The Protector's Dilemma

Chapter 1

She was dead. She lay there, hollow eyes open and staring at him, arm extended, hand seemingly pointing at him in accusation. He had failed her, failed his duty, failed his captain and crewmates, failed everyone he cared about. Shock and grief made him numb as he stared at her beautiful unmarred face, her graceful neck, her deep brown eyes. Her dead gaze was now devoid of the warmth and friendship that would embrace him and make him feel welcomed; he wondered if he should just slit his throat now and get it over with.

He could feel the anger building, his craving for revenge, the need to kill something. He had to control his impulses, though, always control them; he couldn't give in to his baser nature. He was Starfleet now. He continued to stare at her corpse, the delicate arch of her eyebrows, the elegance of her tapered fingers, the exquisite line of her lips. He'd never see her smile again, or laugh, or frown in frustration or concentration, or watch her mouth as it formed his name.

His rage built to an overwhelming tension, his heart pounding. Still staring at her, he removed his rank pips before stripping off his Starfleet jumpsuit. He wasn't surprised to find he was wearing the sleek black uniform of his former life beneath it. He picked up his old field jacket and scrutinized the insignia that would lie over his heart: wings and a dagger. Subconsciously, he could see a number obscenely entwined, snakelike and venomous, on the blade. He contemplated the emblem.

Once he had been proud to wear it; now it had been perverted, a reminder of a past he desperately wished to forget. He put the jacket on, finger tracing the design, then unconsciously drew the number on the knife's edge. His finger came away wet with blood. He felt the change. Now he could kill deliberately, instinctively, without mercy or compassion, without feeling, as he had been trained, as was his sworn duty, his job for crown and country, for the greater good. Later he would feel the aftereffects of such killing, the guilt and remorse, the despair and fear that had been shunted aside, as well as the self-loathing and bitter acceptance that he was damned, all in the line of duty. He needed to protect the innocents, needed to do his job, needed to use his training to kill ruthlessly in order to ensure that good people were safe. He needed to be perfect at all times because look at what a lapse of vigilance leads to…

Malcolm awoke with a start, his body trembling as he repressed a cry of anger. It was a dream, he reassured himself as he looked around his room, panting, his adrenaline rushing. Hoshi's alive, she's safe. We're home. Just a nightmare. His heart was hammering, twisted sheets soaked with sweat, and the tension from his dream was only that periodic craving that still dogged him, the one that Kaday had told him might take years to fade.

It had been almost four weeks since their return from Del'Exantu, and Malcolm still had an occasional nightmare of the Nausicaans torturing and killing Hoshi as he watched, helplessly bound and too sick to move. Then the longing for a set would hit him sometime in the early hours of the morning, when all but the gamma shift was sleeping. He pressed the heels of his hands firmly into his eyes, waiting to see the dots of lights and colors. He used to do this as a child, fascinated by it. It now reminded him of that very first rush of euphoria and speed, the colors and lights that had flashed under his lids. It helped to curb the yearning that he hadn't mentioned to anyone; he'd been trying to stay out of the sickbay, which now made him feel ill at ease. He watched the light show beneath his lids and concentrated on slowing his harsh breathing, humming a little to calm himself. He was wide awake now, his sleep not to be regained this morning. He got up, threw on sweats and a T-shirt, and went to the gym. His shift wouldn't start for another four hours, and he couldn't just lie there.

***

Hoshi woke early, not remembering her disquieting dreams but unable to sleep any longer. She showered and dressed, then wandered aimlessly about the ship. As she neared the gym, she could hear sounds coming from within and headed toward it, wondering who else would be sleepless so early this morning.

She watched Malcolm batter the punching bag with steady blows, the sound almost musical in the timing and rhythm. He'd slow slightly and then burst into a steady percussion with a rapid-fire tempo that echoed throughout the room. She watched him move, constantly shifting his stance, bouncing lightly on the balls of his bare feet. She saw the sweat running down his back and noted his tan was fading. The scars she knew were there were now faint and hard to make out, unless you knew where to look; the ones on his arms were gone, thanks to Doctor Phlox's skill. She looked at the unmarked skin on the nape of his neck. Doctor Phlox had recently removed the tattoo of his inmate number. The black dye used on Malcolm had been more difficult to eradicate than hers, and Phlox had had to repeat the procedure twice.

Malcolm thought he heard someone, and he gave the bag one last blow then turned. He broke out into a wide smile upon seeing her. "You're up rather early, Ensign," he said. He moved to the bench and grabbed his towel, wiping his face and head, then rubbing it across his damp chest. Hoshi smiled back, containing a laugh at his hair, barbed out in all directions.

"Couldn't sleep any longer. Bad dreams," she responded. He nodded, and she saw an answering acknowledgment in his unguarded eyes.

Chapter 2

The day Malcolm had been released from sickbay, Doctor Phlox had ordered him to his quarters to get some real sleep. Hoshi escorted Malcolm to his room; she was tired, too worried to sleep much, too unused to being alone. She teasingly ordered him into his bunk, pushing him down onto it. He had seen the fatigue in her face and opened his arms to her, a silent invitation to lie down and rest for a while, encouraging her with a beckoning movement of his head and a weary smile. She had sat down next to Malcolm, and he pulled her down onto his shoulder, wrapping his freshly bandaged arms around her and holding her gently. Hoshi hugged him and felt him relax; he soon fell asleep, too exhausted to move or talk.

She studied his face, his pallor apparent, the dark smudges under his eyes prominent. Intending to leave once she was sure he was asleep, she closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she felt refreshed, then alarmed as she saw the clock. She'd been there all night. He was still deeply slumbering, his arm across her waist, holding her close. She slipped out from beneath it and covered Malcolm with a blanket before she quietly left.

He had slept for almost a full day, curled up and unmoving. He didn't know that Hoshi, Doctor Phlox, Trip, or Jon would enter silently to check on him. When he first woke, he was surprised to find himself in his quarters. He walked around, touching the desk, his books, and other things to reassure himself that they were real. He vaguely remembered the sterile and cold lights of sickbay. He clearly remembered the pleasure he felt when he saw Hoshi and the dreamlike walk with her through the corridors, stumbling along in a sleep-deprived daze and allowing her push him into a bed. Malcolm was pleased that he finally felt normal again, but disturbed by half-formed memories that seemed surreal. He impatiently thrust everything from his mind. He didn't want to think about anything right now.

He showered in the hottest water he could stand, luxuriating in it with a hedonistic pleasure. He shaved and brushed his teeth, swallowing the toothpaste before recalling that he could now rinse; this water wasn't tainted. He tried to comb his rebellious hair, but it was futile. Impatiently, he grabbed a pair of scissors and cut his hair into some semblance of its original shape—not the best job, but it was out of his eyes now. He wasn't hungry, but he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten.

Malcolm dressed, startled at how loose his jeans felt, then looked around for shoes. His sneakers, of course, were gone, tattered ruins left on Sandaran. His Starfleet-issue boots were still there too, traded away. He had a pair of dress shoes, but he didn't feel like polishing them right now to make them presentable. So he yanked on the boots he had from Del'Exantu, wondering what happened to the knife usually concealed within the right one. He wiped them down, removing the dried blood and dust, trying to remember how they had gotten so dirty and uneasily pondering whose blood it could be.

The bandages, still damp from the shower, were making his arms itch, so he removed them. He stood there, numb, looking at his arms in shock. It was his style, his handiwork, he was certain, but he didn't remember doing it, and the uneasy feeling that had been tugging at him worsened. Suddenly cold, he grabbed his uniform jacket before tossing it aside, choosing a well-loved sweater his sister had given him instead. He was thankful for the long sleeves, although they irritated the barely formed scabs. He checked his appearance to make sure he was neat and tidy. The sweater hung shapelessly. He could see the wanness under his tan and he turned abruptly away from the mirror. He was allowed to look like something the cat dragged in, he decided cynically. He'd had a rough go of it.

He realized he didn't want to walk into the mess hall; he didn't want to fend off the stares, respond to the solicitous questions, be forced to make small talk—or worse, have to talk about what happened during the past three months. Most of his crewmates would be curious, in a friendly, concerned way, but he just wasn't ready to talk to anyone. He hadn't had the chance to get anything clear in his mind yet; their return had happened too fast. He checked his clock again and this time noticed the date. He felt suddenly weak-kneed and stunned. He'd lost close to six days somewhere.

In disbelief, he sank down on the bed, elbows on knees, head in hands, trying to remember, trying to fill in the blanks. Six days…that couldn't be right. He racked his memories. Nausicaans. Hoshi. Fear. Anger. Stars falling. Hoshi says. Spinning and speeding, colors. Terror and pain. Hoshi. Hoshi was real…only Hoshi…

Someone tapped on the door, making him start. He rose and answered it.

The door opened, and Hoshi saw Malcolm break into that too infrequent full smile, the one that touched his eyes and let you see the depths of his emotions that he kept so carefully hidden. She couldn't help but to respond with an expansive smile of her own.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty! You're awake," she teased him as he ushered her into his room.

"Yes, so if you're Prince Charming, you're a bit late," he teased back, briefly picturing her over him, their lips pressed together. He blushed slightly and ran his hand through his hair to cover his discomfit and dropped his gaze to the floor.

She watched his nervous mannerisms with affection as an odd flutter went through her. Impulsively she hugged him, rubbing his back. She felt him relax as he returned the hug.

"I'm glad you're awake. How are you feeling?" she asked, not letting go.

"Fine," he said automatically. She pulled back and poked him in the ribs.

"Malcolm…" she warned as he squirmed away from her, dodging another poke and laughing. He casually asked her what the date was and when had *Enterprise* come for them, hoping that his clock was wrong. It wasn't. She could see a brief flash of distress cross his face. "What?" she asked, "Are you okay?" "I'm…I…I don't know," he stammered as he dropped to his bunk. "I haven't had time to really sort everything yet. I don't think I remember all of it, and what I do is…hazy. Some of it is extremely pleasant, but some is…nightmarish and I can't remember what…exactly…happened…" He trailed off, and when he looked up at her she saw a vulnerability that she had never seen before.

She sat next to Malcolm and held him, telling him it was okay, not to worry, he could ask her anything. A feeling of trust and faith in Hoshi sliced through him and he felt his emotional walls slip. They spent the next hour sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall, shoulders touching, talking quietly. Malcolm would absently run his fingers gently down her arm, reassuring himself that she was still here, his eyes wide and unfocused while trying to remember something. Hoshi would hold his hand or lightly rub his thigh when he grew frustrated or troubled. She realized she missed this closeness, the physical communication that they had used to comfort each other and themselves.

He was staring at her, trying to remember how he had gotten to sickbay. She knew he was deep in thought, that he wasn't seeing her at all. She watched his eyes, thinking how relieved she was to see that beautiful mix of colors again, not just terrifying black pupils. His face was unreadable, but his eyes…

She recognized that he was now looking at her, fully engaged, with that ferocious intensity and total attention that was so unsettling, yet enthralling at the same time. He saw her eyes widen, and he quirked a little half-smile, extending hesitant fingers toward her hair. "Hoshi…" he began, his voice low and soft.

A soft rap on his door interrupted him and the moment was lost. Malcolm rose reluctantly and answered the door.

"Well, Rip Van Winkle's back from the land of Nod!" Trip greeted him, looking at Malcolm with undisguised pleasure and a bit of relief. He clapped him on the shoulder and then drew Malcolm into a hug, feeling his friend tense defensively. He hugged Malcolm tighter then winked at Hoshi when he felt Malcolm's stiff posture ease a little.

Touched yet embarrassed by the gesture, Malcolm gave Trip a quick squeeze in response before he slipped out of Trip's embrace, coloring slightly and quipping that if Trip intended to dance with him, he would prefer to lead.

But it was good to be home and among friends.

Trip had checked on Malcolm three times, and each time, Malcolm hadn't moved an inch. He'd been worried about the total stillness of that tightly curled body, the slowly moving chest the only indication that Malcolm was alive. "Nice haircut, Lieutenant," he said, exaggerating his drawl and smiling to soften the jest.

Malcolm ran a hand through his hair and flashed a self-conscious smile. "It was getting damned annoying," he said. "Couldn't do a bloody thing with it."

Hoshi laughed and playfully punched him in the shoulder. "I'll…fix it for you, I promise this time," she said, and tried to smooth his hair down. It sprang back up, a mind of its own.

"How you feeling?" Trip asked, looking at him closely. He could see that his friend's eyes were clear and the dark smudges gone from below them. He noted gratefully that Malcolm's smile was his usual one, not the ominous and cold one he had given Trip in the sickbay days before.

"Fine," Malcolm replied, and Hoshi darted a glance at him, suppressing a sigh.

"Well, I came by to see if you felt up to a meal. Looks like you could use a decent one for a change," Trip said, studying him, trying to hide his concern. "Chef made some great pasta tonight and there's a couple of slices of pecan pie left."

"I'm not really hungry—" Malcolm began and Hoshi interrupted.

"You haven't eaten in days and you really should have something solid, unless you've decided that an IV is among your favorite dishes now, Lieutenant," Hoshi said, crossing her arms and glaring at him.

He shifted restlessly and crossed his arms, unconsciously mirroring her. He looked at Trip in mute appeal.

"Oh, no, Lieutenant. Keep me out of this," he laughed.

Malcolm huffed in exasperation. "Fine. You win…nag," he teased her with a small smile and affection in his eyes.

***

"Nightmares, Malcolm?" she asked.

He looked away as he removed the tape from his hands. "Not as frequent now," he answered truthfully. "And not as bad as before." The first days before returning to duty had been the worst; nightly visits by horrific dreams and terrors, shadowy visions that seemed familiar, yet he couldn't remember ever being in the situations he dreamt about. He had sought refuge in the gym in the wee hours of the morning, unable to return to sleep, working out until he was exhausted, then staggering back to his bed and falling into a thankfully dreamless slumber. Working out before beforehand didn't help; the nightmares would still haunt him, so he just adapted—not that he had any other choice.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked, keeping her voice level and calm.

"Not particularly," he replied and shrugged. "They'll eventually stop." He looked at her with a slight smile. "Want to talk about yours?"

"I can't remember them," she said with a shrug that duplicated his.

"Well…I suppose I should go shower. I'm sure that even T'Pol's nasal suppressant would be hard pressed to block my stench," he commented, wiping himself down again. She smiled. He didn't smell bad to her. In fact, it was rather comforting.

"Did you keep the cat?" she asked abruptly.

He looked at her and grinned. "I'll tell if you'll tell."

"I kept the bird," she confessed, and he raised his eyebrows. "It just seemed like a good idea."

"I kept the cat," he admitted. "What's a military man without a tattoo?"

Chapter 3

Archer snuck a glance at his armory officer. Malcolm's head was bowed, concentrating on his console, his posture straight and alert. Travis and Trip were bantering, a good-natured argument about last night's movie. Trip thought it was unrealistic, people flying over rooftops and trees, fighting with swords. Travis said it was supposed to be like that in the genre of magical realism, pushing the envelope of possibility. Hoshi thought that the treatment of the women was very enlightened, considering the time frame. T'Pol even threw in an arch comment or two about how humans enjoyed suspending their disbelief in order to be entertained. Trip said he found T'Pol very entertaining, because sometimes he just couldn't believe her, causing the ensigns to chuckle. T'Pol shot back that she found that interesting, considering humans so readily believed in Santa Claus and the Easter bunny. Archer snickered, while the rest laughed loudly. Trip gave T'Pol an easy grin, his bright blue eyes laughing. T'Pol arched an eyebrow at Trip before bending her head down to read her instruments.

Archer glanced at Malcolm again. He was still studying his console, quickly tapping in commands, sitting rigidly upright. Jon sighed softly; Malcolm had been very quiet since coming back to duty. After his shift on the bridge, he would disappear into the armory and then into the gym. Jon knew that he'd been avoiding the crowded dining shifts at the mess hall.

"What are you working on, Lieutenant?" Jon called out as he turned toward his silent officer.

Malcolm didn't move, save to raise his eyes to his captain. "Automating the targeting sensors based on probable battle scenarios, sir," he answered, and lowered his eyes.

"Automating them?" Archer asked, puzzled.

Malcolm raised his eyes again. "Yes, sir. I've been inputting common elements that affect targeting, such as gravity, speed, field properties. I've developed a program which should compensate for these factors." He lowered his gaze again and punched in a few more commands.

"Isn't that what you do automatically? Why do you need a program for that?" Archer asked curiously.

Malcolm raised his head and leaned back, crossed his arms, and smiled slightly. "I may be able to do it automatically, but not everyone on the bridge can."

"Modest, aren't we, Lieutenant," Trip interrupted, causing Hoshi and Travis to grin.

Malcolm arched an eyebrow, but the smile remained. "Should this post become unmanned and someone else needs to fire weapons, this should save time and improve accuracy."

"Planning on going somewhere, Malcolm?" Jon joked.

"Not at this rate, sir," Malcolm replied, still smiling and matching the captain's tone, but Hoshi saw something in his placid expression. She knew that Jon hadn't let Malcolm off the ship since their return, casually insisting on the last three away missions were adequately covered by members of Malcolm's security team and that Malcolm would be better utilized from the bridge or armory. She could tell that it rankled Malcolm, from the restless way he prowled the ship off shift during the missions stalking through the corridors, or heading down to the armory, breaking down and rebuilding various weapons or fine-tuning the phase cannons.

She saw Jon look at him, trying to discern the intent behind Malcolm's words. Malcolm met his gaze steadily, still smiling, looking relaxed. But she could read the barely perceptible tension in his shoulders, the tilt of his head. And of course, she could read the suppressed temper in his eyes; she'd had enough experience.

But apparently, Jon hadn't. He chuckled and swung toward T'Pol, who had started to comment on the acceptable logic of the lieutenant's actions, and made a few suggestions to add to the scenarios. Malcolm turned his gaze on her, and they were off on a discussion of possible weapons and battle tactics that could affect the grid. She walked over to him and hovered over his shoulder. He lowered his head again, punching in commands, making notes, continuing the conversation with her.

Trip watched T'Pol, who was pointing to something on Malcolm's console. He observed her with interest, noting the ease in which T'Pol interacted with their armory officer. She seemed to be more relaxed around people lately. He thought that he had something to do with it.

Trip and T'Pol had worked closely together during the past few months. With reluctance, he had accepted her offer to assist him with modifications to transporter, identifying and then installing the correct equipment needed to move and beam the large quantities of the ore they needed to secure Hoshi's and Malcolm's freedom. Trip came to appreciate her insights, knowing that engineering was not her forte. He told her so, making sure that she saw that his words and appreciation were genuine. He argued less with her, both working hard to reach a common goal. During their long engineering sessions, while making tests and modifications, he'd ask her about Vulcan and her people, listening with interest and an open mind. He shared stories about his youth and explained the customs and behaviors of humans that she found odd or unfathomable. He joked with her, even though he knew she would never laugh or understand Earth humor. He found that he was treating her like one of his team and would even forget that she was Vulcan at times.

After one particularly long and difficult day, T'Pol confessed to him that she was impressed with his stamina and ingenuity. Trip was surprised by the compliment; he joked that he didn't think Vulcans could be impressed by humans. She then surprised Trip further by giving him a slyly humorous reply. When they took a break, she agreed to accompany him to the mess hall for a bite. From then on, they would be seen together after the dining shift, surrounded by padds and various snacks that he secretly asked Chef to prepare, just so T'Pol could experience them.

Hoshi stood and stretched, then casually wandered over to Jon. T'Pol and Malcolm were in a deep discussion, oblivious to their surroundings. She saw Trip staring at them, lost in thought. She leaned over to Archer and quietly commented, "He can't do his job if you keep him cooped up on the ship, Jon." She looked at him and curved her brows upward, and returned to her station, leaving Jon to contemplate his actions of late.

"Malcolm, join me in my ready room for a minute," Jon ordered at the end of their shift. Malcolm nodded and shot Hoshi a look. She smiled innocently, causing him to frown at her, suspicious. He followed the captain inside and stood at attention, Jon waving at him to relax. He compromised with an at-ease posture.

"How's it going, Malcolm?" Jon asked as he walked to his desk, picking up a data padd and glancing at it.

"Fine, sir," Malcolm replied. "How are you, sir?" he asked, his tone just this side of being cheeky. "How's Porthos?" he added in the same tone, wondering why his sense of humor suddenly decided to rear its twisted head.

Jon looked at him, unsure if Malcolm was teasing him or being serious. He couldn't tell from his tactical officer's face.

"Is there something bothering you, Malcolm?" he blurted out. Jon winced; that wasn't how he had wanted to approach this.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Malcolm asked formally.

"Of course," Jon replied and watched as Malcolm began pacing.

