5
Malcolm had never been surrounded by so much fog. Light hardly filtered through it, making the environment around him rather eerie.
"Hello?" he called, wondering, as he did so, how on earth he had got there. Last he remembered, he had been on that alien ship with Phlox and T'Pol and he had- Hold on, hadn't he volunteered to… Malcolm winced. A strange thought had dawned in his befuddled mind: was he unconscious or… dead?
Of its own accord, his hand went to his side, but there was no phase pistol there. Feeling the ground with his foot, he took a tentative step. Proceeding with caution, he started to walk, hoping to find some answer to the why, when, what and where that were buzzing in his mind. What troubled him most, was the total lack of coordinates and the absolute silence, which made him almost dizzy. He could be standing upside down, for all he knew. Or this could just be a bad dream.
He wasn't a man prone to be frightened, or he wouldn't have chosen his career, but a shiver travelled down his spine as he suddenly perceived an indistinct shade gradually draw closer. It gave him the creeps, not to mention that facing, unarmed, someone unknown in unknown territory was not his idea of fun.
"Who are you? Stop where you are!" he called out, halting as well.
The figure seemed not to have heard him. It kept coming closer, moving smoothly as if it were gliding, rather than walking, which was also rather disconcerting. Malcolm steadied himself.
When the fog finally parted and the visitor's features became clearer, Malcolm almost took a step back in surprise. He knew this young man in his early forties. He knew his handsome, regular features, his deep-set eyes under a crop of hair cut in short, military fashion. He knew him, even though he had never met him in person. This was – or at least looked like – his great-uncle, the hero of the HMS Clement.
"Son, I was sent to welcome you, but I'm afraid we'll have to wait a wee bit longer before we go," the man said, addressing him. He had spoken in a firm voice with a strong English accent.
"That's just as well, because I have no intention of going anywhere with you," Malcolm replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "Not until I know what's going on."
"I know how you feel," the vision replied with an encouraging smile. "But don't be frightened. You can trust me, you know that."
"I don't know a thing," Malcolm countered in a smoky voice, which for good measure he had injected with a hint of sarcasm. "You may look like someone familiar, but it seems quite unlikely that you are actually whom you appear to be."
The man gave a soft chuckle. "You are a Reed all right. Stubborn as a mule." Then he turned, and as the fog thinned, he pointed to a bright light that was now visible in the distance, brighter than any explosion Malcolm had ever seen, while some sweet music floated their way.
"What's that?" Malcolm asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. In a mysterious way, he felt attracted to the place, which was totally out of character for him.
"Bridge, we're ready for transport," Rostov's voice piped in through the comm. system.
"Waste no time!" Jon urged him. He turned to Müller and nodded. "Lower the shields, Ensign."
"Aye, Sir."
No sooner had the order been carried out than the ship was hit by a powerful phase cannon shot.
"Breach on C Deck," the young crewman who replaced T'Pol at the Science console cried out in repressed fear. "Secondary bulkhead in place, but I cannot tell if there have been any casualties, or fatalities."
Jon grabbed his pilot's seat. "Travis, we need some of your magic skills."
The tense set of Mayweather's shoulders spoke plenty as he silently tried to comply. Enterprise swerved abruptly, and a shot grazed the ship instead of hitting her fully.
Jon paged the transporter room. "Preferably before we're blown out of the sky, Ensign." The moment he had uttered the words, he regretted them. Rostov would do his best, he was sure of that.
"Sorry, Captain, but it's taking longer than it should," Rostov came back. "Something is interfering with…"
The rest of his words were drowned in the noise of another explosion. Dammit, Jon cursed in the privacy of his mind, I can't risk the lives of my entire crew! He could almost hear T'Pol's voice cautioning him. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few…
"I think I've lost them, Captain…"
Rostov's anguish came loud and clear even through the Comm. link. Time stood still for a few seconds. Jon could feel the Bridge crew's eyes on himself, and sorrow spread through him, as it had so many times in the Expanse. He had hidden it well behind a hard mask then, and he made an effort to do it now while a string of foul words pressed behind his tightened lips. This could not be happening, dammit!
