Whatever small entertainment value this story may have would probably be enhanced if one watched Sprint/Nextel's Internet commercial Under the Moon first. I don't download music, so I can't comment on the service they're selling, but it is a chance to see Mr. Keating in a role light-years away from that of Malcolm Reed.

Songs quoted in this story, in addition to Sprint/Nextel's Under the Moon, include Blue Jean (David Bowie), Let's Dance (David Bowie), Rebel, Rebel (David Bowie), Golden Years (David Bowie), China Girl (David Bowie/Iggy Pop), Cat People (David Bowie/Giorgio Moroder), Heroes (David Bowie/Brian Eno), Fame (David Bowie/Carlos Alomar/John Lennon), Space Oddity (David Bowie) and White Light/White Heat (Lou Reed/John Cale). The Jimmy Cagney gangster movie Trip mentions is White Heat which belongs to Warner Brothers.

Under the Serious Moonlight

Trip trudged into his quarters and called for the lights. It would be hard to determine who was the most startled - Malcolm who had been awakened by the lights or Trip at seeing his lover curled up on their bed. Their tryst was supposed to have been 2 hours ago, and Trip hadn't expected Malcolm to tolerate being stood up.

"Sorry, Mal. I figured you'd be holed up in the Armory or polishin' a phase cannon or somethin' by now."

Malcolm rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took a swift glance at the clock on the bedside table. "I take it the meeting didn't go well, then?" he asked softly as he took in Trip's dejected manner.

"Well, yes and no," Trip said with a sigh as he plopped down on the chair by his desk. "Travis made some lovely decorations. No cheesy 'Over the Hill' banners or Styrofoam tombstones with R.I.P. carved in them. Just nice gold-colored stuff. Hoshi's gonna help him put them up. She got together with Chef, and they planned a really nice dinner. He's gonna make a cake in the shape of the Enterprise - which reminds me, I gotta pull some specs for him." He grabbed a PADD and made a quick note. "T'Pol got the present - had it sent out on that Vulcan ship we met up with last week. She's got it stashed in her quarters. By the way, Mal, thanks for collectin' the credits from everyone. That's usually the hardest job. There's always a few that give ya some sob story and say they'll get back to ya later, but later never comes."

"Really?" Malcolm seemed surprised. "I didn't have a problem. In fact, it was a pleasure." He smiled the little half-smile Trip loved. "Of course, it is rather difficult to say 'no' to someone whose wearing a phase pistol." The half-smile changed into a full smirk.

"Oh jeez, Mal, you didn't!" Trip spluttered.

"I most certainly did! I am chief of security after all. I will not be toyed with!" Malcolm was all wounded dignity, but he quickly sobered. "So far, it sounds like everything went swimmingly. What went wrong?"

"My job, which was arrangin' the entertainment, is what went wrong. With over 80 people aboard, I figured there was somebody who could sing or play an instrument well. Ya should've seen the sorry bunch of acts that showed up for auditions - or maybe ya were lucky ya didn't. I'm tellin' ya, Mal, that Tellarite guy with the bad attitude from "Galactic Idol" would've had a stroke! I haven't seen or heard anything so bad since the last time I watched the talent competition for a beauty pageant."

Malcolm snorted. "Does a Tellarite have any attitude other than bad? Besides, nobody watches a beauty pageant for the talent competition. If Father wasn't home, then Mum and Maddie always watched to see the gowns. I don't have to tell you what I watched for, do I, Trip?"

"Reckon not, Mal. A nice 'bum' in a skimpy bathin' suit." For the first time since he got home, Trip smiled. "Say, now there's an idea!"

"No! Don't even think about going there, Commander. With or without a phase pistol, I won't help you if you do."

"Aw, come on, Mal. It could be fun, and it's for a good cause. The worst that could happen is the ladies would decline."

"The worst that could happen, Commander, is that T'Pol could do that Vulcan neck pinch and 'accidentally' kill you. That would leave Lieutenant Hess in charge of Engineering. It's in my best interest to stay on her good side as she might be more accommodating than you are when it comes to the Armory's power needs."

"I didn't know ya were so mercenary, Mal," Trip huffed. "The best act is either Hoshi and a couple of your Security guys doing a martial arts exhibition or me playin' my harmonica. I really wanted somethin' with more class for the Cap'n's birthday party. Guess I better start rethinkin' my options. I gotta give the committee my final recommendation by 0700 tomorrow."

"I'll leave you to it, then. Time for a nice cup of tea in the mess and a little light reading." He took the PADD with the Fermilab Today articles from the Theoretical Astrophysics Group from the desk. "You needn't wait up for me," he said quietly as he moved to the door. There was something in his manner that made him seem already far away.

"Mal, I really am sorry 'bout tonight. I don't blame ya for bein' put out. I know I got it comin'," Trip said sadly as he stood to escort Malcolm to the door.

"Um. Yes, well, perhaps you'll offer me a rain check for after the Captain's party?" Malcolm seemed distracted. His voice lacked conviction.

"Sure thing, darlin'! You're the best!" Trip managed to give Malcolm a quick kiss before he triggered the door and was gone. Trip flopped down on their bed and hugged the pillow that still carried Malcolm's scent. "Great! Just great! Whatever entertainment I pick is gonna ruin Jon's party. I've hurt Mal. I oughta go ahead and just ask T'Pol to parade around in an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, yellow polka dot bikini. If she kills me, at least it'll put me out of my misery."

