Title: Alone In Darkness

Authors: Sita/T'eyla

Genre: Drama/Angst

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Again, Trip and Malcolm disappear. And the tests are about to go into their final stage...

Disclaimer: Once again... we don't own them... no, we don't... Paramount does... as we all know so well...

Warning: Sequel to "Lost In Darkness" - you probably should have read it to understand this one.

"The mind is its own place and in itself

can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven."

John Milton, Paradise Lost

Chapter 1

; .; ; .; ; .; ; .; ; .; ; .; ; .; ; .; ;"It is time. The tests are about to go into their second stage."

"It was risky to allow them to escape. What if we are not able to retrieve them?"

"Do you question my judgement, Assistant?"

"Of course not, Supervisor."

"The first stage was completed to our contentment. The Subjects as well as the Guard acted the way we expected them to. The plan worked well. But as I said, it is time."

"Would it not be better to observe them a while longer, probe their reactions..."

"We cannot afford any further delays. The observation has been going on for long enough now. The Subjects are ready for the second stage."

"It is unfortunate that we had to eliminate the Guard, though. He would have been of use."

"He had too much insight into our protocols. His presence was getting risky."

"Of course, Supervisor. We will prepare everything so we can launch second stage as soon as they are back."

"Tend to your duties, Assistants. I will complete the program. In this stage, we must proceed with more diligence than last time. It is of crucial importance."

"Let us begin."

-###-

The monitor in front of him displayed an image of lush meadows and thick forests which in a way reminded him of the vast areas of unspoilt nature in the Appalachian Mountains. Archer leaned back in his chair, gazing thoughtfully at the screen on his ready room desk. It was a wonderful planet, and it wasn't for nothing that the crew had dubbed it "Eden", even though Archer found the name to be a little too mystic for his taste.

When they'd come across this green little world two days ago, at least a dozen crewmen had volunteered for the first away mission, and Archer had already sent down a couple of teams, telling them to do scans and gather samples, meaning take a break and enjoy a little R&R. Up until now he hadn't found the time yet to go down to the surface himself, but he had made up his mind that this time he wasn't going to neglect the captain's privilege of doing a little exploring of his own. And Archer already knew whom he was going to ask to be on his team when he went down there tomorrow.

The only two of the senior crew who had not asked him if they could join one of the away teams, who had not left the ship for almost three months now were Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker, and even though Archer knew the reason why, he was not going to ignore this any longer. Away missions were an important part of Enterprise's mission, and he needed the input of every single one of his senior officers.

Coming to a decision, Archer reached out for the comm button.

"Archer to Tucker."

Archer heard the channel open, and a second later Trip's voice came from the speaker. "Tucker here."

"Trip, if you got a minute, I need you in my ready room. And bring Malcolm along."

There was a short pause. "Somethin' wrong, Jon?"

Archer felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Usually, when he ordered both Trip and Malcolm to his ready room, it was to tell them off for some kind of trouble or other they'd caused pulling another one of their crazy stunts. "Not this time, Trip," he said. "I just want to ask you something."

"Be right there," Trip said. "Tucker out."

Archer sighed a little. Coming to think of crazy stunts, there hadn't been too many of those lately. At least not as far as Malcolm and Trip were concerned. Ever since Enterprise had left that planet, V'nera, three months ago, both men hadn't set one foot off the ship, always finding new inventive excuses why they couldn't participate in this or that away mission.

Even though Archer tried to convince himself that it was not so, he knew that what had happened back on V'nera had changed them both. They never talked about it, at least not to him, but it showed clearly that, however cheerful they might act with the crew, the events of three months ago were still present in their minds. Which was understandable, after all.

Archer wasn't going to try and make them talk about it when they were so obviously trying to put it behind themselves, clinging to their every day routines in an almost obsessive way. He was going to make them come along on this away mission, though, however adamantly they might protest.

The sound of the door signal startled him out of his thoughts. "Come," he called, and the door swished open. As his officers came into the room, Archer scrutinized them closely and noticed that both Malcolm and Trip looked a little tired. This was nothing unusual; even though they never mentioned it, Archer surmised both of them were having trouble sleeping at night. But apart from the dark smudges under their eyes, Archer thought that they looked a lot better than they had only a week before.

Getting up from his chair, Archer motioned for them to sit down. "Gentlemen..."

"Well, what's the matter, Cap'n?" Trip asked as he lowered himself onto his seat. Malcolm, being his usual reserved self, waited for his Captain to speak first, but he was eyeing him just as curiously as Trip was.

"Well," Archer began, leaning against the edge of his desk, "it has come to my attention that the both of you didn't sign up for any of the away teams. I don't think we'll be coming across another planet like this anytime soon, so I suggest you use that opportunity to get a little R&R."

Trip had already opened his mouth to protest, but Archer held up a hand. "Why don't you join me on an away team; I'm planning on going down to the surface tomorrow, do a few scans and so on."

"I'd rather not, Cap'n," Trip said, shifting a little on his chair. "I got a whole lotta work to do in Engineerin'."

"Same here, sir," Malcolm added. "The targeting scanners went out of alignment again yesterday, and I need to-"

"I don't think we're going to do a lot of shooting the next few days," Archer interrupted. "On that planet there's nothing but a few bugs and herbivorous mammals. I'd say the targeting scanners can wait, don't you think."

Malcolm obviously didn't agree, but nodded all the same. "Yessir," he said. Trip wasn't going to give in that easily, though.

"Cap'n, I really need to clean those warp coils..."

Archer crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Since when does the Chief Engineer clean the warp coils, Trip?" he said, smiling to take the sting out of his words. "It's no use arguing, you're coming on this away mission."

Trip sighed. "Can't refuse when you ask so nicely, can I," he grumbled, and Archer grinned.

"Well, I won't make it an order," he said. "Malcolm?"

Malcolm allowed himself a small smile. "Very well, sir," he said. "Bit of fresh air won't hurt."

"Alright then," Archer said, getting up from the desk. "Tomorrow in shuttlebay one, 1800 hours."

"Be there," Trip said, getting up as well, and Malcolm nodded curtly.

"Yessir."

As he watched them leave the ready room, Archer found himself actually feeling a little relieved. This had been easier than he'd thought it would be. Maybe Trip and Malcolm had only been waiting for someone to make them break their routine and have a little fun. In any case, Archer found that he was quite looking forward to going down on that planet tomorrow. Malcolm and Trip weren't the only ones who'd been stuck on this ship for too long.

-###-

"This reminds me of the Boy Scout outings of my childhood," Malcolm said, poking a stick into the campfire. It caused a burst of flame which sent a few sparks flying.

Smiling, Archer nodded. "I know what you mean."

"I never was a Boy Scout," Trip said, messily slurping a marshmallow off its stick. "Well," he added, swallowing, "actually I was, but they kicked me out after a few weeks."

Archer looked up at that and saw Malcolm's head snap around as well. "You never told me about that," he said. "What did you do?"

"Oh," Trip said, busying himself with the task of attaching another marshmallow to the stick. "Never mind."

"Fess up, Commander," Malcolm said, grinning, and Trip shrugged, smiling a little sheepishly.

"Ya know, there was that hikin' tour-"

Malcolm held up a hand. "Actually, I don't think I want to know."

"Hey, you asked." Trip offered Malcolm the stick with the golden brown marshmallow, and Malcolm gingerly plucked it off, not quite being able to avoid getting the white goo all over his fingers. Archer leaned back on his elbows, listening to their friendly bickering. He was glad to see his friends so relaxed; when he'd met them in the shuttlebay, their nervous looks and the awkward silence had made him feel a little less confident about his earlier decision to make them come along. Now, however, Archer knew he'd done the right thing, after all. They'd spent a quiet afternoon taking scans and gathering samples, and Archer found that the warmth of the sun on his skin and the light breeze blowing made him feel better than he had in days. Trip and Malcolm also seemed to feel the positive effects of being in a non-artificial environment, and actually it had been Trip who'd suggested the campfire. In the meantime darkness had fallen, and the fire was the only source of light, illuminating the shadowy clearing around them.

Lazily glancing over at the fire, Archer returned his attention to the ongoing conversation which had turned to the topic of Malcolm's heroic deeds as a Boy Scout.

"So you got a twenty-eight merit badges?" Trip asked, unsuccessfully trying to wipe his sticky marshmallow fingers on his uniform trousers. "What did you do? Bribin' or blackmailin'?"

"Neither, of course," Malcolm answered with an air of mock indignation. "I earned them over the years. Let's see... for the History Badge I did a project about-"

"Wait." Trip held up a hand. "Lemme guess. You did a project about the naval battle between the English and the Spanish armada in 1588."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows, looking up in surprise. "How did you know that?"

Archer burst out laughing, and Trip grinned as well. "You know, it wasn't too hard."

"Well, I guess it wasn't," Malcolm admitted, smiling as well. There was a moment's silence, only interrupted by the crackling of the flames and the subdued sounds of the nightly forest.

"It's gettin' a little chilly," Trip said after a while, shifting on the rock he was sitting on. Malcolm looked up, raising an eyebrow.

"There's a big fire right in front of your nose, in case you didn't notice."

"Of course I did, Malcolm," Trip said, rolling his eyes. "It's jus' that where I grew up, it's not freezin' cold and rainin' all year long."

Malcolm seemed to take offense at that comment, sitting up a little straighter and giving Trip an indignant look. "A common misconception, Commander. In England, the weather is actually quite-"

"Alright, Malcolm, don't get started." Trip held up a hand. "All the same, I think it's gettin' quite cold out here."

Archer got to his feet. He'd just remembered the bottle of Kentucky Bourbon from his personal liquor supply he'd stuffed into his backpack before heading down to the shuttlebay earlier. Archer hadn't really thought that there would be an opportunity to drink it, but now it seemed like just the thing to round off their evening at the campfire.

"If you'll excuse me for a moment, I think I've got something for you," he said. "I just need to get it from the shuttlepod."

Trip raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What would that be, Cap'n?"

Archer smiled. "Wait and see."

As he walked away from the campfire he thought he heard Malcolm mutter "Suspense, suspense", but didn't turn around to look at the Lieutenant, knowing it would make him feel uncomfortable.

It didn't take him long to get back to the shuttlepod which they'd left about a two hundred feet away from the clearing at the edge of the forest. After he'd gotten his backpack out of one of the storage compartments Archer climbed back out of the hatch and closed it behind him. As he walked back through the dark forest, carefully avoiding to trip over any hidden roots or underbrush, Archer recalled his earlier conversation with Trip and Malcolm. It was so good to see his friends back at their former selves, joking and teasing each other instead of maintaining that strange air of reserved formality they'd taken on in his presence ever since returning from V'nera three months ago.

Well, Archer thought, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, it can only go up from here.

Feeling his foot get caught in some underbrush, Archer pulled it free and returned his attention to where he was going. He felt another small grin spread on his face as he wondered briefly if they'd even be able to find their way back to the shuttle later after consuming that whole bottle of Kentucky bourbon. Maybe this wasn't exactly Starfleet regulations, but-

A sudden high-pitched humming sound interrupted Archer's train of thoughts. His head snapped up, and for a moment he thought he'd seen some kind of light blaze up between the trees - not the campfire's warm orange glow but an odd blue shine reflecting from the trees and bushes around the clearing. It was only a moment's impression, though, and was gone in an instant. Frowning, Archer picked up his pace. Pushing aside a few branches, he stepped onto the clearing and stopped dead in his tracks.

Trip and Malcolm were gone. The flames were still crackling in the place where they'd built the campfire, and everything looked just like he'd left it, except for his two friends, who were nowhere to be seen. Taking a few steps towards the fireplace, Archer carelessly flung his backpack to the ground and looked around.

"Trip?" he called. "Malcolm? Where are you?"

But there was no answer and Archer felt a growing panic rise at the back of his mind. Part of him already knew that this had something to do with the light he'd thought he'd seen, that odd cold light shining through the forest, but still, Archer took a few quick steps towards the edge of the woods, calling out again.

"Trip! Malcolm! Are you there?"

Again, only silence answered his hails, and his voice sounded strange in his own ears as it echoed through the still forest. Retreating to the fireplace, Archer fumbled his communicator out of his uniform pocket and flipped it open.

"Archer to Enterprise."

A moment's silence, then Hoshi's voice came from the small speaker. "Enterprise. What can I do for you, Captain?"

