Chapter 3: Hope and Despair

UCS Horizon, January 17th 2158

Travis walked towards his old room on the Horizon. His old ship, under the command of his brother Paul, had collected him from Salem One after offloading a large delivery of medical supplies.

He had always expected to return to his old home after his tour with Starfleet, but had always expected it to be much further in the future and certainly not because of losing an arm. He looked down his left side at the bionic limb they had fitted him with. At least for severed arms and legs, Starfleet had more than suitable remedies.

With the new arm, he could easily be able to pilot a ship, but unfortunately Starfleet had quietly discharged all the wounded. Anger rose up in his mind at the injustice of it. After the Xindi war and almost eighteen months of bloody fight against the Romulans they had really deserved better.

"Is there any hope for him to come back to life with any more than a twitching finger?" Shran asked, his face scrunched in pity at the ailing man lying before his eyes.

He was nearly run over by the Denobulan physician, who raced past him, barely avoiding a collision. The doctor stared fascinated at the twitching digit, frantically scrolling through various readouts.

"Now there is, Captain. Now there is," the rotund alien belatedly answered the unexpected visitor's question, and Shran's antennae flexed back and forth in confusion.

"How can this be a sign of hope, doctor?" the Andorian asked with a frustrated gesture. "I sacrificed half my shore leave. I came here to see the man who single-handedly preserved one thousand three hundred Andorian blood vials. And it pains me to see him like that! He will not even have the honour to bring them to the wall of heroes as tradition demands."

"It is a massive improvement," the Denobulan insisted, much too cheerfully for Shran's taste.

"Is there anything to be done to heal his injuries?"

"In good time, captain. Neurological reconstruction, telepathic therapy, the options are plentiful."

"Did you say telepathic therapy?"

"Yes, I believe the Betazoids could be persuaded to help. The human brain is a remarkably flexible organ and I think with telepathic irrigation I can stimulate little-used areas of the brain to adapt to functions of injured regions."

"Is there any reason why a Betazoid is required?" Shran asked, his interest piqued. There was an opening to serve his leader in battle once again and he would not let that slip past him. "Could an Aenar do it?"

"The Aenar are even stronger telepaths than Betazoids, but they are also most sensitive creatures. The therapy will have most undesirable side-effects – pain, nausea – I doubt an Aenar would be comfortable with inflicting such discomfort."

"Jhamel wouldn't be comfortable with it, either," Shran admitted with a hint of exasperation. "But she's a lot more pragmatic than her fellow Aenar, who hold on to their principles for the sake of it. They would have let Jhamel's brother die a slow agonizing death, just so they could pride themselves on having followed their precious beliefs. She overcame her inhibition and risked her life for all of us when she tested Tucker's telepresence unit."

Shran thumped his chest in pride of his mate's bravery. "He has led us in a great battle and if Starfleet is not willing to help him – we are!"

"If your wife is agreeable to the idea, I would indeed welcome every help I can get," Phlox answered and started to record a very enthusiastic log entry, completely ignoring him. He'd encountered Phlox before so the Andorian wasn't as taken aback as he might have been by the Denobulan's abstraction: it was just a sign of how deeply absorbed the man was in the care of his patient.

Shran shook his head and turned to go after telling the doctor that he would return the next week with Jhamel.

He wasn't sure if the alien had even taken notice of it.

"Has your search for employment with the humans been successful?"

T'Pau was walking through the park, allowing Trok to carry her hand in the crook of his elbow – a relatively modest gesture they had copied from human couples. The short embrace before the factory gate, where only very few people would ever see it, and this understated gesture of her hand resting on his arm were the only intimate touches she was comfortable with in public.

"I have two more 'job interviews' tomorrow," her blue-skinned companion replied.

"I wish you would reconsider asking Mr. Reed. We have a demonstration for Starfleet tomorrow and unless something unforeseen happens, we will soon be hiring."

"It would not work, dear. You know that Andorians are excitable at the best of times. Knowing you are nearby would be a constant distraction and my respect for Mr. Reed does not allow me to do a substandard job."

She stopped, looking at him seriously. "Will you at least reconsider if your other job interviews do not yield a positive result?"

"I will ask Mr. Reed if the other interviews fail," he sighed and she raised a disapproving eyebrow. He made it sound like a defeat in battle. Trok could be so obstinate sometimes.

Reed Industrial Research and Production Corporation, Bilbao, January 18th 2158

They stopped in front of the production hall and T'Pau made last-minute corrections to Mr. Reed's tie and collar. Except for that short time after starting the company, during which a large intake of alcohol had made him neglect his appearance, the company's owner was always very well dressed. She had to make only a few minor adjustments.

