Trip-let?

Trip-let?

by Trinneergirl

RATING: PG-13. Some violence and death.
PAIRING: No special pairings
SETTING: No special setting. Before the Expanse.
FEEDBACK: Yes please. To Trinneergirl@aol.com
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing here but my thoughts and imagination. I get nothing for my fiction other than satisfaction. Enterprise has some wonderful characters, I borrow them briefly, that's all.

SUMMARY: The Enterprise crew are falling dead, left right and centre. Thanks very much to Lisa for betaing this and to Will from Warwickshire, who contributed most of the dialogue!

Trip-let?

Travis Mayweather, Ensign and Helmsman of the starship Enterprise, a tall, slim, young black man, stood, holding a rapier, his face, normally open and friendly reduced to a scowl. In front of him stood Commander Charles Tucker III, Chief Engineer of the Enterprise. Also tall, this golden skinned man, with his dark blue eyes and dirty blonde hair was facing down his junior officer, also serious and also holding a blade. Behind them, Crewman Cutler, a pretty biologist sat wearing a robe instead of her usual uniform. Her shoulder length brown hair was confined behind her head. Next to her, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed stood, similarly dressed and with a golden crown affixed upon his dark brown hair. There were a few more Enterprise crewmen and woman around. And the sound of Trumpets was heard.

"And you, the judges, bear a wary eye." Said Malcolm.

"Come on, Sir." Said 'Trip' Tucker, the Southern US accent giving his words a curiously old-world gallantry sound. The slim Commander raised his sword.

"Come, my lord." Travis replied and readied himself. With a brief salute the rapiers hissed together. Mayweather opened the attack, lunging swiftly and recovering, even as Trip countered and delivered a lightning riposte en quinte. Mayweather parried gracefully. The blades sparked and clashed in the quiet mess hall, all the tables removed and the chairs pushed away from the centre. Apart from the two men, everyone was stilled.

Trip fell back, feinting suddenly inside the arm, deceiving the parade of tierce. Travis fell back a pace, parrying in quarte, and as Trip with a quick twist changed to quarte also, the Commander's blade moved forward.

"One!" Claimed Trip in triumph, his eyes alight with the physical battle.

"NO!" Travis denied, but his flush of mortifcation, spreading over his chocolate skin denied the word.

"Judgement?" Trip asked briefly, throwing a glance at Crewman Rostov.

"A hit. A very palpable hit." Rostov confirmed. Drums and trumpets sounded and outside the windows of the mess hall, a pyrotechnic torpedo was launched and exploded in a golden shower.

Travis raised the sword again, almost savagely he demanded, "Well, again!" Lieutenant Reed picked up a gold chalice.

"Stay." He ordered the combatants. "Give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine. Give him the cup." Trip gave his friend a look of exasperation.

"I'll play this bout first." He replied. "Set it by a while." He turned back to the waiting Travis. "Come." He said, raising the epee for battle. The swords raised in brief salute and engaged with a scrape of steel on steel. Each man was clearly an experienced swordsman, but this was no affair of the fencing-masters art, but a grim fight, dangerous and swift. Trip lunged forward on his right foot, delivering a lightning thrust in tierce, his arm high, the muscles standing out ribbed and hard from under the rolled up sleeve of his loose, white cotton shirt. Travis caught forte on forte and the foible glanced along his naked arm, leaving a line of red and the blades disengaged.

"Another hit." Trip said, more quiet in his triumph. He looked magnificent, his nostrils flared, his full lips tightly closed, the loose, white shirt emphasising his broad shoulders and long arms, the skin-tight black pants and boots outlining his slim waist, narrow hips and long, shapely legs. Travis drew a handkerchief out of the pocket of his tan, leather pants and mopped the wound. "What say you?" Commander Tucker asked his subordinate, ironically gesturing to the wound as if to ask if the Ensign would deny this too.

"A touch, a touch, I do confess it." Mayweather responded in grim humour. Trip flashed a smile at the reposte. Reed leaned to Cutler's side, placing the chalice on the small table between them.

"Our son shall win." He said.

"He is fat and scant of breath." Cutler replied with a touch of sarcasm as Trip was clearly neither. She proffered her own handkerchief. "Here, Hamlet, take my napkin. Rub thy brows." The crewman stood and picked up the chalice, raising it to toast the Commander.

"The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet."

Commander Tucker bowed his head in acknowledgement.