Malcolm made his way to the mess and then to the small observation lounge pretty much on autopilot. He was so deep in thought that he barely acknowledged the few other crewmen he passed. He just suddenly found himself sitting at the subspace communications terminal. He knew he could easily solve Trip's problem, easily that is if he didn't mind destroying his own career.

Back in his late teens and early 20s, in order to pay off his trip from Leicester to San Francisco and to support himself while he was at the Academy, he'd answered an ad placed by two young women who were looking for a keyboardist and singer to front their 1980s cover band, Fierce Blue Ascot. They'd had a parting of the ways with their former lead singer who apparently was far more into the sex and drugs than the rock and roll. The band had already made something of a name for itself, had numerous bookings and needed a replacement PDQ. Malcolm arranged an audition; performed an eclectic mix of David Bowie, Phil Collins, Elton John and a couple of songs from James Bond movies and won the gig. All those years of piano lessons and singing in the cathedral Boys' Choir that his mother had insisted upon had finally proved useful. Of course, neither she nor anyone else could ever know about this job. Therefore, he devised a stage name. In this part of his life, he wasn't Malcolm Reed, he was Ian Westbury.

He'd been bloody naïve to think that nobody would make the connection. Harris had. It turned out to be such a useful cover for some of his assignments for the Section. He'd even managed to pen a hit song - Under the Moon. What nobody seemed to get - not even Harris this time - was that not only was it a parody of the '80s songs he sang night after night, but also a satirical swipe at what his life had become.

I've been waiting all night long just to talk to you.

Would I know what isn't true? Am I starting to get through?

Do you remember my number at all? It's written on the wall.

Call me, baby. Call me tonight. There's nothing to do at all.

Call me. I'll come over soon. I'm waiting under the moon.

He'd hoped he'd put it all behind him when he was assigned to Enterprise, when he'd finally broken his ties with Harris and the Section. He could live with being a washed-up, has-been, one-hit wonder. He wanted to have a long, successful career in Starfleet. He wanted the respect of his captain and crewmates. He'd made some headway there, but he'd lose it all if they found out about Ian Westbury.

On the other hand, Trip seemed to be deeply in love with him. He'd never had someone care for him as Trip did, had never had someone who understood him - or at least tried to - the way Trip did, had never had someone who stood by him the way Trip did. He didn't want to lose that either, but knew that he would if Trip ever found out about his double life and his refusal to help. Malcolm had no doubt that the Gods of the Universe would make sure that happened, too. He sighed deeply, ran his fingers through his hair in frustration and then checked his chronometer. It was a little after midnight in San Francisco, still plenty early for an entertainment lawyer. He began drafting the first of a series of messages.

"Hey, Mal!" Trip's voice boomed out as he burst into the Armory at 0600 the next morning. "Why didn't you tell me you knew Ian Westbury, that he was in the neighborhood, so to speak, on Travis' family's ship and that he was lookin' to revive his career with a comeback tour?"

"Good morning to you, too, Commander," Malcolm said quite primly. "Perhaps we could discuss this privately at breakfast?"

Trip grinned. A quick glance about confirmed that except for him and Malcolm the Armory was empty. He gave Malcolm a bear hug and kissed him soundly. "God, I love ya, Mal. Ya sure saved my tail." Malcolm quirked an eyebrow but said nothing. "I'll follow ya anywhere, baby! Lead on!" Which Malcolm did after carefully smoothing his uniform.

Trip and Malcolm took a small table in the back corner of the mess hall as far from the entrance as possible. Neither man wanted their conversation to be overheard, but for entirely different reasons.

"I didn't tell you about Ian because, while we were good mates years ago, it was years ago. I wasn't even sure he'd remember me. I didn't want to promise you anything I couldn't deliver."

"I appreciate that, Mal. I surely do. I gotta tell ya, though, that ya could've knocked me over with a feather when I got that message this mornin'. I was all set to come in here at 0700 and admit defeat. Now I got this signed, sealed and delivered contract sayin' Ian Westbury will perform a 1 hour show. All we gotta do is give him a private dressin' room with a window and a star with his name on it on the door. That's no problem. We'll let him have the main observation lounge, and some of the decorations Travis made are big gold stars. He wants some kind of food I can't even pronounce, but I've seen it on Chef's menu. That ain't a problem, either. And he wants proof that his fee - and it ain't that much for a performer of his stature - has been deposited to the Starlight Foundation. Phlox said he'd cover that. Guess he just got an advance on another book he's writin' 'bout bein' our doc."

"Ian always was a bit of a prima donna." Malcolm shrugged. "Say, Trip, I must admit that I never pictured you as an Ian Westbury fan. How did you come to know of him?"

"Lizzie was crazy 'bout him. Had his posters up all over her room. Dreamed 'bout runnin' off with him and everything. I didn't think it was physically possible to wear out a data chip, but she played that dang song Under the Moon so much that the chip just up and died. Thank God, 'cause if I'd heard it one more time . . ." Trip's voice just sort of trailed off. "I wish she was here to meet him, Mal. I 'spect even now as a mature young lady she would've gotten a kick out of it."

There was such desolation in Trip's eyes that Malcolm could barely manage to whisper, "I'm sure Ian would have liked that, too. He favors handsome blondes, you know. He may be a prima donna, but he's also a gentleman."

"'Specially with you ridin' shotgun with your phase pistol, Mal." Trip managed a small, sad smile that Malcolm returned.

