Chapter Text
Malcolm
They are dead in the water. At least, the shuttlepod is.
He’s stowed Trip in the pilot’s chair for now, safety harness on to prevent his unconscious body from taking a nosedive into the water that’s currently filling the shuttle.
His own attempts to repair the shuttle serve to distract him somewhat from their predicament, but as the icy water sloshes about his legs, he feels a chill that has nothing to do with the freezing water.
“Trip!” he shouts again, trying to drown out his fear, “bloody wake up and help me.” There’s no answer, at least none that he can hear over the roar of the water, and a quick glance reveals that the engineer still hasn’t moved. “Useless sod,” he adds for good measure, because now he can feel himself starting to panic, and shouting at Trip is his last grasp at normality, the pretence that he’s still in control of the situation.
He takes a deep breath and attempts to measure the intake of water so that he can estimate the time they have left, but he can’t seem to hold on to the numbers, much less use them to form any meaningful calculation -
and then the shuttle lurches again and he’s thrown into the water. For a brief moment his head goes under and the sensation is like a slap in the face; clarity returns and he knows what to do.
He wades over to the storage lockers where the EV suits are kept. “We’re abandoning ship,” he shouts to Trip, “we’ll wait ‘til the water pressure equalises and then we’ll open the hatch. We can’t be that far down.” Although in truth, he’s not sure, because he also hit his head pretty hard, and even though he didn’t lose consciousness he was tumbled about enough to lose his bearings. They might be so far down that the pressure crushes their suits, or perhaps they’ll run out of oxygen trying to make it to the surface, or maybe there simply won’t be anywhere to swim to -
“Let’s just get out of this bloody shuttlepod first,” he tells himself angrily.
But when he comes to the second locker there’s something’s wrong. The latch is already unclipped, and sure enough when he takes out the helmet the face of it has shattered. He touches the broken glass and watches as blood wells up under his fingertips.
There’s only one suit, oh God oh God and there’s this sound, hoarse and animal-like, and he stands there, wet, shivering, and then a flicker of the emergency lights snaps him out of his trance.
He has to get Trip into the suit.
Why him? his cowardly self asks as he lurches through the now waist-deep water, why should Trip be the one to live; he’s unconscious, he can’t save himself, you’re only prolonging the inevitable -
He ignores the voice and seizes his friend by the shoulders, shaking him. “T-Trip?” he says through chattering teeth, but Trip doesn’t respond.
It’s all right, he consoles himself, once you get him sorted you can find a phase pistol, set it to stun, you’ll be asleep when the water comes -
“Why do all your plans involve shooting people?” he imagines Trip saying, and even though it’s only in his head, his friend’s voice is enough to embolden him, and so with wooden, jerky movements he starts manhandling Trip into the suit. It’s hard work, and the effort required helps to take his mind off the water rushing about him. He thinks briefly of Enterprise, and what the crew are doing now, oblivious and bright in the vacuum of space, what a joke
and then his numb hands slip on the fastenings and he swears in frustration, all too aware that the water’s rising exponentially, coming from above as well as below, the sea closing in on top of them, and very soon he’s going to be breathing it in oh God oh God
“Stop it!” he commands himself, but now he’s breathing too fast and his heart is racing and there’s a scream bubbling up inside of him
and with a flash he remembers the story of the HMS Clement, his great-uncle alone as the engine room filled with water, and he sees himself as a young boy, listening with barely-concealed horror, asking “how could he do that?”, and his father spouting platitudes about courage and duty, and then later, his mum, looking at him knowingly, saying, “it was love, Malcolm. That’s the only thing greater than fear.”
He turns back to Trip, jaw clenched in determination, redoubling his efforts to get him in the suit, and he doesn’t realise Trip’s awake until he hears him saying his name.
Trip
The first thing that hits him when he comes round is just how damn noisy it is, there’s a rushing and gushing that’s making his splitting head hurt even more, and he has the strangest sensation that he’s floating.
He opens his eyes a crack and his surroundings swirl so he closes his eyes again quickly, disoriented.
The shuttle, the ocean
“We’re coming down too fast - ”
“Brace for impact - “
His eyes snap open again and he blurts out, “Malcolm!” and there’s a startled grunt beside him. He tries to turn towards the sound but he’s weighed down, and at first he can’t make sense of it and then he realises he’s wearing an EV suit.
“What the hell’s going on?” he shouts, and the sound echoes off the walls.
“We c-crashed,” Malcolm says, shaking convulsively in front of him, “we’re on the sea bed. I tried to fix the shuttle but - ” He makes a gesture that encompasses the pod in disarray, the darkness, the water surging about their chests.
“The distress signal?”
