5

Frigate 'Chimera', 2038 hours, October 4, 2149

Malcolm grimaced, glad that only Irena Koslovsky, their pilot, was in the bridge area with him. He was glad because he had been fighting a nasty tickle in his throat ever since they had squared away that mess with the Rigelians. Fighting it, and much to his chagrin, he was losing. His less than perfect health was something of a running joke with the team, to the point where Zuger had even started a pool as to when, and not if, 'Malady Malcolm' would get space-sick, have issues with his allergies, or come down with some other ailment on one of their missions. Bloody Zuger… Malcolm shook his head. The team respected Malcolm's skills with weapons and explosives, his tactical thinking and his ability to handle himself in a firefight, but they still had the gall to think it was funny that, once again, he needed to be seen by a doctor. It wasn't that they were stronger than he was, he just hadn't been blessed with their good health, and despite that disadvantage he still managed to do his job as well as – if not better than – the rest of the team.

When they were passing through the asteroid field where Cold Station 12 was hidden, the tickle became impossible to ignore and he coughed lightly into a handkerchief, trying to get rid of it. Koslovsky brought him a container of water and handed it over with a concerned, knowing look. He gave her a wan smile. She was the only member of the team who had never put any money down on the pool, for which he was grateful, but it didn't stop the existence of the betting pool from bothering him. He accepted the water with a nod and told her he was fine, even though they both knew better. They both knew damn well that he had been exposed to a virus on that transport vessel, and that it was only a matter of time before he started showing some kind of symptoms, but for the moment he could still man the cannon and that was what he intended to do. If nothing else, it would take his mind off of his unerring bad luck and maybe even prove to his comrades that 'Malady Malcolm' could still do his part, alien virus be damned.

Malcolm was still at his console half an hour later when the nasty, persistent tickle in the back of his throat returned. He drank some of the water and that helped for a while, but before too long the only way to rid himself of the irritation was to indulge in a few light coughs. He could feel some kind of congestion at the back of his throat and knew that it was the most likely culprit of the wretched ticklish feeling. What he needed was a lozenge, or better yet, a large package of lozenges. That, and some piping hot tea with clover honey. The lukewarm water worked for a shorter span each time he tried it, and he had to cough more frequently to quell the irritating sensation. At first the noise was easy enough for anyone within earshot to overlook, but over the course of the next few hours, his little voluntary throat-clearing coughs were gradually replaced by harsh, body-bending, hacking fits which he couldn't control. It was getting so bad that he had to push away from his station every few minutes just to avoid banging his head on the console and getting a concussion when the coughs doubled him over. The tickling, congested feeling had spread into his chest, which ached and felt oddly heavy, and breathing had turned into a new variant of Russian roulette. He had a pounding headache and his throat had become painfully raw, which he wrote off as results of his increasingly nasty coughing fits, and he was shivering slightly. All in all, he was feeling wretched. He knew that he was sick and he actually wanted to go lie down, which was alarming enough in and of itself, but he was in a tricky situation. Although he wanted to go to bed, he wasn't sure he would be able to get there. His head was spinning, he had run out of water some time ago, and when he tried to stand up to get himself a refill his legs nearly gave out on him. Koslovsky rushed out of the pilot's chair to stop him from falling onto the deck and she helped him back to his seat.

He muttered his thanks and she nodded sympathetically on her way back to the pilot's chair. "Don't worry about it, Malcolm. Just sit tight for a sec." She pressed the comm once she sat down again, but she kept her voice low and he couldn't tell what she was saying. Malcolm thought he heard Gutierrez's voice at the other end of the comm. and he grimaced. Apparently their pilot had had enough of listening to him coughing his lungs out and had called in the boss. For the next minute or so he just sat in his chair, trying not to cough, hugging himself in an effort to fend off the chills and waiting for the hammer to fall. It wasn't long before Gutierrez came storming up to the bridge.

