Sato

Oh, I thought tonight would never end.

Luckily the years I've spent aboard Enterprise have given me a thorough grounding in patience. Space is a pretty big place, and any vessel that sets out to explore it – even one with a top speed of warp 5 – has to expect to go for long periods when nothing interesting at all happens. Naturally there are everyday duties that have to be performed, and I keep myself busy in between times with the linguistics database (my perpetual work-in-progress), but I'll admit – if only to myself – that there are days when even that palls, and I glance up around the Bridge at everyone else going through the routine motions of a day that's just like the day before and the one before that, and wish that the hours would pass a little faster.

(I don't know how Travis copes. I think if I had to sit there at the helm watching this endless stream of star streaks coming at us for hours on end, I'd be hypnotized to oblivion by the end of the first day. I said that to him once and he laughed and said it wasn't nearly that simple; stars are more than just streaks of light, and there's a lot more out there to think about than just not hitting one head-on. Uh, like they didn't tell us that in our first year in the Academy. Honestly.)

We were the last to leave; it's not surprising that Ellen wants to make the most of the time with her spacefaring son while she still has him here, and it's clear how much tenderness and concern he feels towards her after what she's had to endure. But finally good-nights are said, and Trip and I walk out of the back door. The place is quiet, except for the incessant chirping of cicadas. Overhead the sky is clear and glittering with stars, though during the evening there's been the odd glimpse of a flash low down in the west, suggesting that somewhere over beyond the city, maybe Pensacola way, is getting a hammering. We're far enough away from Panama City itself for there to be little light pollution, which in olden days would have helped to conceal such a distant event, but this is the season for thunderstorms, though the relief they bring from the heat and humidity rarely lasts for long.

Now that the moment has almost come when we can be finally sure of privacy, I feel the long hours of enforced silence have brought me almost to the point of exploding. I suppose it's understandable that halfway down the lawn Trip stops to look upward – however many stars we've seen in our travels, these are still the stars of home and he hasn't seen them for a while – but it takes all my patience to stand and let him look his fill.

"How many times I'd stand here and look up there and want to be flyin' among them stars, explorin' strange new worlds," he murmurs at last. "How many kids have that kind of a dream and get to live it?"

I shift from foot to foot, and glance anxiously back towards the house. Someone may be watching us.

I don't say anything, but he catches the movement and starts walking again at once. "Sorry, Hoshi," he says contritely. "You've had a hell of a long day. I should have let you hit the sack earlier."

"I could have gone by myself if I'd wanted to. Like Malcolm did." My tone is a bit tart, which I regret, but anxiety's nagging at me harder than ever. "Trip, we've got to talk."

We let ourselves into the cottage. It's a real little home-from-home, with its own tiny, immaculate kitchen for privacy and an ensuite shower room with a blue slate floor. My suitcase is still by the door, where I left it after I'd taken out a change of clothes.

"Tomorrow," he says briskly, picking up the suitcase. "Tonight you need a rest."

"No, Trip – we need to talk now!" I'm not falling for this masterful Southern the-man-knows-best thing, not tonight; as much as I love feeling pampered and protected, I'm a Starfleet officer and I know something's wrong.

Desperately wrong.

He looks at me, really looks at me, for probably the first time. And sees I'm not kidding. He puts the suitcase down. "What's up, Hoshi?"

I glance at the door. My nerves have really gone to hell; I can't help wondering if there's someone behind it, listening.

There isn't any lock on it, only a bolt, set high up, presumably so that adults can prevent kids from wandering out. Luckily it's new, and the bolt part makes no sound as I slide it across. Trip watches this, wide-eyed; at a guess, he's wondering if I've watched a few too many horror movies and expect an axe-wielding maniac to burst in to slaughter both of us in our beds.

I drag him upstairs. He was probably looking forward to something like this happening sooner or later, but not quite under these circumstances.

Not the bedrooms; they might be bugged. Jeez, now I'm channeling Malcolm.

The ensuite. I pull him inside, shut the door and turn the shower on full. The splatter of hot water hitting slate is painfully loud in my ears. I wonder if I really am going crazy.

Trip grabs hold of my arms. "Hoshi, what in hell's going on?"

"It's Malcolm." I've had all afternoon to marshal my thoughts and suddenly I realize how little there is that I can tell him, what flimsy evidence I have for what's admittedly not much more than a suspicion, for all that it feels to me like an absolute certainty.

His eyes widen in alarm. "What about him?"

"I spoke to him by the lake this afternoon. He told me it's over. He doesn't want to be with us anymore." As the shock registers on his face, I rush on, angry for the sudden pain I can see there: "Trip, he doesn't mean it. I know he doesn't. Something's wrong."

He turns away. "He never … I spoke to him this evenin'. He never said anything." We're standing beside the sink. He passes his hand across the sensor on the tap and starts washing his hands as though not even aware he's doing it, just as though he has to be doing something. He stares blindly down at the soapsuds. "Did you … were you arguin' or something? Maybe one of you made a mistake, said the wrong thing…"

"It wasn't like that. Trip, listen to me, and help me think this through." I pull him away from the sink and down into a corner. "Your cousin, Carl, what do you know about him?"