Trying to keep his voice level as he spoke, Archer took a quick look around. "Get T'Pol to run a full scan of the planet's surface. Tell her to look for two human bio signs."

"What happened?" Hoshi's voice sounded alarmed.

"Trip and Malcolm have disappeared. I need to know what happened."

Archer knew that Hoshi would have liked to ask further, but she didn't. "Aye, sir. Stand by."

A few minutes later he heard T'Pol's voice through the open channel. "Captain, the scanners picked up only one human bio sign on the planet's surface."

Archer felt an icy knot forming in his chest. "Are you sure?"

"Indeed, Captain." T'Pol sounded as calm as ever, but Archer had the impression that her voice had a slightly tense undertone to it as she spoke again. "There is no human bio sign apart from yours on the entire planet."

"Acknowledged." Archer took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. "Keep scanning. I'll be with you in a minute."

Chapter 2

The smell was the first thing Trip noticed as he slowly returned to consciousness. That familiar stale smell of concrete... concrete and something else, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. It was a sterile odour and he recognized it the instant he became aware of it. He knew that smell.

Slowly forcing his eyes open, Trip blinked and waited for the world to come into focus. He was lying on some cold, rough material that scratched his cheek as he moved. As he consciously took in his surroundings for the first time, his body tensed. Trip sat up - and knew that this had to be a nightmare. It was a scene from one of the dreams that had been haunting his sleep all these months - waking up in that same cold, blue-lit cell, finding he was back, finding it wasn't all over like he kept telling himself in his waking times. The same panic he knew so well from his nightmares made his chest close up, and Trip scrambled to his feet, slowly backing off towards the wall. This couldn't be real, this had to be a dream-

As he stumbled backwards, his foot made contact with something soft, and he let out a startled cry, whirling around. There was somebody lying at his feet on the floor, Malcolm... of course it was Malcolm. That image had always been present in his nightmares, Malcolm lying on the ground, not moving, face pale, eyes closed, unconscious or-

"Malcolm!" Dropping to his knees, Trip grabbed the other man's shoulders and shook him. "Malcolm, wake up!"

For a moment, there was no reaction at all, and Trip experienced a terrible feeling of déjà vu - a scene from his nightmares as well; shaking Malcolm, trying to wake him up although he knew he was dead. Then, however, Malcolm's eyes fluttered open, and Trip felt an immense and irrational relief wash over him.

"Malcolm," he said, and the next moment recoiled as Malcolm sprang up, a look of sheer horror displaying on his face. Shaking his head, Malcolm slowly retreated to the opposite wall, pressing his back against it.

"No," he whispered, his eyes flitting about the room, not focusing on anything. He didn't seem to have noticed Trip's presence. "No. No, this can't be, this-"

Seeing the look of terror in Malcolm's eyes, Trip, fighting his own panic, slowly got to his feet, careful not to move too quickly.

"Malcolm," he said, taking a cautious step towards him. Malcolm flinched back as Trip reached out to touch his shoulder. Reed's breaths were coming in ragged gasps.

"No," he breathed, shaking his head again. "No, this isn't real-"

"Malcolm, calm down," Trip said, tightening his grip on Reed's shoulder. Seeing that Malcolm was about to hyperventilate, he carefully pulled him away from the wall and helped him sit down. "Try to take a deep breath. It's okay."

After a few moments, Malcolm's breathing quieted down, and his eyes became clear, the crazed look in them gone.

"Trip," he whispered hoarsely, "please tell me this isn't real. We can't be back, that's... that's impossible..."

At these words, Trip's own panic resurfaced, and he sat down against the wall as well, unable to speak. Only a moment ago, he'd been on that planet, sitting at the campfire with Jon and Malcolm, so how could it be that he was here, back in this place, light years away from where he'd been only seconds ago...

"They... they brought us back," he said more to himself than to anyone else. "Oh my God, they brought us back." Hearing his own voice formulate his thoughts frightened him even more, and Trip got up, quickly crossing the room and flinging himself against the door.

"Hey!" he shouted, pounding the bulkhead with his fists. "Hey! Let us outta here! Bring us back, you can't do this-"

"Stop that!" Malcolm yanked him back from the door. "Are you crazy? They'll hear you! They'll come back-"

"I want them to hear me!" Trip yelled, pushing Malcolm's hand away. "They have to take us back to Enterprise, they can't-"

"Quiet!" Malcolm hissed, taking him by the arm again and dragging him away from the door. "Be quiet, or they'll hear you!"

The plain fear evident in Malcolm's voice penetrated the haze of panic clouding Trip's thoughts, and he briefly closed his eyes, trying to calm down. His mind still wasn't quite able to accept that this was real. That this was actually happening. For if it was, it meant that they were back, that it was going to happen again...

"Why?" he asked, looking back at Malcolm who didn't meet his eyes, watching the door, his body tensed up as if ready to break into a run every second. "Why would they do that? Why would they want to bring us back?"

Malcolm shook his head. "I'm not going through this again," he said, not taking his eyes off the door. "I won't. They-"

The door slid open, and Trip felt Malcolm's fingers dig painfully into his upper arm. Paralyzed, he stood and watched as the two tall, cloaked figures entered the cell. They looked exactly like he remembered them, like they looked in his nightmares; pale blue robes and hidden faces, their voices harsh and raspy as they spoke.

"Come," one of them said, drawing a weapon and motioning towards the door. Trip couldn't move a muscle. He felt Malcolm's grip tighten on his arm, and a second later the Lieutenant started moving backwards, pulling him along.

"No," Trip heard his voice next to his ear. "I won't do this again."

Stumbling backwards, Trip saw them coming towards him and Malcolm, and a second later he felt cold strong fingers close around his arm.

"Come," the being repeated. Suddenly Trip was able to move again, and he tried to yank himself free from that firm grip.

"No!" he yelled, feeling Malcolm's hand let go of his other arm. Turning his head, he saw Malcolm struggle in the other being's grip as he was being dragged away to the cell door.

"No!" he shouted. "No! Let me go! I won't do it again, I won't-"

Opening the door, the alien gave Reed a firm shove, and Malcolm went completely wild, screaming, trying to break free.

"No you bastard let me go I won't do it-"

Raising the hand holding the weapon, the being brought the gun down hard on the back of Reed's neck, and Malcolm went limp.

"Malcolm!" Trip, who was being pushed to the door himself, again tried to pull free, fighting the alien who was dragging him out into the corridor. He felt his arm being twisted painfully and stopped struggling, letting out a strangled cry. It hurt like hell, and his captor didn't let go, pushing him further down the corridor. Stumbling along, Trip turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of Malcolm, and the last thing he saw was the other alien hauling Reed around a bend in the hallway, disappearing behind a corner. Being all alone with that monster from his nightmares, Trip felt fresh panic rise within him.

"What d'ya want with us?" he asked, his voice sounding shrill in his ears. "Where're you takin' me?"

The being, however, gave no answer, but only tightened his grip and pushed him along the corridor. As they rounded another corner, Trip realized that he knew exactly where his captor was taking him - he knew that hallway. Starting to strugggle with renewed energy, Trip desperately tried to get away. Whatever happened now, he was not going back to that room.

The being yanked him back, and suddenly a blaze of pain exploded in the back of Trip's head, blurring his eyes. He felt himself being dragged into the room, and through the haze clouding his vision he saw the bulkhead sliding shut.

His captor pushed him down onto a chair, and when the worst of the dizzyness had passed, Trip saw that they were indeed back in that interrogation room with its sharp light and white tiles on the floor. He hadn't forgotten one single detail about that room, seeing it over and over again in his dreams as he relived the horrible scenes that had taken place here. The mere thought of having to go through this again made him feel numb with fear, and he couldn't have gotten up from the chair even if he'd had the guts to do so. Gripping the edge of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white, Trip watched the alien as he picked up a padd and scrolled through it. After what seemed like an endless stretch of time, the being looked up again.

"The Supervisor needs more information about you. What do your species call themselves?"

Trip licked his lips, swallowing. "Humans," he answered quickly. He knew that if he took too long to answer, the assistant - for that was what he seemed to be - wouldn't hesitate to force the answers out of him. The memory of the last time they'd questioned him took all the fight out of him, and Trip wasn't even ashamed to admit it. He was scared stiff.

The assistant, who'd been scribbling something on his padd, looked up again. "What is the maximum speed of your vessel?"

Trip closed his eyes. "Warp 5," he said, feeling helpless anger at himself for not fighting back, for not refusing to give these answers. But he just couldn't help it.

"How many people are on your ship?"

Trip hesitated; he couldn't do that, he couldn't give away all that information-

The assistant took a step towards him, raising his hand.

"Eighty-three," Trip said, flinching back. "There are eighty-three people on my ship."

Now Trip felt not only fury but also a deep disgust for himself. But the words kept coming out of his mouth just like that, and he couldn't do anything to prevent it. The assistant checked his padd once again.

"What kind of weaponry does your ship carry?"

Trip looked up at where the being's face would have been. "Why do you want to know that?" he asked, and the words hadn't even fully left his mouth yet when the assistant took a quick step forward, backhanding him across the face.

"What kind of weaponry does your ship carry?"

Trip tasted blood and a moment later realized that his lip was split. Wiping off the sticky liquid, he fixed a spot on the white floor.

"Phase cannons and photon torpedoes," he said barely audible, and felt a hand grab his hair, yanking his head back.

"Repeat," the assistant said calmly, and Trip felt tears of anger and humiliation rise in his eyes.

"Phase cannons and photon torpedoes."

The assistant released him, turning back to his padd. Trip raised a hand to wipe his eyes. He felt such a coward, crying and cowering instead of at least trying to fight back, but his fear seemed to have completely taken over control, making it impossible for him to act any other way. That feeling, that awful helplessness, somehow was the worst of it all.

The assistant put his padd aside, looking back at Trip. "What is the highest energy impulse your hull plating can withstand?"

At these words, Trip felt his hands grow cold. He couldn't answer that, it would mean putting all his crewmates in danger, betraying his captain and the ship...

"No," he whispered, forcing his mouth to form the words. "No, I won't answer that."

Tightly closing his eyes, he waited for the blow to come, and a second later a fist connected with his cheekbone, making his head snap back.

"What is the highest energy impulse your hull plating can withstand?"

"I won't answer that," Trip said, sitting up again and forcing himself to look at the assistant. A dull pain was throbbing in his left cheek, and his vision started to blur again, but Trip didn't lower his eyes. "You can beat me up as much as you want, but I won't answer that."

The assistant clasped his hands behind his back. "If you do not cooperate, you will have to suffer the consequences."

Trip closed his eyes and shook his head, unable to speak. He waited for the assistant to hit him again, but nothing happened.

"If you do not cooperate, we will proceed like we did last time."

Squeezing his eyes shut even tighter, Trip shook his head again. For a brief moment, an image flashed up in his mind, the image of screaming white light blinding him through a haze of tears while every nerve in his body seemed to be on fire-

He felt a hand grab his arm and yank him to his feet. Opening his eyes, Trip saw that he was being pulled towards the examination table that stood against the wall in the back of the room.

"Wait," he whispered hoarsely, his voice seeming to come from another person, not himself. "Wait. I'll tell you."

The assistant shoved him back onto the seat. "What is the highest energy impulse your hull plating can withstand?"

Trip swallowed. "About a thousand gigajoule," he said. The assistant regarded him for a moment.

"You are not telling the truth."

Trip stared at him, and suddenly he knew what this was all about. It wasn't about technology, it wasn't about Enterprise; it was about him. They didn't need that information, they already had it. They simply needed confirmation that they had him where they wanted him, that he was too frightened to offer any resistance. And he was. He couldn't withhold the information, he simply wasn't able to. When the assistant stepped forward, making as if to pull him to his feet again, Trip held up a hand.

"Wait!"

The assistant let go of him. "What is the-"

"Two thousand four hundred," Trip said, burying his face in his hands. "Two thousand four hundred gigajoule."

-###-

He felt something cold stir against his neck, and slowly opened his eyes. A sharp pain was stinging in the back of his head, making him feel dizzy and slightly nauseous. He seemed to be sitting in a chair in a cold room with concrete walls and floor illuminated by that familiar blue light. Malcolm knew that room. Last time he'd been here, he'd been pumped full of drugs, shaking and vomiting onto the floor while they'd been watching, scribbling down their "test results" on their padds. Panic gripped his insides, and he jumped up, every nerve in his body screaming at him to run for it. A sharp stab of pain seared through his head, for a moment dissolving the world into black streaks, and Malcolm stumbled, falling back down onto the chair. He blinked, desperately trying to clear his vision, and a moment later he started badly when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eyes, a tall figure coming towards him. As he looked up at the assistant looming over him, a padd in one hand and a hypospray in the other, Malcolm suddenly felt something warm spread in his lap, but didn't consciously notice that he had wet himself. His heart was thumping in his chest, and he felt his blood pounding in his ears, throbbing so loudly it almost drowned out the assistant's raspy voice as he spoke.