While she normally wore rather casual clothing, usually a pair of Jeans and a blouse, she had selected a 'proper look', as Hoshi had called it, when they had procured the garments. It consisted of a dark blazer and skirt assembly, a white blouse, a red scarf and high-heeled shoes. These last items were so unfamiliar to her that she had required prior training to walk in them in a dignified manner. She couldn't quite understand why human females chose foot gear that made the simple act of walking a hazardous undertaking, but Hoshi had insisted that they were befitting her current apparel.

The day before, after Trok had escorted her to her apartment, as he had done almost daily over the last few weeks, Hoshi had taken her to the hairdresser. After an excruciatingly long procedure to apply something called permanent waves to her hair (and in view of the fact that it had cost almost as much as all the clothes they had acquired, she hoped the result was justified), Hoshi had dropped by at Malcolm's office and gathered the Vulcan's long hair in a bun on the back of her head and applied an understated make-up.

T'Pau had not thought much of so much vanity and felt rather uncomfortable as the skirt showed a significant portion of her legs, but she had wanted the position in Mr. Reed's company and was unwilling to let her own insecurity prevent her from fulfilling her tasks to the best of her abilities, although, according to a not entirely serious statement by Hoshi, her task today would be 'standing next to Mr. Reed and look gorgeous'.

Inside her mind simmered a pleasant anticipation of the end of the working day. Hopefully by then they would have a positive decision from Starfleet and she could hardly wait to see Trok's reaction when he would be confronted with her modified appearance. Mr. Reed had certainly reacted positively to it, which had bolstered her confidence for the encounter.

Final preparations made, she preceded her superior into the spacious hall, after he had politely opened the door for her.

"That'll be all, Mr. Harper." Malcolm relieved his production manager of the task of keeping the seated ranks of assembled Starfleet dignitaries entertained. The audience was quite eclectic – Admiral Gardner himself, O'Riordan, Jeffries, and Anna Hess among at least three dozen other people.

Malcolm allowed himself a fleeting smile in her direction when he saw his former shipmate.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, first of all thank you for being here today. Most of you still know me. I'm Malcolm Stuart Reed, CEO of Reed Industrial Research and Production Corporation, and the delightful Lady to my right is my assistant T'Pau of Vulcan."

Malcolm knew that only Gardner, Hess and O'Riordan had met or seen T'Pau before, so they were the only ones who knew her history. Thankfully all three of them did a pretty good job of keeping their jaws off the ground when they saw the result of Hoshi's spectacular make-over of the former head of the Vulcan High Council.

He felt a pang of uneasiness when Anna sent him a knowing wink, reminding him what sort of mess his private life was already in without having intimate designs on his PA. Of course Anna couldn't know that, as far as women were concerned, he was already oversupplied; or that he had no idea how to keep the complex relationships tidy, and that didn't even take into account the fact that he also fantasized about the second male in their convoluted relationship. He quickly pushed those thoughts aside, concentrating on the task at hand.

"Of course we still know you, and I must remind myself not to call you Captain," Gardner's answer dragged him out of his musings. "But I assume you understand that your prior achievements have absolutely no bearing on the selection process, Mr. Reed."

"I would have been quite disappointed were you prepared to assess our design differently from those of our competitors. As you and the rest of the selection committee know, I've done a thing or two right when I was in your service. That is exactly why I know better than anyone else that the people out there deserve the best product, not the one manufactured by whom you like best."

The serious look on Gardner's face as he nodded understanding of his reply told the Brit that the admiral had got the message that Reed Industries was equally expecting that the conditions under which their founder had resigned his commission would not influence the evaluation of their design.

"Before you start, Mr. Reed," the admiral continued. "Since we evaluated the design presented by Embraer Industrial this morning, two of their representatives are here. This is Mr. Santos and this is his assistant Mrs. Oliveira do Nascimento."

"We will wait outside if you find our attendance inappropriate," the Brazilian representative of his opponent offered.

"They've taken you here all the way from Brazil, sir. I'm not going to send you out like a naughty child. And besides, I imagine you'll find witnessing the winning design in action worth your time."

Malcolm knew it sounded a trifle cocky, but he hadn't spent hour after hour drawing up the design to come second. Moreover, confidence in your product was a vital part of the selling process. He was the man who had built the first ever force field generator almost seven years ago. And besides, with the mess that was his private life, it felt good to be in control of something for a change.

"If I may have your phase pistol, sir?" Malcolm asked and after a moment of hesitation Gardner handed him his weapon. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the two Starfleet Security types surreptitiously slide their own phasers out of the holster.

"Good to know that Falks has done a bit of standard-raising in Starfleet Security," the ex-security chief of Enterprise noted dryly and set the weapon to kill, aiming it at the floor as any professional would.

The Security men were now targeting him directly. He looked across at them, asserting his old authority.

"I will now fire the weapon at the force field," he explained with heavy irony for their benefit lest one of the weapons pointed at him would be fired. The audience tittered.