"Jesus Christ, Reed. I could hear you at the other end of the ship, and I was standing next to the fucking engine." He held up a hand, forestalling the protest which he expected to hear. "Don't give me that 'I'm fine, stiff-upper-lip' crap. You're just getting in the way up here, and spreading whatever was in that damn vial all over the place, now for fuck's sake go lie down!" Gutierrez bodily hauled Malcolm out of his chair and packed him off to bed, practically frog-marching the Englishman towards the ship's main corridor.

"Yes, sir." By some miracle Malcolm managed to speak without dissolving into coughs, and he headed off of the bridge.

Malcolm stumbled down the corridor on legs whose femurs had apparently been replaced with overcooked pasta, and he had to brace himself against a doorframe when another coughing spasm hit. When he opened his eyes afterwards, his vision was slightly blurry around the edges, but blinking rapidly seemed to resolve that issue, so he wasn't too alarmed. Using the bulkheads for support, he managed to get to his rack compartment without further incident and wearily kicked off his boots before he crawled into bed, shivering. Unlike the chills he had felt on the bridge, which had merely been annoying, these were bad enough to make his teeth chatter. He tried to pull the blankets up over himself, but his hands were strangely clumsy and he couldn't make his fingers grab hold of the covers. He squinted at the suddenly blurry covers in annoyance as a strong shiver racked his body, and after what seemed like an eternity, he managed to hitch a sheet and blanket up over his shoulders. Fighting with the blankets had exhausted him, and still shivering fitfully, he fell into an uneasy sleep.

He didn't know how long he slept for, but when he woke up his sheets were unpleasantly clammy, his entire body ached, and he could barely lift his head from his sweat-drenched pillow. His tongue felt like it was covered in lint and when he tried to open his eyes to look at the chronometer, all he saw was a light smudgy blur where the digital read-out was supposed to be. Malcolm grunted quietly to himself, disconcerted by these developments, and fell victim to another bout of vicious coughs. His back already hurt like blazes, probably because of this damn virus he had picked up, and the harsh coughs ruthlessly punished his aching muscles. Being kicked repeatedly could hardly have been more painful, and thanks to his experiences at boarding school, he was uniquely qualified to know how it felt to be kicked in the back. He tried to roll over, thinking that resting on his side while coughing might be marginally more comfortable than lying on his back, but he could barely summon the strength to do it. His arms throbbed and were nearly useless at the task, and by the time he finally managed to turn over, the coughs were backing off.

Malcolm knew that he had a fever, and judging from how he felt, it was a fairly high one. He knew that he would need to stay hydrated, and knowing his team mates, the wasn't a chance in hell that any of them were going to suddenly turn into Florence Nightingale. They were fine fighters, every one of them, and they made a good team, but Stephens was the only trained medic among them, and he was more likely to give Malcolm a hard time about being careless enough to get himself sick with one of the viruses they had been sent to contain than he was to show up with soup and a cold compress. Koslovsky had been kind enough on the bridge, but she wasn't the type to make house calls, and the others? Next to no chance of hand-holding from them. He would have to deal with this on his own for now. Malcolm levered himself upright through sheer force of will, and by hanging onto the walls and sparse furniture of his accommodations, he managed to reach the stash of water bottles he kept in his locker. On a ship like this, you never knew if the water tanks might run out, so he was in the habit of keeping a stash of fifteen liters just in case of emergencies. He grabbed an armful of blurry bottles, which was around six liters worth, and shuffled back to bed. He knew that the trip to Earth would be roughly two days, and assuming it was still Saturday the 5th, he figured two litres of water per day, plus two more in case some of them spilled, should be enough to keep himself hydrated during the trip. His stomach muscles were sore to the point of being tender to even the lightest touch, he felt slightly nauseous and his appetite was non-existent, so mustering the strength to get food for himself was a non-issue.