"The researches must be completed. You will answer my questions quickly and to the best of your knowledge."

Malcolm nodded hastily, never taking his eyes off the hypospray the assistant was still holding in his hand. Any second now he would lower it, press it against his neck, and some hot fluid would burn through his veins, clouding his senses, taking him away to some other, even more terrible place-

"Do you still feel physical after-effects of the tests we conducted last time?" the assistant asked, and Malcolm had to repeat the question in his mind to be able to make sense of the words.

"No," he said, and repeated the answer when he realized that the assistant couldn't possibly have heard him, his voice being barely more than a whisper. "Not really."

Scrolling through his padd, the assistant absentmindedly tucked the hypospray away, and Malcolm felt a wave of relief wash over him, so intense it made him sway on his chair.

"Do you still feel mental after-effects of the tests we conducted last time?"

Malcolm briefly closed his eyes and swallowed, nodding. "Yes," he whispered, "I do."

"What kind?"

At these words, Malcolm felt something like anger mix with the paralysing fear that was holding him in a firm grip. It seemed such an abominable thing to do, asking in that clinical, scientific way about the things he'd lived through during those last three months, about the things they'd done to him...

The assistant looked up from his padd, and Malcolm quickly answered, trying to pronounce the words clearly this time.

"Nightmares," he said. "I'm having trouble sleeping at night."

"Sleep is important to your species?" the assistant asked. Malcolm licked his lips, not quite able to make sense of that question.

"Yes," he said. "It's essential."

The assistant scribbled something on his padd, and Malcolm shifted on his chair, the wet cloth of his uniform pants clinging to his legs. What would they possibly want with that information?

"At the moment, do you feel threatened?"

Malcolm stared at the assistant for a moment, his stomach clenching up as the panic resurfaced again. Was he really supposed to give an answer to that, or was that question only some kind of introduction to what was to come?

"Yes," he said very quietly, and the assistant put his padd aside, taking a step towards him. Malcolm flinched back, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for the man to hit him or press a hypospray against his neck, but nothing happened.

"If we were to conduct these tests again," he heard the assistant's voice. "Would you cooperate?"

Malcolm's eyes flew open. "No," he breathed, feeling almost sick with fear. "No, not again. Please."

The assistant paused for a moment, and Malcolm's whole body tensed up. No, they couldn't do this, he couldn't go through this again, he wouldn't-

"You would not cooperate in these tests under any circumstances?" the assistant asked, and Malcolm shook his head.

"No," he said, hearing his voice crack, not caring if he was begging, not caring if he was losing the last few remains of dignity he still had left. "Please no, I can't, please don't make me..."

The assistant regarded him for a moment. "If you do not cooperate, we will perform the tests on the other Subject. Will you cooperate under these circumstances?"

Malcolm couldn't use it as an excuse that he hadn't understood the question. He understood perfectly well. They would take Trip. Trip would be going through the same hell he'd gone through, and maybe he wouldn't even survive. But the mere thought of letting them do this to him again was so horrible, so impossible that Malcolm felt pure terror rise within him at the very idea. He could not do this. Pushing all other thoughts away, Malcolm slowly shook his head.

"No," he said. "No, I won't."

"Report, Assistants."

"Subject 2 was more or less cooperative. He answered all my questions about their vessel, giving all required information."

"Did you have to use force on him?"

"Very little, Supervisor. As I said, he was quite cooperative. When I threatened to take similar measures as we did last time, he immediately ceased to offer resistance. He will not prove a problem."

"Very well. Second Assistant?"

"As I questioned Subject 1, I got the impression that being back in this environment causes a distinct state of anxiety in him. He will in all likelihood do whatever we ask of him in order to prevent being subject to more tests. His will to protect his companion by sacrificing himself has been broken."

"Good. Everything is going according to schedule. Second stage is ready to be launched."

"The program is completed?"

"I need to do a few more modifications before we can start. It should not take long. Be prepared to begin as soon as I am done."

"Yes, Supervisor."

Chapter 3

Slamming the padd with the scan results down on his desk, Archer got up and began to pace. This was more than frustrating, and after reading through a dozen of these reports Archer couldn't see anything paradise-like or even beautiful about that planet anymore. Over the last twenty-four hours they'd run about a thousand scans of Eden's surface and the only bio signs they'd found had been minor life forms and insects, but certainly no humans. It was as if Trip and Malcolm had never gone down to that planet at all, as if they'd never even existed. Archer had even taken a shuttle down to the surface to go and look for them, taking T'Pol with him after she'd insisted that he needed the assistance of his science officer and that she volunteered for this mission despite the risks. But even their five hours of searching had accomplished nothing. Trip and Malcolm had disappeared without a trace, and there was no possibility to find out where they were.

Except that Archer knew. Ever since he'd seen that strange blue light between the trees, had heard that soft humming tone, he knew that this must have something to do with what had happened on V'nera. It was more of a hunch than anything rationally provable, but Archer was sure of it all the same. Why else should it be only Trip and Malcolm who'd disappeared, and not he himself as well? He'd been on that planet, too. If their disappearance had been caused by something of natural origin, it seemed like a very great coincidence that this phenomenon should have occurred just during the few minutes he'd been away. But if it hadn't been some natural phenomenon... well, in that case, Trip and Malcolm's disappearance had been caused by sentient beings. And based on that assumption the inference to those mysterious strangers on V'nera was easily made. After all, they seemed to be experts when it came to making people vanish into thin air.

After Enterprise's scanners had completely failed to pick up any signs of these strangers on V'nera's surface, Archer had decided that they must have some highly developed means of technology that allowed them to cloak themselves so well that they weren't detectable by any scans, however thoroughly they might be conducted. And now, his theory of a highly developed species had been reinforced. If they really were the ones responsible for the disappearance of Trip and Malcolm, they had to be in the possession of technology that made it possible to transport a person over a distance of several light years, for in the last three months, Enterprise had put a considerable distance between herself and V'nera. Not too enormous a distance - not even a week's journey at maximum warp - but certainly more than the range of any transporter Archer had ever heard of. Such technological means indicated that whoever used them must be highly advanced, and probably could also keep any scanners from picking them up if there was need.

The longer Archer thought about it, the more plausible it seemed that Trip and Malcolm had indeed been recaptured by these mysterious people on V'nera. That knowledge, however, did nothing to ease the Captain's mind.

Sighing, Archer sat back down on his chair, burying his face in his hands. It seemed so wrong, sitting here and reading these reports while Trip and Malcolm might just as well be back in the hands of those people, going through the same ordeal they'd suffered last time, or worse.

When all of a sudden the door buzzer went off, Archer startled. "Come," he called, turning around in his seat. The door slid aside and T'Pol entered the ready room.

"Captain," she said in a way of greeting, and Archer got up.

"Anything new?" he asked, a feeling of nervousness building in his stomach as he saw her expressionless but still grave features.

"Captain, we need to change course immediately. I have all reason to assume that Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed were abducted by the same people that held them captive three months ago."

Archer stared at her for a moment. "What makes you think so?"

She clasped her hands behind her back. "I re-checked the scans I ran of the surface while you, Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed were on the planet, and I have discovered certain discrepancies to the results of our recent scans. At the exact time the Commander and the Lieutenant disappeared, my instruments picked up some unusual fluctuations. As I analyzed them more thoroughly I discovered that they are a perfect match to the fluctuations I scanned on V'nera's surface."

Archer frowned. "You didn't tell me about any unusual fluctuations on V'nera," he said, and T'Pol raised an eyebrow.

"At the time, I assumed these fluctuations to be of natural origin. Now, however, I have come to the conclusion that the interferences are being caused by the strangers' technology."

Biting back a sharp comment that she should have informed him about the fluctuations on V'nera right away - there was neither time nor need for that now - Archer took a quick step over to the comm unit.

"Archer to Mayweather. Set a course to V'nera, maximum warp."

"Aye sir." It sounded more like a question than like an acknowledgement of his order, but Archer had no intention of answering at the moment. Cutting the connection, he turned around to T'Pol.

"What's our ETA?"

"Four to five days, Captain." T'Pol didn't say anything else, but Archer could see concern and worry evident on her controlled Vulcan features. Letting out a deep breath, Archer sat back down on his chair. The worst part of this was not being able to do anything.

-###-

Malcolm couldn't keep his hands still. Ever since the injection they'd given him had started to take effect, his hands had been shaking uncontrollably, and his blood seemed to be boiling, searing through his veins like fire. Still, Malcolm was glad it was only physical pain this time, that they hadn't given him these drugs that made him hear things, see things that weren't there, that made the real world disappear and took him straight to hell.

Leaning against the wall, he relished the feeling of the cold concrete against his hot skin. He didn't know why they hadn't taken him back to the other cell or why they'd separated him from Trip. He didn't want to know. If he'd allowed himself to think about that, he would have come to the conclusion that they had indeed taken Trip, and were now indeed performing the tests on him. And that it was his, Reed's fault. The thought was so terrible that Malcolm simply couldn't allow it to cross his mind, so he just sat there, shaking, trying to keep from thinking and from time to time raising a hand to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He'd lost track of how long he'd been here; it might have been just a few hours, it might have been days. Ever since they'd brought him here after that terrible interrogation, he'd seen no one, except for that one time when the assistant had entered the cell and had given him the injection that was now making his body shake and tremble as if he were running a high fever.

Malcolm closed his eyes. He felt such a coward for what he'd done, so low and dirty when he thought of how he'd betrayed Trip without a minute's hesitation. Back in that interrogation room he hadn't felt himself, it had seemed as if it were another person who shrank back in terror when the assistant came closer, who didn't offer the slightest resistance, and who had even wet his pants like a goddamn coward. And he couldn't even get angry with himself for the way he'd acted. He knew if they were to come to his cell now and take him back to that room, he would do the same thing again. His fear of these people and what they might do to him was simply too great for him to control. He could not go through these tests again. It was the prevailing thought in his mind, drowning out everything else, and Malcolm clung to it in fierce desperation, telling himself over and over that it would not happen again. Could not happen again. He wouldn't do it.

Lowering himself onto the cold floor of the cell, Malcolm curled up in a fetal position and buried his face in the crook of his arm. The shaking hadn't subsided; if anything it had gotten worse, and the heat that made his blood burn had increased to an almost unbearable level. Closing his eyes, Malcolm tried to push everything away and empty his mind of all thoughts. He wished he could go to sleep, escape this hell if only for a short time, but that strange wired feeling made it impossible to calm down enough to go to sleep. Remembering the strange questions the assistant had asked him during the interrogation, he realized that maybe keeping him awake was what they were aiming at. He'd told them sleep was essential to his species, and of course they wanted to know how essential.

For a long time, Malcolm simply lay there, trembling and sweating, trying to think of nothing. If he'd had any emotion left in him, he might have been afraid for Trip, afraid that they would come back, but as it was, he only felt an all-embracing numbness take hold of him as he stared blankly into the red darkness behind his closed eyelids.

-###-

The door slid open. Scrambling to his feet, Trip saw one of the assistants standing in the doorframe, holding Malcolm's arm in a firm grip. The Lieutenant looked a little worse for wear - pale, one of his eyes swollen shut - but otherwise there were no visible signs of any mistreatment. After several hours of sitting alone his cell, his mind coming up with horrible scenes of what Malcolm might be going through at the moment, Trip felt a wave of relief wash over him when he saw his friend relatively unhurt, and he actually felt a smile spreading on his face.

"Malcolm!"

The assistant pushed Reed into the room, and Trip caught him by the arm.

"Are you okay?"

Straightening up, Malcolm answered his worried question with a short reassuring smile.

"I'm fine, Trip."

Trip could see that this wasn't quite the truth; the Lieutenant's voice had a strangely hollow undertone to it, as if he were feigning that calm and controlled countenance to hide... what?

"What did they do to you?"

Trip still hadn't let go of Malcolm's arm, and Reed pulled free, gently, but leaving no doubt about the fact that he didn't want to be touched.