Trip's morning seemed to fly by. He was all set to go down to the shuttle bay to meet Ian Westbury when he got a rather frantic call from Malcolm. There was some sort of electrical problem in the Armory and he was most desirous of the Chief Engineer's assistance. Trip sighed, "On my way, Mal."

When he got to the Armory, however, Malcolm's second was assigned to work with him. Malcolm was going to the shuttle bay. "It is my job, Commander," Malcolm answered Trip's protest.

"Ya think Ian's gonna try to hijack the ship or somethin', Mal?" Trip whined.

"I think Snyder needs the experience of working with you directly on a problem of this magnitude. It would be his place if I were incapacitated. I don't question your staff assignments. I'll thank you not to question mine."

Trip raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, Mal. Whatever! 'Scuse me for breathin'!" Before the argument could escalate to something even more unseemly, it was interrupted by the wail of an alarm. Trip hurried off to join Snyder at his terminal while Malcolm unobtrusively slipped out of the Armory.

Trip worked all afternoon trying to isolate the gremlin in the Armory's electrical system. He tried everything he could think of, but every time he thought he'd found it and eradicated it, the alarm would sound again. Then, shortly before 1900 when the Captain's party was scheduled to begin, the diagnostics finally all came up clean, and this time they stayed that way. Trip hurried down to his quarters to grab his harmonica. Considering the day he'd had, it wouldn't surprise him if this Ian Westbury guy developed a sore throat or stage fright at the last minute, found the accommodations not to his liking and cancelled his contract or had taken one look at Enterprise and refused to come aboard at all. He entered the mess hall and scanned it for Malcolm but didn't see him. "Great! Now what?" he thought.

Hoshi waved for him to come up to the front table where she'd saved him a place. She gave him a PADD. "This is how Ian would like you to introduce him," she explained.

Trip gave the PADD a quick glance and rolled his eyes. "Not a bit stuck on himself, is he?" he groused. Hoshi giggled softly behind her hand.

Dinner was soon over, and it was time for the show to begin. Trip took center stage to the accompaniment of hand clapping, foot stomping and whistles. He blushed almost as pink as Malcolm was wont to do, made an exaggerated bow and then raised his hands for quiet.

"Cap'n, ladies and gents, ya'll are in for a real treat. Enterprise is right pleased to present an artiste of galactic renown. He made his mark on the culture of Earth as lead singer for the seminal retro/synth/techo/pop band Fierce Blue Ascot and penned their multi-platinum hit Under the Moon. This here is the first stop on his galaxy-wide comeback tour. So put your hands together and give it up for the one and only Ian Westbury!" Trip wasn't sure how he'd made it through that introduction without cracking up, and he was surprised that his crewmates' applause sounded sincere, not merely polite.

The lights went down, and a video began to play on the screen usually used for Movie Night. Trip recognized the old David Bowie short film Jazzin' for Blue Jean, except that through the miracle of computer-generated graphics there had been a few changes made. One of Bowie's dual roles, that of the nerdish Vic, was now played by none other than Malcolm Reed. Trip had made the mistake of taking a sip of iced tea and almost choked. He nervously looked around the mess hall but didn't see Malcolm. "Easy now! Mal said he and Ian were pals. He must know about this and be OK with it." The beautiful woman Vic was trying to romance by claiming to be best mates with her favorite rock star was none other than T'Pol of the delicately pointed ears and even lovelier bum. Trip glanced at her and saw the slightly raised eyebrow. His best guess was that if that were to signify emotion, then it would be more amusement than anger. Finally, Bowie's other role, that of the rock star Screaming Lord Byron was none other than Ian Westbury.

In a flash of blue light, Ian Westbury appeared on stage made up and dressed something like Bowie in the film. He wore a turban, an outfit of a shiny blue material and silver slippers with turned up toes like something out of Aladdin. The mandarin-style jacket had the Chinese word for "crisis", the characters "danger" and "opportunity", embroidered in silver in a pattern over it.

"Blue Jean - I just met a girl named Blue Jean

Blue Jean - She got a camouflaged face and no money"

As Ian sang, he looked directly at T'Pol and winked. Again, the slightly raised eyebrow. "Yeah, definitely amused," Trip thought with some surprise.

Part of the way through the song, Ian had unwrapped the turban to reveal short dark hair moussed into spikes with highlights of silver and electric blue. "Like some kind of psychedelic skunk," Trip thought. He'd removed the jacket and tossed it to Hoshi. "Keep it, love. With a few alterations it will look almost as good on you as it did on me." As he said "alterations", Ian's hands mimed the curved shape of a woman's body.

Underneath the jacket he was wearing a form-fitting black tank top that clung provocatively to a pale, lithe, well-muscled torso. He kicked off the slippers which Porthos took as permission to go play with them. When the music ended and Ian was finally standing still, Trip saw that the make-up he wore accentuated large, dark eyes and the fine bone structure and planes of his face. Gloss made the full lips shine invitingly. He also realized that Ian was certainly no more than of medium height. "Ya know, he almost looks like Mal under all that glam and glitter." Speaking of whom, Malcolm was still nowhere to be seen.

