift the emergency partitions. He was already flying out of the door again, when he remembered the medical database. He stopped the download – finished or not –, grabbed the padd., and was out of the room again.

"Malcolm!"

Trip hadn't wasted any time.

Malcolm wanted to shout to him, but had not enough breath left for that. A moment later, the Engineer and Romero appeared, barrelling down the corridor. Trip's eyes took him in, and Malcolm realised by the look on his face that he must be a real sight.

"Come with me," he said tersely, giving the Engineer no time to speak.

Back in the lab, Trenton was still out cold; Malcolm pointed him out to the MACO. "Carry that man to the shuttle," he ordered. "And keep an eye on him; he's not to be trusted." Romero nodded sharply and obeyed.

Trip took a quick look around and immediately spotted Phlox. As he started towards him, Malcolm put a hand out to stop him. "I'll carry him," he gasped out. He jerked his chin in the direction of Sahak. "There is your charge."

Trip's eyes took stock of him once again, and it was clear what he was thinking. "This man looks a lot lighter," he suggested. But Malcolm's gaze didn't waver. "Come on," he told him. "No time to argue."

As he struggled with the Denobulan's weight on his shoulder along that seemingly interminable corridor towards the exit, Malcolm had time to curse his foolish stubbornness more than once. It had been a childish thing, wanting to carry Phlox to safety himself. He had thought he could make it, but when he started to stagger, his sight darkening worrisomely, he knew he had asked a bit too much of his weakened body.

"Hey, don't make me regret my compliance," Trip's distorted voice egged him on, from the side.

A strong hand gripped Malcolm's arm, allowing him to regain his balance.

"Thanks," Malcolm gasped, pushing back the shadows that had threatened to swallow him.

"You'd better give the Doctor to me, Lieutenant," a voice that had no Southern accent replied.

Archer lifted Phlox from his shoulder and they finally were at the exit. The shuttle's engine was the most beautiful sound Malcolm had heard in a long time.

"Let's go, let's go!" Archer shouted.

When it happened, they were still gaining altitude. The shockwave rocked the shuttle violently. Trip at the helm struggled to hold the vessel on course; then, like a bird taking the wind, the little ship soared and finally stabilised. There was a collective sigh of relief.

Archer, at navigation, looked around, and Malcolm followed his gaze. The back of the shuttle was like a medical ward, bodies stretched out on both benches and on the floor. The Captain turned to him, and their eyes met. They silently looked at each other, too tired – or numb, or ill-at-ease – to speak.

The green gaze was still on his when Malcolm's eyelids finally yielded to gravity and he relinquished consciousness.

TBC

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