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"Future Present, Future Past" by Lady Rainbow Rating: PG-13 for language and some violence. If either squicks you out, be warned!
Whew. :) I’m gonna try to answer some of those questions in the next few fics. Switcheroo fic #6, which is tentatively titled “Blue Ice” will answer definitively “When do Malcolm and Hoshi get together?” In “WCPS”, Dr. Malcolm Reed told Hoshi that he has a kind of sensitivity to his environment that tells him when something isn’t quite right. Unfortunately, this is one of those times. Thanks, Pesterfield:) Corrections done. One Enterprise, March 27, 2155, enroute to Palmyra Three, 2345 hours. He swore again as the deck pitched underneath his feet. How the bloody hell could he operate with all this commotion? Despite the crazy evasive maneuvers from Ensign T’Pol up on the Bridge, his hands were still steady, patiently coaxing the piece of shrapnel like a jeweler cutting a fine diamond. He nodded to Lieutenant Cutler. “All right. That’s done it. Close up here, Liz, and I’ll be in Surgical Ward Two.” Liz nodded back and started the post-op as he stripped off the soiled surgical gloves and gown and went back into the pre-surgical room directly off the wards. After the rays disinfected and cleansed him, he reached for another set of scrubs and shrugged it on. Then he hurried back into the fray. The Sickbay doors opened and armored soldiers stepped in. Malcolm caught a glimpse of them: shiny black armor with helmets that obscured their faces. They raised their rifles and started shooting randomly. Two of his techs and three of his patients went down in the initial onslaught; soon the air smelled of burned electrical wiring and dirty smoke from destroyed consoles. “Security to Sickbay!” he roared and ducked under a biobed as a fusillade of shots rang over his head. He couldn’t abandon his patients! Liz was trapped in the surgical ward, but he was sure she could hear what was going on outside. His hand found a tray of surgical instruments and he armed himself with a pair of scalpels and several hyposprays. If only he had a phase rifle! But he was a doctor, not an armory officer...still, it was times like these that he would trade places with Trip Tucker in a minute... Stealthily, he crawled in a huge circle around Sickbay, positioning himself behind one of the invaders. One of Hippocrates’ mantras echoed in his head, “First, do no harm...” Obviously, Hippocrates never had his Sickbay attacked by armored soldiers. His target sensed his presence and began to turn around, but Malcolm tackled him to the floor, hearing the “Ooof!” as the man’s head impacted onto the floor. The soldier didn’t move, unconscious. Smoothly, Malcolm came up and drove his fist into a second soldier’s jaw, and that man fell like a stone. He saw a third come up behind him and threw one of the scalpels, slicing into that soldier’s firing arm. A single figure stepped out of the smoke; its arrival distracted Malcolm enough that he didn’t hear his attacker until an arm encircled his throat and yanked him backward. He tried to pull the man off balance, but he didn’t have any leverage, and he felt his vision begin to dim... A familiar voice hissed into his ear, “You will never have her. She is mine.” Malcolm tried to choke out his answer, but he didn’t have enough air to do it. A second pair of hands grabbed his wrists and took his scalpels and hyposprays away from him, then pulled him down toward the deck as the arm of the first soldier dug into his windpipe, . Darkness danced at the corners of his vision and threatened to overwhelm him. Then a burst of pain blossomed in the center of his chest. He managed to move his head enough to look down at the wicked-looking dagger that had somehow gotten lodged there. A cold part of his brain noted that it was perfectly positioned, between the ventricles of his heart. The hands holding him abruptly let him go; he fell to his knees, then onto his right side. Another part of him heard screaming from the surgical ward, but he couldn’t move. He collapsed on his back and stared up at the three helmeted soldiers above him. The three who had killed him. Slowly, they removed their helmets, one by one. The first one didn’t surprise him; he’d heard the man’s voice. Captain Matthew Hayes. “Bloody bastard,” Malcolm whispered. Hayes didn’t respond, but only gave him a smirk of satisfaction. The second sent a pain-racked shudder through him. Lieutenant Commander Trip Tucker. The Southerner gazed down at him with an expression of contempt, as if he was some sort of bug under his boot. Tucker cocked his head to the side, to indicate the third person. Malcolm used the last of his strength to look in that direction... “I’m so sorry, Malcolm, but you know too much.” He closed his eyes and felt Hoshi Sato’s kiss on his bloody lips, one last time, gentle and sweet, just like he had imagined, and felt her fingers stroke his goatee in a comforting gesture, move under his chin, dropping to the hilt of the knife in his chest... He screamed in agony as she ran him through. He sat bolt upright in his bunk on Enterprise, his hand flying to the center of his chest to find the skin unbroken and whole. He opened his eyes; the light sensors detected his movement and eased the lights to a low glow. Malcolm glanced around his quarters, at the volumes of medical books on the shelves, the pictures of his parents and sister on the walls, at the Vulcan meditation candle on his desk. With a sigh, he allowed himself to collapse back onto the pillow. He was safe, it was only a dream... But he hadn’t had a dream that realistic in a long time, not since...He frowned as he tried to remember. Not since his residency at the Vulcan Medical Academy. Before he’d met Doctor T’Les and Ensign T’Pol, Soval and T’Pau, and Minister V’Lar...he had thought at the time that he