Ian stood barefoot at center stage. "Me mate, Malki, that's 'Leftenant' Reed to you, tells me there's a bloke 'ere name of Commander Trip Tucker." A light shown on Trip and momentarily blinded him, which is just as well considering what Ian said next. "Malki says your little sister, Lizzie, was a right fan o'mine. Well, never let it be said that Ian Westbury don't appreciate his fans." Ian's voice gentled. "I sincerely regret that due to an unfortunate circumstance she can't be with us tonight. I'd like to dedicate this song to her." Trip was stunned. "Damn, if he doesn't almost sound like Malcolm, too."

I was dancing in the dark and the light, waiting for your call.

I could love you like a fire at night, afraid that we might fall.

Do you remember my number at all? It's written on the wall.

Call me baby, call me tonight. There's nothing to do at all.

Call me. I'll come over soon. I'm waiting under the moon.

Trip remembered telling Malcolm how he had never wanted to hear that song again, but now he felt differently. He remembered a smiling, happy little girl dancing around the house, singing along with the music and chattering away about "Ian this" and "Ian that." He swore he heard her adult voice telling him, "Trip, honey, don't ya worry 'bout me none. I'm right here waitin' on ya, waitin' under the moon."

Ian stepped into bright red loafers that somehow Porthos hadn't noticed yet and segued into the next song.

Let's dance

Put on your red shoes and dance the blues

Let's dance

To the song they're playin' on the radio

Let's sway

You could look into my eyes

Under the moonlight, this serious moonlight

Ian moved about the makeshift stage with the sinuous grace of a great cat. Trip realized that he really had to be in shape to be able to continuously move while singing and hitting all the notes true. Not many civilians - not even all of the crew of the Enterprise when it came down to it - could keep up with Malcolm when he worked out, but Trip suspected that Ian could probably come close.

The upbeat tempo changed to one that was even faster and harder.

You've got your mother in a whirl

She's you sure if you're a boy or a girl

Hey babe, you're hair's all right

Hey babe, let's go out tonight

From the wry expression on his face, it was clear that Ian was making fun of himself. Trip laughed. He hadn't liked Ian at first. He'd thought him to be stuck-up and shallow. Maybe he didn't take himself so seriously after all, and it had been exceedingly kind of him to sing his song in memory of Lizzie. Malcolm had mentioned her to him, sure, but he had been under no obligation to acknowledge her.

You can't get enough, but enough ain't the test

You've got your transmission and your live wire

Trip's attention was pulled back to the song by the mention of something mechanical. This time, when Ian winked, he pointed directly at Trip. Trip laughed again. OK, so maybe he'd been a bit hasty in his first impression of Ian. He'd made the same mistake with Malcolm. What was it with him and these Brits?

Speaking of which, where was Malcolm? They'd had words that afternoon, sure, by nothing out of the ordinary for them, even if it did make Jon cringe. Maybe that electrical problem had resurfaced again in the Armory? It would be just like Malcolm to hold the fort by himself and miss the party so as not to ruin anyone else's evening, particularly Trip's.

The music ended, and Ian came to the front of the stage. "Malki tells me this 'ere is Cap'n Jonathan Archer's 45th birthday party." The light focused on Archer. "Many 'appy returns of the day, Guv," Ian led the applause. "That wasn't classified information now, was it?" Ian pretended to be worried.

"Not anymore," Archer laughed.

"Say, now, Mr. Chief Engineer, did you get those rockers attached to the command chair on the bridge?"

Trip grinned. "Not me, Ian. Bein' a commander means I get to delegate all them dirty, thankless jobs. That's what I got Lieutenant Hess here for."

"Darn right, sir! And I'll get right on it, soon as the concert's over," Hess joined in the joke.

"In that case, I'd best get a move on, then. This one's for you, Cap'n, with my compliments." The music was warm with a gentler beat, one that induced the audience to sway in time with it.

"Golden years . . .

Don't let me hear you say life's taking you nowhere, angel . . .

Look at that sky, life's begun

Nights are warm and the days are young . . .

I'll stick with you baby for a thousand years

Nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years."

Trip had gotten caught up in the hypnotic rhythm of the song, but those last two lines had gotten his attention. It could almost be Mal's song for Jon. Of course, Mal would never dream of calling Jon "baby", much less "angel" - heck, Mal didn't call him any of those things, not even in the throes of passion - but Mal was pretty darn proprietary about anyone he cared for, and he'd do his best to see that no harm came to them.

Another video came on the screen. Trip remembered that it was a bit scandalous in its time. David Bowie and the lovely Asian model had done something of an homage to the Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr beach scene from the movie From Here to Eternity, except they'd done it sans bathing suits. CGI had been at work again - this time the stars were Ian and Hoshi. "He wouldn't, would he? If he had, then it would've been behind Mal's back, 'cause if Mal had known about it, then pals or not, he'd've killed 'im!"

Hoshi seemed pretty oblivious to what could be happening any minute now. She ran her hand lightly over the jacket Ian had tossed to her and leaned over to whisper to Travis, "It must be premium silk. It's from the House of Westmore on Rodeo Drive. It would take me every cent of 3 months' pay and then some to buy this!" She looked up when Ian began to sing.

"I'm a mess without my little China Girl"

He smiled at her and shrugged as if to say, "Yes, I know you're Japanese, not Chinese. But what can I do, love? I didn't write the bloody song!" Unbeknownst to Hoshi, Trip was mighty relieved to find everyone involved to be appropriately (if a bit scantily) clad at the end of the video.