A bout of coughs struck as he was heading back to the bunk, and although he tried to keep a hold on the bottles, he didn't react quickly enough and a couple of them fell to the deck. He left them where they landed, not trusting his ability to retrieve them without dropping any of the others or to keep his balance during the attempt, and stumbled the rest of the way to his rack clutching the remaining bottles. His arms felt heavy and tired by then and he gratefully let the rest of the bottles fall onto his mattress. He was still coughing fiercely when he dropped into the bunk and crawled back under the damp covers. He huddled in a miserable ball under the sweaty sheets and pressed his head into the pillow. His chest burned and stung with each hacking cough, the ragged breaths tortured his sore throat, and as the fit continued he began to feel lightheaded. Malcolm lifted one badly shaking hand and started to rub at his chest, hoping the action might help calm his spasming lungs and let him take a full breath.

The coughs petered off, and he had no idea whether rubbing at his chest had done the trick or not, but frankly, he was past caring. He'd been feeling steadily worse ever since he woke up. At some point his nose had started bothering him, too. It was tickling and running badly enough that for a second he had the incongruous thought that it was much too late in the year for his allergies to be acting up. He dug out his handkerchief and rubbed it at his nose, glad that he was alone in his rack and didn't have to be self-conscious about sniffling as much as he needed to. His vision was still blurred too badly for him to see the chronometer, and the bottles he had worked so hard to carry over to the bunk just looked like silver blobs scattered over the dark brown plane of his covers. He groped around for one of the bottles, letting his shaking hand creep towards the closest blob like some sort of epileptic spider. When his fingers came into contact with the bottle he felt around for the strap and then grabbed onto it, dragging the bottle back towards himself until he held it cradled against his chest. He smiled to himself and took a moment to steady his breathing before attempting to open it. It seemed that in his current state even reaching for something less than thirty centimetres away required a considerable effort, and if his fingers were still as clumsy as they had been with the covers when he first fell into bed, he would need to wait a while before trying something as challenging as opening a bottle of water.

Malcolm grimaced, staring up at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes and getting a strange satisfaction from the fact that it didn't seem blurred. It was a uniform, un-surprising grey, and because it didn't have any distinctive features he couldn't tell if it was out of focus or not. His eyes slid closed and he fumbled with the water bottle, intent on opening it without looking at it. He couldn't see it except as a blur even if he was holding it a hand's-breadth in front of his face anyway, so for the moment he indulged in the fantasy that he was merely engaging in a blind-folded dexterity exercise. A smile tugged at his mouth when he got the bottle open, and since he was lying on his side it was simple enough to bring the container up to his mouth. His hands shook and some of the water sloshed onto his chest, chilling him and making his shivers more pronounced, so he opened his eyes and guided the spout into his mouth before any more water could spill.

He drank the water slowly, wary of triggering a coughing fit by taking large gulps, and managed to put away nearly half of the first bottle before there was a knock on the hatchway. He groaned, shakily replacing the cover on his water and letting himself sag into the bed. He hadn't coughed in several minutes, which was the longest lull he had experienced since before he had been kicked off of the bridge, and he knew that raising his voice to make a reply would break that streak. Fortunately, whoever had knocked didn't seem to need a reply.

"It's Stephens. I'm comin' in, so you'd better not be naked."

The hatch creaked open and Stephens stepped in. "Well, Reed, this is a new one on me."

A convulsive shiver ran through Malcolm's body and he tightened his grip on the water bottle, closing his eyes with a tired sigh. "I didn't exactly plan this." He whispered, hoping to avoid provoking the vicious tickle in his throat.

Stephens' footsteps moved closer to the bunk and he chuckled. "No, don't s'pose you did."

A slight weight settled over him, and Malcolm opened his eyes to see that a second blanket had been spread over his bunk. He blinked up at Stephens in confused gratitude. "Thank you, but…" he shook with more coughs and buried his head in the sweaty pillow. He could feel some weight shifting on his bunk, and opened his eyes to see that the bottles, including the ones he had dropped, had all been lined up by the wall which his rack butted up against, and they were all within easy reach. He was trying to make sense of that when Stephens grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him upright. A second pillow was shoved under his shoulders, and then Stephens let him lie down again. The additional pillow propped him up a little, which seemed to help his breathing, and as his head cleared he came back to his earlier thought. "Why?"

