Chapter 36 - 2402
Liam Shaw sat straight up and shouted, "Hansen!"
"Aiiigghhh." Becca whimpered and covered her head with her arms.
"Becca?"
"Shhhh," she begged. "Just – quietly. Please." Her voice sounded like sandpaper. She struggled to sit up. She was naked under the covers – so was he – and she was clearly in pain.
"How did I get here?"
"Shhhhh. You died on Titan, they managed to revive you, you were in a coma and then I brought you here. You're safe, the ship's safe, your crew's safe. You have a brain injury that prevents you from retaining short-term memories, but you will recover, in time."
She kept one hand over her eyes as she spoke, as if the filtered light from outside was too bright. From what Shaw could see it was either barely dawn or cloudy or both beyond the window. Gently, he moved her hand away. Her face was dead white, and damp. "Why are you crying?"
"I'm sorry."
"Becca. What's wrong?"
"Evie's dead. Nico's dead. Harald's dead. My dad died yesterday. And I am horribly hung over."
"Oh, Becca." He wiped her tears with his fingertips, careful not to jostle her head. "I'm so sorry." He kissed her forehead gently. "I can only help with one of those things, but stay here, I'll be right back."
He eased off the bed, threw his robe on, and hurried to the kitchen. He barely understood how he'd gotten here, but he knew enough for the moment: Crew safe, Becca in pain. "ReLyte," he said quietly to the replicator. "Purple, cool."
On the counter next to the machine was a hypospray. It was pre-loaded for analgesia and nausea. Shaw didn't remember setting it up, but he gladly dropped it into his pocket. He got a glass of water and the Re-Lyte and went back to the bedroom.
"Drink this," he said, holding the purple liquid for her.
"I don't want it."
"I know you don't. Drink it anyhow."
Sullen, she took a sip, and then a second one. "It tastes gross."
"I know." He held the glass to her lips, got her to take a few more sips.
"I don't need to be babied," she said impatiently, and then flinched at the volume of her own voice. "It's not fair to you. I know you don't understand what's going on yet, just ask, I'm fine."
She was still crying. Her eyes were bloodshot, underlined with dark circles. He got her to drink again, an actual quantity this time. "How long have I been here?"
"Almost thirteen months."
"Thirteen months. And every morning for all those months I wake up like this, with no damn idea where I am and you tell me?"
"Yeah."
"You get me reoriented, you calm me down, you take care of me?"
"Yeah."
"Then for one goddamn day, Becca, let me take care of you."
Becca met his eyes finally. Tears still ran down her face, but she nodded.
"Drink."
She took the glass and chugged the rest of the purple liquid. Then she primly announced, "I'm going to vomit."
"No, you're not." Shaw retrieved the hypospray and applied it to her bare shoulder. She shuddered, then relaxed against him. "Better?"
"Yeah."
He held her, then, until cottage chimed softly.
"Can we go soak?"
"If you drink the water, too."
"I don't want it."
"I don't care."
She drank the water.
In the Soak, Becca floated on her back, as she always did. Shaw stayed vertical and close, keeping an eye on her. Her lethargy was a little alarming; he didn't think she was drunk any more, but she was undeniably exhausted. The Soak could lull a person to sleep even on a good day.
He tried to thread the clues together, based on what little Becca had said. How the hell did I get here? I've been here thirteen months? I lost more than a year?
He'd been dead. He was pretty sure he'd been dead. And then – what? Brain damage, coma, okay. Becca bringing him here. Didn't seem like something Starfleet would go along with, but she was an ambassador, after all, and she could be pretty damn persuasive. Better here than a medical facility, anyhow.
He did a quick physical inventory. His right elbow was a little achy. He touched his face; his beard felt neatly trimmed. Ran his hand over his hair, didn't find any evidence of any injury or scarring.
But there was a scar on his chest. It was faint, but the heat of the Soak made it redder, easy to see. Shaw brought his hand down and traced it. The perfect circle of a phaser blast.
I was dead. Now I'm here.
He reached his other hand out and touched Becca's fingertips. Her hand closed over his and she pulled herself to his side, rested her face against his shoulder. He looped his arms around her in the water.