The next song was high energy and yet a bit sinister. Once again, Trip was struck by how much Ian reminded him of Malcolm and how they both resembled big cats - cats that were on the prowl, stalking and ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey. Tthe lyrics reminded him of Malcolm, too, and this time, they went straight to his heart.

"See these tears so blue

An ageless heart that can never mend

These tears can never dry

A judgment made can never bend

See these eyes so green

I can stare for a thousand years

Just be still with me

You wouldn't believe what I've been through

You've been so long

Well, it's been so long

And I've been putting out fire with gasoline"

Stuart Reed had carefully taught his son that he was of little value and unworthy of respect, much less of love. Trip was certain that the lessons had gotten physical, although to what extent and exactly how often Malcolm was unlikely to tell him, not in a million years. Malcolm had never given up trying to reverse his father's opinion of him, but the judgment had been made when he was only a little boy, and no amount of academic brilliance, derring-do or testimony by others could change it. Stuart had gone to his grave with the rift between himself and his only son unmended. Trip knew it was a void in Malcolm's life that no one else could fill, but he sure as heck would love him to the best of his ability, stand by him and support him. Of course, if he knew where he was, it would help. He wished Malcolm were sitting next to him where he belonged. It didn't matter to him what Stuart or anybody else thought. He'd hug him for dear life right there out in front of God, the cap'n and everybody! Mal was so worth it!

Another song had started. This one was more electronic in nature, almost plaintive and vaguely familiar. In the middle of the introduction, though, Ian suddenly stopped. "No! No! No! This ain't workin'! This ain't right!"

Trip was thoroughly surprised. "Well, Malcolm did say that Ian could be a prima donna. I guess he wasn't kiddin'."

"Mr. Tucker, Malki told me you play the 'armonica. Would ya 'ave it about?"

Trip stood and rather sheepishly pulled the said instrument from his shirt pocket to the mixed laughter and groans of the crew.

"Do ya know this song, then, Mr. Tucker?"

Trip thought for a moment and then remembered where he had heard it before. It had been part of the soundtrack for a rather forgettable remake of the classic monster movie Godzilla. He'd actually been more taken with the song than the film and had spent a week trying to come up with an acceptable harmonica version, much to Malcolm's disgust. Malcolm had finally threatened to shove the instrument out an airlock. Whether Trip's lips were attached to it or not at the time was entirely up to Trip himself, or so Malcolm had warned him darkly.

"Reckon I do, Ian. Ya askin' me to play it with ya?" Trip asked in amazement.

"Well Guv, I ain't just whistlin' Dixie up here now, am I?"

Amidst the laughter and applause of the crew, Trip made his way to the stage. He was blushing as deeply as Malcolm ever did. He sounded a chord on the harmonica, and Ian gave him a small, silent nod. That was an acceptable key. Trip began to play, and Ian joined in.

"I remember standing by the wall

The guns shot above our heads

And we kissed as though nothing could fall

And the shame was on the other side

Oh we can beat them forever and ever

Then we could be Heroes just for one day."

The end of the song was greeted with wild applause, whistles and shouts of "Encore!" With an exaggerated flourish, Ian extended his arm toward Trip and then stepped back out of sight. He was clearly indicating that Trip should take a bow. By now Trip's blush had reached "red alert" status. He just wanted to get back to his seat - in the dark - or better yet, to crawl under the table. Maybe it was just as well Mal wasn't here. Jeez, he'd never live this down! Thankfully, the lights finally dimmed, and he scurried away.

A pattern of brightly colored lights heralded Ian's return for his encore set. Trip was a bit mystified by his choice of song. Sure, it was a David Bowie/John Lennon work, quite famous, often covered and usually included in the greatest hits/compilation/tribute recordings, but despite it's incessant beat, Trip simply found it sad.

"Fame - What you like is in the limo

Fame - What you get is no tomorrow

Fame - What you need you have to borrow

Fame"

For the first time, Trip stopped to consider what Ian's life might really be like. Traveling about all the time. On display all the time. Alone in a crowd. How could he tell - until it was too late - who his true friends were and who were just hangers-on looking to exploit him? Who would share a life like that? Had anyone been there for him in the lean years after the popularity of that one big hit had faded? Perhaps the things Trip hadn't liked about him in the beginning were nothing more than defenses against loneliness and pain. Maybe he wasn't so different from Malcolm in ways other than looks.

Another thought came to him that sent shivers down his spine. Malcolm had said that he and Ian had been best mates years ago. Trip had taken "best mates" to mean "best pals" in American English, kind of like him and Jon. But what if it meant considerably more than that? What if it meant "mate" like in, well, "mate" like in serious relationship/married? Is that where Malcolm was? Waiting in the observation lounge for Ian at Ian's request? Looking to maybe take up where they'd left off all those years ago? They would make a striking couple.

Trip didn't really want to go there, so he pulled his attention back to the show. The song was another strange choice in Trip's estimation, and yet it was one he liked, and he knew Jon liked it, too. If he remembered correctly (A.N. He didn't.), it had been Bowie's first big hit on both sides of the Atlantic. It had come out at about the time of the Apollo 11 moon landing, and at least one TV network had used it as the theme song for its coverage of the event. That was a pretty strange choice when you thought about it. If you listened carefully to the lyrics, it soon became obvious that "Major Tom" was "spaced out" (if you'll pardon the pun) and probably suicidal.

For his final song of the evening, Ian had chosen another one with a hard-driving tempo. He seemed to move about the stage at a frenetic pace, and his voice had become raw.