Now he's hopelessly bewildered. "He's a jackass."

"No, more than that." Honestly, I could shake him, except that it doesn't take a genius to know that coming back to his home where so much has happened and where people are still coming to terms with their loss is enough to throw anyone out of sync. He's just a bit stunned by it all still, I guess, and not thinking as clearly as he normally does. He's just a bit slow to catch on right now, is all. Once he gets my drift he'll be past me before I know he's caught up.

The dazed look gives way to concentration. He may not know where I'm coming from yet, but he knows I wouldn't be asking if it didn't matter. "Only child. His Dad left when he was about six or so, never heard from him again. Didn't do so well in school. Nearly got thrown out of college. Mom died last year – my Auntie Carol. Worked in some place over east – where the weapon hit. Lucky he wasn't there that day, he'd snuck away to some political meetin' or other. Into politics a lot. Don't know what party, never cared enough to ask." His gaze sharpens and come back to me. "You think any of this is something to do with Malcolm? You're kiddin' me."

"I'm sure of it." I take hold of his hands urgently. "Malcolm was fine with both of us this morning. Then after lunch he went out for a walk down to the lake. Carl goes after him, and comes back alone. Then I go to look for him and he's completely changed, he's like someone's taken the real Malcolm away and left this … this stranger there. And he said he'd made a mistake getting involved and was putting it right – and that was it. No sorry, no regrets, nothing. Like he didn't give a damn about either of us."

Trip blinks doubtfully. He's so transparent; I can see all too clearly that he's afraid that only my account is right, and not the conclusions I've drawn. That Malcolm really does want out.

Well. I may not have the kind of laser sights that will allow me to see into Malcolm's very well-armored personal thoughts, but over the years of the voyage I've seen more than enough of his personal behavior to know that this is not normal. He may be shy and he's often awkward, and he can be ruthless enough when he has to be, but cruel or unfeeling to anyone he's ever cared about … no. Never. And I don't, I won't, I can't believe that he didn't care, that all of the hours he spent making me feel that Trip and I were the proton and neutron of his atoms were just an act. A mistake.

He's not an orator. Anyone who wants fancy speeches from Malcolm Reed will wait a long time. He talks through his hands, those hands that are skilled and gentle; the hands that convey so much with a single slow caress.

"So what do we do now?" asks Trip. "And how the heck can Carl have anything to do with this?" He hesitates, and suddenly looks stormy. "Back in high school, he was a bully. Always pickin' on the little kids. And whenever he picked on someone, the first thing he called them was 'gay'."

There's a cold feeling in the base of my stomach. Sizewise, Carl would make three of Malcolm. And for some mysterious reason, many Americans seem to suspect that English men are latently homosexual; maybe it's some stupid, prejudicial racist stereotype that goes back to the War of Independence.

But is he enough of a homophobe to simply pick on a guest in his aunt's and uncle's house and threaten them without any evidence? And without evidence, wouldn't Malcolm knock him flat on his back and laugh at him? The size thing is not an issue.

"But how could he have any idea that Malcolm could be gay? After how Malcolm went on and on to both of us how careful we'd have to be, how important it was not to let anyone suspect, he'd never…" I trail off, watching Trip's eyes fill up with guilty horror. "Trip, you didn't…"

"It wasn't anything," he says, with a desperation that's utterly unconvincing. "We told you we went out to that dance last night, right? There were these girls, we danced with them… nothing happened, I swear–"

"I don't give a damn about any girls!" Honestly, what does he think I am? And what does he think I think they are? They were single, good-looking guys at a dance, and therefore there would be girls; a few dances, maybe a little flirting, and that would be that. "I want to know what you did with Malcolm!"

He buries his head in his hands with a groan. "It was afterwards, on the way back to the flitter park. Just a kiss, one damn kiss in an alley. That was all. Nothing else. No big deal. He stopped me practically straight away–" His head jerks up. "Sonofabitch. He saw someone."

"He said that?"

"No. He just pushed me away suddenly and said 'Save it for Hoshi'."

"And that was all?"

"Absolutely. I swear."

"Right. And you kissed him." I'm not blaming him, and I'm certainly not shocked, I just want to get the facts absolutely clear.

Trip looks miserably guilty. "Hoshi, you didn't see him in that club. He was so damned hot."

Well, no, I didn't see him, but I rather wish I had. I can imagine Malcolm Reed giving into the temptation to be someone his strait-laced persona aboard Enterprise never allows.

"So it could have been Carl. But you don't know that for sure." I cross my legs, rest my elbows on my knees and press my fingertips to my temples. For some reason this always helps me concentrate. "Let's assume it was. Why wouldn't he confront you rather than Malcolm?"

"Probably because the scumbag knows I'd knock him straight on his good-for-nothing fat ass." His scowl is deeply worried.

"Whereas we know Malcolm wouldn't." Not because he couldn't; it's becoming horribly clear that Carl has threatened him with exposure of his and Trip's relationship, and that the first condition of silence is the end of it. Which, by extension, is the end of his relationship with me too.