So much didn't make sense. The missing year months, the missing night before. He'd never seen Rebecca Radford drunk. She'd had a few beers, back in the day, maybe split a bottle of wine with him over a long evening in the cottage, but she got giggly at worst, not loaded. Her staff – when she'd had staff – had standing orders to water her drinks at any diplomatic function. But from her current condition, she'd been absolutely plastered the night before. And he couldn't remember how she'd gotten that way, or why.
From the way Shaw felt – clear-headed, wide awake – he had not been drinking. But there was a strong possibility that he'd been pouring the drinks. Would he have let her get completely falling-down drunk? Maybe. If they were safe in the cottage. If he was sober and confident he could look after her. If she was in enough pain that one night of escape was warranted.
Evie's dead. Nico. Harald. My dad died yesterday.
Alcohol wouldn't stop the pain long-term, but it would knock it out for a night.
It still felt off to him. He was missing something.
I'm missing the whole damn night. Not a damn thing between dying on the deck and waking up with Becca crying. Night, hell, I'm missing a year.
His mind circled back. Evie's dead? He felt like he should have known that. He felt like it was important. "How did Evie die?" Becca flinched, and he wished he could take the question back. "Sorry, never mind."
But she leaned back enough to look at him, and all the pain she had managed to drowned the night before was back in her bloodshot eyes. "She was –" She took a gasping breath. "She was—"
Shaw knew, then. Evie had been killed by her own crew. "On Frontier Day."
And how many others did Becca lose on Frontier Day? Family, friends? Could she even count them all?
Becca nodded. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her face contorted in pain.
She probably wanted to scream, but what finally came out was a high, keening wail, the cry of utter loss. It broke something loose, and then she was sobbing.
Shaw gathered her close again and just held her as the sobs wracked her body. It was awful, listening to her cry. He wanted desperately to comfort her, to quiet her. Her agony was almost too hard to bear. Almost.
The only thing worse than hearing her cry, Shaw thought, would be asking her to be silent. And I could. I could say shhhh or calm down or Becca, stop, and she would. She would slam the hatch on all that pain, cork it, bottle it up – and carry it forever.
Or until she's screaming in a blind rage at the man she holds responsible for the death of her friends.
Thirteen months, and suddenly he could see it. Becca would have been here, at the Camp, on Frontier Day. Too early for campers, so it would have been just family and crew. News would have come to them, probably in smatterings, confused. Evie was dead. Shaw was dead. Others, friends and family, were dead. People Becca had worked with. People she had cared for. All dead. And in the midst of all that chaos and grief, one little sliver of good news: Nope, never mind, Shaw's alive after all.
Of course she'd gone and dragged him out of Starfleet Medical. Of course she'd brought him home. And god help anyone who'd tried to stand in her way.
Having him to care for, she'd been able to bury all her other grief. Until now. Until Jeremy's death tore that unhealed festering wound wide open.
Shaw could not do a single fucking thing to take her pain away. But he could hold her safe while she howled to the heavens. It's all I can do. It's the least I can do.
He whispered, "Let it go, Becca. I've got you. It's okay. Let it go."
Tears, sweat, or the sea, she'd told him, years before. Steam rose off the sea water. Sweat gathered on his face. Becca cried, hard, great tears running back to the sea. If Shaw added a few tears of his own, the steam and the sweat and the sea hid them away.
When her tears ran out, at least for the moment, and the water became almost too hot to bear, Shaw herded Becca out of the Soak and up the stone stairs. She was dully compliant, unresisting. Exhausted. He got her showered and dried off and into a dry robe.
The kitchen smelled like freshly-brewed coffee; Shaw had asked the computer to start it on their way out the door. "Coffee? Breakfast?"
Becca considered for a very long moment. "I really just want to go back to bed."
He led her to the bedroom and tucked her back in. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked, already half asleep.
"I'm fine. Go to sleep." He kissed her forehead and went back to the kitchen.
On the counter next to the coffee pot there was a tablet. Shaw scowled at it. Thirteen months, and in all that time, no one thought to maybe write things down, so Becca didn't have to explain it every morning? He picked it up and tapped it impatiently. Just a few notes would have been so -
MORNING BRIEFING
PLEASE READ
The opening screen was comfortable pale blue. The lettering was rich gold, in a formal, elegant font.
