Sato

When we get back down to the stable everything's quiet.

His face grim, Trip collects the things we've already decided the police don't need to find, and drops them into a water-butt outside. It's unlikely anyone will think to look in there, with the evidence of what else occurred right in front of them. As far as we can tell, it hadn't gone beyond the whipping yet, though the thought that anyone could intend to heap more pain on a man already so horribly hurt is enough to make me sick to my stomach, even if the man in question hadn't been Malcolm. I hope they put the bastard in a cell and nail the door shut on him.

Unbelievably, Carl's asleep. He's just lying there sprawled on his back with the last traces of a smug grin on his face. I can only imagine he filled up with Dutch courage before he started, and now it's taken him out.

I want to kick the living daylights out of him, but instead I kneel beside Malcolm. His face is so drained it looks gray, but he's still conscious. His eyes flick open as he hears us. "The ambulance is on its way."

His lips move, shaping the word 'Good', but he hasn't the strength to utter any sound. I've brought down some more towels, and I clean his face gently with a facecloth and pat it dry. I probably shouldn't – they'll want to take photographs, gather evidence – but there are indelible marks elsewhere of what he's suffered, and I know that stubborn British pride of his will hate to be seen looking at less than his best; a Starfleet officer should always appear well-groomed. The guy was just beaten half to death, and managed somehow to endure that without screaming; a few cuts from that damned whip must have landed on his head too, because blood has streaked down through his hair and joined the mess of tears and mucus and sweat that I wipe away. I hope he won't mind too much that we saw him like this, because we love him, but he'd never forgive himself for letting strangers see him so damaged and vulnerable.

"Do you want a little more water?"

"Please," he manages to whisper. After we've gotten a couple of sips down him – just enough to wet his mouth again – he puts his head down again, but then turns it towards Trip. "Horse."

"They'll be fine." Trip clearly thinks his mind's wandering.

"No. Check. Far one."

"Malcolm, we're not worryin' about any damn horse while you're in this state."

I'm pretty sure it's against regulations to address your senior officer as 'Bollock-brain', but that certainly sounds like the word Malcolm uses. He seems to be getting agitated, and we can't have that, so with a resigned sigh Trip stands up and walks over to the stall with the chestnut horse in it. "Sonofabitch!"

He jerks open the stall door and goes inside. After about half a minute, "Hoshi, can you manage by yourself?"

"Sure. What's wrong?"

"Damn horse is givin' birth. Like that's all we needed!"

"Will you be okay?"

"She seems to be okay for now. Front feet are just showin'. Shouldn't be long." His voice takes on a tender note, and I can hear him patting and stroking her. "Hey, momma, you're doin' fine. Take it easy. Have a little rest if you need to. Your baby'll be along soon."

Malcolm produces the ghost of a smile. "This should … be a new experience for him," he whispers.

"I'm sure he'll cope just fine." I hold his hand and wonder how long it'll take the ambulance to get here. His grip is usually firm, but his fingers hardly move in response, and his gaze is cloudy, unfocused. He feels cold, too, but I daren't lay even a light blanket on top of him; the fabric would stick to the wounds.

In any case the emergency services arrive even before I'm hoping to hear the sound of distant sirens. They come in quietly, though, there's only the sound of the vehicles coming around the house and down the lawn, and suddenly the stable's full of people, policemen and paramedics.

The paramedics naturally take priority. They check both Malcolm and Carl, and obviously they come to the conclusion that Carl's in no immediate danger so they concentrate their efforts on Malcolm. The hiss of a hypospray is music to my ears, as finally I know he's out of the agony he must have been in. Two shots; when I ask what the second's for, the guy just smiles. "Just a precaution, Ma'am." Probably some kind of antibiotic, I suppose.

They work over him for a bit longer, checking his stats and doing whatever else has to be done in these situations. Then they bring in a stretcher and gently lift him onto it.

