Missing Scenes from Season Three: Similitude

SPOILERS: "Similitude" and it may not make sense without them.

DISCLAIMER: Star Trek belongs to CBS/Paramount.  "Similitude" was written by Manny Coto.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  No comic relief this time.  This is the only episode of Enterprise that can still make me cry (even after seeing it six or seven times).  This must also be one of the most-written about episodes in Ent fanfic, so my apologies if I've accidentally replicated aspects of someone else's work. 

Thank you as always, kind reviewers. 

What was driving T'Pol crazy was that she didn't know if those feelings were Commander Tucker's, or Sim's.

Once Sim had grown to adulthood, she'd found it very hard to maintain a distinction between the two.  Sim had Tucker's memories -- however inexplicably -- so it followed that she was dealing with a version of their chief engineer -- a man who retained all of the original's personality.  If anything, she suspected his essential nature had been heightened by the brutal situation he found himself in. 

When she went to his quarters, she hadn't really thought about who it was she had gone to see.  She'd only known, suddenly, that it was intolerable that this man should have to go to his death without knowing that he also meant a great deal to her. 

She'd offered to go with him to sickbay, but he'd smiled grimly and said, "I don't think that's such a good idea."  He'd kissed her again, a little more hungrily than the first time, and then he'd pulled away and left.

And that was that.

Of course kissing him was extremely inappropriate, for many reasons.  But she couldn't regret it, for it had clearly pleased him, and surely he deserved some small measure of joy if she could provide it to him.  What she hadn't expected was to experience it as such a heady mixture of pain and pleasure herself.

And now Commander Tucker was recovering, thanks to Sim's sacrifice. 

But Commander Tucker also kept surprising her with his distance.

At first, he'd been extremely weak.  Phlox had enlisted her help early in the first morning after his surgery to help the commander do some walking.  The attempt at a circuit around the deck had left him pale and sweating with exhaustion.  He'd said he had to go back, and upon their return to sickbay he had crawled onto the bio-bed and curled his body away from her and the doctor.  He hadn't asked her about the engines or his staff, either, though she had given him a report anyway.  She wasn't sure he'd actually taken it in, since it had clearly taken supreme effort for him simply to put one foot in front of the other.

And that was, of course, before the captain had explained to him about Sim.

After that, every time Tucker looked at her -- or at any of them, really -- she had the impression that he was a man staring warily at strangers. 

The second night, while he was still in sickbay for observation, she'd asked him if he would like to resume their neuro-pressure sessions.  "Thanks, but I don't think I'm quite up to that yet," he'd said, with a polite smile that didn't match the bleak expression in his eyes.  "Besides, I've had more than enough sleep lately."

The day after that was Sim's service.  She wasn't sure why the captain had delayed that until Tucker could attend.  Tucker had looked confused and ill, and most of the crew also appeared uncomfortable with his presence there.   

What if, by saving Tucker, they had somehow lost him?

There was no logic in that question; still, she couldn't help fearing that in some unspoken way he was gone -- that he had pulled away not just from her, but from the whole crew, and had no intention of ever coming back.

She did not know if she would have had these perceptions without the Trellium-D, but she suspected she would have known something was off about him, even if it would not have caused her the peculiar anxiety she was feeling now. 

She missed him.  Every night since the accident, she had missed his company during neuro-pressure: his smell, his touch, his intelligence, his curiosity, his unique observations about their daily lives.  And every day she had missed his presence not just as chief engineer but as someone she could go to whenever she needed insights into Captain Archer and other members of the crew.

She also missed Sim, who had so bravely told her how he felt. 

"Is it possible the commander has some of Sim's memories now?" she asked Phlox the day Tucker had been discharged to recover in his quarters. 

"Why do you ask?"

"He seems rather unsettled."

Phlox frowned.  "Near-death experiences will unsettle anyone.  And this particular near-death experience was . . . extremely unsettling, I should imagine."

"Seeing oneself lying dead in a torpedo tube must also be rather disturbing, for a Human."

The Denobulan glanced at her, then looked away.  He had also become more distant in the wake of Sim's death; T'Pol assumed he must be dealing with a certain amount of grief of his own, or perhaps feelings of guilt.  He didn't look up from his work as he said, "The commander has had a great deal to digest, unquestionably.  Whether that includes memories from his clone, I could not say.  He certainly hasn't volunteered anything about it, and when the captain told him about Sim, he struck me as quite genuinely shocked. However, I don't understand how Sim came to have the commander's memories, so I suppose anything is possible.  Perhaps you should just ask him."

x x x

Trip lay on his bunk and stared up at the ceiling of his bunk and wondered what it must have been like to be a clone whose sole purpose for existence was to donate vital parts to the original version of oneself.

Especially if he remembered being that original self.