"Nothing. I'm okay."

Trip stared at him for a moment. The last time he'd seen Malcolm, Reed had been all but kicking and screaming, terrified at the prospect of being dragged away to that interrogation room once again, and now he was acting as if none of that had ever happened. As if he'd never felt anything but slight annoyance at the fact that they were back in their own personal hell.

Trip had just opened his mouth when Malcolm suddenly put a hand on his arm, guiding him over to a corner of the cell. The Lieutenant's face was firmly set, and he never looked at Trip, staring at the opposite wall with a concentrated expression on his face, as if he were reading something written there in very small letters.

"Malcolm, what-"

"Quiet," Reed hissed, and there was something in his voice that made Trip comply. They came to a halt in a corner of the room, and Malcolm took a quick look around before he turned back to Trip.

"I know how to get us out of here," he whispered, raising his eyes to look at Trip for the first time. Trip almost missed the meaning of the words, his chest contracting as he saw the Lieutenant's eyes. There was nothing unusual about them, except that the left one was slightly reddened and puffy; but the look in them was strange, like Trip had never seen it before. They weren't alive with fear, or excitement, or even anger like one would have expected in this situation. They looked hollow, sad, as if Malcolm wasn't really seeing any of this, listening to some inner voice that told him a terrible truth only he was able to comprehend.

"Malcolm..." Trip began hesitatingly, but Reed interrupted him once again, his eyebrows drawing together in an angry frown.

"Didn't you listen? I know how to get out of here! When they took me back, I saw some kind of hangar, a shuttle bay or something. One of them went in there-"

"The third one was with you?" Trip asked, feeling more and more confused. Reed pressed his lips together.

"Will you listen? He went in there, and I saw all kinds of vessels in there-"

"Vessels?"

"Yes, shuttles, flitters, or something like that. If we were able to steal one of them..."

"Malcolm!" Trip shook his head. "We can't get outta here. They'd notice the instant we left the cell. And there's the small problem of the door bein' locked..."

"Do you want to get away from here or not?" Reed's voice had taken on an irritated tone, sounding almost spiteful as he continued. "Or would you rather stay here, have them perform these wonderful tests on us again? Maybe they'll take you this time, ever thought of that?"

Reed's voice was nothing but a low hiss, but still, Trip recoiled as if he'd been slapped. He couldn't believe Malcolm would say these kind of things, hurl them right in his face, just like that.

"Malcolm, you know I-"

"Then listen," Reed interrupted curtly. "I know how to neutralize the lock. It's easy. The shuttle hangar is only a few corridors away. All we have to do is make a break for it-"

"Malcolm." Trip tried to keep his voice level and calm as he spoke. "I understand you want to get away from here. Hell, don't you think I want to get out of this jus' as much as you do? But this is madness. You can't know how to open the door, and even if you did, they'd catch us anyway. D'you know what they'll do to us-"

"Do to you, you mean." Reed's voice sounded cold, deadly calm as he spoke. "I see. You think if we just stay here, keep a low profile and wait, they'll leave you alone and take me-"

"What're you talkin' about, Malcolm?" Trip noticed he'd raised his voice as well, but he didn't care. Even though he knew Reed was probably not quite being himself, half-mad with shock and terror, these cruel accusations still hurt. "This is ridiculous. I'm only tryin' to keep you from killin' yourself-"

"Fine." Abruptly, Reed turned away. "Then I'll do it on my own. I'm not going to stay here and wait until they come and-"

He didn't finish his sentence, but walked over to the door, kneeling down beside it and busying himself with something at the doorframe. For a moment Trip only stood there, staring at him, then quickly crossed the room and crouched down beside Malcolm.

"What're you doin'?"

Malcolm looked up at him, these hollow eyes meeting his own. "Opening the door, of course."

"It won't work, Malcolm, I already tried," Trip said, but Malcolm didn't pay him any attention, picking at something right below the lock. Trip sat back on his heels, a bad suspicion rising at the back of his mind. What if Malcolm simply... had lost it? Reed had been beside himself with terror when the assistants had entered the room, and maybe being alone with one of them, reliving that hell of three months ago, had simply been too much. Trip still didn't know what they'd done to him in these tests last time - Malcolm would never speak of that - but it had been something horrible enough to break a man like Reed. Break him for good. And now Malcolm's mind was telling him to find a way out - any way out, to prevent it happening again.

Carefully, Trip put a hand on Malcolm's arm, pulling him away from the bulkhead. Reed whirled around, his face contorted with fury.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Malcolm." Trip swallowed. It was so hard, speaking in a calming tone of voice when he felt all but on the brink of tears. "You... you can't open that door. It won't work. I..." I think you're losing your mind. "I think it would be best if you just sat down for a moment, maybe tried to... to sleep a bit..."

"Sleep?" Malcolm's voice rose to an angry screech. "Are you crazy? I'm trying to get us out of here and you're telling me I should try to go to sleep? I don't know what's wrong with you, Commander, but if you're going to be such a bloody coward, then get the fuck out of my way!"

Trip stared at him, and saw an insane glitter in Reed's grey eyes. The knot in his chest tightened. Malcolm was losing his sanity, and there was nothing he could do to help him. And if he tried to drag him away from that door, force him to stop that madness, Reed might just as well become violent. Careful not to make any sudden movements, Trip got to his feet and slowly walked over to the opposite wall, lowering himself onto the floor. Maybe it would be best to leave Malcolm alone now, to let him exhaust himself in his futile tries to open that door. Maybe if he saw that it didn't work, he would come back to his senses, after all. For a while Trip watched Malcolm who had his back turned to him, groping around on the door frame with the swift and skilled movements of a madman working on some non-existent piece of machinery. Suddenly Trip couldn't bear the sight any longer and turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut to quell the tears that were rising there. He felt so helpless, so damn fucking helpless. Malcolm was going crazy, and all he could do was sit and watch as his best friend lost his mind. It was so damn unfair. Trip didn't know where the word had come from, but it seemed perfectly right. It was unfair, bringing them back after all they'd gone through, after they'd managed to survive that first time, and it was unfair that Malcolm should lose his sanity now after he'd fought so hard to return to something like a normal life all these months.

A swishing sound caught his attention, and Trip looked up. When he saw that the door had slid back into the wall, revealing the dimly lit corridor behind it, he hastily scrambled to his feet, expecting one of the assistants to enter the cell any moment. Nothing happened, though. Malcolm stood next to the doorframe, that familiar half-smile playing about his lips. As Trip only stared at him, unable to speak, he gestured at the door opening.

"After you, Commander."

Trip licked his lips, feeling his heart thumping in his chest. "W-what did ya do?"

Malcolm pointed at a spot next to the bulkhead, and when Trip stepped closer, he noticed a few wires sticking out of a small opening in the concrete. "Short-circuited the lock. Would have been your job as Chief Engineer, but I'll let it pass if you'll stop arguing and come with me now."

Trip took a closer look at the burned ends of the wires and shook his head. "That wasn't there before. It can't've been. We searched the whole cell and didn't find a thing."

"It was there all the time." Malcolm was still grinning in that strange way. "We just didn't see it. Will you come now?"

Trip raised his eyes, looking down the dimly lit corridor. Escape. Getting away from here. All of a sudden it didn't seem like some crazy idea anymore, but like an actual option. But... He turned back to Reed.

"Malcolm..." He cleared his throat. "I don't know how you opened that door, but... are you sure this is gonna work? Even if we-"

Malcolm snorted derisively, turning to the door. "If you want to stay here, it's fine with me! I really don't need some bloody coward to-"

"Now wait a minute, Lieutenant-"

But Malcolm was already out the door and gone. Trip stared after him for a moment, then set off in a run as well, catching up with Malcolm who was already half-way down the corridor.

"Malcolm!" Trip grabbed the Lieutenant by the arm, careful to keep his voice down as he spoke. "Will ya just wait a minute! You'll get us both killed!"

Malcolm yanked his arm free with brute force, pushing Trip in the chest so he stumbled backwards. Trip watched in disbelief as Reed advanced on him, his face screwed up in anger.

"Keep your dirty hands off me, will you! If you're even too much of a coward to save your own sorry ass, then why don't you get back to the cell and wait for them to come and pump some of their drugs into you! Well, these hallucinations are no fun, but you wouldn't know, would you?"

These last few words came out in a hateful whisper, but Trip understood them perfectly well. For a moment he stood frozen, staring after Malcolm who strode down the corridor without looking back at him, then caught up with him again.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Lieutenant?" he said angrily, not caring if anyone heard him. This situation was so absurd Trip wasn't sure if any of this was really happening, and although he knew he had all reason to, somehow he didn't even feel afraid. Ignoring him, Malcolm turned around a corner, now heading down a long hallway with large bulkheads on either side. Trip bit his lip, resisting the urge to try and grab Malcolm by the arm yet again. The helplessness he'd felt earlier came back full force, and Trip felt despair rise within him. They might be coming any moment now, end this haphazard attempt at escape, drag them back to the cell, or maybe that interrogation room and find some cruel terrible way to make sure they would never do this again. For a brief frantic moment he actually considered going back to the cell, but then dismissed the thought. Crazy as it was, this was their chance to get out of here, and Trip was not going to pass it up because he was, as Malcolm had put it, "even too much of a coward to save his sorry ass". Besides, he couldn't leave Malcolm alone now. Reed was clearly not being himself, and if he left him now, Trip might as well condemn Malcolm to death. If Reed got caught and tried to attack them, it was very possible that these people would simply shoot him.

All of a sudden Malcolm came to a halt in front of one of the doors, turning around to Trip, his forehead still creased in anger.

"Are you going to help me or not? Cause if not, I don't need you to come with me any further!"

Not waiting for an answer, Malcolm turned back to the door and started punching buttons on the panel beside it. Trip watched him, frowning. "How come you know the-"

The door slid aside, and Trip forgot what he'd been about to ask. They were standing at the entrance of a huge hall, at least twice as big as a cathedral, lit by the same blue light like their cell. There was a vast amount of vessels stored here, standing lined up in several rows, but none of them looked like they could be used for spacefare. These were ground flitters, planetary transporters which could not be flown outside the atmosphere. Trip looked around in amazement.

"What the hell do they need all these flitters for?" he asked, but Malcolm didn't pay him any attention, heading straight for one of the vessels. Not pausing even for a second to examine the alien flitter more closely, he opened the hatch and climbed inside, not looking if Trip was following him or not. Trip took another look around, and his eyes fell on the huge double doors on the opposite side of the hall. They were closed, and looked as immovable as a rockface. Quickly crossing the distance to the flitter whose hatch was still standing open, Trip climbed inside as well. The flitter's interiors were as sleek and gleamy as its outside looks; the controls embedded in the smooth surface of the displays, the two seats up front clearly designed for a species larger than humans.

"Close the hatch," said Malcolm who'd taken a seat in what was apparently the pilot's chair. Trip complied, then turned around to see Malcolm tapping away at the helm's control, again moving swiftly as if he knew exactly what he was doing. Trip paused for a moment, then stepped up beside Malcolm's seat, trying to get a look at what the Lieutenant was doing. Again, Reed's face had that concentrated look to it, and there was no sign he acknowledged Trip's presence at all.

"Malcolm," Trip began, "wait a minute. The hangar doors are closed, we can't-"

That moment, the flitter gave a sharp lurch, and Trip swayed, holding on to the backrest of the pilot seat so as not to fall. Malcolm had apparently managed to power up the thrusters, and the flitter was now hovering several feet over the ground. Seeing Reed reaching out for the controls again, Trip quickly put his hands over the helm's displays, turning around to Malcolm.

"Jus' wait a goddamn minute, Malcolm, you can't fly that flitter, you don't know how to operate the controls, and even if you somehow managed to get that thing movin', the hangar doors are closed. You can't-"

It happened so quickly that Trip didn't even have the chance to react. Jumping up, Malcolm yanked his hands away from the controls, pushing him so hard it sent him sprawling on the deck.

"You try that again and I'll knock you out cold! What are you trying to do, keep me from getting away from here? What did they do, set you up as a saboteur? I'm only going to tell you once, keep away from these controls or I'll push you out of that hatch and leave you behind!"

Trip had to take only one look at Malcolm's face to know that he would do it, too. Reed turned around again, and scrambling back to his feet, Trip saw him press a single panel on the helm's display. The flitter gave another sharp jerk, and Trip was almost being thrown to the deck again. Steadying himself on the backrest of one of the seats, Trip felt his blood run cold as he saw the grey steel of the hangar doors rapidly rushing towards them.