Shaw rubbed his forehead. "How very diplomatic," he grumbled. "This was never going to work."
He swiped to the first page of the document with one hand, reached for a coffee mug with the other. The comm receiver on the breakfast bar beeped politely.
Shaw scowled, put down his still-empty mug, and took the two steps he needed to reach the comm. "Morning," he said evenly.
"Liam?"
It was Matthew, and he sounded rough. "Matt?"
"How's Becca?"
So her brother knew Becca'd been completely spannered the night before. Interesting. "Hung over. Medicated, hydrated, back in bed."
"Oh. Good."
A notion occurred to Shaw. "How are you?"
"Uh … also hung over."
"Ahhh." So it hadn't been just her. Of course not; they'd all lost their father, uncle, grandfather. Friend. The excess drinking had been a proper wake, then. That made sense to Shaw. All of them around the dining room table at the big house. Loud. Somehow he knew they'd been loud.
"So. Umm. I know it's early, but could you, um, could you come fix the Big Soak?"
Shaw's eyes narrowed. "The Big Soak is broken?"
"The gate. It won't open. We're pretty sure you disconnected it somehow. So we couldn't drown last night."
He had no memory of that, but, "That does sound like something I'd do."
"Yeah, it was probably a good idea."
"I'll be right there."
He went back to the bedroom and got dressed quietly. Becca stirred anyhow. "Gotta run up to the big house and minister to some other sinners," he said.
"You want me to come with you?"
"Nah. Get some sleep. I won't be long." He kissed her again and went out to the mudroom for his boots. They were damp and muddy. Becca's boots, by contrast, were perfectly clean, polished to a shine. He grabbed his jacket. It was also damp.
There were three more hyposprays in the inside chest pocket. Huh.
Outside, he went around the corner of the cottage to get the four-man. It wasn't there.
Shaw frowned at the spot where it was usually parked. If he hadn't been drinking, then there was no reason he wouldn't have driven them back from the big house. So why had they walked?
I want the rain on my face.
Becca's voice, but he had no context to it. Maybe it was just his imagination. Shaw sighed and set off on foot across the pasture. It wasn't raining at the moment, but the clouds were thick and heavy overhead and everything seemed muted and quiet. Given that he had secured a total of four hyposprays, that was probably for the best; there were probably a whole lot of hungover people who needed to avoid direct sunlight.
He reached the big house and circled it to the Big Soak gate. He most likely had disabled the door mechanism the night before, if everyone was very drunk. It was a much safer bet than trying to round up all the camp keys that would open the gate. But since he didn't remember doing it, Shaw wasn't sure he'd know how to repair what he'd done. He hoped he hadn't done something really dumb like grabbing a handful of wires and yanking. On the other hand, it had to be something complicated enough that Matt couldn't just fix it himself.
He should have brought some tools along.
Shaw approached the door. The key in his pocket should have unlocked it, but the door didn't make any sound, which implied it was powered down. He opened the maintenance hatch. Like all of Otto Radford's installments, the door mechanism was clean and simple: power from the solar panel to the latch and the receiver. No dangling wires greeted him. He traced them with his eyes to the top of the enclosure. All intact. So why – ?
He looked more closely at the receiver. There were two little spring clips at the top where it should have connected to the power source, but there were no wires there. Shaw ran his fingers over the empty clips, found a little gap behind them. With his pinky, he teased the absent wire ends out. He straightened them enough to insert them into the clips.
The door lock disengaged.
Shaw grinned to himself and pushed the door open, then let it shut and stepped back. He heard the lock click into place. As he stepped closer, it disengaged again.
He hadn't yanked any wires, just unclipped them and hidden them away. Easy fix – if you knew what you were doing. Which he evidently did.
Can't remember what I had for dinner yesterday, but I got this right. It was satisfying.
Shaw circled back and went into the big house. There were no lights on in the dining room, just the dull gray outside light through the windows. Thirteen miserable family members sat in hungover silence around a table strewn with empty bottles and mostly-empty glasses. There were plenty of empty chairs; Shaw had the notion that they'd been full last night, but maybe that was another occasion.