Stephens chuckled drily. "You saved my ass. The guy who threw that crap in your face was sneaking up on me with a pulse rifle, an' I didn't even see 'im. Would'a got the drop on me, too, but you stopped 'im, disarmed 'im and he threw it at you instead. Consider this a 'thank you'."

Malcolm shook his head a tiny bit, still not understanding why the gruff man was being so helpful. "I was just doing my…" he coughed into the handkerchief and Stephens pressed a hypo to his arm, releasing medication into his bloodstream with a quiet hiss. The throbbing pain in Malcolm's back and limbs suddenly decreased, and he forced his eyes open to stare at the medic. He couldn't be sure because his vision was so blurry, but it seemed like the man was smiling.

"Yeah, you were doin' your job. An' that's all I'm doin'. My job." He opened a bottle and pressed it into Malcolm's hand, helping to guide it up to the Englishman's mouth once the coughs backed down. "I just gave you an anesthetic, and this is electrolyte fluid with protein concentrate mixed in." Malcolm gagged at the gritty texture, and Stephens nodded. "Not the tastiest stuff, but it should hold ya until tomorrow. Drink all of it."

Malcolm blinked to signal his understanding and kept choking down the wretched stuff. He hadn't been hungry, but the protein concentrate would probably help him feel a little stronger. When he finished, Stephens rested a hand on his shoulder in what felt like a friendly gesture, but Malcolm couldn't be sure. "Can you see okay?"

Malcolm hesitated, embarrassed, and then shook his head. "Everything more than half a metre away is just a blur."

Stephens gave him a reassuring pat and let out a low whistle. "Damn. This won't do anything for your eyes, but it should help the coughing." He handed over a small plastic bag and made sure that Malcolm's fingers closed around it.

Malcolm fumbled one hand into the bag and felt around inside. His fingertips encountered many round, hard objects in the bag, and he looked up at Stephens, perplexed. "I have no idea what these are."

"Cough drops. I don't know if there are enough to last you. The ones in the blister packs have anesthetic in 'em, so they'll numb your throat for a while. We're just under fourty hours from Earth, and I'll be back a couple times to check on you before we get to Jupiter station. Just drink as much of that water as you can and try to sleep."

Malcolm unwrapped a cough drop and popped it into his mouth, smiling as the flavours of menthol and lemon went to work soothing his ragged throat. He nodded his acquiescence and settled in, closing his eyes. "Thank you for these. They'll definitely help." The cough drops were a godsend, and he appreciated the information on their ETA.

Stephens' footsteps headed for the hatch. "Don't mention it. See ya in about eight hours. Oh, and Reed?"

Malcolm opened his eyes and saw that Stepens was smiling that blurry smile again. "Yeah?"

"Zuger is a dumbass."

Malcolm laughed quietly, wary of setting himself off coughing but unable to completely suppress his relief at having found someone else who agreed with him on that score. "Does this mean you'll stop betting on the pool?"

Stephens laughed along with him. "Yeah. Too bad, though. As your medic, I've got one hell of an edge. Inside scoop." His footsteps came back to the bunk and he gave Malcolm's arm a soft bump. "It really bugs you?"

Malcolm kept his eyes low and shifted uncomfortably, squeezing his half-empty water bottle like it was a teddy bear as he gave a self-conscious shrug. "Not worth fighting over, and it gives team something to laugh about. In any case, I don't want to dignify the pillock by getting mad about it."

Stephens sighed, and it was a sad sound. "No wonder you don't hang with the team in transit. And I thought it was just because you were an arrogant bastard with a permanent stick up your ass."

Malcolm smiled slightly and aimed a wry look in Stephens' general direction. "Oh, I am."

Stephens started laughing again. "Get some rest, Reed, and the next time Zuger opens his idiotic mouth, I'll set him straight." Malcolm heard the hatch door close behind Stephens and tightened his grip on the precious cough drops. Maybe he had just found an ally. Cheered by the unexpected development, he drifted off to sleep.