"Malcolm! You're gonna kill us!"

Malcolm didn't respond, staring out the front window as if he hadn't heard him. The doors came closer and closer, and Trip made one last desperate leap for the helm's controls. He'd just reached out to press some panel, any panel to reverse the flitter's deadly course, when all of a sudden a slim gap appeared between the two gigantic double doors, growing steadily broader as they sped towards it. Blinding whiteness filled the front window as they passed the opening, and Trip stood frozen as the flitter shot out the hangar doors, leaving the building behind. Blinking a few times as the flitter rapidly gained height, Trip saw that they were speeding along over a snow-covered plain which was stretching out in all directions. The sky was of a dull winter grey and snow was lashing against the front window, almost blocking the view as they gained speed.

All of a sudden, Trip felt his legs give way under him and he sat down hard on the seat next to Malcolm's. He felt numb. This had all happened way too quickly, way too smoothly for him to fully grasp what was going on, but now there was only one thought in his mind: They'd made it. Somehow, miraculously, they'd gotten away.

Glancing over at Reed who was operating the flitter's controls, paying him no attention whatsoever, Trip opened his mouth.

"Malcolm, how the hell did you know all these things?"

But Malcolm wouldn't answer, staring straight ahead out of the front window.

Chapter 4

Three hours later, Trip was beginning to feel really worried. During all those hours they'd been speeding along over these seemingly endless frozen wastelands, Malcolm hadn't said more than three or four sentences at the most. Several times Trip had tried to talk to him, but to most of his questions Malcolm simply hadn't responded, keeping his gaze fixed on the controls and acting as if he hadn't heard him at all. When Trip asked him what had happened after the assistant had taken him away, Malcolm only shrugged, mumbling something like "questions about weapons". Trip tried to ask further, but got no response, and so he changed the subject, carefully repeating his question how Malcolm could possibly have known the door code to the shuttle hangar. At these words, Malcolm all but jumped down his throat, his face twisting up in anger as he spoke.

"I told you I saw one of them go in there! What do you think, that he just walked through that door? He used the door code, of course, and I memorized the combination. If you got a problem with us getting away, feel free to get out of here anytime!"

Trip couldn't quite believe that, but said nothing, turning away and staring out the front window again. For a split second the thought crossed his mind that maybe Malcolm wasn't being quite honest with him, that his snappy tone and his curt answers were only faked in order to hide something else. Then, however, he pushed the thought away. It was possible, after all, that Malcolm had seen the combination, and even though it seemed very unlikely, it was also possible that he'd somehow found out how to open that cell door. And as improbable as their escape had been - hell, they'd all but walked out of there - Trip was simply glad to be gone from that place. He didn't really care how they'd gotten away, but they had, and whatever was going to happen next, it was a good feeling to know that they had escaped, that they'd managed to do it on their own. No, it wasn't a good feeling, it was the one thing that had saved his sanity. For Trip knew that if he'd had to stay in that place any longer, he would have lost his mind sooner or later.

Like it had happened to Malcolm. It was clear to him now that something must have happened to the Lieutenant during the time they'd been separated, something he wouldn't talk about. When they'd first woken up in that cell, Malcolm had been beside himself with panic, but he hadn't acted so strange, so... unlike himself. Now, however, he almost seemed like another person, and every time Trip looked him in the face, Reed's eyes displayed that same hollow sadness that sent shivers down Trip's spine. Even when he'd shouted at him, Malcolm's eyes had seemed so lifeless, so empty, and his anger seemed to be coming from somewhere outside, not from within him. And maybe that was the case, after all. Maybe they'd given him something that was causing this, something that was clouding Malcolm's mind, making him act so strangely. Trip felt almost relieved as he considered the possibility that this might be a drug-induced condition which would taper off sooner or later, hopefully leaving no permanent damage. Yes, that was probably the case. Trip simply refused to believe that Malcolm had lost his mind, that he had in fact gone insane in that place.

Watching Malcolm out of the corner of his eyes, he saw that Reed was frowning down at the displays, punching away at the controls with a little more speed than before. Something seemed to be wrong. Briefly, Trip considered not asking him about it in order to prevent another outburst, but then his anxiousness got the better of him.

"What is it, Malcolm?" he asked, trying for an offhand tone of voice. Reed shook his head in an angry movement.

"There seems to be something wrong with the maneuvering thrusters," he said, calling up some kind of menu on the display. "We're losing height."

Getting up, Trip bent down over the display as well, but couldn't make any sense of the readings. "How d'ya know it's the maneuverin' thrusters?" he asked, and Malcolm abruptly turned his back to him, blocking the screen from view.

"It's on the specs," he said curtly, again pushing a combination of buttons that made no sense to Trip. Trip shook his head and raised his eyes to look out the front window. They seemed to be indeed losing height, and quite rapidly, too. In the meantime they'd left the wastelands behind, and Trip could see the ground covered with sparse grass and tangled shrubs coming nearer.

"Malcolm..." he began tentatively, "maybe you need to be a little more careful handlin' these controls, you don't even know what those readings are sayin'."

Malcolm whirled around, and Trip involuntarily took a step backwards. "Will you stop bugging me all the time and sit back down on that damn chair, so I can maybe get these thrusters back online?"

"And how d'ya think you're gonna do that?" Despite himself, Trip felt anger rise within him. "This is an alien vessel, dammit! If you hit the wrong button, you could kill both of us!"

Malcolm jumped up from his chair, his face reddening with anger. "I'm the one who got us out of there, and I'm the one who flew this damn flitter all the way, so don't you go telling me what I'm supposed to do! Now sit back down on that bloody chair and shut up for just one goddamn minute-"

The flitter gave a jerk, and both men stumbled, grabbing the seats for support. Malcolm scrambled back into the pilot chair, studying the controls with a deep frown on his face. Throwing a nervous glance out the front window, Trip saw that their descending angle had steepened, and that they were now less than a twenty feet above the ground. He could see patches of snow scattered between the small brown bushes and here and there single trees looking like deformed black figures in that bleak landscape. He swallowed.

"Malcolm..." he said, his grip tightening on the seat's backrest as the flitter gave another lurch. "We're gonna crash."

"I noticed," Reed snapped, again punching away at the controls. "Now will you finally sit back down on your chair-"

"No," Trip said, coming to a decision. He was not going to sit there and watch while their chance at escape vanished into thin air. "I'm gonna go in the back and see if I can do somethin' about these thrusters-"

"Sit down on your chair and keep the fuck away from these controls, or I'll-"

"Malcolm!" Trip yelled, and the next moment they were both thrown to the deck as the flitter roughly made contact with the ground, sliding along for at least two hundred feet before it finally came to a halt. Trip, who'd been flung against the pilot seat when the flitter had hit the ground, quickly got to his feet, looking around for Malcolm. His heart skipped a beat as he saw him lying sprawled on the deck in front of the helm, but then Reed slowly got up, shaking his head as if to clear it.

"You okay?" Trip asked, and Malcolm nodded.

"I'm fine." Moving like someone in a dream, Reed sat down on the edge of the pilot seat, resting his elbows on his knees. Feeling concern rise within him, Trip took a step towards Malcolm, but didn't dare touch him.

"You sure you're alright?"

Reed raised his head to look at him, and Trip almost startled at the expression on his face. His former anger had completely vanished, now replaced by something like sadness and... regret.

"Malcolm?" Trip ventured.

"I'm fine, Trip," Reed said, turning around to stare out the front window. Trip stood there for several moments, unsure what to do. He didn't know what to make of Malcolm's sudden change of mood, from an almost violent aggressiveness to that weary resignation. The only explanation he could come up with was that Reed had been hurt in the crash, after all, but he didn't look like it, and Trip had no possibility to find out, knowing it would probably not be a good idea to try and touch Malcolm now.

After a few moments of silence Trip turned around. He mustn't waste any time now; if there was even the slightest chance of repairing the damage, then he needed to hurry. They could be here any minute, for by now they had certainly discovered their escape.

Surveying the smooth interiors of the flitter, Trip realized that he wouldn't be able to get access to any machinery from in here.

"I'm gonna go outside and see if I can do anything about those thrusters," he said to Malcolm who was still sitting in that hunched position, not reacting to his words at all. Again, Trip felt worry rise within him, but at the moment there was nothing he could do for Reed. Opening the hatch, he climbed out of the flitter, shivering as a cold gust of wind hit him in the face. It was slowly getting dark, and in the twilight of dusk the heath had a ghostly look to it. Realizing he had to hurry if he wanted to accomplish anything before all daylight was gone, Trip quickly walked around the flitter. His eyes fell on the broad trail the vessel had left as it slid along on the frozen ground. They must have been flying damn fast.

Turning his attention to the flitter's backside, Trip saw two outlet pipes on either side of it, and in between the engine, protected by some overhanging panel. Carefully removing the metal plating, Trip took a closer look at the alien machinery and frowned. He was able to identify most of the components - there was some kind of relay, probably fed by a power source inside the vessel, and several circuitries connected by complicated wiring. One of the main cables led away to a small housing on the side, and Trip surmised this had to be the starboard thruster. A look to the left confirmed his guess, only that here the cable leading to the thruster was black and charred. Obviously there had been an overload of some kind. Trip examined the cable more closely and decided that it shouldn't be too hard to replace if he found a spare cable somewhere inside the flitter.

Gotta tell Malcolm about this, he thought. Maybe I can get him to help me.

Straightening up, he turned around - and jumped badly when he almost bumped into Reed who had been standing right behind him.

"God you scared me," he said, but Malcolm didn't smile or raise his eyebrows or react to his words in any way but simply stood there, looking at Trip with that strange expression on his face. Trip licked his lips.

"Look, I think I know what's wrong," he said, "and I think I can repair it. We only need to find a new cable for the port thruster-"

"No," Malcolm said, slowly shaking his head. "You're not going to repair it."

Trip stared at him, thinking he must have misheard him. "What?"

"You're not going to repair that thruster. Go back inside."

Trip looked at him. Reed's features were firmly set, his mouth a thin line. His voice was calm, but what he was saying sounded just as insane as before when he'd been yelling.

"Listen, Malcolm," Trip began hesitatingly, "I can repair this. I can get this flitter flyin' again, I only need to replace that cable. It's totally fried, looks like it's been short-circuited-"

"I know," Malcolm said calmly. "I short-circuited it."

And looking at his face, Trip knew that he was speaking the truth. Malcolm had indeed initiated this overload, and he'd done so on purpose, but Trip doubted that even Reed himself knew the reason why. He took a cautious step towards him.

"Look Malcolm," he said, fighting for a calming tone of voice, "I... I think you're not feelin' so well at the moment-"

"I'm not crazy," Malcolm said flatly, and Trip stopped in his tracks. Reed indeed sounded as if he knew what he was saying, and that mad glint had disappeared from his eyes, leaving only sadness in its wake. "It was an act," Malcolm continued in that same flat voice. "I pretended I'd gone insane so you wouldn't get suspicious. So I didn't have to answer your questions. After all, how would I have explained that I was able to fly that vessel even though I'd never seen it before?" He let out a short laugh, and it was the saddest sound Trip had ever heard in his life. "And on the whole, I think I did quite well."

Trip stared at him, feeling as if the ground had suddenly disappeared under his feet, and he was falling into a deep abyss where there was no bottom. He opened his mouth to speak, but at first no sound came out, and he swallowed.

"Malcolm," he said, shaking his head. "Why? Why would you do that?"

Reed turned his head, staring at the horizon where the sun was setting against the background of a bruised sky, casting a crimson glow over the heathland.

"They said it was my choice," he said quietly. "Either this or the tests. It was a set-up; they wanted to simulate an escape, see how you'd react..."

He trailed off, and Trip leaned back against the flitter, pressing one fist against his mouth. He felt numb. Malcolm turned his head back to look at him.

"Go inside," he said. "It's getting dark. They'll be getting us soon."

Raising his head, Trip met his eyes. They were hollow, lacking all expression, and suddenly Trip remembered the time when Malcolm had woken up in sickbay three months ago. Then, he hadn't known where he was, hadn't recognized anyone, his mind a captive in the world of his nightmare. Malcolm had never told him about it, but Trip knew that whatever had happened in these tests must have been a horror beyond imagination. Something Malcolm would never - could never go through again. Lowering his hands, Trip pushed himself away from the flitter. That strange numb feeling inside him hadn't changed, but somehow the rational part of his mind seemed to have taken over control, telling him that he needed to get going, that no matter what he mustn't wait for them to come and get them.