"White Light

Oh, White Light, it lightens up my eyes

White Light

Don't you know it fills me up with surprise

White Heat

Oh , White Heat, it tickles me down to my toes

White Light

Oh, White Light, I'll tell you now, goodness knows"

With a loud "bang" and a bright flash of light, Ian disappeared. Trip was stunned. "It's like watchin' the end of that great Jimmy Cagney gangster movie. 'Made it, Ma! Top of the world!' and then 'Bam!' Mal would've loved it!" But of course, Malcolm wasn't there.

With great fanfare and to everyone's delight, Chef brought in the intricately decorated dark chocolate Enterprise cake. T'Pol presented Archer with his gift from the crew. Trip, however, was anxious to slip away and find out what had happened to Malcolm. The first chance he got, he grabbed a piece of cake and headed off for the Armory. It wasn't until he got there that he realized that the piece of cake included a miniature phase cannon made of Chef's delectable buttercream frosting. Trip took it as a good omen.

"Your boss hidin' out down here somewhere?" Trip asked Crewman Morton.

"Haven't seen him, sir. Snyder told me when I came on duty that he hadn't seen him since you came down to help out with whatever got into our electronics."

"Ya sure he didn't sneak in to work on one of the phase cannons? Ya know how he is."

"See for yourself, sir." Morton smiled and pointed to a cluster of monitor screens. The access areas for all of the phase cannons were empty.

"Well, Joe, thanks anyway. As you were."

"Yes, sir!" Morton's smile grew as a fork and a piece of cake seemed to magically appear from behind the carrying case for a phase pistol at his workstation.

Trip checked the quarters he shared with Malcolm. They were empty. He sat down at his terminal and scanned the ship for Malcolm's biosign. Just like he'd figured, he was in the observation lounge Ian was using as his dressing room.

The next thing Trip knew, he was standing outside the observation lounge. The door had been set to privacy lock. He was ringing the chime and announcing himself. He didn't know what he'd say if he were allowed in. He'd been fighting the green-eyed monster all the way from his quarters to the lounge and he wasn't sure he'd won. He was sure he hated himself when he got like this.

He heard a muffled voice respond, and saw that the door had been unlocked. When he walked in, the room was in shadow save for an area about the view port where the bright, silvery light of the Great Moon of Iliacus III streamed in. Silhouetted in the light with his back to the door, his eyes staring off into space, his shoulders slumped in exhaustion and his arms crossed over his chest in a defensive posture stood Ian Westbury. He didn't acknowledge Trip's presence in any way but remained still as a statue. He seemed much smaller than the elegant, self-confident and energetic performer he had been on stage only an hour before. A quick glance around the room satisfied Trip that he and Ian were alone. Whether it was the fact that Malcolm wasn't there or the sad, vulnerable picture Ian presented, the words to Fame played in Trip's mind. His jealousy evaporated, and he knew just what to say.

"Ian, I just wanted to thank ya for dedicatin' your song to my sister. That was real neighborly of ya. She would've been right pleased; I know she would. She would've enjoyed meetin' ya and would've loved the show. Well, 'cept maybe for the part when her brother was playin' his harmonica. She never did cotton to that much." Trip's lips formed a small, self-deprecating smile that Ian didn't see. "Well, Mal should be back any minute with whatever he's gettin' for ya. Ya'll got a lot to catch up on, I'm sure. Just wanted ya to know how much we all enjoyed the show. Ya sure made the Cap'n's birthday party special. I'll just mosey along now. I don't wanna intrude."

Trip had turned back toward the door when a voice called to him, "There's no need for you to leave, Trip. Please stay."

Trip spun about. "Mal?"

He walked deeper into the room, this time far enough to see over the back of the sectional facing the view port. He'd expected Malcolm to be curled up there, but he wasn't.

The figure at the window finally turned around. His hair still bore traces of what Trip had called the "psychedelic skunk" treatment, but every trace of make-up had been carefully scrubbed away to reveal, to Trip's eyes at least, the pleasingly pale face of his lover, Malcolm Reed.

Trip gaped at him, clearly confused. "Mal? You and Ian . . ."

"Are one and the same. I'm sorry I lied to you, Charles. Please forgive me." Malcolm's eyes were cast down. For a man who had just given a well-received, stellar performance, he sounded truly miserable.

"Aw, darlin'! Ain't nothin' to forgive! Jon, Hoshi, Travis - heck, everybody - they're gonna be so surprised when they find out!"

"No! You must not tell them!" Malcolm had gone from miserable to desperate in the blink of an eye.

"Why not? Ya were amazin', Mal, ya really were! Ya had us all eatin' out your hand. We all had a great time! Even T'Pol said that your performance was 'most agreeable'. Heck, from her, that's as good as a standin' O."

"Trip, I've worked very hard to gain the Captain's trust and respect, and I believe I've finally met with some success, but how can he be expected to place any faith in my recommendations when he finds that his Armory Officer is . . . Ziggy Stardust?" Malcolm said the name with deep distaste. "My job requires me to lead my people into dangerous situations. In order for me to get them in and out safely requires them to have absolute trust and confidence in me. They won't follow someone whom they've seen prancing about made up like some sort of spider from Mars. Their reluctance will get them killed, and I'll have only myself to blame."