"I'm going out of my bloody skull with boredom! I've gotten a clean bill of health from Phlox, my efficiency rating is above norm according to T'Pol, I've taught my security team several new offensive moves and no one's been injured this time, the armory is in top order, Hoshi's getting better at target practice, I've assisted Trip with increasing power to the hull plating, I've memorized most of the Tao Te Ching, and I'm on level 34 of Ultimate. I'm just sitting on my arse now and it's driving me up the bloody walls! And it's been over four months since I've had the chance to blow something up!" Malcolm pivoted toward his captain, temper dissipated and his eyes meeting his superior officer's. "Plus you've been treating me as if I'm some bleeding piece of glass, waiting to shatter at the first touch. You haven't allowed me on an away mission. I can't do my job from here, sir. I appreciate your concern, but I *am* fine," he said quietly, his face sincere, eyes no longer blazing.

Jonathan released the breath he'd been holding and squared his shoulders. "I suppose I owe you an apology, Lieutenant," he said. "I have been reluctant to put you on an away team. Malcolm, it's just that…" Jon moved and began to pace himself. "I guess…I don't want you to get hurt again, especially so soon. I ordered you to protect Hoshi in any way you could and look what happened. That's my fault. I'm responsible for that. You don't quit, Malcolm and I'll be responsible for the day it kills you…" Jon trailed off.

"Sir, as I told you, it's my choice. I assure you, I don't have a death wish." Jon winced at the word choice. "I just did what I had to…and not to be disrespectful, sir, but I never gave a thought to your orders while I was there," Malcolm stated and gave him a cocky smile, crossing his arms. "So unless you plan on sending me into a hostile situation, unarmed and naked with a large bull's-eye painted on my back, then I don't see how you will be responsible for anything that happens to me. You didn't force me into this profession, you know. I love what I do! I wouldn't trade it for anything." He looked at Jon and grinned wider. "Not even your job, sir."

Jon clapped Malcolm on the shoulder, chuckling. "All right Lieutenant, you win. Next time we need security, you'll be on the team."

"Thank you, sir," Malcolm replied, just a shade smugly. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"No, that's it. You're dismissed."

"Aye, sir." He turned to leave.

"Malcolm," Archer called.

"Sir?"

"Level 34?"

"Yes, sir. One more to go and I'm finished," Malcolm answered.

"How long have you been playing it?"

"About a fortnight."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks." Jon waved Malcolm out.

Jon picked up another padd and looked at it. Ultimate. Level 16. Which he'd been unable to beat after two months of hard and frustrating play. He tossed it back onto his desk with a sigh.

Chapter 4

For three days, *Enterprise* discreetly orbited a small M-class planet. It was covered with large gorges and canyons, the dense jungles containing several enormous metropolitan cities carved from the profuse greenery. Although the inhabitants had space-capable crafts, they didn't have warp drive. Hoshi monitored the planet's transmissions, everything from entertainment to newscasts, from music to personal conversations. She had acquired quite a bit of their language, and the Universal Translator had been programmed thoroughly. She was confident that she could speak it fluently enough to avoid any misunderstandings.

The Vulcan Database had designated this planet as TayNor I fifteen years ago and ascertained that the society would be ready for first contact within a dozen years—if they could settle their internal conflicts. The southern continent was controlled by one national government while the northern continent was broken up into two regional sovereignties.

Travis made sure that the presence of the *Enterprise* and their scans remained undetected. T'Pol examined all of the information, trying to find enough data to satisfy Lieutenant Reed's adamant insistence that they determine the exact state of affairs before attempting to contact them. Captain Archer let Malcolm have his way this time, mindful of his agreement to institute a few rules before sending an away team down. But after three days, Jon was getting antsy.

"We know that they haven't had a war in over seventy years. Their government has been stable for nearly fifty years, and any internal conflicts they may have had fifteen years ago have been solved. They're at peace, they're intelligent, and they've been contacted by two alien species within the last ten years, apparently without incident. T'Pol has reviewed their legal code and customs so that we won't have any misunderstandings. I think we're good to go," Jon said to Malcolm, who was still not satisfied with the information they had gathered.

"I still think another day or two to see if anything comes from the tension on the northern continent would be prudent," Malcolm argued stubbornly.

"The political tensions between the Berna and the Trukot regions have become heated periodically during the past four years," T'Pol explained. "However both parties are currently in diplomatic talks, striving to settle their differences. A treaty signed seventy-five years ago will expire next month. A minor contingency in the treaty is the continuation of the exchange of food from Berna for fuel from Trukot. There have been several small setbacks, but it appears that they are rapidly coming to an accord."

"Besides, we'll be going to the southern continent, to Lesh. That's thousands of kilometers from either region," Jon said, still partially amused by Malcolm's tenacity.

"But Lesh is mediating between the two after several incidences escalated into militant attacks by both sides. And Lesh's involvement has angered several of these nationalistic groups. That makes them a perfect target," Malcolm insisted obstinately.

"Jeeze, Malcolm, relax. Sometimes you're more paranoid than a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs," Trip scolded, trying not to laugh.

"If you'd bother studying history instead of comic books, Commander, you'd know that this is a classic setup for a hostile conflict," Malcolm replied, a bit distracted, once again bemused by another Tripism. He tried to ignore the picture in his head of a frantic cat with an elongated tail desperately avoiding chairs with multiple Trip Tuckers madly rocking in them.

"Although Berna and Trukot have had sporadic cases of terrorism, the sovereignties have been quiet for several months, and the cease-fire Lesh arbitrated has held without further insurgencies. Lesh has never had a terrorist attack on their native land," T'Pol supplied.

"First time for everything," Malcolm muttered.

"As soon as the doctor finishes his study of the foods and animals down there, we're going to initiate contact. That's why we're out here," Archer stated firmly. "T'Pol, Hoshi, Malcolm—you'll be with me tomorrow for first contact. Trip, you'll have the bridge." Jon had made his decision. After four days of study, the situation didn't seem particularly threatening. Everyone nodded, Malcolm reluctantly, but following orders.

***

Hoshi contacted TayNor I the next morning. They were greeted lavishly by the Lesh government and eagerly invited down to the world. Representatives from both Trukot and Berna would also be in attendance for this historic occasion.

The team spent four days touring the Lesh continent, being entertained by representatives of all three regions. Archer and the Lesh governor, Lort Suklor, agreed to a full exchange of information. The representatives from Trukot and Berna also were eager to exchange knowledge as well. The first contact mission went exceedingly well, and Archer was proud of his people. They uploaded enough information to keep T'Pol busy for months, and when an early-morning banquet to honor *Enterprise* was organized, Jonathan asked his senior staff attend, as requested.

Trip was exhilarated. He'd been stuck with the boring job of keeping an eye on everything while Jon and the rest were having fun on a beautiful planet. Travis was depressed that he was being left behind again.

Malcolm briefed his bridge replacements thoroughly on the new program for the automated targeting sensors. He input the missile and warhead capabilities of TayNor I into the program and made sure that his people knew what to do in case of attack. Trip made sarcastic comments to Malcolm about his suspicious and uptight nature. Malcolm's jaw tightened, but otherwise he kept silent.

***

Hoshi sat in the deserted mess hall, studying numerous padds containing the TayNoran language. A bowl of ice cream sat in front of her, melting. She didn't hear the soft footsteps enter the room. She didn't notice the person pour a glass of milk, drink some, and peruse the selection of leftovers without selecting anything. She didn't notice when Malcolm slid into the chair across from her, padd in hand and a milk mustache on his face. He studied her candidly.

Her head was bent in concentration, her lips moving. He watched her mouth, then shifted his eyes up to hers, moving his gaze down to her elegant neck, contemplating the way her hair fell on either side of her face. He looked at the set of her lithe shoulders, and down to her smooth, slender arms, his scrutiny ending at her graceful fingers, her nails immaculately shaped. His face was expressionless; only his eyes gave away his thoughts. He stared unblinkingly at her, sipping his milk, as he watched her mouth frown and then pronounce a word aloud twice, accenting it differently.

"What does that mean?" he asked quietly. He drained his glass and placed it on the table.

She started, and he gave her a slight smiled.

"God, Malcolm! You scared me half to death!" she exclaimed, closing her eyes and placing a hand over her heart.

"Sorry," he murmured, amused.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people like that," she scolded, pushing the padd out of her way and reaching for her melted ice cream.

"You wouldn't have heard a circus enter the room. You were concentrating too hard," he said, watching her daintily spoon the liquid into her mouth.

"You move too quietly," she fired back and looked at him, then smiled when she saw the milk on his upper lip.

"I was loud enough; you just weren't paying attention." He grinned, spotting a small deposit of ice cream left at the corner of her mouth.

She took a napkin and reached over, wiping the milk from his lip. He took it from her and wiped her mouth in turn, still smiling. She looked at his eyes; his pupils were large in the dimmed lighting of the mess hall, the frosty blue-grey of his irises muted. The whites were clear, she noted with satisfaction. She studied his eyes, not realizing she was staring, until he lowered them, his thick lashes concealing them, a slight blush appearing at his cheeks. She felt herself blush in return and hastily turned her attention to her puddled ice cream.

He crumpled the napkin and tossed it on the table, and leaned back in his chair, looking at her again.

"You're up late," he noted. "Trouble sleeping?"

"No, just trying to prepare for the banquet tomorrow morning—small talk, things like that. Why are you up so late? Nightmares?" she asked gently, looking at his empty glass.

"No, haven't had one for a while. I've just been checking things before we leave. Reviewing odds and ends about TayNor, last-minute briefings with my armory team. Just wanted to make sure the ship will be protected. I don't think it's a good idea to have the whole command crew down there together…and I wouldn't mind bringing a few security people with us."

"It'll be fine, Malcolm; you worry too much," she said with a smile, leaning forward to pat his arm.

"So I've been told, Ensign," he remarked looking down at her hand, his finger lightly tracing a pattern on it. "Don't stay up too late," he said, and rose.

"Night, Malcolm," she said, still feeling the phantom touch of his finger.

"Night, Hoshi."

Chapter 5

The banquet hall was cavernous and packed with TayNorans. Hoshi stood with Jon, both of them nursing their glasses of wine. Jon was talking about the negotiations to Lort Suklor, the governor of Lesh. Representatives from Berna and Trukot stood on either side of them, interjecting comments. The discussion had once again turned to having Jon mediate between the two conflicting sovereignties, both representatives pressing for an impartial outsider while assuring Suklor that his assistance had been invaluable, but perhaps the time had come to consider an alternative. Jon had seriously been considering their request. Hoshi listened to Suklor as he smoothly answered a question from Jon, and she heard something strange in the governor's voice. She began to pay closer attention to the conversation, listening hard each time Suklor spoke. She concentrated on his tone as she idly glanced about the room.

Trip and T'Pol were over by the extensively laden hors d'oeuvres table, Trip trying to get T'Pol to sample some of the more exotic items. Hoshi saw him chuckle as T'Pol made a comment while accepting a delicacy he offered her. Malcolm was hovering restlessly in the middle of the room between the two parties, trying to keep an eye on both. Two attractive TayNoran women were engaging him in conversation, brushing against him and flirting, offering him their glasses of wine. She watched as he politely shook his head and then said something that made both of them laugh.

Hoshi was on the other side of the enormous room when the explosion went off in the crowded banquet hall, yet the force of the blast drove Jon and Hoshi to their knees, the fireball shooting out almost halfway across the hall. The explosion threw Trip and T'Pol to the floor. Trip scrambled to assist T'Pol as he scanned the area, searching for his crewmates. Malcolm was closer to the blast, but the bodies of the two women protected him from the shrapnel it expelled, killing both of them instantly. He regained his feet quickly, phase pistol drawn, and checked the captain's and Hoshi's status. His head swung toward Trip and T'Pol, who were slowly rising, and he met Trip's eyes. Trip nodded at him as he grabbed T'Pol's arm and started to lead her to Jon and Hoshi. Then Malcolm's attention was drawn to the squad of hooded forms in dark green uniforms who rushed into the room.

Malcolm saw the TayNor security guards draw their weapons and start shooting, so he joined in. Weaving through the panicking throng, he stunned two of the hooded men and made his way toward his captain.

"Out, now," he ordered, laying down a protecting screen of fire as five of the masked attackers tried to make their way to his captain's party. He stunned three of them as the other two escaped by ducking behind a screaming mass of people. He saw the captain and Hoshi, as well as the TayNor officials, being pulled to an exit by a cadre of security guards. Malcolm stunned another green-clad man and snaked toward Trip and T'Pol, trying to avoid being trampled by the horrified crowd.

Eight of the masked assailants converged on Trip and T'Pol, weapons out and shouting. Malcolm saw Trip punch one in the face as T'Pol threw another over a table. Trip raised his arm to ward off a blow as two more attackers converged on him.

Malcolm pushed his way toward them through the retreating crowd, unable to get a clear shot. He was shoved violently against a wall by a group of escaping TayNorans and he griped his pistol tighter. He fought his way out of the horde, stunning two more of the masked men. The other five tried to subdue a battered T'Pol and an angry Trip, who was still grappling with his adversaries. They were pulled through the cloud of black smoke toward another exit. Malcolm started to follow when he was shot from behind.

***

Someone was shaking him. Persistently.

He woke to loud noises, head hammering, throat scratchy. He tried to sit up but his back protested, so he decided to just lie still. Prying his eyes open, he was greeted by bright sunlight and double vision, and he closed them once more, disregarding the sounds of sirens and the surrounding cacophony of squawking people. He retreated back into sleep.

Someone jostled him again. "Malcolm…Malcolm, are you awake?" Hoshi's voice came from somewhere above him.

"Five more minutes, 'kay?" he muttered thickly, turning his head away.

"Malcolm? Are you all right? Open your eyes, Lieutenant."

He swore softly and struggled to obey his captain.

Hoshi watched as his lids fluttered open and helped Jon pull him up to a sitting position. Malcolm looked a little out of it, his eyes unfocused as he fought to keep them from closing again. She smoothed his hair, brushing out a few pieces of glass while he blinked several times and mumbled curses under his breath.

Malcolm gave a harsh cough and cleared his throat. "They took Trip and T'Pol, five men, out a side exit," he rasped, rubbing his head and trying to stay awake.

"They're alive?" Jon asked, relief and hope flooding him, yet worried. He thought they were dead, caught in the explosion or trampled to death. At least half an hour had passed since the last person was rescued from the building, which was now fully engulfed in flames. The TayNorans were fighting the fire efficiently and a triage had been set up, the TayNoran emergency response rapid and well organized.

Malcolm nodded. "What happened?" he asked, coughing. Hoshi handed him a cup of water, which he took gratefully. He coughed hard a few more times, wincing at the pain the action sent through his back, then took a sip. Malcolm's lids fell shut and he rubbed his throbbing head.

"Terrorist attack. It's not clear who's responsible. You got hit by a wild shot from one of the Lesh guards. We had a medic check you over. The sleeper stun should dissipate shortly; you've got a couple of bruises, some smoke inhalation, and probably one hell of a headache, but the medic said you'd be fine in a few hours," Jon told him. "Do you want them to give you a hypospray for the pain?"

"No! No, I'm fine," Malcolm protested, the thought of being injected with any alien drug disturbing to him. He handed the water back to Hoshi and attempted to stand. Jon helped him to his feet and he stood there swaying, feeling as if he'd just gone a round with a dozen Klingons with a rampaging elephant thrown in for some sadistic fun. "Do they have anyone in custody?" he asked. He considered shaking his head to clear it, but thought that would only make it hurt more, so he concentrated on keeping his eyes open instead.

Archer reached out and grabbed hold of Malcolm's shoulders to steady him. "No. All of them either escaped or died in the fire." Malcolm recalled the men he had stunned and wondered if they had burned to death. The thought made him shudder, and he felt his captain tighten his grip. "Any significance to their 'uniforms'? The markings on the side of the left boot heel? Their weapons looked just like the Lesh guards'." He coughed hard again; it made his back where the stun had hit him ache worse. Hoshi handed him the cup of water again, and he flashed her a small smile of thanks as he stifled a yawn.

"No one's talking to me," Jon said, a little heatedly. "We were led out by Lesh security, shoved into a vehicle, and taken to another building. They wouldn't let me go back to get the three of you. The representatives from Berna and Trukot are accusing each other's government of being responsible. They're being questioned right now. No one knows what happened. We finally convinced Suklor to let us return here, and then we couldn't find any of you!" Malcolm could hear the frustration and emotion in the captain's voice.

"He gave us a driver and we came back to search for everyone. We found you about fifteen minutes ago. The guard who accidentally shot you pulled you out. But we thought that Trip and T'Pol were dead…" Hoshi said, her voice soft and distressed.

"They were definitely alive when I saw them. The assault force had them surrounded. They were making a good fight of it, but looked a bit roughed up. I couldn't get to them fast enough," Malcolm explained, and Jon squeezed his shoulder again. Jon had last glimpsed Malcolm pushing and struggling through a frenzied swarm of panicked TayNorans. Jon had thought that Malcolm would be crushed and had tried to turn back, but the Lesh guards forced him into the vehicle to escape the chaos.

"Have we scanned for their biosigns?" Malcolm asked, his eyes now at half-mast and the yawn escaping this time. He was beginning to actively hate alien stun effects, although by now he could recite quite a catalog of them.

"Yeah, we contacted the ship. TayNoran and human readings are too similar, so we can't pick out Trip, and finding one Vulcan is proving difficult. But we're trying. They're not answering their communicators either," Jon replied.

"We need to find out what leads Suklor has so we can retrieve them. It appears the bomb was used as a diversion. I don't know who their original target was, but they went for Trip and T'Pol as soon as it was apparent they couldn't get to your party. We need to see Suklor to find out who they are and if they're making any demands," Malcolm said and yawned again. "'Sorry," he mumbled. It was getting harder to stay alert, and he thought that the ground was looking very nice right now.

"You were hit with a sleeper stun. The medic said you should just sleep it off for a couple of hours, then you'll feel normal again," Hoshi explained as she took the cup from his hand.

"Come on. Suklor's loaned us a vehicle and a driver. He'll meet with us at a secured site. You can sleep on the way over," Jon said as he started to steer Malcolm to their vehicle.

"But we need to follow whatever trail we can while it's still fresh!" Malcolm argued through another huge yawn as Hoshi pulled him forward.

"No one's telling us anything Lieutenant; there's nothing we can do until we talk to Suklor," Jon said as he gently shoved him into the luxurious vehicle. Ample and plush couchlike seating was along the back and side, and there was a prominent video monitor. Malcolm crawled over to the seating on the side and started to play with the monitor while Jon told the driver to take them to Suklor. Hoshi sat down next to Malcolm and tugged her boots off. She opened a cold storage unit and found some bottles of water. She handed one to Jon, but Malcolm declined; he had found a news broadcast covering the blast. He leaned back and stifled another yawn, trying to concentrate on the report. The vehicle began to move, hovering gently in the air before accelerating away.

***

Malcolm tried to stay awake. But between the gentle motion of the vehicle, the soporific tones emanating from the monitor, and the now-fading ache from his head and his back, he couldn't keep his eyes open. He concentrated on the markings he saw on the kidnappers' boot heels. He knew he'd seen it somewhere before. He held the image in his mind, running over the details of the design. He forced his eyes open and looked at Hoshi, who was watching him in amusement. He took her hand and started to trace three figures on her palm.

"What does this mean in TayNoran?" he asked as he continued to lightly sketch the figures. He yawned again, and closed his eyes, repeating the characters he could see clearly in his mind.

"They're just random letters," she replied, enjoying his touch.

"Initials, then?" he asked, withdrawing his hands, leaving Hoshi slightly disappointed. He yawned hugely, looking at her from under heavy lids, his smile apologetic. She tugged him down and guided his head into her lap; he brought his legs up onto the seat and curled up. "Thanks," he mumbled, half-asleep already. Hoshi began to rub his head, and he exhaled a breathy chuckle at her touch.

Jon watched them, noticing again the open and easy way they interacted with each other, the private smiles and the oddly intimate, yet chaste caresses. He wondered how much Hoshi had left out of her surprisingly detailed report about the months they had spent on Sandaran. Malcolm's report had been matter-of-fact and to the point, with several gaps; he said he couldn't remember, which Jon didn't doubt. But Jon felt he had no right to pry. He had decided long ago to ignore the fraternization rules as long as it didn't interfere with anyone's performance. They hadn't been designed with a deep space mission in mind.