He was sorely tempted to yell a cheerful greeting. He resisted. It had been quite a wake.
There was a highchair pulled up to the table, and two of the empty chairs had booster seats on them.
He walked around them to the kitchen. "ReLyte," he said to the replicator, "cool, purple, thirteen glasses."
The replicator made six glasses. Shaw unloaded them, and it processed again.
"Can we help?"
Two youngsters, a boy and a girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, were at his elbow. They looked vaguely familiar. Shaw sensed that he should know their names, but he didn't. In any case they were bright-eyed and sober. "One of these to everybody," he instructed as he unloaded the second batch, "and then a glass of water to everybody."
"What is this?" the boy asked, studying a glass.
"It's called ReLyte." He hooked his fingers around four glasses and carried them to the table. "Most of being hung over is being dehydrated, but part of that is having your electrolytes all out of whack. This stabilizes them, somewhat."
"It tastes awful," one of the women at the table said. "I don't want it."
"Drink it anyhow," Shaw commanded, and she did.
"It does taste awful," he explained to the kids as they distributed beverages. "For a reason. You can over-correct your electrolytes pretty easily, and that's just as bad. ReLyte's formulated to taste okay when you need it, but awful when you don't. So you drink what you need and no more."
Unless you're twelve years old and you and your friends dare each other to drink it. Then you each chug a glass knowing full well that it will make you puke – another feature of the formula – and you're trying to outlast the others. And you do - Stu pukes first, and then Melka, and then you, about ten seconds later, but you still win.
These kids did not need to hear about that game from me, Shaw decided. They'll likely figure it out for themselves.
"So it's just for hangovers?" the girl asked.
"It's for any medical situation where people are mildly to seriously dehydrated."
The boy asked, "Can we taste it?"
Shaw shrugged. "You can taste it. You won't like it."
They both took a sip out of the last glass. They both made the expected faces. Shaw took mints from the bowl in the center of the table and tossed one to each of them. "Get the water."
While the kids distributed glasses of water, Shaw went around the table with the hyposprays. They were preset and idiot-proof: Hold them near the patient, wait for them to calibrate, apply. "Drink," he commanded again, and the mourners drank.
He looked at the highchair again. "Where are the little kids?" he asked his helpers.
"We're herding them downstairs as they wake up," the girl answered. "Having breakfast down there."
"We told them it's picnic and pajama day," the boy added. "We'll watch them."
"Good. Thank you."
Shaw hit Matt last. The man perked up, a little. "Thank you. Will you fix the Soak now?"
"Drink up. I already fixed it."
Matt chugged his water. "You are a saint."
"Yeah, you only say that because I didn't turn on the lights and clap my hands enthusiastically."
"Oh god please."
He watched them shuffle out. The two youngsters started gathering up glasses. "I'd leave those," Shaw advised. "Let them clean them up later."
The kids shared a look, little grins, shrugs.
Shaw wished he could remember how many actual adults there were in the compound. He had an idea it was more than thirteen, but he wasn't certain. At any rate, they were mostly sober and somewhat functional now. "I'm going back to the cottage, but if you need anything, just yell."
"We will."
"But we can manage for a few hours," the girl added. She was proud of that; so was the boy. They'd forgotten their own pain in favor of being useful.
Shaw knew that instinct much too well.
"I'm sure you can. And I'm sure they'll appreciate it." He gestured to the empty table. "But when they're ready to take over, make sure you take some time for yourselves. To grieve. You lost someone important, too. Don't – don't let that get buried just because they needed you to step up, okay?"
They looked at him solemnly. "We will," the boy said again. He blinked rapidly, not quite crying.
Shaw gave them both a tight smile and headed out.
As he left he heard the girl say, "Maybe we could have a wake of our own. Without the drinking, but – you know, singing and stories and all that."
"Just us kids?"
"Yeah."
Shaw nodded to himself and closed the door.
Shaw took a four-man back to the cottage. It was not quite raining, but an annoying mist had rolled in. He stood at the back door and looked out toward the pasture as it disappeared into the fog.
I want the rain on my face.