Malcolm shakes his head stiffly. “I doubt it got through.” He’s wax-white, his lips already blue, and Trip feels a stab of fear.
“Why aren’t you wearing a suit?” he demands.
“The visor’s shattered.”
“So what, you were just going to let yourself drown?”
There’s a brief flare of indignation. “I take it you have a better suggestion?” Malcolm retorts.
He frowns, trying to remain calm, his mind running back over his scuba-diving experience. “This water’s gotta be barely above freezing, so afterwards you’ll go into a hypothermic state. Your body systems’ll slow right down, you’ll be good for thirty, forty minutes. I’ll tow you up to the surface and revive you.”
Malcolm stares at him, appalled.
“How far down are we?” He has to repeat the question when Malcolm doesn’t reply.
“I don’t know,” Malcolm says, barely above a whisper.
“Well, the shuttle seems to be holding up okay, no sign of a hull breach, so we can’t be too far from the surface. I think we can make it. Help me get my helmet on.”
Malcolm gives no indication that he’s heard.
Trip takes in Malcolm’s rapid breathing, his wide eyes. “It’ll be okay,” he says falsely, sick to his stomach at what is about to happen, putting a gloved hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, but there‘s no more time for reassurances because the water is continuing to rise, threatening to overflow into his suit, and he says urgently, “Malcolm, I need you to help me. Lieutenant!”
The use of rank spurs Malcolm into action and together they manage to attach the helmet to the suit. Now everything’s muffled and muted.
“We’ll exit through the top hatch,” he shouts, pointing, but either Malcolm can’t hear him or chooses not to. His pale eyes glitter strangely, unfocused, almost catatonic.
There’s nothing he can do to change what’s about to happen, but at least he can show his friend he’s not alone and so he grabs a fistful of Malcolm’s hair and tugs it lightly to get his attention. Malcolm’s gaze slides over to him, and there is a flicker of recognition, and then the eye contact is broken as the rising water forces Malcolm to tilt his head upwards to the roof of the shuttle.
The bulk of the helmet means he can’t stay level with Malcolm, so he angles the light from the suit up into the air pocket as best he can, sees Malcolm’s hands scrabbling at the ceiling trying to hoist himself up even higher, his face upturned, and then as the water fills the shuttle entirely Malcolm pushes off and plunges down, his dark hair standing on end.
Now that they’re both underwater he pulls Malcolm towards him, takes Malcolm’s face in his hands and brings him up close to the glass, and he feels Malcolm’s fierce grip on his shoulders, and they stare at each other, locking eyes. Seconds pass and then Malcolm jerks suddenly, this awful look on his face, and then he screws his eyes shut and convulses again, gripping Trip desperately, and Trip’s shouting his name, and then after a final spasm Malcolm goes limp and starts to drift.
In his distress Trip forgets where the hatch is, and when he finally locates it he’s trembling so much he can scarcely turn the locking mechanism.
“Come on,” he snarls at himself, and he forces the hatch open. With renewed strength he hauls Malcolm out into the black, one arm around his chest to keep him close, and in the absence of any discernible light - save that which his suit is emitting - he follows the direction of the bubbles, pulling against the tug of water, towing Malcolm alongside him, on and on, mounting desperation -
and then suddenly there’s this glow illuminating the darkness, lighting up the water, and just for a second he sees huge sea creatures surrounding them, and then the light fills his visor and he is spirited away.
They materialise on the transporter platform and he falls forward, taking Malcolm down with him, an ungainly tangle of limbs, and the Captain and Phlox and the rest of the med team are pulling them apart. He gets to his knees, fumbling frantically with his helmet whilst a flurry of activity happens around Malcolm.
“Easy Trip,” the Captain says, lifting the helmet off, and at the same time Trip shouts across, “he’s been dead ten minutes, maybe fifteen tops, but the water was freezing, he should be okay - “
“Phlox is handling it,” the Captain says, but his expression is grim, worried, and Trip pulls away and tries to get a look through the huddle of bodies. They’re starting resuscitation right here on the transporter pad which can’t be good, and the Captain is trying to talk to him but now he can see Malcolm through a gap; he looks like he’s been dead for hours instead of mere minutes, cyanotic, bruised, water leaking from his unseeing eyes as he lies there oblivious to what they’re doing to him
and then the gap closes again and he’s aware of the Captain trying to help him out of his suit and together they peel it off him, and meanwhile Malcolm is being lifted onto a stretcher, and Trip half-falls again, slipping on water as he stumbles off the platform to follow, and the Captain is saying “slow down,” and he tries to pull free of his grip, pleading, “I have to go with him, Jon.”
“We will,” Archer tells him, holding him up, “but you’re hurt too.”