"Good madam!" He replied. Lieutenant Reed started as the chalice moved to Cutler's lips.

"Gertrude, do not drink!" He warned. Cutler, bowing her head courteously, replied to her superior officer.

"I will, my lord. I pray you, pardon me." She put the golden goblet to her lips and they stained red with the wine she sipped. Malcolm turned away.

"It is the poisoned cup!" He said. "It is too late."

"I dare not drink yet, madam." Trip told Cutler. "By and By." Smiling, Cutler placed the goblet back on the table and moved to Trip's side.

"Come, let me wipe thy face." She said. Reaching up, she lovingly mopped the forehead of the young Commander, then she returned to her seat.

Mayweather addressed Lieutenant Reed.

"My lord, I'll hit him now." He promised. Trip smiled softly.

"I do not think't" He responded. Travis turned his back on the Chief Engineer for a moment.

"And yet it is almost against my conscience!" He admitted aloud. Trip looked up and saw the Helmsman's back to him.

"Come for the third, Laertes!" He ordered brusquely. "You do but dally. I pray you, pass with your best violence." His expressive brows rose as Travis turned in stung anger. "I am afeard you make a wonton of me." He taunted. Mayweather's dark brown eyes flashed with glints of fire and burned a dull red.

"Say you so?" He shot back. "Come on!" The blades clashed again. This bout was tougher, longer, more fueled by rage. Both men were sweating, beads of it dashed away by abrupt wipings with a sleeve. Neither man could risk a blink as sweat entered his eyes. A return from the wrist, which caught Travis mid-thrust, destroyed the last of his temper. He parried a carte thrust half-circle, his weight thrown on the left hip and swiftly turned his wrist in tierce, inclining the point on the left, with the intention of crossing Trip's blade. But Trip disengaged, giving away with the point, so that Travis' blade fell to the floor.

Mayweather snatched up the foil and dragged his beige shirt-sleeve across his brow. The two officers engaged again. Travis delivered a rather wild thrust in prime. It was parried by the St George Guard. As the younger man tried a thrust in carte over the arm, it was parried by the Commander's forte, traversing the line of his blade and bearing Travis wrist irresistably upward. Trip's left foot came forward, his hand seized the shell of Travis' sword, forcing it out to the right. Mayweather brought the sword up and the two men stood, scuffling face to face. The point of Mayweather's sword drew down the line of Trip's bicep through the shirt. A red stain began to mar the white material.

"Part them!" Malcolm ordered. "They are incensed!" The men swapped rapiers in the scuffle and as they broke free, Trip's blade, formally Travis's, caught the helmsman's waist, pulling through to the tip, leaving a line ripped through the fabric and an expanding betrayal of spilt blood.

"Nay, come!" Trip demanded, his handsome face flushed with anger and exertion.
"Again!"

With a curious sigh, Cutler fell to the floor.

"Look to the Queen there, ho!" Rostov warned. The two men disengaged and Travis, realising that his own sword had cut him, fell to his knees. Rostov rushed to Cutler's side with Phlox, both men dressed in brown riding breeches, brown leather riding boots and loose shirts in old gold and terracotta, the ensemble looking rather odd on the Denobulan physician. The two raised Cutler up, she was pale and only just conscious. Reed stood back, glancing in horror from Mayweather to Cutler.

"They bleed on both sides." Phlox said to Rostov. "How is it, my lord?" Taking his attention away from the swooning Cutler, Rostov threw the question across to Travis.
"How, is't, Laertes?" Travis, laying on his side now, raised up on one arm, gave a harsh bark of laughter.

"Why, as a wookcock to mine own springe, Osrick!" He replied in self-depreciating sardony. "I am justly killed with mine own treachery."

Trip stared at his duelling partner, a frown of perplexity on his brow. He turned a worred gaze upon Cutler.

"How does the Queen?" He asked, his voice uncertain with fretting. Lieutenant Reed shot into speech.

"She swounds to see them bleed." He stated.

"No, no, the drink, the drink!" Cutler cried. Her eyes full of tears she reached for Trip. "O my dear Hamlet!" Trip moved swiftly forward, the blade still in his grip, he knelt at her side, taking her outstretched hand. "The drink, the drink!" Cutler urgently cried again. Trip's glance leapt to the chalice on the table and back. "I am poisoned!" She finished. She clasped Trip's hand for a moment, then her grip failed and she fell into death. After a shocked moment, Trip's blonde head fell forward in sharp, fresh grief. Then he stood in one swift motion and turned.