Becca's voice, but – Shaw rubbed his forehead. It came away damp. He felt like he was right on the verge of remembering something. But it kept slipping away.
He wondered if anyone had turned the cows out for the day. He couldn't see any in the pasture, but then he couldn't see much of anything now. He could walk out and look, but it was already sloppy and the soft precipitation would make it worse. And he sure as hell wasn't going to go up and let them out, anyhow. The day was going to be crappy, let them stay inside and dry.
Stumbling across the pasture in the dark. His right arm around Becca's waist and his fingers laced through her belt, he left across his body and holding her arm, half-carrying her and –
Gone.
"Shit." Cows, look for the cows. He scanned the pasture again.
… and the dog on the far side of her, concerned, trying to help, getting under her feet, as if he didn't have enough problems. Go home. Go on now. But he didn't know the dog's name. It was a different dog every time he came here. The dog licking Becca's hand nervously and her trying pet him and Shaw hauling her back upright and keeping her moving …
But was he remembering, or just imagining how it must have been?
He focused on the cows again.
... trying to hold her up and open the gate with his left hand and the damn gate latch sticking and then it opened and he walked her through and shoved the gate shut but it didn't latch and he had to go back so he leaned her against the fence, both her hands on the rail, stay right there, and it was three steps back to the gate to shut it and three steps back to her but by the time he got there she was vomiting and he held her up again, one arm around her waist and the other catching her hair back and trying to steer her head so she didn't vomit on her boots …
Gone.
He looked for the cows a third time, but no memory stirred. Not a whisper. "Shit," he said again.
He went into the mud room.
He took his boots off, hung up his jacket next to Becca's. Hers was damp, too, but that didn't really confirm anything; everything was damp here in the spring. He went into the cottage.
Shaw checked in on Becca, who was still asleep. Then he poured himself a cup of long-delayed coffee and sat down with the tablet. He scrolled through the tabs. There was a lot of information there. But the first thing was to deal with that damn cover page. He sipped his coffee and tweaked the font and the colors until it was a black screen with bright red letters that filled the entire screen. He swapped MORNING BRIEFING PLEASE READ to READ THIS DIPSHIT. Then he turned the motion sensor up to maximum, so that it flashed on every time he came within three meters of it. It was obnoxious. It would absolutely get his attention. It needed to go beside the bed every night.
He opened the intro tab. The first paragraph was what Becca had already told him: dead on Titan, coma, brain injury, getting better. How long it had been, with an autocounter. Three hundred eighty-one Earth days. Ship safe, crew safe. A final line that said he could go somewhere else any time he wanted to.
Shaw frowned at that last sentence. Where else would he want to go? He would have to ask Becca about that when she woke up.
He added a second paragraph of his own. Evie died on Frontier Day. Becca's father died days ago. Don't make her remind you. She is hurting. Don't be an asshole.
He sipped his coffee. Judging by the tab labels, there was a ton of information in there. Everything he could possibly want to ask about his situation. He could read all of it. But it would apparently be gone again the minute he fell asleep.
He didn't know where to start. He didn't even know if he should bother.
Randomly – half-randomly, anyhow – he stabbed tab marked MEDICAL INFORMATION. At the top was a photo and a name, Dr. Julian Bashir, and a paragraph about him. He was apparently Shaw's physician, and what followed were his medical log entries, in reverse order, newest on the top. Shaw tried to read them, but the words kept slipping away. He kept scrolling back to the photo. Finally he gave up and tapped it to fill the whole screen. Nice-looking man. Older. Salt-and-pepper hair, very straight, cut short. Big brown eyes. Olive toned skin, better cared for than Shaw's. Serious expression, but he somehow managed to look friendly. Standard Starfleet medical uniform. So what –
Laughing. Shaw could see him laughing. But he was also watchful, looking around, keeping an eye on everyone. He had a glass in his hand, half full, but Shaw had only filled it once; all the people around him had had several. At the table, in the big house. In the second chair from the end, on the side by the windows –
Shaw sat back, closed his eyes, but it was gone.
"I think I'm losing my damn mind," he muttered.
Or else getting it back.
Maybe this wasn't the first time he was remembering things. But he couldn't remember.