"Look Malcolm," he said. "no matter what they told you, we can still get away. I can repair that flitter. We can get out of here, together."

For a moment, Malcolm only stared at him, then he slowly shook his head. "No. No, we can't. Get back inside."

"Malcolm!" At Reed's expressionless gaze, Trip felt despair rise within him. "Why are you doin' this? We can get away from them! We don't have to go back!"

"Get back inside," Malcolm repeated. Trip shook his head.

"No I won't. I'm gonna repair this thruster now, and then we're gonna get out of here."

Trip was just about to turn back to the engine when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eyes. He looked up - and froze. Malcolm was holding a weapon in his hand, some kind of phase pistol, and he was pointing it directly at Trip.

"Step away from the flitter," he said, but Trip couldn't move, not able to take his eyes off the gun Malcolm had suddenly produced out of nowhere.

"Malcolm..." he said, barely audible. "What are you doin'?"

But Reed didn't answer. Keeping his eyes fixed on Trip, he pulled some kind of communications device from his pocket and flipped it open.

"You can get us now," he said quietly. "We're done."

Chapter 5

Trip had lost count of how many hours had passed since they'd brought him back to the cell. Partly that was because he had no means of telling the time in this bare windowless room, but mostly because ever since he was back, confused thoughts and feelings of hurt and anger had been swirling through his mind, leaving him unable to think straight.

After Reed had contacted them, he and Malcolm had been standing there for another few minutes of terrible silence, and all the time Malcolm had been pointing that gun at him, looking at him with that non-existent expression on his face. Trip had seen neither guilt, nor shame or even regret on Reed's features, only that flat emptiness which had both angered and frightened him at the same time. Then the world had dissolved in the strange tingle of a transporter beam, and Trip had found himself back in the cell, alone. Malcolm was gone.

Trip had no idea where Reed was now, but, to tell the truth, he didn't really care. He was glad that he didn't have to face Malcolm now, for the mere thought of him made Trip feel so angry, so furious, so terribly sad and so lost at the same time that he simply couldn't bear it. He couldn't bring himself to believe that Malcolm had actually done this, that he'd actually betrayed him in this cruel lying way, but at the same time knew that it was so. And part of him even understood why Malcolm had done it, that it had nothing to do with bad intentions or selfishness, but that Reed had done so out of plain fear of what they might do to him otherwise. Simple human fear, or survival instinct, or whatever you wanted to call it, not any will to hurt his friend, to abandon him here when he needed him most.

Another part of his mind, however, speaking in a low hateful voice that was getting louder every minute, was telling him a different truth. It said that Reed had left him, that he'd done so on purpose and was now working for his captors, conspiring with them in order to keep him here, giving him no chance of ever getting away from this place again. First, Trip had tried not to listen to the terrible things the voice said, and when that hadn't worked, he'd tried to stomp down on it, shut it out of his mind, but the voice had persisted to whisper its hateful accusations, claiming that Reed had betrayed him out of pure malice. And Trip was beginning to listen to the voice. How could Reed have possibly known how to open that door, how to fly that flitter if they hadn't explained it to him first, if they hadn't revealed every single detail of their plan to him? The image of Reed sitting in the pilot seat of that flitter with them gathered around him, explaining him how to work the controls and showing him how to overload the thruster came to Trip's mind, and it hurt his very soul to think of that. And he realized he hated Reed. He hated him for what he had done, no matter what reasons he could possibly have. But at the same time he didn't want to hate his friend, and he hated Reed even more for putting him in this hopeless situation.

You have all reason to hate him, he heard the voice say as it finally came out of its hiding place at the back of his mind, growing louder and taking on substance. He's not your friend. A friend wouldn't do this to you.

Trip shook his head, trying to get rid of the treacherous voice. "He's scared," he whispered. "They frightened him into doin' this. Or maybe they gave him drugs or somethin'..."

You know that's not the truth, the voice said in an almost compassionate tone. He knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted to do this.

"No!" Trip bit his lip, hearing his voice break. What was this about anyway, why was he talking to voices in his head, was he going crazy or-

Yes, he wanted to do this, they didn't have to make him. And they couldn't possibly have made him do it, anyway. You know Reed's not a coward. He's a mean little bastard, but he's not a coward.

"He doesn't have to be a coward to be afraid of them," Trip said, speaking past the lump that was building in his throat. "They threatened him with the tests..."

The voice snickered. Says he. How can you believe that bullshit? He's been lying with every word he said.

"No," Trip whispered, but he knew he'd lost. No matter what he said, the voice came up with new arguments against it, and sensible arguments, too. Reed had betrayed him, and he had wanted to do so, but Trip just couldn't bring himself to believe it. "No, shut up."

No, I won't shut up. Someone needs to tell you this, because it's the truth. Reed did this on his own free will, no one had to force him to do it, and you-

"Shut up!" Trip yelled, feeling tears run down his cheeks. "Shut up, I don't want to listen to this, why can't you leave me alone-"

Burying his face in his arms, he tried to shut out the voice, but it wouldn't keep quiet, speaking in that same maliciously gleeful tone as it continued.

You are alone. No one will help you, and you had better not trust anyone. They'll keep trying their tricks, but you mustn't believe them ever again. You mustn't believe Reed. You mustn't believe anyone.

The voice filled his head, and as much as he despised it, in an odd twisted way he was glad for those words. They, at least, were the truth. He mustn't believe anyone if he wanted to survive in this terrible place. Not. Believe. Anyone. Ever again.

Still, there was Malcolm, and Trip felt so lost, so miserable only thinking of him. It hurt so terrible to have lost this friendship, and it hurt even more to realize that there had never been any friendship to lose. Reed didn't care a shit about him, didn't care a shit whether he lived or died, and had probably only acted his friend because Trip happened to be his CO and a friend of the Captain's. Trip couldn't believe he'd fallen for that, that he'd been stupid enough to think he'd been the one who'd managed to get close to Reed. Reed had never wanted anyone to get close to him, he didn't care about people, and certainly not about some naive blockhead who for some obscure reasons had tried to be his friend.

That's just like me, Trip thought bitterly, to fall for any stupid act someone's playing on me.

But not this time. Not ever again. He wouldn't believe anything anyone told him, and he wouldn't fall for their tricks. He wouldn't fall for Reed's tricks.

Suddenly his feelings of loss and hurt were replaced by fury. Who did that lying bastard think he was to do this to him, to make such a fool of him? Here he was, trying to find excuses for what Reed had done, crying, for God's sake, for his lost friendship, while Reed was probably sitting somewhere, laughing his head off at such stupidity.

Angrily wiping the tears off, Trip got to his feet, feeling hatred burn inside him. He wished Reed would come through this door now, face him so he could make him pay for what he'd done. Trip knew that if he were to get his hands on Reed now, he wouldn't hesitate to kill him and even though somewhere in his mind he was aware of the fact that this was crazy, this was madness, he knew he would do it anyway. Standing in the middle of the cell, Trip let his eyes wander over the walls of the room.

"Are you watchin'?" he asked, hating himself for the hoarseness of his tone. "Are you enjoyin' yourself, you bastard? This is what you wanted, isn't it, what you wanted all along. But you know what? You're not gonna play any more dirty tricks on me, I'm not gonna fall for anythin' you're doin' and - "

His voice failed, and for a moment Trip only stood there, breathing heavily. He listened to his words echo through the silence, unanswered. And he realized this wasn't just a nightmare, some temporary thing, but it was for real. It was not going to be reversed. Ever. Malcolm was gone. No, worse, the Malcolm he'd known had never even existed, and now that he'd become aware of that, he was alone. Really alone.

His knees gave way, and he crumpled to the floor, burying his face in his hands. Fresh tears rose in his eyes, and he didn't even try to hold them back.

"I hate you," he whispered, hardly able to hear his own voice which was drowned out by the pounding in his ears. "I hate you."

-###-

"Subject 2 is reacting the way we expected him to."

"He does seem to think that his companion betrayed him. I am surprised."

"What do you mean, First Assistant?"

"I cannot believe he did not notice it was a hologram that staged the escape."

"Their species is not very advanced. They are not familiar with holo technology. And moreover, the hologram was most accurately adjusted to the motion and speech patterns of Subject 1. There is no way he could have told the difference."

"But the hologram was programmed to behave in an unusual way, considering the usual behaviour patterns of Subject 1. Subject 2 could have gotten suspicious."

"It was necessary to convince him that Subject 1 was pretending he had lost his mind. Otherwise the experiment would have failed."

"Of course, Supervisor."

"What about the other subject? The real Subject 1? Did the injections take effect?"

"Most efficiently, Supervisor. The sleep deprivation is starting to show."

"Interesting. I cannot believe that a species who has to lie unconscious for several hours a day could have reached this stage of development. My evaluations showed that keeping him awake will lead to his death after a relatively short amount of time. Unfortunately we will not be able to observe him in this state any longer. We need to bring him back to the other cell soon."

"It will be interesting to observe Subject 2's reaction. Most interesting indeed."

"Second Assistant."

"Yes, Supervisor?"

"I noticed some time ago that you derive a certain pleasure from doing these researches. It is not appropriate. You know why these experiments need to be conducted. You know what is at stake. I will not tolerate this any longer."

"Yes, Supervisor."

"Now take Subject 1 back to the cell."

"Yes, sir."

"Proceed."

Chapter 6

Archer stood bent over the console in the situation room, staring down at the screen displaying an image of the planet they were currently orbiting. V'nera looked just the same like last time he'd seen it; a small grey world surrounded by layers of clouds, most of its surface covered in ice.

What an ugly little world, he thought in sudden disgust. He knew his dislike wasn't of natural origin, but was most likely a product of nights without sleep, of hours of sitting in his ready room, brooding and worrying, condemned to inactivity while he waited for Enterprise to finally reach her destination. Now that they were here, the memories of three months ago surfaced again, coming clearly to his mind as he stared down at the image of planet V'nera on the screen. And again, Archer was waiting, nervously pacing the room while T'Pol was doing scans of the surface, looking for these mysterious fluctuations she'd picked up back on Eden. The minutes seemed to stretch endlessly, and when the door finally swished open, Archer looked up sharply.

"Report," he said, and T'Pol put her padd down on the console, her face a rigid Vulcan mask as she spoke.

"Captain," she said. "I believe I have found the building Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed have mentioned in their after-mission reports."

Archer straightened up. "You found it?"

"Indeed Captain. Now that I knew the fluctuation patterns I had to look for, the building was quite easy to spot on the surface. It is several miles away from the place where we found the Commander and the Lieutenant three months ago."

Archer frowned. "What do you mean, several miles?"

T'Pol called up a map on the display which showed a plain area marked with two red spots.

"This," she said, pointing at the first spot, "is the landing site of the rescue mission. And this..." Her finger wandered across the display, coming to rest on the second spot. "...is the location of the building. The distance between the two amounts to sixty-five miles."

"Sixty-five miles?" Archer repeated incredulously. "Trip cannot possibly have walked a sixty-five miles!"

"I agree," T'Pol said. "It seems like the Lieutenant and the Commander were transported to the place where we found them."

Archer stared at her. "I'm not getting you. Who should have transported them?"

T'Pol looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Captain, it does seem to me like the people who were holding them captive had planned all of this. They staged and monitored the escape, and when they saw that Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed were both unconscious, they transported them several miles away from their complex to minimize the risk of it being detected by our scanners. They wanted us to find them."

Archer crossed his arms in front of his chest, not quite able to believe what T'Pol was telling him. They'd found Trip and Malcolm just in time down on that planet - Phlox had said a few minutes later would have been too late at least for Malcolm - and now T'Pol claimed these people had had it all planned out -

"That's quite the far-fetched theory, T'Pol, don't you think? There were so many variables, so many things that could have gone wrong..."

T'Pol clasped her hands behind her back. "It is the only explanation, Captain. And you must keep in mind that we know nearly nothing about these people. Maybe they have means of controlling events that we do not know about."

Archer frowned, not quite convinced, but decided to drop the subject for the moment. They didn't have the time to discuss T'Pol's theories while two of his officers were missing.

"What did you find out about that building?" he asked. "Were you able to scan it?"

"Not the interior," T'Pol said, pushing a few buttons beside the screen. A rectangular form appeared where the second spot had been. "This area is shielded by space and time distortions which are impenetrable to the ship's scanners."