The equipment was set up to the left of the dais, and up till now had been hidden behind security screens. At his words the screens retracted, revealing his prototype within an array of monitoring devices. He pressed the control device, and the force field sprang into existence across the target, which was a sheet of white paper which would show the slightest mark of scorching if anything got through the protection. With a dull humming sound the phaser beam impacted the force field and ended right there. He released the trigger, secured the weapon and handed it back to Gardner. The security detail relaxed and put their weapons back into the holster.

O'Riordan checked his read-outs. He wasn't the type to rely on the monitoring equipment supplied by a prospective contractor, though doubtless he'd examine the results from it later.

"You use less energy than specified, yet a three megajoules field should not withstand a phaser blast." the rear admiral noted.

"It does, if the field frequency is in constant modulation," Malcolm explained. "Granted, the programming job was a suitable punishment for someone who killed mum and dad, but then, we don't hire amateurs. We have some of the most talented programmers on the planet. Just ask IBM – they hate my guts for poaching some of their talent. They obviously haven't yet grasped the concept of paying people proper wages."

Amusement spread among the audience. One or two of them nodded, as though conceding a point.

"It's a breathtaking design, Mr. Reed," Admiral Jeffries interrupted. "But what happens when the modulation algorithm fails?"

"It falls back to being an ordinary three megajoules force field," Malcolm replied, and upon his nod T'Pau pressed two buttons on a nearby console. The force field changed its pattern and a concrete-laden sliding carriage driven by explosive compression sped towards it on tracks laid ready across the hall. With a zinging sound it impacted the field and stopped, springing back safely on the tracks as the automatic stabilization device cut in.

"No doubt, three megajoules; actually three point two," O'Riordan commented, poking at his scanner.

Malcolm saw the long-suffering look on Gardner's face, while Anna looked as if she had just done something unseemly with her hand down the front of her panties. She was proud of him as a peacock, so much was obvious. He afforded her a second fleeting smile.

"So let me put that in simple words, Mr. Reed. You've implemented our specified parameters as a failsafe emergency mode for a much superior solution that still undercuts our maximum energy allowance?" Gardner asked in disbelief.

Malcolm closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but it didn't prevent the tears gathering. For Trip's sake, though, he wouldn't let them fall.

"Admiral," he started to speak and he was horrified when he heard his voice break. "Former Fleet Captain Tucker is still in a coma – ten months after the attack on the Romulan ship yards. And while it looks as if he might wake up – he will remain blind and bound to a wheelchair."

His vision blurred by unshed tears, he pointed at the forcefield.

"This forcefield would have prevented two tons of metal falling down on him and crushing his skull. Our troops out there deserve the best! Too bad I was a year late developing it."

There was a small stir as Anna Hess slumped in her seat, unconscious, and his emotions were momentarily overridden by a wave of concern and remorse when he realized that Anna hadn't known the extent of Trip's injuries. She was stretchered away towards the 'med point' by first aid trained production personnel of his company.

He closed his eyes, trying to regain his composure. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Now I begin to understand why you walked out on us, son."

A visibly shaken Admiral Gardner looked him straight in the eyes.

"Prepare to start production on February 1st. You are damn right. Our people deserve the best and we've just seen it. Not only the force field generator, but also the man who designed it."

"Thank you, admiral. I'll make sure that Lieutenant Commander Hess is well cared for, sir."

Gardner nodded and patted him on the shoulder.

Stunned into silence, Malcolm watched the Starfleet personnel walk out until only T'Pau and the two Brazilians from the rival company were left. The man, clad in an obscenely expensive suit, reached out his hand.

"Congratulations, Senhor Reed. We could never have competed with such an ingenious design. And you are quite right. The fleet deserves to have it."

"I invented the whole kit and kaboodle, sir. I had a fairly significant advantage," Malcolm said, exhausted from the onslaught of pesky emotions. "But as you say, the fleet deserves to get it as quickly as possible. How would you feel about producing it under license to help us out with production capacity?"

"We would be honored, Senhor."

Hearing T'Pol's scream, Hoshi followed suit as she masturbated herself to a desperate orgasm. She had not even taken the time to take off the blindfold. After the test of the bathtub under 'Trip conditions', both of them had been so aroused, yet determined not to repeat the mistake of two months ago, that T'Pol had retired to the bedroom while Hoshi had provided relief for herself right there in the bathroom.

If there was any positive result coming from the most humiliating experiment they had conducted so far, it was that they had developed a fairly neat bathroom layout, which would allow Trip to shave with everything in reach without having to reposition the wheelchair and while it had ended in ultimate embarrassment they had established that shaving and bathing would be something that he could do on his own with a bit of training. Now it was just a matter of working out the details, as Trip obviously couldn't carry in the coffee table to help him get into the bathtub.