"O, villainy!" He cried. "Ho!" He shouted to the court. "Let the door be locked. Treachery! Seek it out!"

"It is here, Hamlet." Mayweather said softly. Trip turned in incredulity, taking in the panting Helmsman laying at his feet. "Hamlet, thou art slain." Travis continued in the same gentle voice. "No medicine in the world can do thee good. In thee there is not half an hour's life." Trip took a half step back his face pinched with shock and fear. "The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, Unbated and envenomed." Trip looked down at the epee in his hand then in startled realisation at the bloodstained sleeve on his arm. "The foul practice," Travis continued in bitter regret, "Hath turned itself on me. Lo, here I lie, Never to rise again, Thy mother's poisoned. I can do no more. The King, the King's to blame." Trip looked at the wound at Travis' side then again at his own injured arm.

"The point envenomed too?" He asked in almost childlike shock. Travis nodded. Trip closed his eyes in terrified anguish, then the rest of Travis' words hit home. The cerulan eyes snapped open. He stared at Cutler before turning in swift, molten anger to Malcolm. "Then venom, to thy work!" He spat and he lunged forward, drawing the blade down Reed's arm.

"Treason! Treason!" Cried Phlox and Rostov.

Malcolm fell to his knees, his wounded arm held cradled in the other, then realised the point of the blade hadn't touched him. He gave Trip an evil leer.

"O, yet defend me, friends. I am but hurt." He said lightly. Trip threw away the blade and picked up the golden chalice. He moved to the Armoury Officer and taking off the crown and throwing it aside, Trip grabbed hold of a handfull of hair and draged Malcolm's head back.

"Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane! Drink off this potion." The red wine poured from the cup, spilling down Malcolm's chin and throat, spreading upon Reed's ecru robes like an eerie echo of the poisoned bloodstains on Trip and Travis. But enough was swallowed to do the deed. Trip let go and replaced the chalice on the table as Malcolm, his eyes bulging in terror gripped his throat as the poison did it's work. Cutler had only sipped the corrupted liquid, Malcolm had been forced to gulp down much more. "Is thy union here?" Trip asked, his voice hard. Malcolm looked up at Trip, then across to Cutler. "Follow my mother." Trip told him, not a trace of pity in his voice or face. Reed tried to gasp something out, then pitched forward onto his face, dead.

"He is justly served." Mayweather said from his prone position. He reached an unsteady hand out to Trip. "It is a poison tempered by himself. Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet. Mine and my father's death come not upon thee, nor thine on me!" As Trip took the hand and knelt at Mayweather's side, the helmsman fell back lifeless. Tears stood in Trip's eyes at his salvation at Travis' forgiveness.

"Heaven make thee free of it!" He pleaded. Trip fell to all fours as the poison in his system began to take effect. "I follow thee." He told the lifeless Travis. Falling to one side, seated on the floor with one, straight arm taking his bodyweight, Trip looked across to Phlox who was still beside the dead Cutler. "I am dead, Horatio." Trip said on a shaky laugh. His dark-blue eyes softened as he looked at Cutler. "Wretched Queen, adieu!" He farewelled. He took in the silent shock of Phlox and Rostov. "You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time!" Trip grimaced in pain and fell back until he was raised only on his elbow. "As this fell sergeant, Death, is strict in his arrest. O, I could tell you!" He gasped in sudden pain and gripped his clenching stomach in his free hand. "But let it be, Horatio." He went on, breathlessly. "I am dead and thou livest. Report me... and my cause right... to the unsatisfied."

Phlox stood, leaving Cutler to Rostov. He looked down at the chalice upon the table.

"Never believe it." He mused. "I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Here's yet some liquor left."

"As th'art a man. Give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I'll ha't!" Trip moved from ordering to pleading as Phlox held the goblet in his hand. "O God, Horatio! What a wounded name, things standing thus unknown, shall I leave behind me!" Phlox looked sharply up at Trip. Trip held out a trembling hand. "If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart!" He begged. Phlox closed his eyes for one long moment then moved to Trip. Kneeling beside the young engineer, the Denobulan handed the cup to the Commander. Trip smiled and drained the cup. "Absent thee from felicity awhile." Trip besought the doctor. "And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain. To... tell my story." The empty chalice fell from his fingers and Phlox moved behind and lifted the slender man into his arms. A noise far off, of marching and shouting, was heard. "What warlike noise is this?" Trip asked, weakly.