Trip tried a little levity to calm Malcolm down. "Oh, I don't know. I've always heard tell ya should give them spiders from Mars a wide berth. They're meaner than a pack of junkyard dogs." He could see immediately that it hadn't worked.

In a heartbeat, he turned serious. "Look, Malcolm, I think you're selling everybody a little short, here - the Cap'n, the crew and most of all yourself. It takes guts as well as talent to get up in front of people and perform. It's gotta be 'pecially hard for ya 'cause ya were brought up so strict and proper, plus you're quiet, kinda shy and pretty darn self-effacing. I don't think anybody's gonna be losing any respect for ya any time soon."

"Thank you," Malcolm said softly. Trip was pleased to see his slight blush. "But please humor me in this. It's important to me. Please give me your word that you won't say anything."

"OK, Mal," Trip sighed. "I still think you're wrong, but if it's what ya want, then I'll give ya my word. When they find out - and ya know they will - I promise ya it won't be from me."

"Now, Mal, ya must be starvin'. How 'bout some of Jon's birthday cake? I got ya a piece with a phase cannon on it." Trip grinned as he pointed the fork at Chef's handiwork.

"Mmm, lovely. Let's save that part for last, shall we?" Trip was relieved to hear the almost child-like delight in Malcolm's voice. He was certain that once Captain Stuart Reed had been given command of a desk, anything even remotely resembling frivolity had come to a screeching halt at the Reed home. He joined Malcolm before the view port and began feeding him the cake, all the while taking care not to smash it into his face. After a few bites, Malcolm wanted to return the favor. In no time at all, they were down to the phase cannon made of frosting. Since Malcolm had the fork at the time, Trip picked up the piece with his fingers and deftly plopped it into Malcolm's mouth. For some reason the whole thing reminded him of Lady and the Tramp eating the plate of spaghetti and meatballs in the Disney film. He always got a little teary-eyed when that scene came up. It was so romantic!

Trip put the empty plate and the fork on the coffee table. When he turned back to Malcolm, he embraced him and ran his hands over his back. They kissed - a long, deep, gentle kiss with Trip thoroughly enjoying the chocolate-enhanced sweet/salt taste that was Malcolm. "I've been wantin' to do this all evenin', darlin'," he murmured.

Malcolm pulled back just a bit and gave Trip an appraising look. "Put on your red shoes and dance the blues," he began to sing. Music filled the room. They didn't dance so much as shuffle their feet a bit and sway in the moonlight. The kissing, caressing and embracing were much more important.

"Mmmm. That's nice, darlin'," Trip sighed when the music ended. "Ya know, I really liked that last song ya did, too. It got me real revved up."

"I've been finding out all sorts of new and interesting things about you lately, love," Malcolm smirked a bit. "I didn't know you fancied Lou Reed."

"Lou Reed, huh? He a relative, Mal?" Trip asked with wide-eyed but something less than believable innocence.

"Certainly not!" Malcolm replied, though with something less than sincere annoyance. He spoke a command, and the room was filled with the pulsating beat of the song. This time, an entirely different sort of dance ensued. By the time the last note had died out, there was a trail of discarded garments leading from the view port to the sectional where Trip found himself expertly pinned beneath Malcolm.

"Mal, are you sure you want this?" Trip asked quietly. His hands played gently over Malcolm's shoulders and back.

"Am I sure I want this?" Malcolm seemed genuinely puzzled by the question and considered it carefully. When Trip had first taken up with him, the question would have caused Malcolm to quickly scramble away. Back then, he would have seen it not as a sincere inquiry as to his preferences but rather as a thinly veiled rejection.

"Trip, are you asking me if I want to make love to you while you make love to Ian Westbury?" Malcolm's voice was carefully neutral.

With a rather sheepish grin, Trip answered, "Somethin' like that, Mal. I guess I'd phrase it a little different, though. Do you want to make love to me while I make love to the part of you that's Ian Westbury?"

"I had no idea you favored vain and vacuous." Trip was surprised that there was more than a touch of amusement in Malcolm's voice.

"Mama always says that variety's the spice of life." Trip chuckled, but then turned serious. "Look, Mal, I don't want ya thinkin' that I wish ya were someone else or that ya gotta pretend to be someone ya ain't in order for me to love ya. What I'm tryin' to say is that ya ain't got no cause to be ashamed or embarrassed 'bout bein' Ian Westbury. If ya ever want to let that side of your personality out for awhile, ya can do it with me, darlin'. I love ya, all of ya, includin' Ian, and ya'll are safe with me."

Trip saw Malcolm's endearing blush in the moonlight. "You've fulfilled a number of my fantasies, Trip. I see no reason why I shouldn't fulfill one of yours."

"Mal, I don't think lovin' ya without beatin' ya up or dumpin' ya every time ya turn around is the same as . . ."

Malcolm placed a forefinger on Trip's lips to silence him. "You have no idea what all of my fantasies are, Charles."

"Care to share, darlin'?"

"In due time." He pulled back a bit and his accent changed. "Now see 'ere, Charlie. Are we gonna get on with it or are ya gonna keep talkin' so long that we both forget 'ow?"

Whatever their respective fantasies might have been, at the height of their passion, the name each called out was, as it always would be, the name of the other.