Jon and Trip had gossiped over dinners about Hoshi and Malcolm's curious affinity, wondering if they were lovers. But Trip pointed out that they really didn't spend all that much time together, what with Malcolm in the armory half the time and Hoshi spending most of her off hours with several other friends. They both agreed that they didn't act like lovers; they did not try to hide a relationship, and they weren't inseparable. Hoshi had always brought something out in Malcolm, but this new closeness was different. Jon had seen them together off duty sporadically, sometimes in the gym or late at night in the mess hall, where they'd be deep in quiet conversation. On the bridge, they'd briefly make eye contact with each other and then smile, as if sending silent signals. He'd noticed before that they would mirror each other on occasion, but he'd seen them move in synchronicity more often now. He didn't think that they were even aware of it.

Malcolm was sound asleep and Hoshi was still stroking his head absently while watching the reports unfold on the video monitor. Jon watched the monitor as well, occasionally glancing at his exolinguist. Jon caught her once staring at their armory officer's face, her finger delicately tracing the line of his eyebrow.

Chapter 6

Trip awoke with a start and a wave of nausea engulfed him. He lay still for a moment, waiting for the feeling to diminish. He moved slowly and found his ankle shackled, attached to a chain embedded in the wall. Groaning, he remembered that he had been struck several times with the butt of a weapon, the green-clad masked men trying to beat him into submission. But he had put up a fight, trying to reach T'Pol, trying not to be taken. T'Pol. He gingerly sat up, body aching, feeling as if he had bruises everywhere, his wrist throbbing painfully. He located her on the opposite side of the room, chained to the wall as well. She was panting slightly, unconscious. He could see greenish bruises on her face, her lip split, and blood trickling from her temple.

"T'Pol," he called out as he staggered to his feet, walking as far as the chain allowed. He lay down and reached for her, his fingers brushing her wrist. Straining, his ankle protesting the unbearable torque, his shoulder cracking, making one last powerful effort and ignoring the pain, he stretched. His fingers grasped her wrist, and he dragged her toward him.

She was cooler to the touch than her usual abnormal heat. Unzipping his uniform, he removed his T-shirt and tore it into wide strips, wrapping them around her head, stanching the green blood dripping from the deep cut at her temple. He swallowed the queasiness the sight of it caused and checked her pupils. They looked odd, and he was certain she had a concussion. He drew her up into his lap, wrapping his arms around her to keep her warm, talking soothingly to her, all the while assessing their situation and trying to formulate an escape plan.

***

The vehicle decelerated, and Malcolm's eyes snapped opened as he sat up quickly, startling Hoshi. "Can't you wake up like a normal person?" she chided. How he could go from the deep sleep he'd been in for the last two hours to utter alertness was beyond her; she could barely drag herself out of bed in the morning, not fully awake until after a long shower and a cup of coffee.

"Are we there yet?" he asked Archer. "I am normal," he said as an aside to Hoshi, glaring at her, then swinging his attention back to his captain.

"Yeah, the driver says about fifteen more minutes. Suklor will meet us and fill us in." Archer's communication signaled then. "Archer."

"Santos here, Captain. We've moved out of orbit. Several missiles were launched at us."

"What's the ship's status?" Archer asked, alarmed.

"We're fine. We took a few hits, but the hull plating held and Williams knocked down the rest of the missiles. No causalities. We've got several blown relays in engineering, but they can be repaired in approximately two hours, sir."

"Where'd the missiles come from, Santos?"

"Looks like they were launched from the northern continent. We're still checking the sensor logs."

"Keep the ship out of orbit; we'll stay down here and try to find some answers from our end. Any luck on scans for Trip and T'Pol?"

"Not yet, Captain. We're still trying."

"Okay, keep it up. Good work, Santos. We'll stay in touch and let you know our status." "Aye, sir."

***

Trip looked up as the door opened and two men clad in dark green uniforms stepped onto the catwalk above him. One aimed a weapon at him as the other walked down the stairs to the room below. He placed a tray of food and water in front of Trip. "This is your last meal, so I wouldn't waste it." He placed a battered bucket within reach. "You can relieve yourselves in that," he said.

"She needs medical attention," Trip said as calmly as he possibly could while tightening his hold on T'Pol .

"Doesn't matter. You'll both be dead this time tomorrow."

"Wait a minute! What's going on here? Why are you doing this?" Trip exclaimed, temper snapping.

"I'm just here to feed you. You'll have to ask someone else."

Trip looked up at the man with the gun. "You know anything?"

The man laughed. "Tomorrow you and your girlfriend there are going to be the detonators for the revolution."

***

Suklor greeted Archer and Hoshi warmly, expressing his relief that Reed was found uninjured and assuring them that they were searching for Tucker and T'Pol. He explained what his security forces had uncovered so far.

"We're not sure which side the terrorists belong to yet. Both representatives deny any knowledge or involvement in the bombing or the kidnaping. These mediations have become volatile, each side trying to push for the best advantage, unwilling to compromise. Food production has declined, and some factions from Berna are concerned that they will not have enough for their own people; their population has increased recently. Trukot has started to drill for more fuel sources, expanding into continental areas that are difficult and expensive to reach. One of those areas is in dispute; Berna wants that land for agriculture. We've been trying to keep them on the path of discussion, but now, it looks like one or more of their terrorist parties decided to intervene. We don't know to which side they belong. Their uniforms are not anything we've seen before."

"What about the initials on their boot heels?" Malcolm asked.

"What are you talking about Lieutenant?" Suklor calmly asked, but Malcolm saw a slight shift in the man's expression.

"Left boot heel, three letters." He looked at Hoshi, sliding his eyes from hers to Suklor, then back quickly, barely lifting his brows.

She blinked and studied Suklor carefully as she recited the three letters. Yes, there was that flicker of recognition again, Malcolm noted, and he looked at Hoshi again. She glanced at him and lifted her brows a fraction.

Archer watched the fast and silent communication between them, not knowing what was being expressed, but his suspicion was aroused. He watched the governor answer.

"Ah…it's a manufacturer's mark, one of the largest on TayNor. Millions of boots are produced yearly. They are all the same. Not a very good lead, I'm afraid," he said with an apologetic smile.

"Too bad," Malcolm murmured. Jon had a gut feeling that Malcolm was onto something, though. Malcolm turned, running his hand through his hair and glancing at Hoshi once more. She gave him a slight smile, but it didn't reach her eyes; Malcolm nodded imperceptibly, then lowered his gaze to the floor.

"What about their weapons?" Malcolm asked. "Did you recognize them?"

"Made in both Berna and Trukot regions. They could have stolen or purchased them. I'm afraid the northern continent doesn't attend to security matters as well as we do," Suklor said a bit disparagingly.

Malcolm darted a look at Hoshi. She was focused on Suklor.

"Anything on our people? Any demands yet?" Jon asked.

"No, I'm afraid not. In the past, it's taken groups up to a week to make their terms known. But they've treated their captives well. I'm sure your people are fine." Malcolm began to circle Archer and Suklor, carefully studying the man from all sides.

"Any idea who fired on my ship?" Archer asked, a little frustrated.

"Oh, yes, we received word of that incident. Is your crew all right?"

"Yes, we destroyed the missiles and moved the ship out of orbit," Jon replied.

"We've pinpointed the launch site; it's in the disputed region. It could have been either side," Suklor stated. He continued to tell Archer about the investigation, and that the representatives were denying any knowledge of the attack on the Enterprise.

"May I talk to them?" Malcolm asked softly, scrutinizing Suklor's boots, still moving.

"I'm afraid not at this time, Lieutenant—perhaps in a few days, after we've finished with them," he replied, his tone regretful and sincere.

Malcolm nodded, continuing his unremitting motion. Jon's frustration and impatience grew, and Malcolm's restlessness wasn't helping his mood.

"It's best that you stay tonight. It is secure and safe here and we can keep you informed of our progress. You probably wish to clean up and eat, and you must be tired after all this. We have rooms prepared for each of you. Please, accept our hospitality," Suklor smiled, using his most diplomatic and charming tone.

"Yes, thank you, Governor. We'd be grateful," Archer replied and put an arm out to stop Malcolm from continuing his circuit. "Do you have a gym here, Governor? I think the Lieutenant needs to burn off some energy," Archer said pointedly.

"Could I have a tour instead? I'd like to see your security arrangements. Perhaps get a chance to see some TayNor weapons…exchange some knowledge while we're here," Malcolm said brightly, his hopeful eagerness apparent.

"Yes, of course, Lieutenant! I know you security types. I'll have a tour arranged for you," Suklor said with a laugh. "Captain Archer, Ensign Sato, would either of you be interested in anything?"

"I'd like to be kept updated on your progress, Governor," Archer stated.

"Of course, I'll have dispatches sent to the terminal in your room every quarter hour." He turned toward Hoshi.

"Ensign, didn't you say that you hadn't finished your study of the TayNor language—the drift from the ancient to the modern?" Malcolm asked.

"Yes, you're right, Lieutenant."

While both their faces were bland and their voices casual, Jon could see that flash of communication pass between his officers again.

"Could she have a duplicate of the same information you sent *Enterprise* the other day? She loves to compare the random data with the different stress variations," Malcolm babbled. "Linguists; they're not quite like normal people," he said, and shot her a smug look.

Hoshi gave him a dirty look, then turned to Suklor with a dazzling smile. "That would make me very happy, Governor."

"Of course. Dinner will be in six hours. I'll send someone to escort you. Should you need anything else, just ask," Suklor said. He took Hoshi's hand and kissed it. She continued to smile while Malcolm's jaw twitched slightly.

Chapter 7

They were shown their respective rooms, ending up in Archer's. As soon as their escorts left, Malcolm put his finger to his lips and removed his scanner from his pocket. He looked at Hoshi and made a talking motion with his other hand.

Hoshi started to lecture Jon about accent drift in the TayNor language, the thousands of years of pronunciation variables found from century to century, region to region. She continued to rattle on while Malcolm walked slowly throughout the room taking readings, a slight smile on his face. He loved listening to her talk.

He stopped when he found a small device under a counter and cautiously removed it. He removed three more from the room. He scanned thoroughly one final time, coming up empty. He gathered the four bugs and placed them in a glass. He took them into the bathroom, placed the glass next to the shower, then turned it on. He closed the door and walked toward Jon.

"Suklor's lying. I'm certain those weapons were identical to the Lesh guards'. The northern continent has weapons that are slightly different. And he knows what those initials mean. He knows who's responsible," he said quietly.

"Are you sure?" Jon asked, not quite keeping the skepticism out of his voice.

Hoshi nodded. "His body language and the tone of his voice does indicate that, sir. I spent most of my time at the banquet listening to him, and he's one of those people whose harmonic frequencies changes when he lies. I think he knows where Trip and T'Pol are."

"Yes, I'm certain he was lying about that too. His boots have the same yellowish-red soil on them that the terrorists' boots had. Although the initials aren't on his heels, I know I've seen those letters together before. Hoshi, when you get the information I requested, could you search TayNor history? I think I saw it somewhere in there—I only had time to skim it briefly, but it seems very familiar," Malcolm said.

She nodded and they looked at Archer. He noted with amusement that they had both crossed their arms and turned in unison. "What would he have to gain by all this?" he asked. Jon was a good judge of character, and his instinct told him that there was something off about Suklor.

"Who the bloody hell knows!" Malcolm said quietly in exasperation. "I just know he's lying!"

"He's lying, Jon," Hoshi said.

"I think he's lying too," Archer muttered, and started running through possible motives.

***

Malcolm enjoyed his tour of the compound. His guide was attractive and knowledgeable and he flirted with her shamelessly, persuading her to take him to several areas not generally seen by guests. The complex was a veritable bunker, and the highlight was the weapons room. He asked a myriad of questions and his guide, who was just as enamored with destructive devices, spent hours showing him the guns and explosives. She let him handle the miniature charges, demonstrating how to arm and disarm them. She showed Malcolm the projectile guns before bringing out a hand-held missile launcher. Then with pride she displayed their new energy rifles, their latest inventions.

Malcolm expressed his admiration and he started an enthusiastic discussion about power sources and styling, range, and particle drift. His guide had never found such a kindred spirit, and Malcolm let her inspect his phase pistol, even offering to let her do some target practice with it at the firing range adjacent to their armory. She checked out a rifle and pistol, and they amused themselves in a friendly competition of accuracy and skill. The weapons were nearly silent but had a strong recoil, letting the user know the lethal intensity of its discharge. Malcolm would always go for the head shot, and wished he could try out a missile launcher. They returned the items back to the weapons room, deep in an excited conversation about the deadliest weapons they'd ever handled.

Malcolm returned to his room feeling good. Dinner would be soon, and noticed that some clothing had been laid out on the bed, obviously for him to wear for that evening: black trousers and a black turtleneck. He was thankful that the pants weren't leather. He stripped for a shower, taking the explosives and the gun he had lifted from the weapons room into the bathroom with him.

***

Hoshi thought that if Jon looked commanding and virile in his attire, then Malcolm looked absolutely dangerous, every muscle of his slighter frame well defined, his shoulders and slim waist a perfect triangle. He was relaxed, alert, his usual excitable energy not apparent tonight. Her gaze lingered on him, and she saw him appraise her frankly. She admitted to herself that the gown that she been provided was very flattering. Suklor scrutinized her appreciatively, and Jon moved to intercept him, pulling their host into a conversation.

Malcolm was suddenly standing next to her. He brushed her ear with his lips. "You look ravishing," he murmured, his tone low, voice slightly rough. She turned her head toward him. He captured a piece of her hair between two fingers, running them down it and moving to her collarbone, then gently tracing that, his face inscrutable, but she could read the nervous uncertainty in his eyes. She shivered under his touch and the thrill of attraction she always felt when he was near grew. Skimming her hand up his chest, she felt him relax, and she brushed her fingers against his cheek, not yet sure if she was going to say something or finally just act upon her feelings. She parted her lips and leaned into him…

Suklor approached and offered her his arm to escort her to dinner. She could see Malcolm's disappointment, and a touch of something else as well, as she reluctantly allowed their host to guide her to the table.

Dinner was excellent and the conversation light, and Jon watched Hoshi and Malcolm exchange fleeting glances. He wondered again briefly if they were lovers, and decided that if they weren't, they ought to be.

***

They met in Jon's room later that evening. Malcolm performed another sweep for bugs, not finding any save for the four he had replaced that afternoon.

"They're going to think you're a clean freak, Jon," Hoshi said with a laugh as Malcolm closed the bathroom door.

Jon smiled. "Better that than having them spy on us."

Hoshi nodded her agreement. She turned her attention to the matter at hand. "You were right, Malcolm. Those initials were part of their history. They stand for the phrase, 'Those who oppose chose death.' About four thousand years ago TayNor was one united empire, under a dictatorship. It remained that way for over two thousand years, until a revolution occurred. That lasted over a century."

Malcolm started to pace, now remembering the passages. "And that new government lasted almost five hundred years, until there was a military coup, and that started another authoritarian government organized along the same lines, same symbols and mottos. But that rule lasted only about fifty years before there was another revolution."

"Right. So, for the last fifteen hundred years there have been various attempts to reestablish a despotic rule, but they've all failed. The last attempt was about seventy-five years ago, resulting in the treaty between Berna and Trukot," Hoshi finished.

"And now, with that treaty being renegotiated, it looks like Suklor is trying to derail it and set himself up as the next TayNor dictator," Jon stated. Hoshi and Malcolm looked at him.

"Rather interesting leap of logic there, sir," Malcolm commented, a slight frown creasing his brow.

"I've been studying up on him, reading between the lines. He's been a governmental official practically his whole life, lots of cronies. He completely controls Lesh's security and military. He's ambitious, enjoys the perks and powers of his office. But there's been some rumors about him aiding various terrorist groups on the northern continent, and several journalists have wound up dead trying to investigate that. He's always been in the clear, but in light of our suspicions, I'd say there was more than meets the eye here." Jon paced the room then walked over to the terminal. He took the UT and adjusted it, jacking it into the computer, then sat down and started to input a few commands. Malcolm and Hoshi stood behind him, watching.

"He's consolidated a lot of power, more than any other governor in recent history. From what I've read, Suklor has been mediating these discussions impeccably, and because of that, he's popular with the people of both territories; but if these negotiations go badly, Trukot and Berna will go to war, and it'll be devastating to both sides. Lesh could easily stay out of it, then come in and take what's left…with Suklor looking like a savior. And I'm sure our arrival was unexpected, as was the request the we get involved."

"I bet they were after you, Jon. Suklor may have said all the right things, telling everyone what a wonderful idea it was, but I could hear that he was lying," Hoshi said.

"And when he couldn't get to you, they took Trip and T'Pol…perhaps thinking their abduction would scare us off," Malcolm added.

"Yeah maybe, or something like that. We need to find out what he's planning, what moves he'll be making…" Jon trailed off as he typed one command after another, repeatedly getting error and access denial messages.

He made a sound of frustration. "Come on, everything can't be protected," he muttered, working his slow way through the translation matrix and the system. "If we could get into their network or comm system we might find out if he's holding our people…" Jon said, entering another command. A subsystem opened, and several files displayed. He typed some more. He was on the verge of hitting the enter key when Malcolm stopped him.

"You'll trigger a red flag if you do that, sir."

Archer looked at him. "Think you can do better?" he asked skeptically.

Malcolm moved to the terminal, taking his scanner out and manipulating the back of it. He made a few changes, punched in several codes, then piggybacked it onto the UT. Jon stood to give Malcolm access. Malcolm typed in a flurry of commands, frowned at the screen, added a few more, and smiled slightly. He straightened, standing with his arms tightly crossed against his chest, bracing himself, and looked at his captain.

"Sir, I can get into their network, but it's completely against Starfleet regulations, not to mention quite illegal, and will most likely cause a diplomatic incident if I'm caught. Shall I proceed?" he asked, poker-faced and patient. But Hoshi could see the tension in his shoulders and neck, the muscles in his biceps and forearms tight, the knuckles on his one visible hand white.

"You can break into their computer systems?" Jon asked. "But your computer rating isn't that high."

Malcolm sighed and fidgeted, trying to think of what to say without getting himself into too much trouble.

"It's an old…skill. I know a few tricks. I'm by no means an expert, and I haven't done it in ages. Starfleet frowns upon that sort of thing." He felt himself starting to blush under Archer's speculative gaze and quickly lowered his eyes to the floor. If Starfleet Headquarters found out about some of his past capers, though mostly done in the line of duty, he would likely be released from the service and brought up on charges. And if Captain Archer asked about the extent of his ability, he would feel compelled to tell him. He would not lie. Hoshi went to him, laying a hand on his back and rubbing. He involuntarily relaxed into her touch and waited.

"You're a hacker," Archer stated flatly. Penalties were harsh for hackers. The chaos and damage individuals had done over the last several decades had made the Earth governments unite in hunting them down as they used to hunt down war criminals. Life imprisonment was often the sentence.

Malcolm looked away. "No. I'm not good enough to be a hacker." Lord, if anyone else ever found out about that harebrained stunt he pulled while undergoing Starfleet training…

"Don't lie to me, Lieutenant," Jon said in a warning tone, and Hoshi felt Malcolm stiffen. He met Archer's gaze.

"I am not lying, sir; I'm not in that league," Malcolm said tightly.

"Ever been caught?" Archer asked.

"No." Malcolm braced himself for an onslaught of questions.

"Then you must be good enough," Archer said and grinned at him. Sometimes Malcolm is just too easy a target, Jon thought fondly. "Hack away, and let's find out where Trip and T'Pol are."

***

Half an hour later, Archer knew for a fact that Suklor had Trip and T'Pol. Malcolm managed to not only get into some sensitive files that linked the governor with both regions' terrorist groups, but also tap into their communications network. Malcolm said it was purely accidental, that he was too busy running from and avoiding the red flags and booby traps in the alien programs to have done anything that good on purpose.

Hoshi listened as Suklor asked for an update on their captives. His commander reported that both of them would be ready for the festivities tomorrow. Suklor laughed and said that he'd take a squad and leave for HQ before dawn. He continued, saying that his Starfleet guests would remain at the bunker until their plans were carried out. He noted that their ship was no longer in orbit, and within the next thirty-six hours, everything would come to fruition. She passed the conversation along to Jon and Malcolm.

Malcolm disconnected his scanner. "I downloaded those files and recorded that conversation," he said as he entered a few commands on the computer. The computer crashed and the screen fuzzed out. "Damn, munged the bugger. Well, at least they'll never be able to tell what we've been up to," he muttered sheepishly.

"We've got to follow them," Jon said.

"I don't think Suklor will let us just waltz out of here, Jon," Hoshi pointed out. "We don't have the shuttle, they probably won't give us a vehicle, we don't know where they're going, and we have one phase pistol between the three of us."

"Two pistols, some explosives," Malcolm corrected with a shy smile. "I can get more. I can borrow some transportation as well."

"A thief too, Malcolm?" Jon asked, completely deadpan.

