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x-x
Phlox slid a chair up next to where Trip was standing, and Trip slid into it. He cast a grateful smile to Phlox as the doctor moved away, and then turned his eyes back to his friend.
If he didn't know better, he might be able to convince himself that Malcolm was okay; just sleeping. His chest rose and fell under the sheet with a reassuringly regular rhythm, and his eyes were moving under their lids, as if deep in slumber. If Trip ignored the tubes, the monitors, and the look of worry on Phlox's face, he'd almost be able to convince himself that Malcolm was all right.
What the hell had gone wrong on that planet? It was as if Malcolm was fine one moment – drowsing on the train – and seizing the next. It wasn't like Malcolm had a history of seizures. Sure, Trip had only known the man for a year, so it's not as if he knew his entire history, but there was no way Starfleet would have let him into the service if he'd had a history of seizures; so this was definitely new.
At least Phlox had got the seizures under control. But why hadn't Malcolm woken up? It had been hours since they'd been on that damn train.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Trip asked his friend, knowing that there would be no answer.
x-x
Purposefully not looking back at the man on the bed, Malcolm reached a tentative hand forward and triggered the comm. on the wall. "Reed to bridge," he said, a sinking feeling in his stomach. When he got no answer, he tried another. "Reed to Engineering," he said, knowing as he said it that it was useless. "Reed to Tucker," he tried finally. All he got in response was silence.
"All right," he said aloud, if only to hear his own voice.
He'd already checked the condition of the man on the bed. Breathing, but seeming deeply unconscious, best he could tell from the readings on the monitors.
Malcolm looked down at the IV in his arm, and then to the catheter snaking, from where, he'd rather not think. He needed to check the ship. In order to do that, he needed to be mobile. He glanced up at the container of medication hanging from the pole, and, hoping that he could get by without whatever it was, he turned the clamp, then disconnected the line; and repeated the process for the catheter, adding a hiss as he did that one.
Freed, he walked carefully toward the supply cabinet, hoping he'd find some socks or slippers or something to protect his bare feet from the cold of the deck plating, but he had no luck. He curled his toes against the cold floor and, knowing there was nothing else for it, he steeled himself, and triggered the doors.
There was no one in the corridor.
He glanced back to the clock on the wall, visible through sickbay's doors. Oh-eight-hundred-hours. Shift change. And no one in the corridor.
With a final glance at the man on the bed, he stepped into the hallway. The doors closed behind him, leaving him alone but for the sounds of his own footfalls, and the hum of the engines.
His first stop was the armoury, where he went immediately to the computers and checked the ship for life signs.
None, but for his own. Not even from sickbay.
Numbly, with half a thought, he armed himself. Soon, he was standing in the middle of the bridge, the flutter and whir of active machinery all around him. He stared at the viewscreen, unseeing, the star field spread before him, weapon dangling uselessly at his side.
There was no one here.
x-x
Trip strode through the corridors of the ship with a purpose that he did not feel. The captain had given him the rest of the day off, but in all honesty, he'd prefer to be in engineering tackling some project; at least it'd keep his mind occupied. As it was, he was kind of at a loss. He didn't want to go to his quarters – he was too keyed up from what had happened down on the planet to sleep. He could spend more time in sickbay with Malcolm, but what good was that doing? In the end, he hit the mess; because as his mama always said, no matter what, he could always eat.
Ignoring the few people who were scattered about the space, he went directly to the food line and, only half thinking about it, filled a mug with coffee and grabbed a plate. He turned back to the room. Only then did he see Hoshi sitting nearby. When she lifted a brow in invitation, he gave her a wan smile and slid into the chair across from her.
"How's Lieutenant Reed?," Hoshi asked, fork poised over her salad.
Trip couldn't help but wince. News sure spread fast on small ships. "I'm not sure yet," he finally said.
He must look more worried than he thought, because Hoshi put down her fork and, leaning across the table, asked, "Is there anything I can do?"
Unsure if she was referring to him or to Malcolm, he simply shrugged. "The doc is doing his thing."
"Are we allowed to visit?" she asked.
Trip looked at her in surprise. "I thought you and Malcolm were…" He frowned, and left the rest unsaid. After Hoshi had asked Malcolm about his favorite foods, and Malcolm had misunderstood her interest in his diet as interest in him, things had gone from formal to awkward between the two of them.
Hoshi shrugged. "I figured he could use the company."
Trip smiled genuinely. Here he was, complex machinations spinning through his head, and all Hoshi was doing was trying to be nice.
"Yeah, we can visit," he said.
x-x
Malcolm returned to sickbay, feeling at loose ends. His body, or other self, or what have you, was still lying on one of the biobeds, but otherwise, and perhaps even including that man, there wasn't a living person on this ship. He had walked port to starboard, stem to stern, and he hadn't found a soul.
He had thought of sending a message out there, despite the fact that no populated systems were currently within reach, but that would have been less than useless. In the end, he'd tried Starfleet, knowing Enterprise was out too far to reach them, hoping that would get his message anyway. He wasn't counting on it.
Maybe he could figure a way to get the ship to return to their last port of call, the planet where he'd taken ill. But Enterprise normally took a crew of over eighty; the likelihood that he could, on his own, bring the ship safely back to that system was nil.
He was tired and sore, so he grabbed a blanket from the nearest stack and curled up on the biobed furthest from that of his double – far enough, but not so far that he couldn't keep watch. Sighing, he placed his weapon on the table beside him, and pulled the blanket over his shoulders, letting his eyes fall shut, although he remained focused on the activity – or lack thereof – in the room. Only then did he realize that something else was missing: there were no animal noises. Even Phlox's animals had gone.
His mind ran through the situation. The only people left on the ship were him, and his double. Why? Why was he here? Why was that other thing, that golem, here? Where was everyone? What had happened? Opening his eyes, he stared across at his other self. The man, if that's what it was, was breathing. The monitors overhead were clearly picking up life signs. And yet when he'd scanned the ship for life signs, he'd found only his own – not those of this simulacrum.
Pushing himself up, he slid off the bed. He took a step toward the man, then another, bare feet quiet on the cold floor. He should have stopped by his quarters for socks, a change of clothing, but he was only now thinking of it, and that only because he was looking for a distraction, rather than to think about what he was about to do.
Reaching his, or it's, bedside, he stood still a moment, observing. The man hadn't moved; other than the slow rise and fall of his chest. Malcolm lifted a tentative hand, with only the slightest of trembles, toward the man. Gently, he touched his hand.
The man grabbed and held.
Malcolm jerked back, trying to get away, but the man had his arm in a firm grasp.
Eyes dark, pupils blown, the man said, "Hello, Malcolm," in the voice they both shared. His lip curled up into something that was caught between a snarl and a grin as he said, "I've been waiting for you," and he pulled Malcolm in.
x-x
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