Blue on Blue

Chapter Eleven

There was no way to signal the earlier Trip to leave his work, no way to hurry after the captain, to call his name, shout a warning or tell him to stop, hey, wait a minute.

Stay off the plateau!  The stones are gone, the ground has-

The blade dipped, angled, bit rock with incredible slowness before finally deactivating.  Trip took his time studying four translucent stones shimmering blue on blue as they lay on the cave’s rocky floor.  He scooped them up, then tipped his hand over the canister.  One, two, three dropped in.  After more long seconds of consideration, he pocketed the last one.  Then the blade was turned over and over again, rubbed free of a thin sheen of water droplets and gritty residue from minute flying rock fragments and locked into position inside its carrying case, with the safety goggles wiped and wiped and wiped clean before being secured some slow time later.

How, when they needed to hurry, could each movement take so long if its details were growing sparse and misty?

Of course, T’Pol realized.  This was only a perception of how long these actions had taken.  It was no voyage back to another time, only a view of it and a sketchy one at that.  Events could not be changed, only experienced.

Still holding the blade’s small case, Trip looked around for the captain’s backpack.  It was gone.  What was it the captain had done with it?

There was another empty grey flicker, then another and   another.  For T’Pol it was reminiscent of the interference half obscuring Reed’s life sign and the spoken syllables of Mayweather’s transmission.  But those gaps had not drawn her muscles tight with urgency as these flickers did.

We can’t lose focus now- Concussion, yes, we understand we  can’t get what has been erased, but this is the moment we need. Here.  Now!

The captain had picked up the pack and half slung it across his shoulder after stashing the coffee container inside.  Then he had…?  He had started down the path!

It was getting so grey, like a sticky dull film overlaying everything. The colors had dimmed still further, blurring fine details half out of existence, but Trip was up and moving.  Leaving the canister behind somewhere, he ambled along the downward path, dividing his gaze between the formations he passed and the beam from the captain’s helmet as it twinkled in and out among stalagmites.  A moment later it came into the open again, then stopped.

“Hey, Captain!” he called through the nearby prattling of water over stone, more a casual announcement of his approach than an attempt to draw Jonathan’s attention.  No alarm sounded in his voice as he reached the point where the path curved down to a wide and level plateau.  There was no urgency in his thoughts, only a series of wishes. 

He was ready to pack his case, get the ores onto the shuttle-pod, then to sit back and relax on board with a nice long cup of coffee from the bottle in his pack.  He wanted o reach the ship, grab a quick bite at the mess hall, get out of these increasingly soggy clothes and have a long, hot shower before writing his report on this mission and getting to bed.  Though ship’s chronometers did not correlate with the late night time in this region of the planet and this exploration had been a much needed change of pace, not to mention a good bit of fun, he was still glad he didn’t have to work the day shift tomorrow.

Jonathan glanced over his shoulder and pointed with his scanner to an outcropping above his head.  “Come look at this!  There was something like it in the sample case, but this has crystalline elements like your Cyrulinite, which-” 

“Captain!”  Trip cut in. 

All thoughts of dry clothes and a visit to the mess hall were gone.  

“Wait!”  Still, his voice remained steady.  It held none of the startled urgency that had adrenaline pumping loud in his veins.  “Stay right there!  Don’t move.”

Jonathan had no way of seeing what a stray beam from Trip’s head lamp had registered, what he himself would not have seen if he’d been walking half a meter further to his right.  As wide and level as the plateau appeared, as it curved downward and to the left, the ground was undercut by a huge, unknown force that had sheared away several large supporting stones.

Jonathan froze.  Waited, poised and motionless.  “Okay! Don’t move.  Got it.  Tell me what you see.”

“The ground you’re on has been compromised from below.  Must be the concentrated emanations from the ore that’s kept the scanner from picking it up.  It looks unstable enough I’m not sure it’ll hold your weight if you…”

“If I move out toward the edge?  Good thing I’m planning to stay put right here for the time being.”