Malcolm recoiled as if struck and Jon saw a look of devastated hurt flash over his face before he smoothed his expression. But his eyes were seething. "I may be a killer, sir, but I am neither a thief nor a liar," he said softly, then turned on his heel and stalked out.

Jon watched the door close, dumbfounded. He looked at Hoshi. "What was that? I was just kidding." He couldn't believe that Malcolm was that thin-skinned, or that he had taken his comment seriously.

"You didn't sound like you were kidding," Hoshi said and patted him on the shoulder, giving him a sympathetic smile. "Malcolm's…touchy about certain things. He holds himself to a pretty harsh standard and doesn't give himself much slack." She sighed, not knowing how much to say. "While we were at Del'Exantu…" She looked away and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Those first few weeks were…difficult. At first, one of the guards deliberately shorted us food and water." Hoshi's nose wrinkled in disgust. "He was trying to win a bet." The guard had in fact withheld their food allotment, trying to soften them up, and they had to depend on the ration bars Trip had thrown in their bags; but after Malcolm had a "discussion" with the man, he became more cooperative. She hadn't asked what Malcolm had said or done and he never mentioned it. "Malcolm could have stolen what we needed. But he wouldn't. He said things weren't that desperate yet." She shook her head and uttered a soft mirthless laugh. "I couldn't find any kind of work until the third week—to get enough food and water, he had to work all day digging ditches and clearing brush, then part of the evening mucking out stalls for the animals some of the inmates owned." She chuckled again, only this time with genuine humor. "As soon as I got a laundry detail he stopped working in the stalls—said laboring for the guards was the lesser of the two evils. He smelled a lot better afterward."

Jon smiled at that and sat down next to her.

"He once told me that he could do anything to survive. And I know he'll go to any lengths to perform his duty, to protect us and the ship." Hoshi looked down at her hands, which were tightly clasped in her lap, some memories of Sandaran still fresh and disturbing. "But he also said that makes it all too easy to rationalize away any action, even the smallest ones like lying or cheating, and you always have to be on guard against that type of thinking. He said too many horrors have been committed and then justified that way."

She had listened, fascinated, when he had given her a concise discourse on historical atrocities carried out for under the guise of various moral causes. Crusades, tyrants through the ages, ethnic cleansing, pogroms and purges, massacre and wars, all done in the name of "righteousness" and the rationale of the "greater good." It had been the first time she had heard him passionate about something other than weapons and tactics.

She looked at Jon, no longer seeing her captain, but the man who was more than a mentor, the man who had convinced her that he needed her on this venture, who believed in her ability and worth—he had become a part of her family.

"I've seen him kill to survive. To protect me. But that…ruthless…ability is at odds with what he believes in. You know what he had to do while we were imprisoned. And today, every person he stunned died in that fire."

She sighed, and Jon caught her hands, stilling their nervous twisting. The contact was comforting, and she gave him a brief smile.

"I think it haunts him—doing things like that, even if they're for the 'right' reason. You saw how wound up he was the first couple of weeks we were back. He's fine now, but he didn't think that you trusted him to go on an away mission, so this one meant a lot to him. But having his commanding officer call him a liar and a thief…well…"

"And I just made him feel even worse for trying to do his job," Archer realized. "Hell, Hoshi, I didn't mean…"

"Oh, Jon, don't worry," she scolded. "I'm sure he'll be fine; he'll eventually figure out you were kidding." She smiled and shook her head, "It's just that his temper gets the best of him sometimes and he's defensive about certain things. I'll talk to him."

"No, Ensign, I'll apologize when he comes back."

"Good. It'll mean a lot to him."

"So, Hoshi, you're the ship's shrink now?" Jon joked.

"Nah, I just have to beat all you stubborn men over the head with common sense," she commented absently, her mind on something else.

"How much do you know about him, Jon?" she asked abruptly, her curiosity flaring again, thinking about some of the things Malcolm had said. "Why did you choose him?"

"He applied, and several Starfleet officers recommended him. Admiral Forrest spoke highly of Malcolm—said that if I wanted the best, I should interview him."

He told Hoshi about his interview with Malcolm, knowing that it would go no further. He remembered meeting Malcolm for the first time, taking in his neat and professional appearance, the military bearing. The quiet competence and the intelligent conversation made him discard most of the doubts he may have had. Jon had Malcolm's file; his Starfleet record was exemplary. What made Jon uneasy was the gap in Reed's file, from the age of seventeen until he entered Starfleet training at the age of twenty-six. Jon had thought that twenty-six was a little old to be a cadet, but Malcolm made it through in three years and still managed to be among the top of his class. Reed's record showed that the day he turned seventeen, he had joined the British military, but the branch, where he trained, where he was stationed, even his rank—all of it was classified. In fact, all nine years were classified. No matter how hard Jon tried, he couldn't get any information about those years; he called in favors, twisting arms, even making a foolish threat or two, but he got nothing. Admiral Forrest would chuckle at his efforts and assure Jon there was nothing to worry about. Reed was good and would be an asset to this historic mission. He asked Malcolm about it during the interview. Malcolm just replied that it was classified and perhaps Admiral Forrest would be of help. When Jon pressed, he would answer each pointed question with a quiet, "I'm sorry, I can't answer that question, sir," and meet Jon's eyes with a steady and imperturbable gaze. That coolness was impressive as well.

Archer put away his misgivings after interviewing the rest of the applicants. None of them seemed as capable as Reed, even if he could see *their* full records. Besides, he liked the quiet Brit. Since then, Jon had never had the occasion to doubt his selection. He had stopped thinking about it, having assumed that Malcolm had probably been in the navy, just like his father. But after talking to Malcolm's parents when trying to find out his favorite food, Jon knew better, and the mystery was there again.

Chapter 8

Malcolm was furious at himself as he stealthily made his way to the weapons room. How could he let his temper get the better of him like that! He had been rude to the point of insubordination to his captain, making a total ass of himself in the process. Again.

It was just that it had caught him off guard. He couldn't determine whether Archer was serious or not. He looked serious. And it hurt. Malcolm belittled himself for being such a pantywaist. Bad enough the captain thought he was a lying hacker and a thief, but now he probably thought he was psychotic as well. He ducked into a darkened hallway as he heard two people walking down the corridor from the opposite direction. He shrank against a doorway, waiting for them to pass. He fought down the self-loathing and an unsettling feeling of deja vu, the memory of a similar corridor and doorway and what he had done to get out of that situation. What he had done.

*And you have the gall to think that you could reinvent yourself, leave the past behind. Then you had to fall for Hoshi. Travel light, remember? Besides, she knows what you're like, she's seen your nature. What if she finds out about the things you've done? How you were trained? What's still in you—what you are? It's too dangerous. How can you even think about putting her at risk? Stop thinking with your heart and start using your head.*

He heard them pass and waited until he was certain it was clear.

*I don't have to tell her anything, she'd be safe then. It could work. Despite everything, she's been a friend; she's been there constantly, never judging. I might be able to pull it off.*

He arrived at the weapons room and listened to the faint hum of the security camera, timing its cycle. He heard it go silent and quickly disabled it, then punched in the code to the door. With the countdown ticking in his head, he slipped in and looked around. Most of the projectile guns were gone, and only two energy rifles were left.

*Stop fooling yourself; it's one thing to be a friend, quite another to be a lover. Besides, if you want it to mean something, you'd have to be honest, and you're incapable of that. You've proven that over and over again. The captain was right, you are a liar.*

He grabbed a field pack and began stuffing the remaining projectile guns and explosives into it.

*When she starts asking questions, what will you tell her? Classified? Right, that'll work. She's tenacious; she'll keep at you. You've had your chance at love, and you can't afford to let that ever happen again.*

He inspected the charge on an energy rifle, broke it down, and placed it in the pack.

*But…I feel the same way for Hoshi.*

It had occurred gradually, and it had taken him by surprise. He thought he'd protected himself from any personal entanglements—the fraternization rules were a blessing, his workload left him little time to socialize, and his innate reserve did the rest.

But then Trip had done his best to find gaps in his armor and befriend him. Malcolm was sure they would either kill each other or end up together, two decrepit bachelors in the old Starfleeter's retirement home. And there was Travis. Malcolm had known the young helmsman before they were both assigned to *Enterprise* and liked him. Travis was easygoing and never pried. The boomer, although he projected an aura of wide-eye naivete, was actually quite worldly. His quiet yet exuberant manner was infectious, and it was difficult not to be lulled into a sense of complacency around him. Travis was observant and took any quirks or idiosyncrasies of his shipmates in stride. He also knew more about what was going on around the ship than anyone else. At least the man was discreet.

Then there was the captain himself. The man's lax and friendly ways threw Malcolm at first, and still drove him mad on occasion. But Jonathan Archer treated all his crew in the same benevolent manner, going out of his way to chat with and get to know his people. He was difficult to avoid. Malcolm had tried, but there was such a warmth and genuine empathy in the man's disposition that it was hard not to respond. In the face of all the temptations his crewmates offered, T'Pol was a relief. She was efficient and professional. Alien and interesting. Certainly intelligent. And she didn't intrude; conversations with her never delved into the personal arena, yet she was always amenable to discussions about Earth and Vulcan history or culture, her curiosity unquenchable. It had gotten easier to talk to her and not be caught up in noticing her more discernible attributes. Malcolm was proud of the fact that there seemed to be a mutual respect between them, even if that catsuit was distracting at times.

But Hoshi. She touched something he thought had been burned out of him long ago. At the start of their mission, he had felt a bit sorry for her; she was so green, so obviously unprepared for the unknowns they would face. And she had been such an appalling shot when she had first came to him for target practice. But he admired her willingness to work hard, take instructions, and learn, and she tried to control her fears. It took courage to face your fears and soldier on despite them.

He liked her—her sense of humor, her intelligence. Her voice.

Then, trapped together on Sandaran, he discovered more things to like about Hoshi Sato: her determination. Her will to survive. Her spirit. Her fortitude and bravery. Her friendship and compassion. Her full, tempting lips and silky hair, her dark brown eyes, her exquisite figure. Her awfully nice bum.

He couldn't pinpoint exactly when his feelings for Hoshi had crossed that barrier he had successfully kept erected for years, but when they returned to *Enterprise*, he had discovered that his defenses had been breached.

He found a hand-held missile launcher and tossed that into the pack, along with several missiles and rounds of ammunition.

*Stop mooning you bloody prat; Hoshi couldn't possibly love you. No one could.*

One and half minutes left.

He pulled down three armored vests and hefted the field pack, testing its weight. Very heavy. He removed all but six guns, keeping the rifle and adding the other one. He kept only three missiles, removed a few explosives, and threw in several more rounds. He hoisted the pack again. Not much difference, he noted with a resigned sigh.

*You'll just end up hurting her like the others. And you still want her. Rochelle was right—you are a cold-hearted bastard. You don't even know how to love someone. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll get killed on this mission, you useless sod…*

He put it on his back and grabbed the vests. Thirty seconds. He slipped back out of the room. He enabled the security camera. Five seconds. It started up, and when it completed its cycle, he hurried down the corridor.

He'd have to apologize to the captain for his insubordination, he thought as he moved through the corridors, all senses alert, making roundabout detours to avoid the security cameras, heading for the transportation hangar. His guide had given him a very thorough tour. Perhaps the captain won't transfer you, he thought sourly. Just bust you down a rank or two…if he doesn't shoot you out an airlock instead.

He stopped abruptly in front of a room, trying to remember if this was Suklor's private office; he was fairly sure it was. He tried the door. Locked. Pressing against it, he listened hard, wishing he had Hoshi's ears or even T'Pol's, the thought making him smile slightly.

He shorted out the lock by reversing the polarity of his scanner—not the subtlest of tricks, but he was in a hurry. He opened the door a crack and, not hearing anything, entered the empty room quickly. He laid down the vests and took the pack off, glad to be relieved of its weight. Adjusting his scanner once more, he attached it to Suklor's terminal and tried every trick he knew, but he couldn't get into the one file he needed. He suddenly remembered one particularly nasty trick; it would wipe the whole thing, but he didn't care. His duty came before his ethics in this case. He used it, the file unlocked, and he triggered his scanner, downloading everything he could before the system crashed. He reviewed what he was able to get. Yes…there was a layout to a base a few hours away, deep in the jungle. Hoshi would have to translate the rest of the files, but the schematic was easy to memorize.

Exiting cautiously, he worked his way toward the transportation hangar, dodging people and skulking through the hallways, avoiding the security cameras. He was now used to the weight of the pack, shifting the vests from one arm to another every so often as they tired, keeping his mind on what he was doing, not allowing himself to think anything else.

He made it outside and to the hangar. Squatting down against the building, he hid, covered by the jungle greenery, watching the workers enter and exit, memorizing their finger motions as they input the code at the door lock. He sat back and studied the schematic on his scanner while he waited. He thought about how to perform a hostage rescue with only three people against an unknown number of opponents. They needed backup, but they couldn't send a shuttlepod down; if missiles were launched again, the shuttle would certainly be destroyed. *Enterprise* would equally be endangered if they got into transporter range.

Still watching, he let his mind wander, thinking about his actions earlier and how to apologize to the captain. His thoughts turned involuntarily to Hoshi.

*Stop thinking about her,* that sly malignant voice told him sternly.

*But…I love her. I want to try…*

*Fine. Do as you usually do and you'll lose her, just as you've lost the rest. Or tell her the truth? Give me one good reason it's worth risking her life…*

Malcolm couldn't think of one.

He saw the lights in the hangar dim as he watched the last shift leave, and he waited to make sure no one came back after a forgotten item. He put his scanner away and rubbed his temples, no longer feeling the scars there after all these years. He rose suddenly, needing to move. He needed to shut out his personal thoughts and act. It was time to do his duty, retrieve his crewmates, and make sure everyone got back to the ship unharmed. He punched in the code and he slipped inside as the hangar door slid open.

Malcolm broke into a rare full smile at what he saw.

Chapter 9

T'Pol stirred uncomfortably; the floor was cold, and the chill was seeping straight to her bones. She became aware that her back and shoulders were warmer, her head resting against something firm, yet pleasing. She moved her head, and pain shot through it. Her mental shields were down and her control ragged. She exhaled loudly and bit back a moan. There is no pain, there is no pain, she chanted internally, but her head made her recitation a fraud. She felt a sudden intrusion of concern and fear, mixed with relief and rush of an emotion she couldn't quite identify. They were overwhelming, and this time a groan did escape her lips. Concern flashed stronger at her and she tried to raise her shields against it, but she couldn't gather the strength to do so.

"T'Pol? You okay, darlin'?" She heard the accented tones of Commander Tucker, his voice troubled. She opened her eyes and tried to adjust to the light, her vision blurry. She saw his face relax in relief, although there were still worry lines etched in his forehead and around his eyes.

"Commander?" she said, allowing herself to be surprised at the weakness of her voice.

"T'Pol? How you doing?" Trip asked, trying to conceal his concern. She didn't look good to him, and he grabbed the bottle of water, bringing it to her lips. She drank some, shivering slightly. Trip tightened his embrace, holding her closer, trying to share his warmth with her. "They really worked you over; you have a concussion. You need to stay awake now…" Trip began, but she shook her head weakly in negation.

"I must attempt a healing trance, Commander," she breathed out painfully.

"What, you're going to meditate now?" he asked. "We don't have time for that. We need to get out of here as soon as possible and I think I know a way to—"

"Trip," she said, and he closed his mouth in shock. She'd never used his nickname before.

"I cannot function in this state. A healing trance will allow me to recuperate enough to assist you." It was becoming difficult to keep her eyes open, to concentrate on speaking. His emotions flooded her mind. She felt his fear, determination, concern, strength. She felt something else, an unusual emotion that she didn't have the power to analyze.

"Look, you've been hurt real bad, your head's bleeding, and you're not supposed to sleep if you got a concussion. So open your eyes and drink some water and start talking to me," he ordered, his accent thickening.

"I am not human, Commander. I need to perform a healing trance," she stated a little stronger, unable to maintain her control. The head wound must be serious, she thought, his emotions were beginning to affect her. She felt a strong wave of resolve emanate from him as he covered her hand with his.

"Okay, we'll do it your way. How can I help?"

"You must strike my face to revive me. I will tell you when." She felt that peculiar emotion again radiate from him, their full body contact making it impossible to block. She had sensed her shipmates' emotions before when they had been in a particularly stressful situation, but the commander's emotions were a focused beam in comparison.

"Strike you?" he repeated, and she felt his aversion.

"I will not be able to awaken if you don't strike me," she told him, his feelings giving her strength.

She felt him argue with himself. She felt as if she were right inside his head, feeling everything that he did. It was distressing and intense, but at the same time perversely pleasurable. He felt so deeply! The complexity surprised her—to be able to feel like that, to be comfortable with such passion. And then she felt his logic cut through his emotions, that brilliant engineering mind weighing the factors, the acceptable risks, fighting against instinct. That unnamable emotion shot to the surface and hit her like a blow. He cared so much…

It was overwhelming, and she moaned. His alarm assailed her, and she tried to move away.

"Commander, please! I must initiate the trance now," she said and made a supreme effort to move away.

He helped her lie down, his mind made up over his misgivings. She knew what was best for herself. It was difficult, but he willed himself to obey her.

"It may be hours. Strike my face hard when I tell you to…" she trailed off, initiating the trance. Her last conscious sight was of his worried face, nodding acceptance.

Chapter 10

Hours later, Malcolm returned to Archer's room. The corridors were starting to get crowded, and he had to hide more often. Time was running out. He quietly let himself into the room. Hoshi was sprawled out on the bed, back in uniform. Archer was sleeping on the opulent couch.

Malcolm made his way through the semidarkness and removed the bugs again, then made his way toward the captain. He crouched down and placed a hand across Archer's mouth, the other arm across his shoulders, and spoke in a bare whisper into his ear. "Captain, just me. Wake up."

Archer startled at the sound and struggled to get up, but he was held fast.

"Shhh!" Malcolm hissed. Archer nodded and Malcolm released him.

"We've got to move. Now. Things are heating up. I think I know where our people are, but we have to follow Suklor's troops to make sure." Archer nodded again. "Captain, I want to apologize for my inexcusable behavior earlier…" Malcolm began quietly.

"No, Lieutenant, I apologize. It was a poor joke. I value your contributions to the *Enterprise*."

"Thank you, sir," Malcolm replied, a slow smile starting to spread. "It's an honor to be serving under you, sir."

They both looked up suddenly. "Now that you two have made your undying declaration of love to each other, what's the plan?" Hoshi whispered. ***

Malcolm led them through the maze of corridors, avoiding people and cameras, taking circuitous routes, making them move quickly to keep up with him, Hoshi trying to study the information on the scanner at the same time. Jon finally grabbed her hand and led her while she read. They made it to the transportation hangar, where they hid until the last of the soldiers sped off and it was quiet again.

"What the hell are those things they're riding?" Jon asked, amazed by the speed.

"Triflyers. Brilliant, aren't they?" Malcolm answered with a wide grin as he led them into the now-deserted hanger. Making his way to a parts rack, he pushed it aside and removed a field pack and three black vests. "Body armor. Couldn't find a whole outfit, but it should protect you from most energy and projectile weapons." He opened the field pack and showed Archer a gun. "I have a couple of energy rifles in here too. They're fairly quiet, but they have a strong recoil, so you'll want to brace yourselves before firing. Unfortunately, they're prototypes; they have a tendency to overheat and explode. The pistols attach to the body armor here. Remove it by pushing down and then out. Same with the clips—they attach there."

"Malcolm, I'd rather use the phase pistol," Hoshi said hesitantly. She didn't want to kill anyone. He looked at her and nodded. She could see that he knew.

"That's fine, Hoshi," he replied and offered her a smile. "You're more familiar with that. But I want you to keep the gun on you, just in case."

He grabbed their gear and they followed him over to a triflyer. It was barely large enough for three people, with handlebars and a windscreen in the front. Completely open to the air, it was cylindrical, with slight indentations lined with a thin cushioning to serve as seats. Assorted pipes and tubing dotted the sides, and what looked like a set of launchers protruded from the back and front. Malcolm pulled something out of his pocket and replaced it under a panel. "Thought it best to disable this one so no one would take it," he commented with a smug grin. He went to a cabinet and removed three helmets. "They contain comm systems. This bottom button here is Suklor's squadron's comm frequency. It's got a range of about twenty klicks. Hit it and they'll hear, so don't speak whilst you're monitoring them, Hoshi." He helped them put their helmets on to test the system. "Top one's my frequency. Second one is Hoshi's, third one's yours, Captain. Press your own button to link us together on a secured channel that the squadron won't be able to hear."