was going mad. Just like right now. Malcolm leaned forward and pressed his fists against his temples. A Vision this powerful couldn’t be ignored, but what did it mean? Hayes, Tucker, and Hoshi Sato had “killed” him...two of them were friends, but he’d never met Hayes, though he’d heard plenty about him of late... One of them was his Captain and a woman with whom he’d felt an instant connection, from the very first time he’d met her on Vulcan...and she was Captain Hayes’s friend and lover. He’d heard all the rumors, but managed to ignore them until now... His doorbell chimed. Chimed again. Malcolm grabbed his robe and tied it securely around him. “Yes?” “Doc, you okay? I heard you cry out...everything all right in there? C’mon, open the door before I bust it down. You’ve got me worried.” Malcolm felt a sudden jolt of fear, but he suppressed it. Quickly, he crossed the cabin and hit the door entry control. Lieutenant Commander Trip Tucker, Enterprise’s Armory Officer, stood there, his face tense with worry. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt and blue sweat pants and a had a towel thrown over one shoulder; Trip had obviously come straight from the gym. “I’m fine,” Malcolm replied. Trip raised an eyebrow in a “yeah, right, tell me another one” kind of expression. Malcolm sighed and added, “I’m fine now. I had a nightmare.” “Wanna talk about it?” Trip asked in a voice that brooked no choice of refusal. “It’s late—“ “I’ve got Beta shift tomorrow, so don’t worry about keepin’ me up. ‘Sides, you still look like death warmed over. Hate to see you end up in your own Sickbay ‘fore long.” Malcolm rolled his eyes and said, “You’re incorrigible, Mister Tucker.” “Yeah, that’s what Soval tells me all the time, and you’re both right.” Malcolm stepped aside for Trip to come in and he distracted himself by finding two cups and a teapot. He selected a kind of Vulcan tea that T’Pol was particular to; he also found it wonderfully calm and refreshing. While the tea was steeping, Malcolm watched as Trip took in the furnishings in his quarters. The Armory Officer paused by the holopictures of his family. “Your parents?” “Yes, Stuart and Mary Reed, and my sister, Madeline.” Malcolm smiled as he touched the frame of the one Trip was looking at. “You’d get along with my father; he was a gunnery officer in the Royal Navy. Retired a few years ago; he and my mother live in Malaysia now.” “I can see the family resemblance,” Trip commented. “So he was a gunnery officer and you’re a doctor?” Malcolm chuckled. “Yes. He would’ve liked it better if I’d have followed in his footsteps...but we are of different temperaments. My mother is headmistress of a public school in Kota Bharu and my sister is currently a curator at the Tate Museum in London.” “Ah. So you and your dad talk?” “All the time. He can be quite the chatterbox, if you can get him to open up enough. He’s in Research and Development in the Royal Navy...perhaps I can ring him and tell him you’d like to meet him.” Trip chuckled and shook his head. “Yeah, I’d like that...later. You aren’t getting out of this so easily, Doc.” Malcolm sighed theatrically as he poured the tea into the cups and handed one to Trip. “As I said, incorrigible.” “Got that right. Now, c’mon, spill it. Sounds like it was somethin’ pretty scary to have you yell like that.” Trip settled into a chair and held the cup between his hands. Malcolm eased into his office chair and told Trip as much as he could remember. He left out the part where his killers had revealed their identities. Trip didn’t interrupt as he talked, and Malcolm felt oddly better after having shared his experience. Trip sipped his tea after Malcolm was finished and looked at him with a speculative look. “Were you ever a combat medic, Doc?” “Not formally, but I was with several rescue and relief missions from the Vulcan Medical Academy. I’ve seen many horrors.” Malcolm’s voice was quiet. “And I’ve dealt with the aftermath. It reminds me why I decided to become a doctor, to help others and ease their pain.” Trip smiled. “Yeah, I can see that, but that’s gotta be rough on you. I can sympathize...as an Armory Officer, I get in the middle of some pretty awful situations and sometimes...you gotta do what you gotta do. Doesn’t mean I haveta like what I do, sometimes.” His smile vanished. “I’m expectin’ us to get in some trouble out here; no one knows what’s in this area of space yet. Maybe your subconscious is tellin’ you that too, and that you should be prepared.” Malcolm nodded. “That makes sense. Expect the worst, hope for the best.” “Yeah. That’s my own personal mantra,” Trip said. “It’s an occupational hazard to be expectin’ trouble just around the corner.” “So how do you keep your good cheer then, Lieutenant Commander?” Trip sighed and replied, “That’s Trip; we’re both off duty. And I dunno, I guess I’m the kind who tries to enjoy life as much as I can now, ‘cause there might not be a later. Eat, drink and be merry and all that. And between you, me and the bulkhead, I enjoy livin’.” Malcolm chuckled. “Yes, I can see that. I suppose that’s a healthy attitude to have.” Trip finished his tea and gave the cup back to Malcolm. “You sure you’re gonna be okay, Doc?” “I will be. Thank you, Trip.” “No problem. If you need to talk, you know where I am. See you later, then?” “Of course. Good night, Trip.” “Night, Doc.” With a grin, Trip left the room. Malcolm stared after him as he left. The man has missed his calling; he would be an excellent psychiatrist. The image of Trip taking notes as a client lay on a chaise lounge chair made him laugh aloud. He sighed and went back to his bunk. He’d talk to Ensign T’Pol in the morning; perhaps she would have some insights regarding this strange Vision and some counsel for him. When he finally got back to sleep, it was deep and dreamless. |
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