“Yeah, real good thing.”  Trip studied the space separating them and saw that, without doing more than turning his head, Jonathan was making the same type of check. 

The unease, the looming uncertainty, was stirring again. 

Is there nothing to do within the meld but observe what had been done and weigh options?  Did we start a plan? 

Yeah, but…

With these images growing less distinct and the gaps between them more frequent, can we learn what it was?

Yeah.  But it’s not going to work.

Then there is nothing for us to do but wait and watch.

No more than fifteen meters lay between Trip and the captain.  Stalagmites stood erect and austere, lining the path on both sides for half that distance.  Beyond that, the cave wall stretched high on the right, while the trail’s left side was bordered by only a few large, smoothly eroded stones.  These grew smaller and further apart as the path broadened out to a deceptively solid plateau.  Then the stones themselves were gone, leaving a barren ledge with sharp-edged shadows down the steep slope below it, marking gouged out places  before disappearing into darkness.

“I’m going to take off this pack,” said Jonathan.  “Then toss you the rappelling lines.”

Trip was nodding.  “Understood!”

There was nothing casual in Jonathan’s movements now.  They were slow, deliberate, as he positioned himself close to a broad-based stalagmite, then widened his stance, distributing his weight as much as possible across the rocky floor.  “This should only take me a minute here…”

Yes, the plan is clear and straight from the training manual for situations involving narrow ledges, slippery surfaces or steep slopes. Without benefit of hindsight, it would seem an excessively cautious endeavor.  

One of the meld’s early images brought a flash of relief.  T’Pol could see the coil of rappelling line and accompanying stakes in Jonathan’s half-open pack, along with Chef’s long-ago lunch.  Mountain climbers used the equipment to scale rock walls.  The hard-nosed stakes could be pounded into or between stones to secure a position.

The captain would toss one end of the rappelling line to Trip, then form a harness for himself with the other.  Meanwhile, Trip would secure his end of the line around a boulder or stalagmite.  By taking in slack with each of Jonathan’s steps, the hazard would be reduced.  As long as the captain remained near the wall, there was little likelihood of risk, but… 

That’s what should have happened.  But we’re here, in this tunnel, while he is still in danger.

The vision of that line, that pack, and even that lunch was so much clearer, brighter and steadier than anything the meld had shown in how long?  The raveled threads of Trip’s memory were growing so thin now.

Captain…?  Captain…?

There had been so much urgency echoing in that call…

Concentrate.  Breathe, as slow and steady as we can to ease the pull on cracked ribs.  In, out. Shallow as it needs to be for us to stay together.   Our breaths are one. Minds are one.  We will remember.  We know it’s hard, sorting it out amid so much flickering grey.  We will remember, deep as we can.  Heartbeats are one.  Memories are one…        

Trip was heading down the path, moving a careful-footed yard, then two, three, four as he sought a sturdy formation to secure the rappelling line.  This cave had changed from a place of pleasure and intrigue to one that almost growled with low and ominous menace.   Not taking his eyes off Jonathan, he lay his blade kit in the bowl formed by a broken off stalagmite.  Another step and he was positioning himself and gauging the angle from which the captain’s throw would come.

Keeping one hand on the stalagmite, Jonathan dropped to a crouch and began to shrug out of the pack.

From below, the growl deepened, became a rumble, vibrating up through Trip’s boots.

Had the captain stopped moving and tipped his head to listen?  What was that sound?  Trip should know, should recognize what it was beyond that it was loud and growing louder.  It had a name.  Had to have a name!  He’d known what it was the first time, hadn’t he?  The word for it was so close he could almost taste its name.

Jonathan had shrugged free of the pack and set it on the ground at his feet, then began fumbling it open to pull something free.  Trip caught a glimpse of coiled line. 

“Ready, Trip?” His voice was almost lost as the rumble grew to a roar.  The shudder became a lurch that swelled to a crack loud enough to fill the cavern.