Malcolm secured the field pack and their armor to the front of the triflyer. "Captain, you're in the back. Hoshi, in the middle. Secure your feet inside the toe clips. Since there are no seat belts, you'll have to hang onto each other or these handles down here. It's fast and responds instantly to maneuvers, so it might be a wild ride." If anything, his smile got bigger. He started the engine. The triflyer emitted a low thrumming and the windscreen lit up, a tracing and sighting system superimposed on it. "I can track the squadron with this; the range forward is much greater than behind, so we're in luck. Oh, and they've got some lovely missiles that can be launched from the front or back. Here's the secondary launch button for the rear missiles, Captain. You can control it with this sight interface." He showed Jon how to access the small screen to use the targeting system. "Everyone ready?" Malcolm asked. Archer and Hoshi nodded, and they all put their helmets on again.

"Are you sure you can fly this thing, Lieutenant?" Archer asked, sitting down as Malcolm climbed on and Hoshi slipped between them. It was a cramped fit, but she felt better being so snugly sandwiched. Maybe she wouldn't fall off.

"It's like a velocity racer isn't it, Malcolm?" Hoshi interrupted before the lieutenant could reply.

"Yes, somewhat. You'll love it, Hoshi! It's really fast." She could hear the elation in his voice. "Set yourselves. It's a quick start…"

Hoshi wrapped her arms around his waist, and Archer wrapped his around both of them, locking his hands over hers. She felt even more secure and not so nervous.

"Ready?" Malcolm asked, and she smiled fondly at the utter excitement in his voice. They replied in the affirmative. "Hang on."

She was launched out of a torpedo tube, heading for the jungle, the rush of the air sending a chill down her spine despite the warmth of Jonathan's torso pressed into her back. The acceleration flung her into Jon, pulling Malcolm backward as well. They turned sideways and skimmed between the trees, then flipped back upright, following the squadron's path as it appeared on the windscreen. Hoshi thought she heard Malcolm laughing, but it could have been the sound of the wind bolting past them, loud despite the helmet. She heard Jon mutter, "Oh, boy," and felt his arms tighten around Malcolm's waist. She could feel Malcolm pressed against her, completely relaxed, his body still, only his arms moving as he navigated through the trees. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.

After a few minutes, she peeked over Malcolm's shoulder to see the screen. The squadron looked to be about fifteen kilometers ahead of them. As they closed in on them, Malcolm throttled down and they slowed, still moving fast, but not that heart-pounding speed they had been traveling at before. Hoshi missed it. He kept the same distance from the troops, neither closing nor falling behind.

"Hoshi, we're close enough now to monitor the squadron's frequency," Malcolm said calmly, as if he was sipping tea in the mess hall instead of hurtling erratically through a jungle, dodging trees in the greyness, the sky just beginning to lighten.

Hoshi took her hand from under Jon's and touched the correct comm button. She listened to the troop's banter, gleaning what little information she could. When she switched over to her crew's secured line, she could hear Malcolm humming under his breath, occasionally breathing a lyric or two as he flew their meandering path. She could hear the smile in his voice and it made her laugh. It was nice to see him enjoying himself. She poked her elbow into Archer's ribs and pointed to her button, signaling for him to do the same.

"Suklor's squad has reported in; there are twenty-two men. It sounds like at least another ten are at the base." She switched back to the squad's frequency and a few moments later, her lips parted in horror. She listened closely and then touched her comm button again. "Suklor wants the hostages readied. They'll move them at 0900 hours to the designated sites…to die." She trailed off; she heard Jon inhale sharply. "His second in command said that the 'fireworks' will be spectacular. I don't know what they mean by that, but most of the squad thought it was funny," Hoshi said quietly. "I'll keep listening." She continued to monitor the troops.

Chapter 11

Trip kept an uneasy vigil over T'Pol. She was barely breathing, lying flat and still on her back. He tucked his jacket around her tighter and continued to use the thin duranium backing from his chronometer to pry at one of the links on the chain. He felt it move again slightly when he heard the door above open. He dropped his makeshift lever into his boot while four men entered. One stood on the catwalk, weapon pointed at T'Pol as the other three walked down the stairs. One of them carried two vests, an electronic device embedded in each, wires protruding, small holes riddling the casing. The other two yanked Trip to his feet.

"He'll shoot her if you resist," the soldier said as he handed a vest to his colleague. "Hold your arms out."

Trip reluctantly did as he was told.

The soldier put the vest on Trip, while the other jerked T'Pol up and slipped it on her unconscious form. One of the men inspected the device. He nodded that all checked out, then pressed a tiny protrusion on the mechanism. It sank in, flush against its rounded side, and Trip watched as alien alphanumerics flashed while the vests were sealed.

"What's this?" Trip asked, pretty sure of what it was and hoping that he was wrong.

"One big bomb," the soldier replied with a nasty little smile. "Any attempt to remove the vest before disarming it will set it off, so I wouldn't try anything. We're moving you in about four hours. And then you will die, killing many helpless civilians along with you. Your 'terrorist' statements left behind will point to Trukot. A few hours later, the woman will die; her target is a school full of children, and Berna will be blamed for retaliating." The man snickered. "The death of so many innocent children will be a good flashpoint, don't you think? Emotions will run high, the treaty talks will come to a standstill, and Suklor will make sure that a few missiles from each side are launched. We'll pick up the pieces after that." The man patted Trip on the cheek. "Cheer up! Your deaths will be the spark for a new world order. Of course, you won't be around to enjoy it…but we will." He grinned at Trip, and the rest of the men laughed as Trip clenched his fists in rage.

***

Malcolm kept one eye on the tracking system, making sure of that all the blips were accounted for while guiding the triflyer through the dense greenery. He stayed low to ensure that none of the high-sailing flyers ahead would spot them. He saw a blip appear behind them, coming up fast. He signaled Hoshi and Jon.

"What's up, Malcolm?" Archer asked, leaning forward to look at the screen. He saw the blip. "Damn, we're being followed."

"It's a straggler!" Hoshi exclaimed. "They've spotted us…they're trying to contact the rest of the squadron."

"There's no use trying to hide then," Malcolm said. "Hang on."

He gunned the triflyer into a tight circle, the g-forces pulling at them as he sped back toward the lone flyer.

"What are you doing!" Hoshi cried.

"We can't let the rest of the squad know we're here. They're obviously expecting this one, and the two of us can't show up on their screens. We need to have him follow us so that he won't be in range to report in," Malcolm said. "What do you think, sir?"

"We've got to get to Trip and T'Pol. Take him out, Lieutenant, and impersonate his position. That way we can follow closer without being discovered," Archer ordered. "Hoshi, monitor their frequency. Malcolm, I'll be your spotter. You just concentrate on flying."

Malcolm focused on soaring low through the trees, trying to get around and behind the other flyer, but their enemy compensated and flew an intercept course.

"There, Malcolm!' Archer said, pointing to the glint of steel advancing on them. Malcolm veered sharply and accelerated. "Tuck in! Heads down!" he called out. They flew through a hollowed rock formation and came out in a canyon. Malcolm saw the blips from the squad disappear from the tracking system.

***

Hoshi couldn't hear the squadron's communications; the channel had cut off as soon as they entered the canyon. She could now only hear the flyer chasing them, its attempts to contact their comrades futile. She looked down and saw the swollen river far below. They were surrounded by the steep walls of the gorge, its striated, multicolored fusion of rocks and plant life breathtaking. She peered over Malcolm's shoulder and saw the gorge narrow far ahead. She tightened her grip around Malcolm as he snaked their flyer wildly to prevent their pursuer from gaining a target lock on them. She closed her eyes; it was starting to make her sick. She ground her feet into the toe clips, pressing her knees hard against the flyer. She could feel Jon shift slightly, squeezing her forward, tightening his grasp on both of them, his arm muscles tensed, his hands warm despite the chill of the air speeding past them. She was now securely wedged into Malcolm's back and was comforted by his steady breathing. He was humming to himself again, and she could feel the vibration through his back. She concentrated on that low sound over her incipient nausea, trying to figure out what song it was. She could feel his right leg bouncing up and down at a vigorous pace, a restive counterpoint to his unruffled mien as he jerked the flyer into unpredictable maneuvers.

"They're gaining," Jon reported. He could see their pursuers, two men on a similar flyer, speeding in a straight line toward them. He saw a small blossom of flame erupt from the pursuit craft and something was launched at them. "Missile!" Jon yelled, and Malcolm immediately twisted the flyer sideways and downward, charging to the river below.

Jon saw the missile pass where they had been moments before and then explode against the far wall of the canyon. Their hunters banked sharply and followed.

"Feel like returning their fire, Captain?" Malcolm asked as he suddenly brought the flyer up again.

"If you'll hold her steady, Lieutenant," he replied, and popped up the targeting screen. Hoshi felt the cold air hit her as he took his arm away from her.

"Aye, sir." The erratic motion stopped. Archer waited for a lock and fired. Their flyer shuddered slightly, and Malcolm glanced at the screen to confirm that the missile was away. "Hang on," he said, and Archer clasped his hands around them again as Malcolm began another round of dodging and weaving.

Their opponents narrowly eluded the missile, plummeting their flyer sharply downward. They began to serpentine randomly as well while climbing again in pursuit. "Missed!" Archer exclaimed in frustration.

"We'll just have to play follow the leader instead," Malcolm remarked and aimed the flyer toward a narrow arch protruding from the canyon wall. He touched the bottom button on his helmet. Hoshi heard him utter several poorly pronounced curses in TayNoran, then laugh as he waggled the flyer from side to side in a taunting motion. She heard their pursuers both curse back as they accelerated, closing the gap between them.

Malcolm warned his crewmates to tuck in, and Hoshi saw the arch approaching at a rapid pace, the gap in the middle of it narrower than she had originally thought. She made herself as small as possible and then didn't have a chance to think about being afraid as they sliced through the opening at a seventy-degree angle, barely making it through without scraping the sides. Malcolm snarled another insult out to their pursuers, and Hoshi laughed out loud in disbelief. She looked behind her, past Jon, in time to see the other flyer twist through the gap as well, its rear touching slightly, sending it shooting off to the side.

Malcolm said something else to their foes as he aimed for another formation. His pronunciation was so bad that Hoshi couldn't help but laugh again despite her mounting panic, wondering where he had learned those odd insults. She didn't think he knew exactly what he was saying. But it got results as the squad members shouted back and followed them.

Malcolm slowed enough to lure them within firing range, and Jon let go of Hoshi to fire another missile. The other flyer turned violently to escape, and Malcolm brought them around in a tight curve to speed after it. Hoshi no longer felt secure with Jon's arms gone from around her and she readjusted her grasp on Malcolm, moving her arms up, locking them around his chest. Her heart was thundering, threatening to burst from her chest as Malcolm accelerated, pushing their flyer to the limit. But she could feel his heartbeat beneath her hands, slow and steady, his body still, leg no longer bouncing in edgy anticipation. She plastered herself against him, knees tightening against his hips, and she leaned her head against his back, closing her eyes, her fear rising once more. She could feel his calm even breathing, the lack of tension in his frame as Malcolm pursued the other flyer. It started to weave, trying to shake Malcolm, who matched it move for desperate move, and Hoshi didn't think she could cling any tighter. But she did. She could hear Malcolm humming to himself again, a slow seductive tune as he piloted their flyer at an insane speed, and she wondered how he could remain so composed. Their triflyer rattled as if ready to break apart as Malcolm maneuvered abruptly, throwing their craft into a frightening tilt and a spiraling turn to evade a missile, forcing a stream of curses from Jon's mouth. It scared her to death; she had felt the heat and blast of air from the missile as it blazed past them, and she could feel Jon's apprehension, his warm clammy hands locked over hers once more, holding tight, her comm picking up his harsh breathing. Jon was wedged against her, and she could feel his nervous sweat soaking into her back. Her fingers involuntarily gripped the dry fabric of Malcolm's shirt as their flyer shimmied again in response to another abrupt turn. She cracked her eyes open and saw the slender opening of another rock formation Malcolm was heading toward, and she quickly shut them again. She concentrated on the leisurely pulse of Malcolm's heart under her hands and only knew when they squeaked through it by the sound of Jon's loud exhalation of breath.

Malcolm took them down abruptly. Hoshi could feel her stomach plummet and her body rise off the seat in response to the sudden drop. She was thankful she was jammed so tightly between her two shipmates, for only the toe clips and their bodies pressed together kept her from floating up and off the flyer. He pulled into a steep bank, scant meters over the river, looping back on their pursuers who were just now diving to follow. Jon was muttering imprecations under his breath as he gripped Hoshi and Malcolm even tighter.

The TayNorans released another missile, which Malcolm dodged easily as he bore down on them. He continued to dog them, unshakable. He discerned a pattern to their maneuvers and fired a missile, then quickly climbed and turned sharply away from their opponent, accelerating. Hoshi and Jon clung to him, Jon turning his head to keep their adversaries in sight.

The enemy flyer exploded, and Jon tensed as debris flew toward them. Hoshi heard Malcolm gasp. "Malcolm, you okay?" she asked, concerned.

"Too tight…" he wheezed out. She quickly relaxed her grasp, but he was still trying to inhale. She prodded Jon with her elbow, and he loosened his grip. Malcolm drew in a quick breath. "Thank you." Hoshi noticed the touch of sarcasm in his voice.

"Sorry." Jon sounded a little embarrassed.

"Quite all right, sir," Malcolm said, and Hoshi could swear he was smirking. He flew back to where they had started and picked up the rest of the squad on the screen. He gunned the flyer and they sped along, trying to catch up.

"What were you saying to them, Lieutenant?" Jon asked.

"I was insulting them, sir. Trying to get them to follow us so they wouldn't disengage and fly back to warn the rest of the squadron."

"Your spine is made of noodles?" Hoshi giggled, her relief making her giddy. "Your grandmother's panties are voluminous?"

"What?" Malcolm replied sharply. "That's…that's not what I said! I said they were cowards and that their mothers were wh…prostitutes."

"Oh no you didn't!" she laughed. "You may have meant that, but that's not what you said."

"Your grandmother's panties…" Jon couldn't complete the sentence as he started laughing.

"That's not what I meant! Oh, bloody hell!" Malcolm sounded irritated and embarrassed at the same time. Hoshi and Jon laughed even harder.

"I especially liked the one where you compared their—"

"Lord, Hoshi, no!" Malcolm cut her off with a cross between a groan and a chuckle. "I don't want to know. I'm no bloody good at languages, I don't know why I even bother."

Chapter 12

Jon had Malcolm land briefly so he could contact the ship. He told Santos to return to orbit in one hour; by then, they would reach their destination and would need backup. Jon took Malcolm's scanner, stating that he wanted to familiarize himself with the map to the compound. They headed off once more, following out of visual range and tracking the squad while Hoshi continued to monitor their communications. She started to relax this time, actually enjoying the ride. Jon seemed to as well.

Malcolm was quiet, his left leg bouncing this time as he kept the flyer level and straight. Their was pace slower than before, but still rapid enough to be invigorating. He attempted to plan their assault. He hoped that *Enterprise* would be able to send backup, but was preparing for the worst-case scenario, the three of them against thirty-two, possibly more. And he had to protect his captain and Hoshi from being injured. He hoped all the target practice he did with Hoshi would enable her to stun at least five people—leaving at least twenty-seven men for the captain and himself. He didn't like the odds.

He visualized the map of the base, trying to anticipate where they would be holding Trip and T'Pol. He thought they would most likely be toward the middle of the structure, an interior room with presumably only one entrance. As for guards, there would probably be one or more at the door and men at the exterior of the base entrance, maybe some patrolling the perimeter. He wished that they had been able to procure squad uniforms, but Hoshi would be hard pressed to look like a TayNoran soldier. They could gain access, he was sure, but then they'd have to fight their way to an unknown destination through well-trained soldiers. The logistics worried Malcolm. He knew one person would have a better chance, but he didn't think the captain would let him go it alone.

Malcolm chewed the problem over, making plans, finding flaws, tossing them out, starting over. He ran through scenarios using the security team and hit on a scheme that could possibly work, if everything went perfectly. But he kept going back to just the three of them, unable to be optimistic. Better to be the grim reaper than blindly trusting luck, he thought sourly. An interior room.

"Captain," Malcolm asked, "in grid, I think it's J2, is there a room with one entrance?"

"J2, wait…yeah, one entrance. Let me check the rest." Archer scrolled through the grids; he found three more.

"Hoshi, are those rooms labeled?" Malcolm asked.

Archer handed the scanner to her. "Yes, one's the weapons locker, another's a small storage room, there's the comm room, and J2's unlabeled."

"Well, they wouldn't hold them in the weapons or comm rooms, and I doubt they'd use the storage area either. I think they're being held in J2," Malcolm stated, trying to think of the most direct path to it. If the schematic was to scale, then it should only take them about fifteen minutes to make it to the room, if they were unopposed. If they had to fight—well, then the element of surprise would be gone, and it could get nasty. He couldn't guarantee the safety of his crewmates. Damn! It was frustrating.

Malcolm could feel himself getting keyed up, thinking of all of the possible ways to fail and getting everyone killed. Images of the captain and Hoshi getting shot ran through his mind as he rapidly discarded one scenario after another. His leg was bouncing faster now as he thought about a frontal assault with only the three of them. Perhaps he could convince Hoshi to remain behind, although he'd still be worried about her. But she'd have a better chance hiding than accompanying them. He'd had enough nightmares to know that he couldn't let anything to happen to her.

A desperate tactic shimmered across his mind, but he pushed it away with a reflexive aversion and a little fear. He rolled his head to ease the tension in his neck and felt Hoshi's arms leave his waist. She placed her hands on his shoulders and started to rub them. He relaxed into her touch, leg stilling, and he exhaled softly.

"We're almost there," Malcolm said, fighting the urge to close his eyes and just enjoy her surprisingly strong hands as they massaged the knots out of his shoulders. "I'll land outside the perimeter of the base and meet with my security team when they arrive. Captain, you and Hoshi should return to the ship while we retrieve the Commander and T'Pol."

Jon started to protest, but Malcolm politely and firmly told him that he couldn't guarantee his safety and that his security team would be better suited to the task. Jon reluctantly agreed.

Malcolm tracked the squad as they landed, and he brought the flyer down away from the base, hoping that their communications with the ship wouldn't be monitored.

Archer contacted the ship. Santos told Archer that their ETA was about ten minutes. Archer told them to start scanning the surface for missile launches and to have a security team ready with a shuttlepod.

"I think we should just transport a team down," Malcolm said. "The shuttle would be too vulnerable." Archer nodded and changed his order.

"Hail us when you're ready, Santos," Archer ordered and closed the communicator.

***

Trip worked on the chain's link, the watch backing periodically biting into his flesh. He ignored it. He glanced at T'Pol. She was breathing slowly—too slowly for his liking. His wrist ached badly, but he continued to lever his improvised tool into the gap he had created. The gap was widening, and he labored to increase the distance.

He stared at the detonator imbedded in T'Pol's vest, a match to his own, wondering if he could disable it. But he was an engineer; munitions weren't his specialty. He looked at T'Pol's bruised face, her bottom lip swollen from where it had been split; his anger at what they had done to her flared. He reached over and gently laid his fingers on her cheek. She was cool to his touch.

When he was trapped on the shuttlepod, thinking they were going to die, Malcolm told him that he thought T'Pol was pretty and liked her bum. Trip had been amused. However, later, when he thought about it, he realized that he had never thought of T'Pol as a woman. She was a Vulcan—an annoying and arrogant one at that. But that comment made him look at her in a different light, and he was surprised to find that when he saw her—truly saw her as a person and not the enemy—he liked what he saw. She was intelligent. She had a sense of humor, as he had discovered, although he bet she'd never admit it. She could piss him off like no woman had ever been able to, and that was…intriguing. Plus, he couldn't deny that she was beautiful. And her bum wasn't her only nice asset. Those full lips, her flawless skin, and those captivating alien ears, so gracefully pointed; the angle of her eyebrows, the dark brown eyes that looked straight into your soul.

He removed his hand and redoubled his efforts.

Chapter 13

Malcolm unstrapped the field pack and began sorting through it. He pulled out some fruit and bottles of water, and handed them to the captain and Hoshi. Hoshi was famished and attacked her fruit with gusto, making him grin.

Archer's communicator signaled.

"Captain? We can't maintain an orbit; several missiles have been launched at us and we have to pull back," Santos reported. "The security team's volunteered to take a shuttle down, but…"

"No, they'd be sitting ducks. Monitor our communications and stand by. We'll get Trip and T'Pol. Archer out."

"Let me go in and retrieve them. I can do it. You two stay here and—" Malcolm began, but Archer interrupted him.

"No. That would be suicide, Lieutenant. We'll do this together," Jon said. He braced himself for the argument he knew he'd get from Malcolm. He wasn't disappointed.

