Blue on Blue

Chapter Five

T’Pol didn’t know if she’d said the name aloud.  She was only aware of two, three, four long strides before she was kneeling beside him where he lay on his back, eyes closed, near the side of the chamber.  She could make out dark bruising across one cheek.  Ore dust and blood had crusted on his forehead and matted his hair, and there were deep scrabbling marks in the earth where he’d made several attempts to free himself from a pile of dirt and debris.  Should she try moving it, or would that risk bringing more down on top of him?

“Trip!”  She knew she said it aloud this time, because she was waiting, watching for an answer, for any direct response.  There was nothing except the sound of his quick, shallow breathing.  Her hand brushed the side of his neck, just below the jaw, and rested there, seeking a pulse as his head lolled to the side.

Concussion? Asked her basic first aid training.  It might be.  Need to know more before I can try to move him. 

What other injuries might lie hidden under the earth covering him halfway to his chest?  Beneath her fingers, his carotid pulse ran light and uneven.

Beneath her heart, something pressed.  Squeezed.  Ached.  This was more than concern for an injured crewmate.  This was- was-

“Trip!” Her tone rose, sharp, brisk.  The ache of fear and reluctant tenderness knotting inside her were distractions she didn’t need.  If the feelings themselves meant anything at all, Trip didn’t need her to be distracted by them, either.  Not while he was in need of assistance and the captain was…

Where?  It was what Trip had asked, over and over.  Where was Captain Archer?

“Commander Tucker!”  She loaded her voice with all the authority she could summon.  “Talk to me!”

She counted to five, six, seven, before his eyes opened:  blue, with the lights glinting in them as empty as those from the mica in the walls.  Then he blinked, squinted in the brightness.  Recognition came with painful, determined slowness. 

“T’Pol?”  His hand lifted, fingers stretching to touch her arm, then fell back as he seemed, instead, to direct his attention toward rousing himself.  “Where’s-  Where’s the captain?”

“He’s not here,” she said, instinctively glancing around her, though she had already known as much.  Still, there may have been clues: a pack like Trip’s, a dropped scanner or communicator, gloves or perhaps another helmet. 

But there was nothing.  At least, nothing obvious.

“Was he with you?” T’Pol pulled off her helmet and set it to the side where she could see him clearly without his being caught in the brightest glare of its beam.

“In the tunnel,” said Trip.

She nodded.  “This tunnel?”

He raised his head an inch, then two, his gaze seeking hers.  She knew that look: Trip on the bridge, preparing to make a full report.  “In the tunnel,” he repeated, more loudly, as though that would make his meaning clearer. 

T’Pol managed to slip a hand under his neck an instant before his head dropped back. 

He groaned.  For a moment he was limp in her grasp and then his jaw firmed.  “T’Pol, I… we…  In the tunnel.  In the…”

Yes, concussion.  If the blood hadn’t given her the first indication, this struggle did.  She had enough basic medical training to recognize the tangled search for orientation, for words and memories, so similar in injured humans and Vulcans.

She recognized something else as well that was considerably more reassuring.  It was another familiar look- Trip, gazing at a schematic display, his  chin thrust forward, his eyes intent as he concentrated, all his attention focused somewhere along the path between a problem and a solution.

Sometimes she had heard the captain toss him questions suggesting a previously unconsidered direction along that path.  Now it was the captain who needed them to reach the destination Trip was seeking.

“When you left the shuttle…”  T’Pol allowed the thumb of the hand that cupped Trip’s head to slide up, touch his cheek and stroke softly as she spoke.  Crisp authority was replaced by firm but gentle prompting.  “You entered the mine carrying the canisters for gathering ore.”

Trip considered.  “Yes…  Ore.” he drew the words out long, slow.  “The captain…”

His groan was louder this time, his head heavier in her hand.  He was panting as though with heavy exertion.  Exhausted, unselfconscious tears glistened at the corners of his eyes, then made tracks through ore dust as they ran into his hair. 

“T’Pol… got to …  Find…!”

“I know,” she said.  “We will look for him,” she added, conveying as much conviction with her tone as possible.  She lowered his head to the stone floor and, crouching back on her heels, grasped her communicator.  “T’Pol to Enterprise.  Ensign Sato, I have located Commander Tucker.  Notify the Doctor.  I have a medical emergency here for immediate transport.  Enterprise?”

“Won’t… work,” said Trip, the sound of certainty in his voice rang clearer than it had done up until now, though his eyes had closed again, and he made no move to turn his head to look at her.  “Ore.”

