Concord {Star Trek Enterprise fan fiction}

Chapter 3

With nothing to do, Malcolm went upstairs to see what was happening with Lennox. The house had several rooms, but most of the doors were shut tight. There was light coming from one, a room with yellow walls. He walked toward it. 

Mrs. Hayes and Benjamin were working together. “I will need my sewing kit,” she said, “and the brandy, I think.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” The servant departed. 

“How bad is it?” Malcolm asked. 

“He has lost a great deal of blood,” she said, “and shall continue to do so, unless I can stitch him up. Do you think you need stitchery as well?” 

“I don’t know,” he swallowed a little. Surely that was taking the illusion too far. They may have been overly committed actors, but he, most assuredly, was not. 

Benjamin went past him with the kit and a flask, and Mrs. Hayes began to thread a needle. “All right,” she said, “you give him the brandy and I will do the sewing.” 

Benjamin uncorked the flask and poured some of its contents down the injured man’s throat as Mrs. Hayes repeated to herself a few times, “It’s like a quilt. Think of it like a quilt. You have sewn dozens of quilts, Charlotte.” 

She cringed as she plunged in the needle. Lennox cried out incoherently, but did not struggle. Malcolm looked away. Doctor Phlox had never done anything like that on the NX-01. Even a few years ago, when Malcolm’s leg had been broken, the treatment had never been like that. 

Charlotte bandaged up Lennox as best she could and sighed. She looked at the wounded man. “I can’t guarantee that you’ll survive the night, I’m sorry to say. Royal Family or no, your blood is as red as my own. That was quite a hit you took.”

“Might I speak with you?” Malcolm asked. 

“Come, we will go into one of the other rooms so that he may sleep a bit,” Charlotte said, “the blue one. Benjamin, have you the key?” 

The old servant produced a skeleton key and unlocked the door to the next room over. 

“I suppose you can sleep in here,” she said, “now, sit here, near the window so that there’s some light. Is the water still hot?” she asked the servant.

“Yes.” 

“Now, let’s take a look,” she said. As she peered at his wound, she said, “Now, what is it you wish to say, Mister …?” 

“Reed. Malcolm Reed. I think you and Benjamin here, and Lennox as well,” Malcolm vaguely indicated the next room over, “I think you’re all marvelous actors.” 

“Actors?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said, “but now it’s gone way too far. This reenactment has got to stop.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked. “What does he mean?” she asked Benjamin. 

“Come now,” Malcolm said, wincing a little as she cleaned the wound with hot water and soap, “I can see – and I can feel – that the wound is real. But the rest of it, it’s simply got to be an illusion.” 

“Illusion?” Charlotte asked, incredulous, “Your Mister Lennox may die in the night. Deny that if you must, but that does not change things. He is still very gravely injured, and may not see the dawn.”

“The recreation is truly remarkable,” Malcolm said, nervously laughing a little, “You speak and dress perfectly, exactly the way you should. The weaponry is right, and so are the furnishings. Even the way you are dressing my wound – and the fact that I have a wound at all – it’s seamless. What species are you?”