Though Sim clearly had been different, too.  When Trip had returned to his quarters with Malcolm's help, they'd discovered small changes made in Trip's absence.  Some pictures were out of place, and a few data files had been scattered on the desk instead of neatly put away.  Also, Malcolm told him Sim's favorite pie was key lime.  Trip had gone off key lime pie years ago after he'd combined two big slices of it with a truly regrettable combination of beer, tequila, and some fruity drink Lisa had decided she couldn't stomach. 

His bunk had been neatly made, but it had dog fur on it.  Apparently Sim had enjoyed Porthos' company.  Trip liked the little guy, too, but it had never occurred to him to have him over for a visit.

So.  A clone and the captain's dog, here in his quarters. A clone who was ultimately treated far worse than the captain's dog. He remembered how completely loopy Archer had gotten when Porthos was ill, after he'd peed on some sacred tree.  There was no trace of that loopiness in the captain now - he was just a grim-faced man who had done the unthinkable.

How the hell could Jon live with himself?

But perhaps it was not really fair to ask that.  Jon clearly was having trouble living with himself -- had been for some time now -- but the mission came first, as it always would.

"T'Pol was all right with this whole thing?" Trip had asked, eventually, after Jon told him.

Jon had scowled.  "Not exactly.  She made sure I knew how unethical it was.  And illegal, at least in the Lyssarrian Prime Conclave."

"But she didn't stop you either."

"No, she didn't stop me.  I know it was a morally questionable decision.  I won't be surprised if there's hell to pay for it someday.  I'll deal with it when and if I have to.  But I can't regret it, Trip, not when I see you back with us.  And we have more important priorities, as you well know.  I can't say for certain that I wouldn't have done the same without a whole planet depending on us, but it sure as hell made the decision a lot easier.  I need you out here.  It's that simple."  He'd patted Trip on the shoulder.  "So do what Phlox tells you so you can get back to duty as soon as possible, okay?"

He'd nodded.  Yes sir.  Aye, aye, Cap'n.  Back to duty, sir. 

It had at least been a comfort to be touched -- proof that yes, he was still real, he did exist -- especially when that existence seemed somehow much more precarious than it had before.

Except for Malcolm's oddly soothing company -- he'd somehow known to just be there, without pushing anything more than his presence -- and especially after the bizarre experience of watching a dead version of himself get shot out of a torpedo tube -- Trip still felt distinctly un-tethered from all of it: from this second chance at life; from this crew, who had known and apparently now mourned a different version of him; from this mission, which had become the excuse for doing yet another unspeakable thing.

The door chimed and Trip sighed and got himself out of bed.  He still felt tired and woozy, and although Malcolm's company earlier had been a godsend, he really preferred to be alone right now.

But it was T'Pol. 

T'Pol, who had told Archer that cloning him would be unethical and illegal.   T'Pol, who had nonetheless stood by and let it happen.  T'Pol, who had kept coming to sickbay and had somehow seemed more freaked out by him than anyone else.  Trip wasn't sure what bothered him more: that she had argued against saving him, or that she had let Archer save him, or that she was clearly struggling with something that had to do with him, although he didn't know what. 

"T'Pol," he said.

"Commander."

And then he just stood there and stared at her, and she stared at him, and he thought say something, but nothing came.

She said, "Do you have Sim's memories?"

That wasn't what he was expecting at all, so he stepped back -- which allowed her to enter -- and said, "What?"

"Sim had your memories.  I wondered if you also have his, now that some of his neural matter has been transplanted into your cerebrum."

What the hell kind of a question was that? "Why, are you writing a paper on me?"

She drew back, clearly hurt, and he wondered just when she had become so easy to read . . . or so sensitive, for that matter.  Her tone was dry as Vulcan dust, however.  "Hardly, Commander.  I don't believe that publicizing what occurred here would likely serve anyone's best interest."

"No, probably not," he agreed, and went back to sit on his bunk.  "So why are you asking me if I have his memories?"

"I was concerned . . ." She hesitated, clearly having trouble.

Tucker stared tiredly at her, wondering why he was feeling so hostile.

She crossed her arms.  ". . . I was concerned that it might be a source of some discomfort to you."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure it would be," he said.  "But I can't say I recall any memories that don't seem as if they ought to be there.  But hey, if something pops up, I'll be sure to let you know."

Her eyes widened.  She turned to go, and he knew he'd offended her, which was, if he was honest with himself, exactly what he'd wanted to do.  "T'Pol," he said, before she got to his door.  "I'm sorry.  I'm . . . having a little trouble with all this."

She didn't look at him, just paused before the doorway.  "That's understandable." And then she opened the door and left.

Trip sighed unhappily and fell back on his bed.  Her voice had sounded strange -- a little choked, even.  Which was all wrong for her.  But he was too tired to wrestle with that mystery.  Too tired and too hurt.  She was Vulcan; she'd figure out how to deal with it somehow.  Maybe meditate, maybe read a little Surak . . . he was sure she would soon take any excess feelings that escaped that magnificent control of hers and stuff them away somewhere, never to be heard from again.

But him?  He had a piece of a dead clone's neural matter in his cerebrum, as she had so clinically put it. 

He might never be himself again.