He was right.  Even the static was a bare whisper here.

“T’Pol to Lieutenant Reed.  Do you hear me?  Ensign Mayweather…?”

Between the three of them, they could free Trip from the rubble, start first aid, get his report, then locate and rescue Captain Archer.

Static.  She adjusted the frequency and tried again.  “Do you hear me?  Commander Tucker is injured and in need of assistance.  If you read me, notify Doctor Phlox.  The captain’s whereabouts and his condition are still unknown.” 

More static.  It was much louder, but there was only dry hissing, no words.  To the best of her knowledge, she and Trip were on their own.

“Commander Tucker,” she put a deliberate note of challenge into her voice.  “We shall find the captain, but I need your help to locate him.  How seriously are you hurt?”

“Been… better.”  There was the faintest quirking at the corner of his mouth, a smile so faint as to go almost unnoticed.  How often in their work together had they challenged each other to perform a difficult task?  At first it had been in the spirit of irritable distrust and antipathy, later in amiable companionship, then…

In increasing… fondness.

Obviously, something in her tone sparked that memory for him, too.  Encouraging.  But there was another of those long, long pauses before he continued.  “Not sure,” he said.  “Ribs…?  Leg, I think…  Head… hurts like… like a…”

T’Pol supplied one of his favorite epithets.  “Like a son of a bitch?”

“Yeah.”  There was a sigh of relief when she gave him the words and another of those near-smiles. 

Her gaze moved to the scrabble of earth where he had tried to dig himself free.  Had she been incorrect in her assessment that continuing the attempt herself would be counterproductive?  “Commander, if I could remove some of this debris…”

“Bad idea…”  He made no effort to move or open his eyes.  “Not enough hands…  No leverage to… lift…  T’Pol?” 

She turned back to him.  It was several seconds before he spoke again, with that air of intense concentration. “Nothing much… wrong with me that… won’t… that won’t wait.”   

T’Pol wasn’t certain how much she agreed with that assessment, but listened, motionless as he continued.  “Captain…  Now.  Danger…”

She nodded, recalling the scrabble of pebbles underfoot on the hillside, the unsteady boulder at its summit and the pile of dirt and stone half blocking the tunnel with the ore cart in it.  This entire place whispered of risks.

“Captain…” Trip’s words were slurring with exhaustion.  At last he opened his eyes, looking toward her with an unfocused gaze.  “Dinosaur room.  Lizzie…  Blue…  On blue…”

She stroked his cheek, not allowing her imagination to paint deadly possibilities as she swept the room, searched his words, for an overlooked clue to Captain Archer’s whereabouts. 

Room?  She’d seen several of the mine’s sanctuary rooms on her way here.  Did he mean that Captain Archer was in a sanctuary room, waiting for rescue?  But, dinosaur?    And what was Lizzie’s relationship with any of it?  She was Trip’s sister, Elizabeth, dead in the Xindi attack.  And blue?  On blue? 

She must get him to clarify.  “Trip, did you and the Captain reach this area together?”

He was taut, motionless under her grasp.  “I…” he forced a horrified, apologetic admission.  “T’Pol…   I…” Those reflexive tears were streaming again.  She doubted he was aware of them.  “I… don’t know.  Don’t…  remember.”  His eyes closed.

He and the captain had been alone in here, but he didn’t recall what had happened?

Concussion, she reminded herself, suppressing an intrusive surge of irritation.

If she could get him to sickbay, Doctor Phlox would give him something to reduce the swelling on his brain.  Quite possibly he could retrieve Trip’s memories within minutes, start his wounds along a healing course and set things in motion for finding Captain Archer. 

But they weren’t on Enterprise and didn’t have a way of getting there anytime soon.  Her own breathing was growing as ragged as Trip’s.  Even in this cold stone room, frustration thrummed hot in her veins.  He couldn’t remember and Captain Archer was where?  In what condition? 

She wanted to shout!  Stalk the room!  Strike the wall!  This impotence!  This helpless, furious impotence!  Before the Trellium, she would have been able to seek and plot a direct course of action without needing to give attention to emotional control!

Instead she must think analytically, logically.

Resisting the urge to stand, pace, pound frustrated fists against the stones like a Klingon, she stared at the scatter of tools and equipment on the floor nearby.

There must be something she could do to help Trip, whose   breathing was growing shallow with exhaustion, and to help the captain, who was hidden somewhere within Trip’s memory.  Or mightbe, she corrected herself.  A blow to the head could erase the recall of events preceding it, at least from the conscious, accessible memory. 

But what about the unconscious?