"What kind of space and time distortions?" Archer asked. T'Pol raised another eyebrow.

"I have detected certain artificial anomalies in the space and time patterns which are surrounding the building and preventing any scans of the inside. I was, however, able to pick up their source." She pushed a button, and another spot appeared in the right upper corner of the rectangular field. "This, in all likelihood, is some kind of generating device which produces the distortions."

Archer shook his head. "Why would they cloak their building with space and time distortions? It doesn't make sense to me."

"I do not know, Captain. But as long as these distortions keep me from scanning, we cannot know if Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker really are inside that building."

"Can our phase cannons penetrate these distortions?"

T'Pol looked up at him. "It is highly probable. Since the cannons alter their frequency, their phase displacement should not be affected by these anomalies. We should be able to destroy the generator."

Archer paused for a moment. "But if we simply go and blow up the generator, we'll destroy most of the building as well, won't we?"

"If we were to use a pencilled phaser beam, there is a possibility of eighty percent that we will only destroy the area immediately surrounding the generating device."

Archer bit his lip. T'Pol's scientific way of putting it could not conceal the fact that they were discussing the idea of shooting at a building where two of his friends were being held captive.

"And what if Trip and Malcolm are in that area?" he asked quietly. T'Pol only raised an eyebrow, evenly meeting his eyes.

"There is a risk to it, Captain," she said. "But I suggest you hurry with your decision."

Archer looked down at the display again, his eyes coming to rest on the small rectangular form that represented the building. Of course he couldn't know for certain, but somehow he was sure Trip and Malcolm were in there. It was the only explanation that made sense. And if they were in there, then he indeed had to hurry. Archer's stomach clenched up at the thought that his friends might just as well be dead already, murdered by these people at whose hands they had almost died three months ago. But if he gave the order to destroy that generator, he might become the one who had killed them, and Archer didn't know if he was willing, if he was able to take that risk.

"Captain," T'Pol said. "There is no other possibility. And it will not help Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker if we take too long to consider."

Archer raised his head and looked at her. T'Pol's features were expressionless, but there was something in her eyes that told him that she was not just being the logical Vulcan, that she was as concerned for Trip and Malcolm as he himself was. Holding her gaze, he nodded slowly.

"Prepare the phase cannons," he said quietly. "We'll do it."

-###-

Picking up the jug, Malcolm slowly and carefully tried to pour the rest of the stale water into the plastic cup. Right then, another violent shiver ran through his body, and the water spilled onto the floor with an ugly, splashing sound. For a moment Malcolm stayed as he was, kneeling on the floor and staring down at the spreading puddle on the gray concrete, jug and cup still in hand. His dry throat screamed for water, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to care that he'd just spilled his last water resources on the floor. He was so tired.

Putting the cup and the jug back down, Malcolm retreated to his corner, drew his legs up to his chest and rested his head on his knees. The assistant probably wouldn't be coming back anytime soon, and so there would be no water, either, but all the same, Malcolm wished he wouldn't come at all. Every time that tall, hooded figure had entered the cell, he'd been given another one of these injections that made him shake and hurt all over, and wouldn't let him sleep. He didn't know how much time had passed since he'd been brought in here, but it seemed like an eternity. An eternity of sweating, shivering and desperately trying to fall asleep while the worry about Trip was driving him half crazy. The assistant had refused to answer any of his questions, had never spoken at all, and during all this time there had been no sound, no indication whatsoever that Trip was still alive. And Malcolm even found himself hoping that he wasn't. If they'd really decided to perform the tests on the Commander, Malcolm knew death would only come as a relief to Trip. During his own tests, Malcolm had wished countless times that he would die, that it would be over, but they hadn't allowed it, bringing him back to life again and again. Malcolm desperately hoped that Trip would be spared that agony.

Closing his eyes, Malcolm tried to push this out of his mind. He'd never been so tired all his life, and even the terrible guilt weighing down on his conscience had somehow been lessened by that all-embracing weariness. He so wished he could go to sleep, but they wouldn't let him. He knew that as soon as this injection would begin to wear off, they would come and give him another one, and another one, and another one, until he would either die of sleep deprivation or they would come up with another way of torturing him. In a way, he hoped for the first possibility to occur, but at the same time knew that the latter was more likely to happen. They wouldn't just let him die. It would be a waste of test material to simply let him snuff it.

The sound of the door swishing open made him raise his head. The assistant stood in the door frame, a dark silhouette against the light of the corridor, and Malcolm involuntarily retreated further into the corner, pressing his back against the wall. He waited for the assistant to come towards him, dreading the cold feeling of the hypospray against his neck, but the being didn't move.

"Come," the assistant said. Malcolm stared at him, feeling his insides contract with fear.

"What-" He cleared his throat. "What do you want with me?"

"Come," the alien repeated, and Malcolm slowly pushed himself up, using the wall for support. As he finally stood, his knees almost gave way as dizzyness clouded up his vision, and he blindly reached out, leaning against the rough wall to stay on his feet. The next moment he felt a cold hand grab him by the arm and drag him towards the door. Stumbling out into the corridor, Malcolm tried to keep his balance as the assistant pulled him along.

Once more he opened his mouth to ask where the assistant was taking him, but then closed it again, realizing it was no use. He wouldn't get an answer, anyway.

Turning around a corner, they entered the corridor leading to the other cell, and Malcolm tensed in the assistant's grip. Were they taking him here because Trip was dead? Even though for Trip's sake Malcolm had hoped the Commander was dead, now the thought of that door sliding open and revealing an empty cell frightened him badly. If Trip was dead, he was all alone, with Enterprise far away and no hope of rescue.

When the assistant punched in the door code, Malcolm had to keep from closing his eyes and turning away so he wouldn't have to face what he was afraid of. The door slid open, and Malcolm's heart skipped a beat. Was Trip-

The assistant pushed him forward, and Malcolm stumbled into the cell, hearing the door slide shut behind him. He looked around and then he saw him, sitting curled up against a wall in the corner.

"Trip!" Malcolm took a step towards the Commander who still hadn't raised his head. "Are you okay?"

Slowly, Trip looked up, and when his eyes fell on Malcolm, his features hardened. Pushing himself up, he got to his feet.

"What do you want?" he whispered, and Malcolm was taken aback at the open hatred in his voice. "What do you want here?"

"Trip?" he asked, taking another step in the Commander's direction, but Trip retreated, his eyes full of despise and cold anger as he looked at Malcolm.

"Stay away from me," he hissed. Malcolm stopped in his tracks. Trip was clearly not quite being himself, and Malcolm realized that they might have given him drugs or something that made him act this way. Staying where he was, Malcolm raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"It's okay, Trip," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Trip's eyes narrowed. "Hurt me? After all what happened, you come here and tell me you're not gonna hurt me?" He began advancing on Malcolm who retreated a few steps. He didn't know what Trip was talking about, but it was clear that for some reason the Commander was furious at him.

"What do you mean, Trip?" he asked, feeling his back make contact with the cold concrete of the wall. "What happened?"

"Oh no," Trip said, shaking his head and giving a short, derisive laugh. "Oh no, I won't fall for that. I know what this is about. You're goin' to act like you don't remember, like they made you do it, but I know better." By now, he was standing directly in front of Reed, and as Malcolm saw the look in his eyes, he involuntarily recoiled. He hardly recognized these eyes, they were so full of hate and disgust, but there was no sign of disorientation in them, or any other indication that Trip was under the influence of some kind of drug.

"What-" he began, but Trip interrupted, still speaking in that low, dangerous voice.

"Been havin' fun, huh? You all been havin' a good laugh at me? Oh, I'm sure it was fun, no doubt it was. After all, they're your friends now."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Malcolm said, slightly raising voice, and that moment Trip grabbed him by the front of his uniform, shaking him violently.

"You mean lyin' bastard, don't you think I know what this is about, don't you think I-"

In a desperate try to break free, Malcolm pushed him away, and Trip stumbled backwards. "Stop it, Trip! I don't know what's wrong, but-"

He never finished the sentence. Trip came towards him, and a second later Malcolm felt his head snap back as a fist connected with his jaw. The force of the blow made him lose his balance and he fell, a sharp pain shooting up his right arm as his elbow hit the concrete. Pressing a hand against his chin, Malcolm tried to sit up again, but a moment later the back of his head painfully hit the stone floor as Trip shoved him back, pinning him to the ground.

"You bastard!" he heard him scream and felt pain explode on the side of his head as Trip punched him in the face again and again. "You little piece of shit, I'm gonna kill you! You think you can do it again, you think you can trick me again, but you won't! You hear me? You won't!"

Suddenly, Malcolm felt hands close around his neck, and through a blur of tears he saw Trip's contorted face only inches from his own. Struggling, he tried to pull away Trip's hands, desperately kicking his legs to shake him off, and felt Trip's thumbs dig into his throat, choking him. He opened his mouth to say something, anything to make him stop, but only a gargling sound came out.

"You traitor!" Trip yelled, his voice seeming to come from far away. "You fuckin' son of a bitch, I'm gonna kill you!"

Malcolm's vision was narrowing, becoming blurred and ragged around the edges, and he felt like his chest would burst with the lack of air. Trip's hateful voice and the hands that were digging into his throat suddenly seemed very far away, all perceptions diminishing to a haze of sound and colour as the world faded away. All the time, Malcolm hadn't fully realized what was going on, but now, a second before he lost consciousness, he knew in all clarity what was going to happen. Trip was killing him, his best friend had lost his mind and was now choking him to death on the cold concrete floor of this cell, and if he'd had any air left to do so, Malcolm would have laughed.

"He is becoming violent."

"I noticed, Assistant. It was to be expected."

"Subject 1 does not seem to be fighting back."

"He is probably not in the condition to do so. And moreover, he was taken by surprise."

"I think there are other motivations as well. Despite his weakened condition, his survival instinct should not allow him to let himself get killed."

"Shall we wait and see if Subject 2 is really going to kill him, Supervisor?"

"No. We still need Subject 1. Go and take him back to the other cell. Take a weapon with you."

"Yes, Supervisor."

Chapter 7

An hour had passed since they had taken Reed away, but Trip was still sitting where they'd left him, staring down at his hands. He had killed him. He had killed Malcolm. Strangled him with his bare hands, pressing his thumbs into his throat, watching Malcolm's face turn first red, then blue, and feeling Reed's body go limp. When the assistants had grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him away, Reed hadn't been moving at all, showing no sign of life as the assistant picked him up and carried him away.

Only when the door had slid shut behind them, only when at least fifteen minutes of silence had passed, Trip had realized what had actually happened. That he was now a murderer. That he had killed the man who he had once thought to be his best friend. Trip was dismayed when he thought of what he'd done, that he'd killed a man just like that, but the fact that Malcolm was dead, murdered, didn't trigger any particular feeling within him. Actually, he felt a certain satisfaction at the thought of Malcolm being dead, and while something at the back of his mind was screaming at him that he'd done something terribly wrong, again there was that voice in his head, whispering things, leaving no room for anything else.

You did right. He deserved no better. One less to play dirty, cruel tricks on you. You did what was necessary. And you know you'll do it again if there is need.

Trip kept staring down at his hands, slowly turning them over. It was reassuring to know that they were able to kill, and that he could make them kill whoever he wanted. Anyone who wanted to harm him, anyone who wanted to play tricks on him, he could kill. Just like that.

That's right. Whoever you want. You are alone now, but that doesn't matter, because no one is going to play any tricks on you anymore. You won't let them.

Trip listened to the voice. He listened to it real close without trying to fight it, and realized that it was speaking the truth. He was alone, but that was alright; he had the voice that told him what to do, and he had his hands to defend himself against them. All of them.

"But what about their weapons?" he murmured, still staring at his hands without really seeing them. "What if they come up with new tricks, what if I fall for them again, what if-"

You're not going to fall for any tricks, the voice screeched, sounding a lot more agitated than before. You're not going to believe them! You're not going to believe anyone, anything, you hear me? Never again, you can't trust them, you can't trust anyone, understand, the only thing you can trust is what you know, are you getting this-

Trip clamped his hands over his ears, trying to shut out the painful high-pitched screaming.

"Yes! Yes, I'm gettin' you! Stop it!"

Good. The voice had calmed down again. Because that's what's important. Reed's dead, but that is not important, they are not important, the only thing that is important is not trusting anyone.