After, a drowsy Trip clung tenderly to a sleeping Malcolm. "How I love this man! What's there not to love about Mal? He's so beautiful! In another time, he could've been the model for that statue at the casino in Vegas. Yeah, yeah, I know! Michelangelo's 'David' and the real one's in some town in Italy. Mal would know which one. See, that's another thing. Mal is a brilliant engineer, but he's smart about other stuff, too, like art and literature and music. Music - he's not just smart, he's really talented like he is with blowin' things up. And yet, for all his destructive tendencies, he's the kindest, gentlest, most lovin' person I know. How he can be that way with his family sure beats me, but he is. I could pretend he did this just to please Jon, but I know he did it to help me out despite the preceived threat to his career. I think he's wrong about that, but it don't matter what I think. He's complex and mercurial and never borin'. I want to know what those fantasies of his are, and I want to satisfy every single one of 'em. It's time - way past time, actually - for me to have a real serious conversation with the Captain 'bout exactly what my intentions are with Malcolm. I'm gonna do this right - by the book - 'cause I only wanna do it once. Mal would like that and it's what he deserves." With a smile on his face, Trip finally drifted off to sleep.

In his dream, Malcolm burrowed deeper into his embrace with a sleeping Trip. They were lying together on a great four-poster bed with heavy curtains. It reminded him of the bed he'd seen at Hampton Court Palace as a child, the bed that supposedly belonged to Henry VIII and at least some of his wives. They'd reveled in the extra room, yet he'd ended up clinging as closely to Trip as he did on their much smaller bunk on Enterprise. In his dream, he'd done the same things in the same state of undress as he'd done when he and Trip had been very much awake in the moonlight in the observation lounge. There was one difference, though, an item of clothing that had not been shed. On the fourth finger of his left hand he still wore a plain broad gold band, one that matched exactly the one Trip wore. They both shone in the dark, though where the light source was, Malcolm couldn't say. This was his most cherished fantasy. When he shared his fantasies with Trip, this was the one he would save for last.

In his cabin, Jonathan Archer lay on his bunk absently petting a quite content and more than a little sleepy Porthos. "What a party, eh, boy? Good food, good friends, great entertainment and a lovely present. What more could one ask for?" There was only one thing bothering him. "How do I thank Malcolm, Porthos?"

T'Pol and Hoshi had told Archer how Malcolm had come across his present while browsing the on-line catalogue of an antiquarian bookseller in Leicester. Malcolm had told them that Trip had once mentioned to him how much he (Archer) had enjoyed reading Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea as a child. It had filled him with the wonders of exploration and science which he had never outgrown. The book Malcolm had found was close to 200 years old and leather bound with the title and edges of the pages covered with gold leaf. The pages were of fine, heavy, acid-free paper. Overall, it was in excellent condition - part of an estate sale, or so the bookseller had said - and it appeared as if it had originally been bought only for show and never read. Travis told him how Malcolm had collected the credits to pay for the present - going from billet to billet on the habitat decks and "packin' heat" the whole time lest someone should prove uncooperative. Archer chuckled at the picture in his mind. That was just so typical of his Armory officer! It wouldn't be hard to thank him for that. It was the other thing Malcolm had done that was causing the difficulty.

"Porthos, how do I thank him for providing the entertainment? I'm sure he doesn't want anyone to know that was him, least of all me, but he went to so much trouble, it doesn't seem right not to acknowledge it."

Malcolm would indeed be mortified to know that Archer was already aware of his secret life. After punishing Malcolm unjustly during the mission to rescue Dr. Phlox from the Klingons because he had been unaware of his ties to the Section, Archer had had a long and rather heated discussion with Admiral Gardner in which he had made it clear that he expected to see the full service jackets for his crew, not just the CliffsNotes abridged versions. Apparently, he had gone so far as to tell Gardner, more or less, that if his demand wasn't met, he could take the captaincy of Enterprise and shove it. A few days later, the revised service jackets were transmitted to Archer on a secure channel and he had learned that his very proper Armory officer was also a rock star.

"So what do you think, Porthos?" Archer asked again.

Porthos jumped down off the bunk and made his way to the desk. He scratched at one of the lower drawers and whined.

"Porthos, how can you still be hungry after that big steak bone Chef gave you, not to mention the cheese? No more treats for you!"

"Dad!" Porthos thought, "How did you ever get to become a master? I don't want treats! I'm trying to tell you to give Watchdog a treat or at least to pet him. Well, on second thought, maybe you should leave the petting to Uncle Trip. We don't want anyone getting the wrong idea!"

Porthos headed off to his doggy bed. "Watchdog is very cunning. Certainly, he knew that I would recognize his scent no matter how he was groomed or what the name on his tag was. That was why I only played with those funny paw protectors instead of chewing on them. I wouldn't do that to something that belonged to Watchdog, and I won't let on about knowing that that was him baying under the moon and chasing his tail either, even though some of the sounds did hurt my ears. It's just professional courtesy - one dog to another - because we all behave like that from time to time. It's a canine thing!"

Archer moved to the terminal on his desk and opened the intraship messaging program. With Malcolm, sometimes the less said, the better. He would expect an all-hands-type thank you message. It was rather like the pat on the head he sometimes gave Porthos to remind his pet that he was a good dog and that that was appreciated.

TO: Reed, Malcolm, Lt.

FROM: Archer, Jonathan, Capt.

RE: Birthday Party

Thank you for making my 45th birthday celebration a special and very enjoyable occasion.

He'd leave it up to Malcolm to determine just how much, or how little, he was being thanked for doing. He pressed "Send" before he could talk himself into making any coy comments about Ian Westbury and headed off to bed.