Malcolm and Hoshi: The Missing Scenes

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They’re gone.

His own words echoed over and over again in Malcolm Reed’s mind as he stumbled out of the turbo-lift.  His mind replayed the image of that thrice-damned Xindi weapon simply – disappearing.

Under Reptilian control.

En route to Planet Earth.

He was still shaking with adrenaline from finally being able to shoot at something, from finally being able to give vent to all the intolerable frustration and hatred that had been so long and so rigidly contained during all these months of patient, painstaking searching.  He and Travis had been forged into a team that made Enterprise a death-dealing work of art, but it still hadn’t been enough.  Now all the ship’s power had to be routed into a chase, a desperate pursuit of the bastards hurtling towards Earth with their stolen weapon.  And once they caught up – he resolutely refused to let himself think if it’s not too late – then he and Travis had unfinished business.  And this time, there’d be no damned hesitation.  Hayes and his team had done their job; Hoshi was safely back on the ship.  Though this summons from Sickbay was damned inopportune in the circumstances, and if he’d had the option he’d have said whatever the problem was, it’d have to wait...

As he reached the double door it dawned on him exactly why he would have been sent an urgent summons from Sickbay in the middle of a tactical alert situation.

His heart gave the queerest lurch, and his head suddenly went very light.  He wasn’t sure his stomach was still attached to him, because he couldn’t feel it.

She didn’t survive. 

I’m going to kill them all.  I’m going to tear them into tiny, screaming pieces.  I won’t stop till there aren’t two of their fucking atoms left sticking together.

He stared helplessly at the door.  He couldn’t make himself move, couldn’t make himself walk in and see Hoshi’s body, lifeless on a bio-bed.  Couldn’t make himself see what those bastards had done to her, to make her their puppet before they killed her.  Couldn’t make himself see what would haunt him for the rest of his life without her.

He hadn’t kept her safe.

He’d failed her.

He’d failed the woman he loved.  In her hour of greatest need, he’d failed her utterly.

Hoshi was dead.

The door opened.  Blonde hair above the soiled blue coverall.  Cutler ... Liz.  Blood on her face and hands.

Her eyes peered at him with concern.  “Lieutenant?”

He couldn’t think of the words.  There was too much in his world for him to cope with right now, without having to articulate any of it.

“You’d better get in there fast, sir,” she said gently.  “I don’t think the Major’s got long.”

Malcolm looked at her. 

...Major...

...Hayes...?

“We’re all part of the same crew, no matter which uniform we wear.”

His heart had started up again.  He knew that, because he could feel it bounding erratically in his chest, like a small animal that some cruel child had tied to a stake and was pelting to death with stones.

If he’d let himself make a sound it would have emerged as a whimper.  Officers had to set an example.  He bit the inside of his mouth till he could have screamed with the pain.

Amazing, when you let yourself think about it, how well your body works when you’re not paying attention.  How steadily your legs work, even when they feel like straws; how efficiently your spinal column holds you upright when all you want to do is buckle over the wounds and howl like an animal.  How you don’t take in the smell of blood and urine and excrement in the usually pristine Sickbay, overwhelming the antiseptic odour you know so well.  How you can ignore the bodies of the injured and dying, looking only for the two who matter most right at this present moment.

Hoshi.  Alive – the monitors tell you that – but you can’t grasp the transformation so few hours have wrought.  There hasn’t been time for her complexion to be changed to this ghastly pallor.  There isn’t a world where someone could hold her down and batter her and put these livid holes in her temples.  Your eyes take it in, but your brain can’t process it.   You can perceive, but not comprehend.

Maybe she’ll live.  Maybe she won’t. 

Vivid blue eyes, exhausted and sorrowful. 

Hayes.

The nauseating smell of scorched, melted flesh.

Somebody’s talking to you, but there’s something wrong with your ears too, because the noises don’t make any sense.  Weird, there’s someone else on board with an English accent, answering the sentences the major comes out with.  Both their voices are clipped, one with dying and one with living, but right now you’re not sure which of them is which and frankly nothing around here is helping you decide.

And Major Ramrod Hayes has just disobeyed a direct order from a superior officer, no, make that a junior officer, maybe that was why the bastard felt free to ignore it.  Up yours at last, you little English asshole. 

You’d put it on his record but your hands are shaking too hard, and maybe Hoshi won’t know how much you need her to hold on in spite of everything, in spite of what they did to her.  Maybe she won’t believe that you’d spend the rest of your life making it up to her that you didn’t do enough to protect her when it mattered.

You walk out of Sickbay without a backward glance.  The corridors are unreal.  People speak to you but you can’t hear them.

Duty takes you to the MACOs.  They need to know what’s happened.  The English voice is curt, dispassionate.  The plans have been made.  Everything is ready.  In ten minutes, three volunteers will accompany the captain and ... others ... to Degra’s ship.  Perhaps you ought to remember who and why, but it doesn’t really matter right now.

You slip briefly back up to the Bridge.  For reassurance, mostly.  This is all the reality you need.

The tactical console is real.  You’ve never noticed before how truly beautiful it is.  Its smooth hardness is solidity in a world that’s dissolved around you.  The colours are amazing.  Its sensors reach out hungrily, as though they’re sniffing for the first faint whiff of the blood you can taste in your mouth.  The weapons readiness buttons shine eagerly, waiting for commands you’re aching to give.  Down in the Armoury the torpedoes are part of you.  When you fire them it’ll feel like ejaculation, except that each blast will come with a wash of pleasure straight out of hell.

The captain’s waiting.  He needs his war dog, his explosives expert, his avenging angel.

You were born for this moment.