Rostov stood and made his way to the mess-room door, he opened it and stared down the corridor. Looking back he called across.

"Young Fortinbrass, with conquest come from Poland, To the ambassadors of England gives this warlike volley." He informed. Trip grasped Phlox's wrist.

"O, I die, Horatio!" He cried out in mortal fear. "The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit. I cannot live to hear the news from England. But I do prophesy th'election lights... On Fontinbras. He has... my dying voice. So tell him, with th'occurrents, more and less... Which have solicited." Trip slumped into Phlox's arms, staring into the void at onrushing death. "The rest is silence." He finished and closed his eyes as he succumbed to his end. Phlox bowed his head.

"Now cracks a noble heart." He said sadly. "Good night, sweet Prince! And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!" A drum came from outside the mess hall. Phlox looked up, puzzled.

"Why does the drum come hither?" He asked.

As if in reply the door to the mess hall opened and the drummer entered, followed by Captain Archer and Sub-Commander T'Pol. The drum stopped abruptly and the two most senior officers stared at the sight. Archer, dressed in a pale leather jerkin, breeches and riding boots, a sword at his side, looked in shock upon the scene of carnage. T'Pol, wearing a belted, slate coloured, woollen tunic and woollen hose with knee high, leather boots, raised a brow as she took in the view. Captain Archer, a tall, strong looking man, with sandy hair and hazel eyes, stepped forward.

"Where is this sight?" He asked, uncertainly.

"What is it you would see?" Phlox asked, his voice hollow with grief. "If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search." Archer and T'Pol came further into the room looking round them at the bodies of Trip, Reed, Cutler and Mayweather.

"This quarry cries on havoc!" Archer ejaculated, his tone torn between anger and disbelief. The voice softened to grieving wonder as he continued. "O proud Death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell, That thou so many princes at a shot, So bloodily hast struck?"

Sub-Commander T'Pol, a slender, yet buxom female Vulcan, with dark brown hair and dark, almost black eyes and olive skin, remarked.

"The sight is dismal." She looked at Malcolm. "And our affairs from England come too late." She went on. "The ears are senseless that shoud give us hearing. To tell him that his commandment is fulfilled. That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Where should we now have our thanks?" Phlox tenderly lay Trip's dead body down and stood.

"Not from his mouth." He informed the Science Officer, nodding his head briefly at Malcolm. "Had it th'ability of life to thank you. He never gave commandment for their death." He turned and eyed the two most senior officers. "But since, so jump upon this bloody question, you are from the Polack wars, and you from England, are here arrived, give order that these bodies, high on a stage be placed to the view."

Phlox paused for a moment, but seeing that Archer and T'Pol were riveted on his every word, he continued. "And let me speak to th'yet unknowing world. How these things came about. So shall you hear!" He told them, his voice rising with passion. "Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts, Of accidental judgements, casual slaughters, Of deaths put upon by cunning and forced cause. And in this upshot, purposes mistook, Fallen on th'inventors' heads. All this can I truly deliver." Astonished and more than a little curious, Archer stepped forward.

"Let us haste to hear it." He said "And cause the noblest to the audience." He thought for a moment, looking from Malcolm to Trip. "For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune." he continued then. "I have some rights or memory in this kingdom, Which now to claim my vantage doth invite me."

The Demobulan doctor nodded and walked to where Trip had thrown Malcolm's crown. Stooping, Phlox picked up the plain gold circlet and, moving to Archer, he handed over the diadem.

"Of that I shall have also cause to speak." He said. He gestured Trip's still body. "And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more. But let this same be presently performed." He warned Archer. "Even while men's minds are wild, lest more more mischance, on plots and errors happen." The two men locked eyes for a moment in seriousness and Archer nodded, accepting the crown, but holding it in his hand. He moved to the centre of the room.

"Let four captains, bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage. For he was likely, had he been put upon, to have proved most royal. And for his passage, the soldiers music and the rites of war, speak loudly for him. Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this, becomes the field, but here shows much amiss. Go, bid the solders shoot."