Jon listened to his armory officer's strenuous objections, faintly surprised by how close Reed was coming to insubordination without ever quite stepping over the line. He'd never heard Malcolm so agitated before, and thought he heard a tendril of apprehension threaded throughout his words. But there was no way in hell he'd let Malcolm try this alone. Jon relied on T'Pol—for her advice, for her knowledge—and had come to be impressed and a little humbled by her own unique brand of loyalty. And Trip was Jon's best friend. He loved the man like the brother he'd never had, and he'd be damned if he sat on his ass while his friend was in danger. And he refused to just stay here in relative safety and comfort while sending Malcolm off by himself. Besides, Malcolm seemed nervous about the whole situation, and that didn't bode well in Jon's opinion. Whatever Malcolm's plan was, he'd need support, someone to watch his back, and Jon intended to provide that help—whether his armory officer liked it or not.

"Malcolm." Jon held his hand up to stop Malcolm from launching into another rebuttal, then let it fall on Malcolm's shoulder. "Objections duly noted. But I'm going with you. It's my responsibility as well. Case closed, Lieutenant." He gave Malcolm's shoulder a little squeeze and dropped his hand.

Malcolm exhaled softly. Worst-case scenario. He quickly ran through rescue tactics again, and the plan he had been reluctantly contemplating crystalized. Yes, they could do this—if he used his training.

The thought sickened him.

He wished again that he could leave his past behind, but he knew they'd never succeed any other way; he wouldn't be able to protect the captain and get their crewmates back unless he gave himself that edge and used what he'd been made into—what he had been twisted into.

Malcolm rifled through the pack, thinking his bleak thoughts while the others ate, pocketing explosives and attaching ammo clips and two of the projectile guns to his body armor, assembling an energy rifle. Hoshi watched as he armed himself, his face grave, his movements quick, his disquiet apparent to her. He looked up suddenly, as if he had felt her watching him, and he flashed her a feeble smile before returning to his work.

He'd insist that Hoshi remain here and stay in touch with the ship. She'd be safer at least, she could hide in the jungle until it was all over. If anything went wrong the ship would be able to pick her up. *Plus she won't witness what you're capable of,* Malcolm thought grimly. *Although it's not as if she hasn't seen you kill before*, an impudent part of him said cheerily. *You must really be deluded if you think she would ever want to be with someone like you*, it continued, happily twisting the knife. *And if they find out that you're still able to do this, well, they'll be after you, won't they? They don't like having one of their little test monkeys running about unsupervised,* that nasty part laughed. *Oh, piss off*, he told it. It was a risk he'd have to take.

Because, hard as he tried, he didn't see any way out.

There was no other way to do this; they were outnumbered, the odds insurmountable. And without that edge, this rescue attempt would be doomed from the start. The captain would most likely be killed in a hopeless attempt to free Trip and T'Pol and their crewmates would still die, innocent pawns sacrificed in a power-mad game. Suklor's men would probably execute Hoshi if they failed and she was caught. *Enterprise* could be destroyed endeavoring to save them all. It was his job, his duty, to protect them; it was all the harder because he cared about them.

He had no choice.

He mentally shook himself and placed his personal thoughts into a tight compartment, locking them away. He rubbed the scars at his temples in unwilling anticipation of the physical pain to come, and the emotional holocaust it would cause afterward.

He closed his eyes and made himself relax. Breathing deeply a few times, he concentrated, summoning his past, the years of discipline forcibly and repeatedly instilled into him. With abhorrence, misgiving, and fear, he pushed through the barrier in his head and touched the nebulous catalyst that unleashed his conditioning. His temples screamed a tortured dissent, the pain nearly causing his legs to buckle. He let his training take over.

*Norepinephrine raised to cause aggression; epinephrine and nociception levels lowered—fear and anxiety gone. Oxytocin levels raised—nerves sensitized. Serotonin 5-hydrozytryptamine—raised to aid blood clotting in case of injury, but not enough to interfere with elevated adrenaline levels; blood vessels to muscles dilated, flow of oxygen and sugars adjusted; blood flow to heart and brain—increased; blood pressure rising—compensate. Noradrenaline—restricting flow of blood to nonessential organs. Substance P peptide neurotransmitter—modified to disregard damage to body, combine with a boost in dopamine to regulate pain fiber systems. Acetylcholine—raised to enhance alertness and memory. GABA levels—suppressed. Glutamate accessed—nerve cells activated. Catecholamines—increased for peripheral nervous system excitatory and inhibitory effects; respiratory stimulation and increase in psychomotor activity. Emotional responses…*

Hoshi watched, puzzled, as Malcolm closed his eyes and stood still, breathing deeply and then stopping, a flash of pain crossing his face. She saw his expression, his stance, his bearing change. When he opened his eyes a few moments later, she was stunned by the look of cold deliberation on his face. His eyes were slightly narrowed and harsh, the warmth that was usually in them gone. He looked hard and implacable as she watched him sling the field pack onto his back and grab the energy rifle.

"Captain, the ensign will stay here and monitor the ship's communications whilst you and I complete this mission. I'll take point," he said tersely.

"No, I think Hoshi should go with us. We're better off together."

Hoshi saw Malcolm's eyes flicker, and a sliver of warmth reappeared. "Sir, it's too dangerous. I can't guarantee that I can protect you both! Hoshi should stay behind. She'll be safer. Please…" he argued, and Hoshi could hear the strain in his voice.

"Lieutenant, I think she'll be safer with us. We don't know if they have patrols out, or if there are wild animals around. Lots of things can happen," Jonathan said as he turned to Hoshi. "I don't want to leave you alone here. Just stay between us and watch your step. We'll do the rest, okay?" She could see the concern and unease he felt being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

"I'll be fine, Jon. I might even be able to help," she tried to reassure him.

"But, sir…" Malcolm protested, fighting himself, struggling to say something.

"No, she goes with us. That's an order, Lieutenant."

An order. As he swiftly evaluated the validity of his commanding officer's decision his eyes hardened and grew cold. "Yes, sir," he answered, aloof once again. The order was sound, her skills could be useful. He would follow his orders, as he had been trained. His personal opinion didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the objective now. Retrieve the hostages, protect the team, eliminate whoever stood in their way.

Submerged fully in his training once more, he looked at Hoshi, then at his captain. He felt nothing. He took his phase pistol out of the pack, verified that it was set on stun, and handed it to Hoshi. "You stay behind me. Watch where you aim it," he said. His voice was soft and toneless.

She looked at him, looked him in the eye, and saw nothing there. His eyes were dead, ice cold and merciless. She couldn't find Malcolm within them, and it made her shiver. She could see that his whole body was coiled and hard, muscles taut. He handed Archer the energy rifle and turned on his heel.

"Move out," Reed commanded, and he started forward, not caring if they were following or not. He slipped noiselessly into the jungle.

They looked at each other, Jonathan confused, Hoshi uneasy. They followed him less silently. She'd seen this cold deliberation before, once—when Malcolm had killed the Sandaran. It had frightened her then, and she felt that fear return.

Chapter 14

Reed slipped the knife out of his boot and grabbed the sentry from behind, hand over the guard's mouth. He slit the man's throat and hastily wiped his blade on the sentry's uniform as he dragged the man's corpse back into the jungle, careful not to leave a trail in the yellowish-red soil. He covered the body and left it. Archer knocked out the other sentry, pulling the man into the bushes. Knife in hand, Reed went to the unconscious soldier and bent down to kill him. Archer stopped him.

"No! He'll be out for a while," Archer hissed, appalled by what Reed was about to do.

"Sir, we should terminate him to make sure he doesn't warn the opposition," Reed disagreed coolly, his eyes meeting his captain's in a slightly challenging stare.

"No, Malcolm, absolutely not." Archer ordered. Reed gazed at him for a long moment before replacing the knife into his boot.

"Fine, sir," he acknowledged with a hint of disdain and turned away. He jerked his head at them to follow and they went inside.

***

Reed led them through the corridors, making no sound as he moved confidently ahead of them. Using hand signals, he directed them to a deeply recessed doorway and indicated for them to stay. He quickly digressed down an adjacent corridor and returned seconds later, leading them the opposite way. He guided them through the labyrinth of hallways, making them wait and hide while he would dart off in a different direction, returning swiftly then leading them onward again.

They avoided Suklor's soldiers, Reed hearing them before Hoshi did. He'd pull them backward or forward as necessary, once hiding them in a stairwell while he stood in front of the closed door, relaxed, unblinking, rifle ready, waiting in case it should open. He rarely looked at them, and when he did, Hoshi couldn't see anything of Malcolm in his eyes. They were completely glacial: no feelings, no humor, no fear, no nervousness, no soul. Nothing.

They followed him, trying to keep up with his fast and silent gait, until he stopped in front of a door and indicated they should flatten themselves on either side of it. He removed the field pack and handed it to Jon, who was surprised by its weight. Reed listened hard, ear pressed to the door, and looked at Hoshi. He held up four fingers, his eyebrows lifted in a question. She pressed her ear to the door and listened as well. She heard four distinct voices, and then she heard Trip's. She smiled. "Trip!" she mouthed. Reed listened again, marking the voices' locations. He delicately pulled her away from the door and guided her to a position against the wall. Handing Archer his rifle, he removed the pistols from his body armor, checking the clips. He stood in front of the door.

Reed exploded into movement, flinging the door open and diving through it, rolling and firing at the same time. He sprayed the room, killing two of the green-clad figures on the catwalk outright. He came to his feet, running as he fired at the other two men standing near Trip. One fell, wounded, and the other grabbed Trip, using him as a shield as he returned fire. Reed flung himself over the railing, shooting while twisting in midair to land in a crouch on both feet, one hand touching down to steady himself, the other firing at the man holding Trip.

Trip flinched as he felt a rush of air and heat go past his head, and he heard his captor grunt as the man fell backward, a piece of his skull flying away.

"Damn it Malcolm, you almost blew my head off!" Trip sputtered angrily, shocked but relived to see him.

"I wasn't aiming for you," Reed murmured as strode over to the injured soldier sprawled on the ground, the man's chest wounds bleeding freely. He was failing slowly, a painful end waiting. Reed shot him in the head and turned back to Trip indifferently.

"Jesus, Malcolm!" Trip turned away quickly, disgusted and a little sick. He tried to ignore the dead bodies as he moved toward T'Pol. Her breathing had accelerated and he knelt next to her, watching her closely.

"All clear," Reed called softly up to the captain, but they were already in the room, mouths agape, staring at him in shock. "Close the door," he ordered. "Ensign, listen for Suklor's men. Captain, guard the door." He turned away and looked at Trip, taking in the vest, the wiring, and the detonation device implanted within it. His gaze turned to T'Pol.

"Is she dying?" he asked flatly.

Trip shook his head. "Some kind of healing trance."

Reed nodded; he was familiar with it.

"Nice vest," Reed commented, staring at it. "When does it go off?"

"1200 hours," Trip answered as he brushed his hand against T'Pol's cheek.

"They'll be moving you in twenty-three minutes," Reed noted as he causally ejected the spent clip in one pistol and replaced it with a fresh one, reattaching it to his body armor. Trip nodded and looked up at Jon.

"Malcolm, can you disarm it?" Archer asked. He looked over at T'Pol, wanting to check on her condition himself, but he remained in front of the door, guarding his people. His eyes met Trip's.

"Depends," Reed replied, not bothering to elaborate. He examined the chain around T'Pol's ankle.

His insolent tone caught Trip's attention. He stared at Malcolm. He took in the stony face, the heartless eyes, and the careless stance. Trip looked up at Archer. "Jon?" he asked uneasily. Jon shrugged his shoulders, a frown of consternation playing upon his features.

Hoshi listened at the door while following the conversation. The carnage surrounding her was frightening, but her concern about Malcolm's aberrant behavior outweighed her fear. She watched Malcolm drag one of the corpses over toward T'Pol, then place the man's hand over the chain, close to T'Pol's foot. He aimed and shot the man's hand, the chain beneath it snapping. She stared in horror.

"*What the—*" Archer started, appalled, and Reed interrupted him.

"Danger of ricochet, sir. Best to use something to absorb it. Mind the door," he said brusquely. He expelled his spent clip and loaded another one. "Your turn, Commander," he announced as he took Trip's chain and placed it under the corpse's other, whole hand.

"Wait a—" Trip began, then flinched as Reed fired. Trip checked T'Pol, stood up, and approached Malcolm indignantly.

Reed attached the pistol to the other side of his armor and bent down, withdrawing the knife from his boot. Trip noticed the blood on it and shuddered. "Christ, Malcolm! What the hell's wrong with you?" he demanded, looking toward Jon and then Hoshi. They stared back at Trip, aghast as well.

Reed ignored them. He used his foot to push the corpse away and then examined the floor carefully. He picked up some shards of metal from the chain, discarding all but two that were thin and somewhat straight. He approached Trip, knife in hand, and studied the detonator. The wires were a blaze of colors, and he tried to pick out a pattern in the grooves and holes of the device.

"I think I can disable this," he said quietly, staring at the deadly blossom of colorful wires. He hummed softly to himself, weighing the risks, running through his vast knowledge of explosive devices, what he knew of TayNoran customs and history. He could feel time running out; they would be discovered soon, and he didn't want to have to fight their way out of this room.

"You *think?*" Trip exclaimed, and started to back up. "Why don't we do this when you *know*, Lieutenant?"

"If someone shoots you, that vest will explode. Your friends will be here soon and we don't have time to waste." He brought his knife up to Trip's chest and gently plucked at the wires, trying to decide between two of them. Trip backed up until he hit the wall, protesting. Reed placed his hand against Trip's chest and pinned him there. "Hold still, Commander. You wouldn't want me to cut the wrong one," he murmured, and Trip stilled. Reed severed the green one wire in one quick motion and stabbed a shard of the metal into one of the holes at the same time. The timer stopped.

Everyone exhaled loudly, except Reed, who calmly but carefully began to slice through the seal of the vest. Trip leaned heavily against the wall, conflicting emotions swirling within him. Too many things were happening too fast.

T'Pol began to stir as Trip was freed. He hurriedly knelt beside her. "T'Pol! You okay?"

"Strike me," she rasped. "Help me." He slapped her gently. "Harder," she grated. Trip hesitated, then tapped her again. Reed shook his head. He pushed Trip aside and struck her hard. "Again. Harder," she ground out. He struck her again, making her head snap to the side. "Again," she said, her voice stronger. Reed slapped her once more, the sound ringing out. He paused, waiting for a response and then unleashed another blow. He waited, and then swung forward again. She caught his wrist, her eyes opening. "That will be sufficient, Lieutenant," she stated in her normal tone of voice.

Her eyes widened slightly. She couldn't *feel* him. Her shields were weak, and she could feel the worry and concern emanating from Trip—his relief that she was conscious, his muddled feelings for her. She could even faintly feel the Captain's and Hoshi's distress and bewilderment. But she was *touching* Malcolm and there was nothing there. He was a void surrounded by a barrier, unbreachable.

She stared into his cold-blooded eyes, devoid of all personality. She probed deeper, her curiosity and concern for the well-being of her crewmates urging her on, not considering the ethics of her actions. It was an untutored attempt at a mind meld, her shields completely lowered. She met a surprisingly strong resistance and she pushed hard suddenly; he blinked, and she saw his eyes flicker. A rush of emotions flooded into her, too strong and tangled for her to classify. She gasped and he wrenched his arm away from her, his fear and sorrow and self-loathing coming across to her in a wave before he broke contact. She watched him breathe deeply and close his eyes in concentration. When he opened them, she saw the change again.

"Who did this to you, Lieutenant?" she demanded as she grasped his arm once more. Nothing. He wasn't there.

He unwillingly muttered "classified" in a preoccupied way as he touched the wires on her vest. He brought his knife up and sliced through the green one while simultaneously shoving the other piece of metal into the correct opening. He told her to stand up.

Trip helped her to her feet. She allowed herself to lean against him, mentally drained. She was grateful for Trip's warm touch and permitted herself to feel surprise at that. The healing trance had helped immensely, and although she was still weak, she knew she could move.

Reed finished cutting through the vest, discarding it on the floor. He gave them each a pistol and several clips, then stripped off his body armor and handed it to Trip. "Someone put that on," he said mildly and headed up the stairs. "Hear anyone, Ensign?" he asked as he dug through the field pack, pulling out the other two pistols. He tucked them into the waistband of his trousers, one behind his back, one to the side, and shoved a few more clips into his pockets. He pulled the pack onto his back and retrieved his rifle from the captain, noticing that Trip had given T'Pol the armor and was helping her into it. They joined the rest of the crew.

"No, all's quiet," Hoshi answered, ill at ease.

"Good. Captain, take the rear. Subcommander, Ensign, behind me; Commander, stay between them—they'll shield you. Stay close and be ready to move quickly," he ordered and cautiously opened the door.

Soon after they left the room, they heard an alarm sound, followed by an announcement. "They know Trip and T'Pol have escaped, sir," Hoshi informed Jon. "They've sent men to look for them."

"Let's move, people," Jon commanded, and they broke into a jog, Reed pulling ahead to check the intersections. He came up to one and looked around the corner, then fired down the corridor, ducking back around as answering shots were returned. He dug an explosive out his pocket and armed it. He leaned against the wall, head cocked and listening while nonchalantly tossing it back and forth between in his hands, waiting until the last second to pitch it toward Suklor's men. The blast shook the hallway and he motioned them to follow as he led them down another corridor at a rapid pace.

Hoshi heard something and looked over her shoulder. "Behind!" she shouted. Jon whirled and fired. He hit one soldier, the other six returning fire. T'Pol grabbed Trip and threw him behind her to shield him. Reed tugged Hoshi gently but quickly into a doorway. He stood in front of her, laying down a covering fire before darting away to push Trip into another deep doorway, flattening him against the door. The rest of the *Enterprise* crew scattered into the doorways lining the corridor, the recessed coves providing some protection. Reed stood in front of Trip and quickly assessed the battle behind them.

Trip fired over Malcolm's shoulder, wounding one soldier and sending another scurrying for cover. Reed suddenly pivoted in the direction they had been traveling and broke into a run. Trip crouched low to make himself a smaller target and continued to fire. He glanced back at Malcolm's retreating form, then stared in disbelief.

Reed was charging down the long hallway, firing at five soldiers who had flanked them during the distraction from the rear. Trip saw him dodge energy beams and projectiles, moving impossibly fast, dashing for cover from doorway to doorway, advancing forward silently, a continuous barrage issuing from his rifle. Soldiers fell, and Malcolm was suddenly upon the last one. Trip forgot all about the firefight going on around him, watching in amazement as Reed evaded the man's point-blank shot by twisting and flipping, feet hitting the wall and pushing off.

Reed landed behind the soldier, his rifle swooping down in front of the man's throat. He yanked it back with both hands, a quick forceful motion. Trip heard the audible snap of the soldier's neck and Reed stepped away, letting the man's body collapse to the ground. He twirled the rifle around with one hand, bringing it back into a ready position, then spun and dropped to his knees.

Trip saw a wounded solider aiming at Malcolm, but Reed fired first. The man fell backward, and Trip quickly looked away from the gaping head wound, bile rising in his throat. His attention was pulled away from his friend as a beam screamed past his leg and the door behind him smoldered.

T'Pol snapped her head around from her observation of the lieutenant as she was hit twice. Her armor held. She aimed carefully and brought another soldier down. Hoshi stunned another one, her body armor absorbing a blast. Jon was hit with a volley of beams and projectiles, his armor fizzling and sparking, but it held. He shot a soldier and stopped firing, allowing the last man to grab his wounded compatriot and flee.

Trip turned again and saw Malcolm jogging toward them, not even breathing hard, bleeding slightly from a graze on his cheek.

"Come on," Reed said quietly and hauled Trip up with ease, careful not to jar the commander's injured wrist. Trip looked at Jon and Hoshi, who were staring at the bodies lying behind Malcolm, astonishment and a myriad of questions clear on their faces. He then glanced at T'Pol and saw a contemplative gleam in her tired eyes. She knows something, he thought, and they followed Reed.

They ran, Reed leading them through the maze of corridors. They heard several explosions far off, and they felt the floor shake. "What was that?" Jon panted.

"A few diversions I planted on the way in, sir," Reed replied. "Two lefts, a right, through the mess hall, left again, then we're out. Mind this corridor…" He skidded to a stop, readied his rifle, and poked his head into the junction. A squad of Suklor's men was pelting toward them from the left corridor, another group from the right.

Damn! The odds were bad. They would incur casualties. He couldn't let that happen. "Back!" he snapped, gently pushing Trip behind T'Pol's shielding form. Jon grabbed Hoshi's arm and spun her around. The map in Reed's head sprang up as he laid down a blistering line of fire then hurtled across the junction.