Malcolm is being blackmailed, but can't admit that he is. This is the explanation that fits absolutely the cold blaze of his eyes as he rejected me. He was acting under coercion, hating it, hating himself most of all for bringing all of us into this danger.

"Trip, we've got to find him. Talk to him. Decide what we're going to do." I hesitate. "But if we decide to call Carl's bluff…."

"We may find he's not bluffin'." His eyes are hot but resolute. "So what. Serves me right for bein' a damn coward in the first place. Let's get this over with."

"No, wait. Let's think about this. It's not just you personally … it's Starfleet. You're Malcolm's senior officer and you're both heads of your departments. Both of you will end up on fraternization charges. Malcolm knows this, it's what he's been scared of all along. The end of your careers."

I could say and mine too, because although as far as we know right now it's just the two of them who've come under suspicion, once secrets start unraveling they usually tend to keep going. I don't think anyone knows about us, but it would only take one whisper… There's no way I could stay on board Enterprise if the scandal about all three of us broke, and it'd follow me from one end of the Fleet to the other. Officially, of course, I'd be the innocent party; as far as Starfleet regulations are concerned, this whole thing would boil down to two senior officers corrupting a junior. I could stand on top of the highest point of the Admiralty Building and scream that the whole thing was my fault, that I started it, that the whole thing was my idea; it wouldn't make one iota of difference. Even now there's this stupid, chauvinistic attitude among senior Starfleet officials that men are the only ones who should be held responsible for anything, and that women are just weak-willed, vacillating creatures who're led astray by those who should know better.

Blackmail of any variety is despicable. Ordinarily I'd be the last one to even consider giving into it. But perhaps … perhaps at least for a while we should pretend to give in. Step away from each other for a while. Because when I come to look at the brutal reality, I can't imagine Trip or Malcolm being happy anywhere else than aboard Enterprise, for a few years yet at least. I could go back to teaching without much heart-searching (if any school would have me, after a scandal of those proportions), but they're a different matter. Does either of them really want to give up their career? Being convicted of fraternization might not mean they have to leave Starfleet, but it would be a serious black mark against each of them, one that would probably mean one or both would have to leave Enterprise – as well as seriously affecting their future prospects of promotion. After all they've done to get where they are, do they really think openness about our relationship is worth the cost?

Sure, we'd be happy together, no question of that; we get along as well out of bed as in it, and in one way it'd be such a relief to be quit of the secrecy, to be able to be upfront about what we are and how we feel about each other. But living has to go on, and we'd be a national talking-point, if not a national scandal. Where would we live? How would we earn a living if the worst came to the worst and we were dismissed from Starfleet? If we had kids, how would they get along knowing their parents were 'different'? Other kids can be so cruel. I was singled out in class because of my linguistic abilities. I can only imagine what the jeers would be if the ammunition was so much worse.

Blackmail, however, rarely has one condition attached. I know there's been malicious speculation about unimaginable financial 'rewards' we received for our achievement with the Xindi and the suffering it cost us. For a lot of people it's been far too easy to dismiss Starfleet's denials. Sure, we were allowed to accept some carefully-vetted individual gifts from major companies, but there weren't nearly as many as rumor seems to think; most of the world's governments seemed happy to confine their gratitude to flowery speeches. As for the financial rewards, we got our back pay and the regulation compensation for missed holidays, and anyone who wants to consider those as unimaginable is welcome to – the taxman didn't seem to have any particular regard for our achievement and suffering when the figures went in.

Trouble is, if I'm any judge of character at all, Carl's the type of guy who'll very much prefer to believe that Starfleet's hiding the truth and the mission's made us all secret millionaires.

Clearly, the same questions have been going through Trip's mind. He's sat back again. I'm quite sure that if it was only he who'd be disgraced he'd go through with it regardless, but the mention of Malcolm's disgrace too gives him pause. And as for the other stuff, he may be drawing a Commander's pay check that puts a lowly Ensign's in the shade, but he's still a long way from being a millionaire.

"You're right. We need to talk to Malcolm," he says heavily. "If this really is what's happened, we need to talk through it and work out what we're goin' to do about it."

The spray from the shower has been hitting both of us while we talked; there's no shower enclosure, the whole floor area slopes gently towards the drain. I suppose whoever designed it never imagined anyone would need to use the place to hold a confidential conversation while the shower was running. At any rate, both of us are wet enough to cause comment if anyone happens to be up and about when we go back into the house, so we hurriedly dry off and change into fresh clothes. Maybe we could leave this till tomorrow, but I don't think either of us would get a lot of sleep with this hanging over our heads, and for sure Malcolm won't. So it's best to get it sorted right now, and then perhaps all of us can get some rest.

It was late when the party finally broke up, and when I glance out the window the house opposite's silent and dark. After being mostly silent all evening, Malcolm went to bed early, avoiding our eyes. The Tuckers were yawning their heads off by the time we left, and are probably in bed by now.

Who the heck else would still be around at this hour?

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