He opened his eyes and stared at the picture again. Took a long drink of his coffee. Then, reluctantly, he stabbed the contact button.
There was a delay. Shaw drank more coffee. Then a male voice said, "Captain Shaw? Is something wrong?"
"No. I mean, everybody's hung over, but there's no emergency. I'm sorry if I've disturbed you."
"Not at all. I left you some hyposprays, did you find them?
"Yes. Thank you."
"And ReLyte will help …"
"Did that, too."
"How else can I help you, then, Captain?"
Then it hit. The doctor had been there. Had left pre-loaded hyposprays, had anticipated the hangovers. Had been drinking at the table, but just one. Watching everyone else get spannered. Everyone but Shaw.
The way he had remembered it.
"Captain?"
"I wondered if you could tell me – if you know – how Jeremy died. I don't want to ask Becca."
"Of course. As I understand, he was operating some large piece of farm equipment and fell under it. But in the post-mortem, they discovered that he had had a cardiac issue prior to the accident. He had had previous heart issues. To be blunt, he was expired before he was crushed."
"That's good, I guess."
"Still sad," Bashir agreed, "but somewhat less horrific for the family."
"Yeah. Thank you."
"How are you feeling, Captain?"
"Fine, I guess." Shaw hesitated again. Becca in the rain, staggering drunk. I want the rain on my face. He shook his head. "Do you really think I'm ever going to remember things?"
"I do, Captain," the doctor said immediately. "Possibly very soon. But you should know that it won't be an immediate process. It will be gradual, mere glimpses at first, and it will likely be highly frustrating for you."
"How so?"
"In the French language there's a term, presque-vu. It means almost seen. It's that sensation of almost being able to remember something, but not quite. And the feeling that you might remember it at any moment. It's quite likely that you'll experience your first memories like that."
Shaw rubbed his forehead. "Ahh."
"Are you already experiencing some of that?"
"Maybe." He sipped his coffee. "Nothing definite. Just – like you said, almost remembering. It's like an itch I can't scratch."
"That will get worse, I'm afraid. There are some medications we could try, if it becomes unbearably annoying."
"That will help me remember?"
"That will take the edge off the irritation of not quite remembering."
"Oh."
"It would only be temporary. To help you through this transition period."
"I'll let you know. If I remember."
"I'll offer again. Do you want me to come and see you today?"
Shaw glanced toward the bedroom door. Becca hadn't moved. "Not today. I'm just mildly annoyed at the moment."
"I understand. If there's anything at all I can do …"
"Thank you, doctor." Shaw clicked the link off.
He paced a little circle in the living room while he finished his coffee. Presque-vu. Sure. He needed to add that to his front page. Despite what he'd told Bashir, it was irritating as hell.
But he was at the wake. I remembered that.
Shaw went to the bedroom door again, listened for Becca' breathing. You're taking care of her today. Get your head out of your ass and think about what she needs.
Yeah, but what she needs is to sleep, at the moment. Which leaves me to – what?
He looked around the cottage. The kitchen was tidy, only his coffee mug sitting out. He went to the living room and folded the throw blankets. Started the fireplace. Got a bottle of wine from behind Otto's plaque – they'd gone through his original stock years before, but they refilled with new bottles as needed – and put it in the chiller. Not that he thought Becca was going to want a drink any time soon. Poor girl has probably never been drunk enough to puke in her life …
It was there and then it was gone. Cows. Think about the cows. Shaw walked quietly to the back door of the cottage. Down the steps to the mud room. He reached for the back door, then stopped. Not outside. Right here. Cows. Think about cows.
His gaze dropped to his muddy boots.
Then it shifted, ever so slightly. To Becca's boots. Which were clean and shiny.
"Oh," Shaw said aloud. He bent and picked one up almost reverently. Turned it over and saw that every bit of mud had been cleaned out of the sole. Turned it again, saw that the leather polished to Starfleet boot camp specifications. Perfect.
Not a trace of last night's vomit.
Because he had cleaned them.
Because when Becca was clean and dry and passed out safely in her bed, when there was not a single damn thing he could do for her, he had cleaned her boots.
And that meant, of course, that it had all been real.