"Third door, left. Hurry," he called to them as he fired unremittingly, feeling his rifle heating up and ready to overload. He continued to fire as Jon flung the door open and checked the room before allowing the others to enter. Reed tossed the rifle toward one group of soldiers at the last moment and dove back across the intersection to join his crewmates. He rolled and rose to his feet in one effortless movement. Disregarding the explosion, he turned smoothly, pulling the pistols from his waistband, ready to cover their retreat.

They dashed into the room while Jon went to Malcolm and yanked at his arm to bring him inside, but he thrust Archer through the door instead as the remaining soldiers converged and began to fire. Reed, twisting to avoid the rounds while firing both pistols, hit several soldiers before darting through the entrance. T'Pol slammed the door shut and locked it. Reed told them to how to reach another exit; he'd join them in a moment.

They barely made it down the first corridor when they heard the driving footfalls of someone running. Archer turned and leveled his rifle before he saw Reed racing toward them. "Down!" he shouted and they flattened themselves to the floor. Reed dropped, covering Hoshi with his body. A tremendous explosion rocked the building, and flaming debris flew out into the corridor. The rubble had barely settled before Reed scrambled to his feet and carefully picked Hoshi up, then offered his hand to the captain. As he assisted Archer, Hoshi saw a thin line of blood dripping from a narrow score on Malcolm's chest. Trip and T'Pol regained their feet and Reed took the lead again, moving rapidly down the corridor, pistols out and ready.

Chapter 15

He led them as quickly as possible down the hallways, checking the junctions, senses fully engaged, listening hard. They could hear another explosion in the distance—another one of Malcolm's diversions. He reckoned the tactics area had been destroyed earlier, that this one was the one near the comm room. He wished he had made it a bigger charge, but at the time he wasn't quite sure of how many charges he would need. He only had two left. He slowed their advance. The assembly hall would offer little cover, and he didn't want to be trapped there; their escape route left little doubt where they were heading. His crewmates were tired, and he didn't think that T'Pol was doing well. He could hear her breathing, could smell the alien blood from her head wound, a different scent than that of TayNoran blood. His mind raced through scenarios, counting off how many of the opposition could be left, calculating the odds. He had thirty-two clips remaining, and the captain's energy rifle must be fairly low by now. He still carried the missile launcher, but that would probably kill them all if he used it inside the building.

Hoshi watched as he trotted down the passageway, his movements relaxed but alert. She thought that the rifle graze on his chest would be painful, but he didn't seem to notice it. She could hear Trip and Jon huffing softly and T'Pol's breathing slightly louder. T'Pol's color was off. Hoshi was tired and tense. She was worried about T'Pol. And she was worried about Malcolm. She observed Trip ease his injured arm around T'Pol, awkwardly holding his pistol in his left hand. T'Pol leaned on him. He murmured to her, and Hoshi saw T'Pol nod, then say something to Trip that made him laugh quietly. Hoshi smiled despite the seriousness of the situation.

Reed finally stopped outside the assembly hall and let the group members catch their breath. Hoshi noticed that although the rest of them were sweating profusely, Malcolm was dry and collected, his breathing quiet and unlabored as opposed to the rest of their group's harsh panting. Then she saw that his body was trembling slightly, although his hands were rock steady.

He shrugged off the backpack and pulled out more clips, handing them out. He moved back down the corridor, taking the missile launcher and loading it with the three missiles he had brought, then shoved it back into the pack. Hoshi followed him. He checked the intersection before cavalierly lounging against the wall, not looking at her as he expelled the clips from his pistols, replacing them with fresh ones. "Hear anything?" he asked as he slipped a pistol into his waistband.

She listened. "No," she answered. She reached over to him, placing her hand under his chin and tilted his head up. She felt the shiver her touch sent through him and she looked into his eyes.

She saw a crack in the hardness of his stare, a mere hairline fracture, but a piece of the Malcolm she knew peeked out: grief-stricken, anxious, ashamed. He gently clasped her hand, moving it away, then reluctantly released it as he lowered his head again. He rolled his shoulders, rocking his head back and forth, stretching his tensed neck muscles. He breathed deeply and rubbed his temple, wincing. Without a word, he pushed off from the wall and sauntered back to their group. "Captain, perhaps you should contact the ship, see if they can return to orbit, beam us out of here," he said, his control back, his voice level and soft.

Jon flipped open his communicator while Reed put the pack back on and stood stock still as he watched the junction of the corridor, listening for approaching footsteps, vigilant for an attack that could come from any direction. He followed the conversation Archer was having, hoping that their communications weren't being monitored and that Suklor couldn't pinpoint their location. He thought they had done enough damage to Suklor's complex to prevent that, as well as destroy his ability to order a launch of more missiles at the ship. But there was always a chance that some equipment may have survived his attempts at sabotage. He knew from experience that in an improvised mission, anything that could bollock you up usually did. They'd been here too long.

Jon closed his communicator. "They're entering orbit now, and no missiles are in sight. They can't beam us up from in here—there's some sort of shielding around the building. But if we get about a hundred meters from the complex, they should be able to."

Trip shuddered slightly. He hated the transporter. Anything could go wrong. But he'd rather take his chances with that than run through the jungle with a pack of soldiers on his tail. Besides, he didn't think T'Pol would be able to make it. She was leaning on him heavily now, her head resting against him. He held her tighter and whispered to her that it would be okay, they'd get out of here, they'd be back on the ship in time for supper and he'd save her a piece of pecan pie.

T'Pol felt strangely comforted by his words, as well by his strength as he supported her. She was cold, and his warmth kept her from shivering. She felt groggy and lethargic, and she knew that she would have to repeat the healing trance again soon. She mustered her reserves of strength and prepared herself to move.

Reed turned around. Through the assembly hall then. "All right, let's assume that there are troops waiting, thirteen to fifteen men. I'll go first. Captain, you follow me and lay down a covering fire for everyone and then move. Don't let the rifle overload—it'll explode. Go right, toward the exit across the hall, about fifty meters. Ensign, Subcommander, keep the Commander behind you. Keep a couple of clips in your hand for a quick reload. Use the pillars as cover, veer toward the ones closest to the exit. Once you're out, keep going into the jungle and contact the ship for beamup. I'll be right behind you."

Hoshi watched him as he spoke to them softly, never looking at them, staring instead at the doors to the assembly hall, his body now completely still. With both pistols in his hands, he closed his eyes for a brief moment as if gathering himself. He shuddered minutely, then looked at them and nodded his head.

He burst through the door, firing, diving, rolling. He shot two soldiers who were startled by the sudden action. The rest took refuge behind their makeshift barriers in the corner of the room. Jon laid down a torrid fusillade, his rifle beginning to overheat. He dropped it and ran for a pillar, pulling out his pistol and firing. He managed to take out a soldier before he was hit several times by energy weapons, and he felt it. His armor was beginning to fail.

Hoshi, T'Pol and Trip were pinned down behind the second pillar. Hoshi stunned one man, and Trip wounded another. T'Pol leaned heavily against Trip, allowing him to support her.

Reed streaked to the left and took cover behind the first pillar in the middle of the room. Stone and metal from the column flew around him as Suklor's men continued to fire. He sprinted toward the second pillar, untouched by the salvo and firing the rest of his rounds, killing a few more men before making it safely behind it. He hadn't seen Suklor among the remaining troops, and he wondered where he was. He stuck his head around the pillar for a quick recon and whipped it back in time to prevent it from being blown off. Ejecting his empty clips, he reloaded, then rapidly fired several rounds to keep the soldiers' attention away from the rest of the team. He shook the pack off and removed the missile launcher, slinging it across his shoulder as he continued to fire. He pulled his communicator out to signal Archer.

"Captain, as soon as I give you the word, run. You'll have seven seconds to make it as far as possible, then take cover. There'll be an explosion. Wait a moment and then head for the exit. Tell the others and let me know when you're ready," he said, and while waiting for Archer to acknowledge, he fired the rest of his rounds toward their adversaries.

Jon told Malcolm they were prepared.

Reed replaced the clips and shoved one of the pistols into his waistband. He armed an explosive, tossed it into the pack with the last one, and ran for the next column, firing and dodging. He yelled "Run!" and threw the pack at Suklor's men. He felt something hot bite into his left shoulder as he dipped behind the pillar, already reaching around to removed the missile launcher. Reed peered around the pillar and continued shooting. He loosely wrapped the shoulder strap around his arm once, keeping his right hand free for the pistol. He swore as he saw the blood running down his sleeve, then disregarded it and the blast that followed.

Reed glanced back and saw his crewmates running for the door. He bolted from behind his refuge. He heard weapons discharge around him as he threw himself toward the exit and slid across the slick floor. Twisting on onto his back, he fired all three missiles at the remaining soldiers. The room exploded.

Chapter 16

They turned when they heard the explosion and saw Malcolm fly out the door, pinwheeling and tumbling. The front of the building collapsed, burying the assembly hall and sealing the entrance. Malcolm lay on his back in the dirt, disoriented, trying to rise and failing. Jon ran back to him.

T'Pol suddenly crumpled, almost bringing Trip down with her. She was pale and cold, breathing hard. Trip blanched as he saw a green stain slowly spreading from under her body armor. He pulled the armor off and saw that it had been breached. A piece of metal was lodged in her side.

Hoshi hailed the ship for an emergency beamup. She was told that only the three of them could be beamed; the other two were still within the range of the shielding. She relayed the information to Jon, who told her to go. He would follow with Malcolm.

Jon squatted down and placed a hand on Malcolm chest. "Are you okay?" he asked. Jon could feel his armory officer trembling, feel his heart pounding.

"Fine," Malcolm panted. His ears were ringing, he was exhausted, and he didn't think that any part of his body was left unbruised. He still held the pistol tightly grasped in his hand, not even aware of it. Jon examined the bloody wound on his shoulder.

"Just a flesh wound," Malcolm remarked dryly. Jon looked him in the eyes and saw that they held a glimmer of humor, a bit of the warmth that had been missing since they started the rescue attempt.

"What was all that about?" Jon asked.

"I launched the missiles, sir. Made an absolutely brilliant explosion," Malcolm answered with a slight but pained grin. He ached all over, and the thought of trying to stand, let alone walk, was daunting.

Jon shook his head and helped him to his feet. Jon supported his armory officer, and they started walking slowly toward the jungle.

"No, what happened to you?" Jon asked.

"I got blown out of the doorway, sir," Malcolm replied, deliberately being obtuse. Every step was an effort. It had been years since he last done this to himself; his body was no longer used to it. His head was starting to drum, an aftereffect of his self-inflicted tampering. He didn't want to have to answer any questions, didn't want to be grilled, didn't want to lie to his captain. He just wanted to go back to the ship and sleep for a few days. Another pleasant aftereffect, he thought sarcastically. Just wait until all the emotions catch up with you, that nasty part sniped at him merrily. Oh, piss off! The objective was fulfilled, they're alive! Just…live with it…as usual, he told himself.

"No, Lieutenant, what happened to *you*? You were…different. Malcolm, I've never seen you like that, not even in a firefight. It was as if you weren't there and there was some sort of…cold son of bitch in your place! What was *wrong* with you?"

Malcolm sighed and lowered his head. "Nothing's wrong, sir," he answered, barely audible. He concentrated on moving one foot in front of the other, trying to ignore the pain in his head and failing. He just wanted to go home.

"No, I don't think so, Lieutenant," Archer stated firmly. "I want an explanation."

"It's just my training, sir," he replied wearily.

Archer stopped walking, beginning to lose his patience. "What sort of training?"

"Just…training, sir," he answered, refusing to look at his captain. It wasn't a lie. Of course, it wasn't an explanation either.

Archer grabbed Malcolm's arm and spun his tactical officer around. Jon saw Malcolm wince, but he ignored it. He was angry—angry at the whole situation. His people and his ship had been attacked, and another first contact mission had gone to hell. He wanted to kick himself; he wanted to rail against the unforeseen complications that no one could have predicted. He tried so damn hard to anticipate everything that could go wrong. He had made all the right decisions, but once again, things had gone badly. His pent-up anxiety and frustration caused him to be harsher than he intended, but he couldn't stop himself.

"God damn it, Lieutenant! That performance wasn't Starfleet training! I want a straight answer out of you, and I want it now. What happened in there?" he demanded.

Malcolm looked blearily at his captain. "I'm sorry, I can't answer that question, sir," Malcolm responded mechanically; it was the rote answer to be given under interrogation.

Jon examined his armory officer's dirt-smeared face. He took in the congealed blood on the younger man's cheek, the utter exhaustion he wasn't trying to hide, the pain and regret in his eyes, mingled with shame and resignation. He could feel the man's body trembling hard, Jon's grip on his arm about the only thing holding him up—that, and sheer stubbornness. He could feel the heat radiating off that slender body, could now see him finally sweating. The lacerated shoulder, blood drying from the score mark on his chest—Jon's anger suddenly dissolved, his compassion and concern surfacing, tearing away at all his doubts and angry recriminations.

"All right, Malcolm. Let's get you to sickbay," he said gently. Jon gingerly wrapped an arm around Malcolm's waist and pulled the man toward him. Malcolm leaned into his captain, grateful for the help. He hoped his legs would hold him long enough to make it out of the range of the shielding.

They started to walk again, Malcolm letting Jon support him, head down and shaking. Jon was looking ahead, gauging the distance, when he saw a glint of light flicker from the shadows of the surrounding vegetation. He heard a low sound, and Malcolm was suddenly jerked out of his grasp, a hoarse yelp of pain escaping him as he landed hard on the ground.

Malcolm struggled to his knees, pistol clasped in both hands. Jon turned to him and felt the harsh, stinging pain of several impacts to his body armor. The hits sent him sprawling.

Malcolm saw the flashes from their assailant's weapon and fired into the jungle until his pistol was empty. He dropped it, clutching his side. He sat back on his heels and bent over, panting hard, cursing.

Jon scrambled to him, his back howling painfully in several spots. Jon contacted the ship, only to be told that they weren't out of the shielding yet. He hoisted Malcolm over his shoulder and moved as quickly as he could to gain the extra meters they needed, ignoring the agonizing pain radiating from his back.

Jon could feel his shoulder getting damp and he lowered Malcolm to the ground. "Should have slit the bugger's throat when I had the chance," Malcolm mumbled.

Jon ordered a beamup.

Chapter 17

Phlox was attending to T'Pol, removing the ragged piece of metal, his attention split between the delicate operation and monitoring her vital signs. She was still deeply within the healing trace, and Phlox was excited to see it firsthand, after only hearing about it. He noted that her respiration was low, that the bleeding had slowed. He was amazed by the biofeedback control the Vulcans were capable of. He had lightly sedated her, not wishing to interfere with her healing process but not wanting her to awaken during surgery. He hummed as he worked, cutting away damaged tissue, cauterizing leaking blood vessels. He could hear Ensign Cutler running a medical scanner over Commander Tucker, calling off the contusions and abrasions. His most serious injury was a broken wrist, but that would be easily mended. The commander would just have to wait until he was finished with his patient.

Hoshi sat on a biobed, tired, sweaty, hungry, and unsettled. She had stripped off the moist body armor and left the phase pistol on the counter, along with the projectile gun. At this point, she didn't want to see another weapon ever again. Doctor Phlox assured them that T'Pol would recover nicely; the healing trance would speed her recuperation. Hoshi listened with interest as Phlox described the practice.

Trip peppered the doctor with questions about T'Pol's condition. Hoshi could hear the emotion in his voice, and she idly wondered about it. She noticed that they seemed to get along better than before; she had caught Trip on more than one occasion staring at T'Pol while on the bridge, an abstract look on his face. She'd also seen T'Pol glance at him sporadically, a contemplative look in her eyes. The more time Hoshi spent with T'Pol, the more she could read the little hints of feeling and humor in her Vulcan crewmate. She knew that T'Pol had emotions; she just suppressed them, as was the Vulcan way. She wondered when Jon and Trip, as well as most of the other crew, would figure that out.

Her thoughts turned to Malcolm, her disquiet growing as she pictured the unfeeling, glacial eyes in his immobile face. She shivered slightly. She'd been scared throughout the rescue, but she had done her part. She thought about how he'd taken charge of the situation with a steely, impassive air. Yes, he could be unnaturally calm during a crisis, as he had been throughout their fast-paced and terrifying battle with the other triflyer. It had always puzzled her a bit, yet it was strangely comforting, knowing that he would maintain an uncanny composure no matter what was thrown at them, and she had come to depend on that unflustered control. But she'd never seen him like this, brutal yet unemotional. She tried to push away the image of him slitting the throat of the sentry, his detached air as he sliced through the man's neck. She pondered the uncharacteristic way he casually and without fear or care took them through the hallways, unprotected and in the line of fire; the unearthly way he moved to elude the weapons fire. And there was that frightening lack of feelings. She'd seen him fight, seen him kill; there was an edgy excitability about him beforehand, and a quiet despondency afterward. But this time, there was nothing—nothing, during the whole nightmarish trek through the corridors.

His behavior unpleasantly surprised her today; she thought she knew him. And it shocked her that perhaps she had been wrong, that she had been deceived. She grew more uneasy, thinking about how she had come to accept Malcolm on his terms, having decided that it didn't matter, not really knowing about his past. She started to reevaluate that. She had seen an inhuman side to him today that unnerved her. Her first instinct was to reach out to him, the man who had become an intimate friend, the man she had seriously thought of making her lover. But her second was to protect herself from emotional harm, to recoil from the heartless stranger that had appeared. Which man was he? The one that she had grown to cherish, or the callous killer she had seen today?

Each negative thought was countered with a memory of his affection and devotion. His humor and tenderness, his gentleness and sensitivity with her—she had grown to love all of these qualities. She told herself that she did know him, to trust her first instinct. There was something very wrong here, and her mind seized on the nine classified years Jon had spoken of.

Her musings were interrupted by the sickbay doors opening, and to her horror, Jon was being supported by an ensign. Jon's head was down and a pained grunt escaped him as he moved. Behind him, two other crewmen practically dragged Malcolm in. Malcolm was hunched over, silent, holding his side, and she could see blood trickling between his fingers.

She jumped to her feet and ran to them. "Doctor!" she cried as she reached Malcolm. Ensign Cutler hurried over, and Jon waved her off, telling her to attend to Malcolm. Cutler began to scan the lieutenant as Trip made his way to Jon's side.

"What happened?" Trip asked, helping to steady Jon, stealing a quick glance at Malcolm. Blood. Again. "Are you okay?" he asked, the concern apparent in his voice.

"We were ambushed while leaving. Looks like a sentry woke up," Jon answered, breathing hard through gritted teeth.

Cutler reported to Phlox, who was trying to close T'Pol's wound as fast as was safely possible. "The lieutenant's been shot in the left side. It looks like the projectile's still in there. I can't tell if there's any internal damage to the organs." She had the crewmen place Malcolm on a biobed, and he immediately curled up. Cutler swiftly went to a cupboard, returning with a package of gauzelike material and ripped it open. She pushed Malcolm onto his back and tried to pry Malcolm's hands away from the wound. Hoshi helped her, and Cutler packed the wound with the dressing, the blood soaking into the layers. She applied pressure and Malcolm tried to squirm away, but she held her hand there, trying to stanch the flow. "Secondary wound to the left shoulder," Liz reported, her voice quivering slightly as her hand became damp and sticky.

"Doctor…" Jon growled. He turned to Trip. "I'm fine—just help me off with this thing," he breathed as he tried to remove the body armor. Trip helped him out of it, wincing as he saw burn marks on Jon's shirt. Trip cautiously lifted it and inhaled sharply as he saw several bloody welts scattered across Jon's back.

"Looks like a hideful of buckshot," Trip said. "Doesn't look like there's anything in there, but I bet it hurts like hell."

"Almost finished, Captain," Phlox stated. For once, his voice didn't hold its cheerful tone. He finished his surgery and quickly peeled his gloves off, putting on a fresh pair.

Phlox scanned Malcolm, who was trying to curl up again. Trip and Jon held him down, Cutler still applying pressure. Hoshi stood to the side, feeling useless but unable to look away. Phlox finished his scan, set up a hypospray, and injected Malcolm. Malcolm's body went slack, head lolling to the side. Phlox removed Cutler's hand and told her which instruments to get ready. "Are you badly injured, Captain?" he asked as he peered under the gauze.

"No, I don't think so. It's just painful," Archer replied, looking at Malcolm's face.

"Then I suggest you all wait over there. Make yourselves comfortable. I'll take a look and then have my team attend to your injuries." He dismissed the crewmen and told his orderlies to begin prepping Malcolm for surgery. Phlox inspected Archer's back and Trip's wrist. He turned and issued several commands to his medical team, then nodded at Jon and returned to Malcolm.