One of the policemen joined Trip in the stall. A lot of the people around here are from farming backgrounds, so it's no surprise – and a huge relief – that he knows what he's doing. Not that I think Trip's incompetent, but if he were dealing with a warp engine giving birth I'd be a whole lot more confident in his abilities. Obviously most of my attention's concentrated on Malcolm, but after a couple of minutes I hear the sounds of joyful relief, and something about it being a colt, and just fine, and they help the mare back to her feet when she wants to get up. It takes a few minutes for the foal to find its legs and start nursing, but it can't be more than ten before Trip's back with me, and taking in the welcome sight of the ship's armory officer finally getting professional medical help.

"Is there a bed in the house we can make him comfortable in?" asks the guy who seems to be the senior medic.

Trip looks taken aback. "Shouldn't he be goin' to a hospital?"

"They've had an incident at County A&E. We're under orders to treat at the location if it's at all possible. I know this looks bad, but it's not life-threatening. We can do a lot to make him comfortable, and it'll spare him the long distance to the city hospital."

"Your Uncle Ed was talking about that over lunch. How much pressure the hospitals are under," I remind Trip. The local hospitals are still crowded to the eaves with the long-term sick and injured from the weapon strike. Most wanted to stay close to their families, and the additional trauma of separating them after what had happened was something that should be avoided if at all possible. We hadn't heard of any incident at the nearest, but things like this happen and can't be avoided. "If it's not possible to take him to County, maybe it's best for him to stay here, where we can keep him company and look after him. I'm sure he'd prefer that anyway."

Trip obviously recognizes the truth of this. "Sure. If you're sure he'll be okay…"

"We can start his treatment straight away, and a district nurse can come in to do the follow-up. If you've any concerns, though, you should call a doctor of course."

He offers to take them up to the house, and the three of them leave, carrying the stretcher carefully. I'm left with Carl and the policemen, one of whom has been carrying out a careful initial inspection of the scene in the meantime. He picks up the transceiver, the hypospray and the prayer book, which were lying neatly by the side of the straw bale when Trip and I arrived. He also looks closely around the floor at the front of the bale, and picks up something small from among the straw there. He's wearing plastic gloves, and places the four items delicately in a clear plastic bag. All part of the gathering of the evidence.

His companion is obviously the one tasked with interviewing me. I shudder to think what I must look like, my hair falling anyhow and my clothes all mussed, but he's impersonally kind. Asks me if I'm hurt, if I'm sure I'm okay, if I need to sit down for a while.

Actually I hadn't noticed it before, but now he's mentioned it I find that my knees are having problems holding me up. I feel such a wuss, but I could do with sitting down right now.

He lugs over another bale. (Naturally the one Malcolm was lying on will need to be examined, forensic evidence or whatever. They won't want anything contaminating it.) I fall rather than sit down onto it, and put my head between my knees. I have this sudden awful feeling I'm going to faint, or throw up, or something equally stupid.

The policeman doesn't seem to think I'm being a wuss. He talks to me kindly and says there's no hurry, things like this can shake anyone. As if I haven't seen alien corpses hung up to be milked for their fluids, and been tortured by Reptilians drilling into my skull; but of course he doesn't know that. He doesn't know I'm a bridge officer on Starfleet's flagship, and I should be able to cope better than this.

This reminder helps to steady me. It's only a minute or so before I'm able to sit up again, and hopefully a little of the color has come back to my face.

Naturally, he tells me he has to ask me a few questions. Get my account of what happened. Obviously the more I can tell him the better, but I can take my time. Then he'll write up a copy and produce a statement, which I'll have to sign.

I look down at Carl, still snoring and oblivious. "Aren't you going to do anything about him?"

"We'll be taking him into custody, Ma'am. Pendin' inquiries. 'Soon as he's awake we'll be takin' his statement, but I guess that won't be till sometime tomorrow."

I take a deep breath. In the couple of minutes it took us to walk down the lawn, Trip and I established the way we have to play it. We don't know why Carl hates Malcolm enough to do this; we don't know anything. We just went to his room for a late-night drink and found him missing. I hate the pretense it's going to involve, but it's damage limitation. That's the best we can do right now.

"Well – I only arrived from Japan yesterday…"

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