It was Müller who broke the silence.
"The Shuttlepod is opening fire against the aliens," he said, sounding surprised. "Commander T'Pol is trying to keep them busy while our shields are lowered." He captured Jon's gaze. "She has limited firepower, Sir…"
"I know," Jon said under his breath. The cold weight that Rostov's words had deposited in the middle of his chest was still there, but not all hope was lost. "Rostov, try again!" he paged the transporter room. Enterprise was doing her best to keep out of reach, and once more Jon felt grateful for the talent of a certain crewman as a shot few across their bow, missing them. "You're doing great, Travis," he encouraged, leaning over the pilot's seat.
"Captain, I have them!" Rostov suddenly announced.
Jon straightened. "Raise shields," he immediately ordered.
"Done as you spoke, Captain," Müller said, fingers flying. "Whatever is left of them." He smirked. "Less than 50% now."
Jon leaned on the piloting console. "What about the Shuttlepod? How long, till it docks?" he asked Mayweather.
"The alien ship has turned against it," Müller said with a worried frown. "May I return the favour and try to keep them off the Commander's back, Captain?" he asked, glancing up briefly.
There was firm determination in his green eyes, the same Reed would have in similar circumstances. "Do it," Jon ordered.
The red beam of Enterprise's forward phase cannons crossed the darkness.
"Direct hit," Müller announced. "Sir, I don't know how much longer we can hold in one piece, though, if they attack us. Shields are now at 40%."
Jon turned to Hoshi, who obviously by now could read his mind. "Channel open, Sir," the Linguist said.
"T'Pol, you'd better step on the gas," Jon urged, "we need to get out of here and fast."
"I presume that means that I should make haste, Captain," their resident Vulcan replied in her usual unflappable tone. "Enterprise, lower the docking arm, I am approaching your position."
"Almost there…" Travis muttered as he followed the Shuttlepod's course, a rivulet of perspiration running down his cheek and leaving a shining path behind it. "Docked! I'm retracting the arm."
Jon heaved a tense sigh. "Get us out of here, Travis. Maximum warp."
"Gladly, Sir."
Jon felt like he had taken a beating. They had managed to escape without fatalities and only a few minor injuries in the crew, but Enterprise was licking her wounds, with the Engineering staff working double shifts to repair the damage. What troubled him most, however, was that Malcolm was paying a high price for getting Phlox his second sample of the unknown pathogen. As he looked at his Armoury Officer, lying pale and unconscious in Sickbay, his feelings must have been written all over his face, for the Doctor overcame his species' aversion to physical contact, placing a hand on his arm as he tried to lift his spirits.
"Captain, thanks to Lieutenant Reed, I have developed an antidote," Phlox said, guiding him towards Trip's bedside. "I have already injected it into Commander Tucker's bloodstream, and I am confident that we shall see some improvement in the next few hours."
"What about Malcolm?" Jon croaked out, shifting his gaze away from the face, also much too pale, of his Chief Engineer. That heavy weight on his heart refused to budge, despite of Phlox's cautious optimism.
Phlox's intense blue eyes were crossed by a flash of sorrow. "Mr. Reed has had an unexpected reaction to the infecting agent," the Doctor quietly admitted. "I should have taken his history of allergic reactions into account," he went on in regret, "but the situation was precipitating, time was running out for Commander Tucker, and getting a new sample through Mr. Reed seemed the logical option, him having already been on that ship." He walked to the biobed on which Malcolm lay, beaded with perspiration, and checked the drip that fed into his arm. "On the positive side, he was injected with the antidote at an earlier stage of the illness, which should help." Phlox heaved a deep breath and turned to Jon. "The human body is a complex machine, Captain, each individual is different, but ultimately what works for one almost certainly will also work for most. I am confident that both will respond to the cure."
"I hope so, Phlox, I hope so," Jon muttered. He touched his Armoury Officer's arm. "Hold in there, Malcolm, do you hear?" he said firmly. He raised his gaze. "And that goes for you too, Trip."