Ensign Cutler shooed them out of sickbay after their injuries were cared for. Archer ignored Phlox's advice to rest and went to the bridge. He contacted the Berna and Turkot governments and had Hoshi download all the information from Malcolm's scanner, including several sensitive files regarding Suklor's activities. Both heads of government conveyed their gratitude and assured Archer that Suklor would be dealt with. He ended the conversation with a suggestion that they contact Starfleet should they wish to enter into trade talks with Earth. He told Travis to break orbit and just…go.

Archer left the bridge in the hands of the relief shift and ordered Trip and Hoshi off duty for the next few days. He went to his room and greeted an excited Porthos, gingerly laying on his stomach, patting his dog. He fell asleep with the warmth of Porthos curled up next to him.

***

Four hours later, Phlox reported that the lieutenant would be fine and he would be keeping him under sedation for at least another twelve hours. He told the captain that he'd give him a full report in the morning; it had been a very long day and he needed to remain in sickbay to assist T'Pol in waking from the healing trance.

Chapter 18

Phlox slapped T'Pol again, his scanner in the other hand recording her body's responses. She caught his arm.

"Thank you, Doctor. That is adequate."

"How do you feel, Subcommander?" Phlox inquired, still scanning her. "Remarkable," he muttered.

"I am well, Doctor, thanks to your skill. I believe I should retire to my quarters."

"Just a few more readings, Subcommander. This is fascinating." Phlox questioned her about meditation techniques and the physiological responses of the Vulcan anatomy to them, but she wasn't very forthcoming. He finally relented, and after examining her thoroughly, granted her permission to leave, insisting that she rest. After changing into a generic jumpsuit, she noticed that Phlox was performing a scan on another patient. She approached the doctor, curious to see who it was.

"What happened?" T'Pol asked.

"Apparently Mr. Reed and Captain Archer were attacked as they attempted to leave," he replied, frowning at the readings.

"How is the captain?"

"He's fine—some minor but no doubt painful abrasions. Mr. Reed will recover as well…Now this is intriguing…" he murmured. "Perhaps if I use…" He walked away, intent on locating another instrument. T'Pol studied Malcolm, reviewing the observations she had made during their rescue. She reached out and touched his arm, lowering her mental shields a fraction. He was dreaming, and it wasn't pleasant. She knew that some humans reacted to sedation with disturbing dreams; apparently he was one of them. But she could feel that he was *there* again, no longer a void. She left sickbay, mind turning over bits of intelligence that her people had gathered, putting information together, forming a hypothesis, and reaching a very interesting conclusion.

***

Hoshi had slept fitfully that night, wound up from the tension of the day and the worried questions burning in her mind. She haunted the hallways of the ship in the early morning, wanting to go to sickbay and see how he was but mindful of Doctor Phlox's admonishment that he didn't need spectators loitering.

She drifted into the mess hall and was surprised to see Jon there, sitting very straight, not touching the back of the chair, drinking a cup of coffee. "Up a little early aren't you, Captain?" she asked, getting herself a cup of coffee as well. She sat next to him.

"Yeah—couldn't sleep any longer, been out most of yesterday anyhow," he explained. "Doctor Phlox has some very potent painkillers." He looked at her more closely and noticed that she didn't look very well rested.

"What are you doing up so early, Ensign? You're supposed to be sleeping," he stated, a slight note of concern in his voice.

"I tried. But not knowing how T'Pol and Malcolm are doing…" she trailed off.

"T'Pol's fine. Phlox released her about an hour ago. Malcolm's doing well; Phlox says that he was very lucky, there were no internal injuries, and he'll release him later today if he promises to rest in his room." Jon shook his head, reflecting on the marvels of modern medicine. "Cutler found that knife in Malcolm's boot. Phlox has him sedated; said he didn't want him running around pulling knives on people again…"

Hoshi bridled. "That was a totally different circumstance! It wasn't his fault! I…" she angrily sputtered.

"Whoa! I think he was kidding, Hoshi," Jon said, surprised by the vehemence of her reaction. He watched as she relaxed marginally, staring at her coffee. He wondered again exactly what her relationship with Malcolm was. He elected to tell Hoshi what the doctor had told him earlier.

"Phlox told me that his initial medical scan came up with some very puzzling readings…that Malcolm's body and brain were flooded with abnormal levels of neurochemicals—his adrenaline levels were higher than anything Phlox had ever seen—they're still off, but now the neurotransmitters are working in concert to slowly balance everything out…he was going on about brain chemistry and synapses," Jon related, remembering that Phlox's excited conversation had quickly become too technical for a layman.

"I assume these chemicals are naturally occurring, produced by Mr. Reed's own body?" Jon and Hoshi swung around to see T'Pol standing behind them.

"How are you?" Jon asked, rising slightly. She looked rested, but he noticed a fresh bruise on her cheek. She saw where his eyes were drawn, and she arched an eyebrow. "Doctor Phlox's rousing technique leaves a little to be desired. Actually, Mr. Reed seems to have a much better aptitude; he didn't leave any marks." Jon sat down again slowly, and nodded to T'Pol to join them.

Hoshi was again struck by how alien T'Pol's world must be. T'Pol sat down, placing her cup of tea on the table. "I did not intend to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help overhearing your report on Doctor Phlox's findings. Did you notice anything unusual about the Lieutenant's behavior yesterday?" she asked.

"Yes. He was…cold. Unemotional. He could have been Vulcan," Jon commented, and smiled at her, unable to resist the little dig. Hoshi slapped his arm and shot him a dirty look.

"He wasn't acting like himself at all…and his body language was all wrong. He wasn't as cautious as usual, and not as…fidgety, you know? Plus he moved…well, faster, more flexibly…" Hoshi added, frowning in thought, finally voicing what she had been thinking.

"Yes, I saw him perform some interesting athletic feats, as well as evade several rounds. That is not a common human skill," T'Pol said drily. "Nor do I think it was luck." She said the word with a modicum of distaste. "Plus he did not seem to register pain." The thoughtful look in her eye became more pronounced.

"Wait. I didn't see anything 'interesting.' Do you know something I should know, Subcommander?" Jon asked, curious. He conceded that Malcolm had moved pretty quickly, but other than that first startling display of aggression and marksmanship, when they initially found Trip and T'Pol, he hadn't see anything extraordinary. Malcolm was in pretty good shape, and Jon knew he worked out hard, but he figured security training must include how to fall and roll properly. However, as he looked between Hoshi and T'Pol, it was apparent that his crewmates had noticed something more.

T'Pol actually sighed. "I believe you were otherwise engaged during certain events. One more question, sir. How long has Mr. Reed been with Starfleet?"

Jon made a rapid decision. He answered her question, but he also mentioned Malcolm's nine classified years prior to joining Starfleet. She asked him the dates, and Jon told her. She nodded her head, also coming to a decision.

"While I was attached to the Vulcan Embassy, I was assigned the task of sorting through old files recounting rumors, propaganda, and field intelligence—incident reports regarding your world's governments'…military operations."

Jon interrupted. "Wait, we haven't had a war in over a century. Are you telling me your people spied on us, trying to gather information on our internal affairs?" he asked indignantly.

"We hardly 'spied' on you Captain. The information we collected became common knowledge. Humanity may not have had another worldwide conflagration in the last hundred years, but you certainly have had your share of political assassinations, terrorism, covert operations, and 'police actions'—some of them very recent," T'Pol refuted calmly. "I came upon one file that was…fascinating. I'm sure you are aware that various military organizations have been known to conduct experiments on their own people," she stated, staring at Jon, both eyebrows arched this time.

"Are you suggesting that Malcolm was a guinea pig?" Hoshi asked in astonishment.

"I am merely conveying information, Ensign. Moreover, it would depend on with whom he served, and what branch. But his service dates coincide with a report in which Earth's governments supposedly condoned an experiment to produce superior fighters by somehow altering their brain chemistry. This tampering created soldiers who followed their assignment objectives yet were able to assess the situation and react in a spontaneous fashion—even challenging their orders if they no longer seemed reasonable," T'Pol answered. "That made them dangerous—and extremely effective. They were said to be fast, rational, dispassionate, intelligent…and ruthless. But allegedly a majority of the subjects died under…suspicious circumstances. We don't know what happened, but we did have a report that the 'volunteers'"—she emphasized the word with heavy irony—"were chosen from the top members of the most elite worldwide special operation forces." She didn't mention her people's suspicious about which organization was behind these tests. That was privileged information. In any case, there was no proof, only unsubstantiated claims from questionable sources.

"You don't believe that drivel, do you Subcommander?" Jon scoffed. "Those fables have been around for centuries! Supersoldiers with computer-chip implants, genetic enhancements, or brainwashing. I admit that there had been documented attempts before and after the last war, but those poor men were either drug-addled automatons or psychotic. Besides, the world governments signed a treaty banning such experimentation on humans, shortly after the treaty to ban genetic manipulation." Jon shook his head. "I think someone was just screwing around with your people, T'Pol."

"I only state a highly dubious rumor. The information was unsubstantiated, the results and the fates of the unwilling test subjects hearsay." She had to admit that she had rejected the reality of those flimsy rumors on the basis of the lack of solid evidence and her interaction with various humans while on Earth; they seemed incapable of accomplishing anything so complicated. But now she wasn't so sure; she had felt the total absence of the lieutenant's emotions, seen his actions. She wondered, if it was true, how he had managed to survive the fallout from the experiment.

Jon was surprised that T'Pol would even mention such a load of hogwash. But, he thought, leave it to Vulcans to think the worst of humanity, even to the point of lending credence to a bullshit story.

Hoshi thought it was very likely that Malcolm could have served on a special ops team, which made T'Pol's account all the more believable to her. Fear and doubt twisted within her.

"It's a load of nonsense, Subcommander," Jon announced with conviction. "I don't know what was wrong with Malcolm, but I can't believe he was some sort of lab rat in a secret experiment. He told me it was his training, and if he was in special ops, then I can see where he would be able to mount a rescue in that manner. As to the way he acted—he doesn't exactly wear his heart on his sleeve, or maybe it was the lack of sleep. He can get surly." Jon thought that the lieutenant's insolence was probably due to the stress of the situation. As for the way he moved, well, fear will make you faster, Jon thought, and Phlox had said his adrenaline levels were extraordinarily high. Maybe Malcolm was just a lucky SOB yesterday; even the wound to his shoulder was clean, with no damage to the bones or arteries.

Jon rose slowly, wincing at his still-painful back. Hoshi hooked her arm under his. "Let me help you, sir," she offered, her tone distracted. He snorted but allowed her to escort him out of the mess hall.

T'Pol, still deep in thought, began to rise. She saw Trip walk in, and he broke into such a heartfelt smile when he saw her that she nodded to him and asked him to join her. When the morning shift came in for breakfast, people saw the two of them sitting at the table, deep in discussion.

Chapter 19

The insistent drumming, combined with his acetylcholine and catecholamines, caused him to fight his way to consciousness. Someone inside his head was using a steel girder as a battering ram, trying to shove it through his skull, using his heartbeat as if it was a metronome, keeping the cadence of it in a hammering rhythm. His body ached, muscles having been strained and pushed to their limits and beyond. The excess adrenaline still sweeping through his bloodstream made him twitch. It mixed with the lingering anesthetic like a bad alien cocktail, making him sick to his stomach. His side burned, his shoulder ached and throbbed in time to the strident beat in his head, the sliced flesh on his chest hurt, and his cheek itched. And on top of that, he was now wide awake. He opened his eyes and confirmed his last shadowy memory of being in sickbay. Oh, Christ, he thought wearily, not again. He wondered how T'Pol was; she hadn't looked too well the last time he'd seen her. He gingerly turned his head to one side, feeling the imaginary steel girder in it shift with the motion. It was now trying to pummel its way out of his forehead as he looked around.

"Ah, Lieutenant! We're awake. How do we feel?" Doctor Phlox's cheery tones assaulted him.

"How long have *we* been here?" he asked hoarsely, feeling that well remembered irritability rising through the haze of medications. Please, not long…, he thought.

He could feel that undercurrent of anger starting to awaken, and he couldn't afford to let it escape in so public a place. Another rush of adrenaline surged through him at the thought of witnesses to the emotional display he knew would be coming soon, and it made him even more anxious. If he could just crawl into his own bunk and sleep, without the antiseptic smells, unsettling sounds, and bright lights of the sickbay, locked away and secure in his own quarters, then he could get through the backlash. Closing his eyes, he tried to control himself, attempting to concentrate, but the remaining tendrils of whatever Phlox had given him interfered with his efforts.

"You've been here almost fourteen hours, Lieutenant. I've had you under sedation. You've suffered no internal damage, and your wounds have been sealed. However, your neurochemical levels are not yet back to normal." Doctor Phlox looked at him expectantly, waiting for a comment.

Malcolm let him wait as he struggled to sit up, hissing as his side gave an enraged complaint, endeavoring to calculate how many hours he had left. Phlox gently eased him back down. "You've recently had a projectile removed from your body, Lieutenant. I'm sure the area is still very painful. Perhaps you should just rest. I can sedate you again—"

"Lord, no! You haven't given me one yet that doesn't make me feel worse than when I come in," he argued crossly. He had to get out of here. He felt the urgent need to retreat, to hide. Time was running out, and he'd never be able to doze off now. He couldn't relax here. A memory of restraints and terror touched his mind, and he thrust it away. He could feel his temper rising, and he forced it back down. He wouldn't be going anywhere if he lashed out at the doctor.

"I am sorry, Lieutenant, but I have tried different sedatives for you. Apparently you have a temperamental system," Doctor Phlox smiled at him. He knew that humans had a wide range of reactions to various medications, but the lieutenant was more sensitive than most. He wondered if it was because of his allergies, or, in light of the recent scans he'd performed, something else.

"I know…I'm sorry, I know you're doing your best. And I am grateful," Malcolm acknowledged, curbing his impatience and using a conciliatory tone. "I just think I'd feel better if you'd release me now. I promise I'll go straight to my room and rest." He gave the doctor his best smile, futilely trying to ignore the pain.

His anemic smile did not deceive Doctor Phlox. Phlox could read the biomonitors. He withdrew a hypospray from his lab coat and injected Malcolm.

"Bloody hell!" Malcolm spat, his temper flaring, all pretense at being docile fleeing. "What did you just give me?"

"Just a painkiller, Lieutenant. It will help you sleep. I'm keeping you here for at least another eight hours, and if you behave yourself, I'll allow you to recuperate in your room after that." Phlox smiled that frightening alien grin that stretched his mouth grotesquely, and it took every ounce of control Malcolm had to repress a shudder.

Doctor Phlox put a reassuring hand on Malcolm's uninjured shoulder and patted it. He could feel the Lieutenant's muscles relax, the medication reacting swiftly. "Try to get some sleep," he suggested gently, and walked away.

Malcolm floated, the hours counting down. But he did not sleep.

***

Phlox told Archer late that night he was releasing Malcolm, and that Jon should come in first thing in the morning so he could reexamine his back. Jon told Hoshi, and Hoshi went directly to sickbay. Malcolm was sitting on a biobed, clad only in a pair of sweatpants, wide swaths of pristine bandages encasing his shoulder and torso. He was clean, his hair still damp from being washed by Liz Cutler, his face freshly shaven. Malcolm looked up and gave her a small but genuine smile when he saw her, his eyes slightly dilated and unfocused.

Doctor Phlox asked if she was here to escort Malcolm to his quarters, telling her that he had given him another dose of a powerful painkiller and may need some slight assistance. Malcolm sat there unblinkingly until she helped him to his feet. He put his right arm over her shoulder to steady himself and gave her an affectionate hug. "I missed you," he murmured. As she led him slowly to his room, he rambled a little, spouting a bantering nonsense, making her laugh. It reminded her that she had missed him too, but…

She punched in his code and eased him onto the bed, pushing him down gently. "Join me," he said, patting the covers next to him. "I'll let you have the pillow," he teased, trying to maintain an easy tone.

Even as he spoke, that small, repellent internal voice accused him that he only wanted her to stay because he knew he couldn't rely on his usual coping processes—that he was a cold-hearted bastard, using her, her presence calming the emotional brittleness he felt. He knew if she stayed he would fall asleep quickly, her body next to him providing the comfort he craved, mitigating the aftereffects. But he countered it with a heartfelt denial. He just wanted to be near her, to be reassured that everything was still right between them.

"Malcolm…" she started, wanting to, but hesitant. She searched his face, and the image of him coldly shooting the injured soldier in the head leapt to her mind.

He returned her scrutiny, really looking at her for the first time. Concern for her twisted in his stomach as he noticed how worn and tired she looked. "You look exhausted, Hoshi," he coaxed gently and extended his right arm to her. "If it'll help…"

"No, I really should go. Phlox said you should rest." She saw him slitting the guard's throat, impassive, his eyes flat. Now they were glassy from the painkiller.

"I worry about you," he confessed softly. Hoshi could see the compassion and understanding in his eyes, the friend and would-be lover she had grown to treasure. She took a step forward, then another. She lay down next to him, resting her head on his good shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her. She felt herself involuntarily unwind, basking in the warmth from his body, the gentle caress he gave her shoulder. "Are you all right?" he whispered. "I know it must have been difficult for you, on top of the last few months." He nuzzled her hair gently and placed a chaste kiss on her temple.

She was drained; she had been unable to sleep—the events on the planet, worry for him, T'Pol's story. Her thoughts had chased each other frantically all night, her feelings conflicted. She turned her head to meet his gaze. The memory of the Nausicaans flashed through her mind and she couldn't repress a shudder, or the fear and consternation on her face.

He pulled his hand away from her shoulder and let his arm drop. She's afraid of you, that nasty little voice in his head chuckled gleefully.

"I'm sorry." It was the only thing he could manage to say.

"Malcolm…what did you do before you joined Starfleet?" she asked quietly, suddenly needing to know, right now, if T'Pol's story was true.

He sighed dispiritedly. "I was in the military."

"Special ops?"

He hesitated and she could tell he was analyzing the situation, weighing his options. She waited.

"SAS," he finally responded in a low voice.

She saw the tension in his still form, the tactical calculation in his eyes. But she didn't know that she was the first person he had told of his background. A few Starfleet personnel knew, and his family, of course. But they didn't know everything, all the details, the circumstances of his last few years of service. He hoped this fragment of truth would end her interrogation.

"All nine years?" she pressed.

He paused, wondering how she knew the length of his service. "I can't answer any questions. My record's classified," he said softly, apologetically.

"Can't, or won't?" she asked, a slight edge in her voice.

"Both," he whispered and turned his head toward the wall.

"Were you an experiment?" she asked baldly.

She couldn't see the momentary shocked surprise on his face or his struggle not to react to her question. She couldn't tell that his tired mind was groping for a response. He waited too long to answer.

She sat up, agitated. "Why can't you be honest with me? I think we've gone through enough that you'd be able to trust me by now. You say I'm your friend, but you can't even tell me the truth." She rose from the bed and walked to the door.

He sat up slowly, ignoring the tug at his side. "I've never lied to you," he contended in a subdued tone.

She whirled around, nerves frayed, temper finally snapping. "You never say anything! Malcolm, I don't know what to do. I'm tired of expending my energy on someone who doesn't trust me enough to answer a simple question."

"Hoshi, it's not simple." He was going to lose her, before he had even had a chance to try. "I trust you. I trust you with my life. But…I can't tell you anything." He stared at the floor, feeling the ramparts of his emotional walls starting to disintegrate, pressing down on him. He struggled to keep them at bay for just a little longer.

"No! Talk to me! We're friends…please…I need to know. I can accept that you've done things in the past. I can even accept that you'll do things in the future to protect this crew, but damn it, Malcolm, you've scared me! It makes me wonder if the man I saw on TayNor is the real Malcolm Reed, and you've been putting up a facade all this time. How can I trust you if I don't even know who you are?" *How can I trust my heart to you?*

"Hoshi, please. Don't do this to me. I can't take it right now." His voice cracked a little, but he continued. "Don't be afraid, please. I would never hurt you. I just can't…I…" He trailed off, knowing what he wanted to say, but knowing what it would sound like now.

His unwillingness to talk, to explain, to tell her anything to eradicate her doubts, irritated her, and she could barely suppress her angry tone. "I think I should try and get some sleep, Malcolm. I'm glad you're okay." She wanted to stay, wanted to force him to talk to her, wanted to slap him in frustration and anger, wanted him to hold her and reassure her, and make everything all right again.

She didn't want to say anything she would later regret. So she walked out. She needed to sleep. She needed to think. She needed to know if she should listen to her heart or to her misgivings.

***

Malcolm listened to her leave, and thirty-eight minutes later, exactly forty hours after he had unwillingly surrendered to his training, his body's chemistry returned to normal, without a trace of it ever having been altered. The emotional repercussions began, right on schedule.