The messhall fell dark and outside the window a group of six pyrotechnic torpedoes were launched and exploded one by one in red, gold and green, while simultaniously ordinance explosions were piped to the crowd. Wild applause and cheering broke out. The lights came back on and Archer, T'Pol, Phlox, Rostov and the magically reanimated Trip, Malcolm, Mayweather and Cutler all stood and took their bows. They were joined by several other crew, including Hoshi, who had made a delightful Ophelia earlier on. Trip had to make a second bow on his own, the clamour for him insistant. The confident Commander gave a graceful leg, grinning at the attention though obviously profoundly relieved it was over. The crowd, which had been seated all round the messhall now moved forward and actors and audience intermingled as crew once more.

Trip, Archer and T'Pol moved across to where a group of several aliens sat. The leader was a tall man with a grey, reptilian face, the others had similar bumps in a crest along the top of the head, but the leader's was taller and tipped with dull red.

"You see?" Archer said to the tall alien captain. "Acting." The commander nodded and stood.

"Most enjoyable." Said the leader. He smiled. "I don't think we will be going to war over a few pyrotechnic explosions." The Captain and Trip smiled in relief and even T'Pol seemed to relax.

"May I escort you to your ship?" Archer said. The Vumbiam nodded and the two men departed, the alien captain followed by his retinue. "If we had known this was your space, we wouldn't have done the play here." Archer apologised. "We're new to this area of space and didn't know about your war."

"It's gone on for too long." The Alien Captain said. "Vumbia and Addikae have been fighting for decades. Both sides are worn out with it."

Archer nodded sadly.

"That's a shame." He replied. "My planet's people fought each other in wars that sometimes lasted two or three hundred years in sporadic bursts. Using up both men and resources that could have been more efficiently used elsewhere. Eventually, we learned to do without war, but not until many millions of people had died. Like the play you've just seen. A tragedy where no-one wins." The Vumbian captain nodded. An idea struck him.

"Perhaps you would consider coming with us to mediate." He suggested. "Both Vumbians and Addikans have great traditions of learning through plays and stories. But neither would listen to a moral play from the other side. Perhaps if you performed your play again for us both, you might start a dialogue that way and begin to end this pointless cycle of violence." Archer smiled, remembering how Trip had to be ordered point blank to take part in the play under penalty of being thrown out the airlock if he didn't. The Commander was going to be overjoyed to have to do it again!

"If you think it will help, we'd be happy to." He replied.

They reached the airlock and the Captain opened the hatch.

"Then we'll send you the co-ordinates, we will contact the Addikae and set up a truce for your play." The alien captain smiled. "It was luck that led you to us, and us to you." He stated. He stepped into the airlock, followed by his entourage and the airlock hissed closed. Archer waited until the huge Vumbian battleship disengaged and went to find the others. He found them undressing and joined in, exchanging his stage clothing for his normal Starfleet uniform. Trip, standing in his vest removing the bloodpack from his arm that had given his injury during the duel, was appalled.

"How many people are gonna see this?" He asked, his open face shocked and his blue eyes pleading.

"About forty or fifty." Archer said. Trip nodded and looked away. "...Inhabited worlds." The Captain finished. Trip stared back in dumb stillness. "No more than three hundred bilion at most." Archer reassured.

Trip buttoned his black shirt in silence. Archer moved to face his young friend. "We've gotta do it, Trip." He urged. "We could help stop a war here!" Trip stared at his Captain, his expression open and vulnerable in a way it only ever was with Archer.

"Once." He told Archer. "You told me I'd have to do this once. Then it's twice so all the shifts can see it." Trip pulled up his jumpsuit and zipped it up. "Then the Vumbians show up, ready to blow us out the sky for lettin' off a coupla fireworks. So we gotta show them! Now we gotta perform this thing for half the damn universe?"

"It's just one more performance, Trip." Jon cajoled. He gave Trip the puppy-dog, 'please!' look that had never failed before. After a moment the Commander nodded and his shoulders fell, slumped in defeat. "Yes, Cap'n." He ceded. "Better go and check on my engines." He muttered and walked across the room. He turned and glared at Malcolm Reed. "Next time it's Shakespeare's Birthday, and you wanna celebrate...bake a cake!" He snapped and, keying the door open, he left.

The End.

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Two folks have made comments

This was, of course written and posted before the untimely end of Kellie Waymire who played the role of Crewman Cutler. I liked her a lot and feel she will be much missed.

u saying the peron who plays cutler is dead? shame i liked her, y did u go all shakespere on me? i got all confuddled