"I know," Trip said. "Not trustin' anyone, I won't trust anyone. I won't believe them. I won't fall for their tricks."

Suddenly, he felt a grin spread on his face. It was so easy. He couldn't believe that he hadn't seen it before. If you trusted people, they went and played their tricks on you. If you didn't they wouldn't. As simple as that. He chuckled, getting to his feet. It seemed so funny, letting his eyes wander over the walls and wondering where their surveillance camera was, it seemed so funny because that camera was of no use to them anymore. Now that he'd found a way to sabotage their plans, nothing would be of any use to them, and they could do whatever they wanted but they wouldn't get him.

"You hear me?" he asked, the grin still tugging at his lips. "You won't get me, no matter what you do. I don't know what you're up to, but it doesn't matter, because I won't fall for it. You hear me? I won't fall for your tricks!"

The thought of them sitting somewhere, hating him for messing up their plans, for killing Reed to mess up their plans, struck him as the funniest thing he'd ever heard about, and Trip let out a laugh, the sound of it making him feel even better.

"Too bad, huh?" he asked, turning around to face the other wall. "Too bad I spoiled your fun, too bad I killed that ass-licker of yours so you can't use him to play any more tricks on me! Well, I'm sorry, folks, but hey, c'est la vie! Maybe some day you'll find someone else, but not me! You hear me? Not me!"

Another laughing fit forced him to his knees, and he knelt on the floor, holding his stomach while tears were running down his cheeks, but he never noticed. Why should he be crying? There was no reason for him to cry, everything was alright, wasn't it, they weren't going to get him, and Reed wasn't going to get him either, for he was dead. Reed wasn't going to get him for he was dead. The idea was hilarious, and so Trip decided not to notice his tears, laughing and laughing as he knelt on the stone floor of the cell, listening to the turmoil in his head as the silence around him continued.

-###-

The first thing Malcolm became aware of was that he wasn't getting enough air. His eyes flew open, and he tried to take in a deep breath, at the same time feeling a cough rise in his sore throat. As he fought to breathe and cough at the same time, he almost choked, and felt a familiar panic take hold of him. This had happened before, he'd been lying on the floor before, not being able to breathe while strong hands were closing around his throat-

Trip. Trip had attacked him, had tried to strangle him to death.

Slowly pushing himself into a sitting position, Malcolm put a hand to his throat and forced himself to breathe evenly. After a while his lungs filled with oxygen again and his panic ebbed away. Taking a look around, Malcolm saw that he was back in the cell where they'd given him the injections, and that he was alone. A headsplitting ache was raging behind his forehead and he felt a dull throbbing in the back of his head where he'd hit the floor. Involuntarily he raised his hand to feel for the source of the pain, flinching as his fingers made contact with the sore spot. As he brought his hand away, there was blood on his fingers. It was half-clotted and sticky, and Malcolm realized that he must have been here for quite a while.

Without really noticing what he was doing, Malcolm awkwardly got to his feet and stumbled over to his corner where he'd spent so many hours curled up, leaning against the wall and trying to fall asleep. Now he carefully let himself slide down the wall, drew his knees to his chest and rested his aching head against the cold concrete, closing his eyes.

He felt like he would have liked to cry, but the memories of what had happened left his emotions so tangled up and confused that Malcolm didn't even find it in him to shed the tears that were burning in his chest. Trip had tried to kill him, and Malcolm had no idea what had made him so angry, could find no explanation whatsoever that made any sense. As he replayed the horrible scene over and over in his mind, the look of hate in Trip's eyes came back to him, as well as the things he'd said. Things that made no sense. Trip had accused him of being a traitor, of conspiring with their captors to play tricks on him and Malcolm just didn't know what would make the Commander think so. For it was clear that Trip was really convinced that Malcolm had betrayed him in some way. It hadn't been some drug-induced delusion. Trip's eyes had been full of hate, disgust and maybe even madness, but they had been clear, not glazed over and hazy like the eyes of a drugged person. Trip hated him, and he had no idea why.

But maybe that wasn't the truth. Maybe Malcolm did know why Trip hated him, after all. Suddenly an image came to his mind, the image of himself cowering on a chair in a blue lit room, trembling, shaking his head, saying "No, I won't." No, he wouldn't go through these tests again, no matter at what cost, even if it meant betraying Trip. And he had betrayed Trip. The moment these words, "No, I won't" had left his mouth, he'd condemned Trip to the same thing he'd gone through, and he'd known it. They'd told him they'd take "the other subject" and it wasn't like Reed had been too scared to understand what they'd meant by that. He'd understood perfectly well. And even though he despised himself for what he'd done, he knew he'd do the same thing again. That knowledge made him hate himself even more, for it meant that he was a traitor, and that Trip had every right to be disgusted with him. To hate him.

But how could Trip have known? Had they told him about it, had he maybe watched that interrogation, and if he had, for what reason? Had they planned this, had they staged this situation so they could see how Trip would react? Trip hadn't looked like they'd harmed him during the time Malcolm had been away, let alone performed any tests on him. No, the only thing changed about him had been that inexplicable fury, that mad glint in his eyes as he'd advanced on Malcolm, clearly intending to kill him. Nothing about this seemed to fit, and even though Malcolm suspected that somehow it was them who were responsible for this, he couldn't figure out what they'd done, and why. Maybe all of this was just another one of their games, and they'd never intended to use Trip for their tests, anyway, or maybe they were using him, again-

Resting his forehead on his knees, Malcolm buried his fingers in his hair and tried to shut out the crazy thoughts that were swirling through his mind. Eventually, it didn't matter what had happened, Trip hated him so much that he wanted to kill him, and Malcolm was alone. Now that he'd lost the only person he could trust in this place, the only person here who'd cared if he lived or died, he was truly and utterly alone. In an almost detached way, Malcolm realized that it didn't really matter anymore whether he survived or not. Enterprise was light years away, they couldn't know where they were, and unless Trip and he somehow managed to get out of here on their own - which wouldn't happen - they would stay here for the rest of their lives. They would stay here and their captors would continue to torture them, use them for their tests and cruel games, keeping them alive for as long as possible-

Raising his head, Malcolm groped for the jug and tilted it so he could see if there was any water left. Of course there wasn't; he'd spilled it earlier before they'd taken him to the other cell, and of course they hadn't bothered to refill it in the meantime. What was it to them that his throat felt as if it were on fire, that he couldn't even pour a drink of water, shaking so hard from the drugs they'd given him, what was any of this to them? He was alive, and he wasn't going to die of dehydration anytime soon, so why would they care? He was nothing but a test subject to them, and the only thing they cared about was that they couldn't let him die, not yet, when he still was of use.

His grip on the jug's handle tightened, his knuckles turning white, and all of a sudden, with a sharp jerky movement, Malcolm raised the jug, bringing it down hard on the concrete floor of the cell. It shattered, shards flying in all directions, one of them cutting deep into the back of his hand. It hurt, a sharp pain slicing through his arm, but Malcolm didn't really notice, feeling a deep, angry satisfaction as he stared at the remains of the broken jug. That sound, the noise of the hard material smashing on the floor, had felt so good in his ears, and being aware of the fact that it was him who'd caused that sound made him feel even better. And suddenly there was another sound, much louder than before, making the floor tremble and small crumbs of concrete come down from the ceiling, but Malcolm didn't hear it. Mesmerized, he stared at the blood dripping from his hand onto the shards on the floor, his attention focused only on that one image. Blood. Shards. Destruction.

Slowly, very slowly he reached out with his injured hand, picking up one of the bigger shards and examining it closely. It was triangular, grey and of a hard, smooth material, one of its angles more pointed than the others. Carefully, he probed the point with his thumb, and the second his finger made contact with the sharp edge of the shard, a drop of blood emerged where the skin had been penetrated. Malcolm squeezed the thumb with his other hand, and the bubble of blood grew bigger, breaking and running down his palm towards his wrist.

Again, there was a loud noise, like walls bursting apart and rocks falling, and Malcolm jumped, but didn't tear away his eyes from the shard. Gripping it harder, feeling its edges cut through the skin of his right hand, Malcolm slowly turned his other hand palm up and rested it against his thigh. On his wrist, he could see the veins pulsing, blue against the white skin. Placing the shard's point right next to the outermost of the blue strings, Malcolm applied more pressure, and with one quick movement drew the shard across his wrist. Blood gushed out the cut, soaking his uniform sleeve, and it hurt, but Malcolm didn't notice, quickly changing the shard into his other hand. It almost slid through his fingers which were slippery with blood and rapidly growing numb, and Malcolm gripped it harder, turning around his other hand. The second cut was much easier than the first one, and Malcolm felt blackness rag his vision, letting go of the shard and hearing it fall to the floor with a clatter. Blood was everywhere, on his arms, in his lap and on the floor, and somewhere there was pain, but the only thing Malcolm really felt was relief. A deep, all-embracing relief.

Chapter 8

A feeling of déjà vu took hold of Archer as the shuttlepod broke through the last layer of clouds and entered the dark skies above V'nera's snow-covered surface. Again, it was Mayweather, T'Pol, Phlox and him setting out to find Trip and Malcolm, and again it was night on the northern hemisphere of the planet, snow lashing against the window as the shuttle approached the surface on its descending course. No one had spoken since the shuttle had left the launch bay, and there wasn't much to say, either. The events of the last hour were still present in everybody's mind, and Archer still had trouble comprehending what had happened.

When he'd given the order to destroy that generator T'Pol had scanned inside the building, he'd been sceptical about the outcome. Very sceptical, to say the truth. Not only was he endangering Trip and Malcolm by blasting away half of that complex, but it was also very unsure whether destroying the generator would have any effect on the aliens' space and time cloaking field. But there had been no other options, and so Archer had watched as T'Pol calmly pressed the button that sent the phaser beam down on its way to the surface. The scanners had picked up an explosion, the force of the blast causing the field to break down for a few seconds, and T'Pol had fired again. This time, the distortions had vanished, the field seemingly disappearing into thin air, and T'Pol had looked up, announcing that the generator was down. The real surprise, however, had come a few seconds later when they'd taken a full internal scan of what was left of the building. Again, there was nothing. Nothing but two human bio signs in different parts of the building, and a few energy readings, probably the internal power sources of the complex. None of T'Pol's scans had revealed any alien bio sign, neither in any part of the building nor in the surrounding area.

But there hadn't been time to conduct more thorough scans, nor had there been time to wonder what the hell was going on down there. T'Pol's instruments showed clearly that Trip and Malcolm had survived the explosion, and the only thing that mattered to Archer now was getting his officers out of there.

As Travis piloted the shuttle through the snowstorm, the silence continued, and once more Archer glanced at the shuttle's scanners to see if those two bio signs were still there. He couldn't believe that this would go so smoothly, without a fight, without them having to take down heavily armed alien forces. That there should be nothing down there. The relief he felt at finding both his officers still alive mingled with concern. He hadn't really known what to expect when he'd ordered Travis to set course to V'nera four days ago, but it had certainly not been this. He was glad that they had found Trip and Malcolm so easily, but after all those worried hours, after all those sleepless nights something about the whole thing didn't smell right to him. Not at all.

"Initiating landing procedure," Travis voice came from the helm, breaking the silence. Archer looked out the window again, but he couldn't make out much in the stormy night outside.

"How far are we from the building, T'Pol?" he asked, and the Vulcan took a look at the displays.

"I have chosen a landing site approximately sixty feet away from the entrance of the building."

Archer nodded curtly. "Take us down, Travis."

A slight tremor ran through the shuttle as it made contact with the ground. Archer got a flashlight out of one of the storage compartments, once more experiencing that feeling of déjà vu as T'Pol and Phlox followed him to the hatch.

"Travis, you're coming with us," he said. "Keep the systems online."

"Aye, sir." Travis got up from the pilot seat, his hand automatically checking the phaser that was clipped to his waist.

Outside it was even colder than last time, and the blizzard made it impossible to see farther than a twenty feet. Travis, who'd been the last to climb out of the shuttle, had to use all his strength to close the hatch against the force of the blowing wind.

"This way," T'Pol said, setting off in a quick pace, and Archer and the rest had to hurry to keep up with her. Blinking into the snowstorm, Archer thought he could make out a huge dark shape against the white of the snow swirling through the air.

"T'Pol!" he said, grabbing her arm, and she nodded curtly.

"I see it."

Drawing his own weapon, Archer threw Phlox and Mayweather a quick glance over his shoulder. "Keep your phasers ready."

In the meantime they were close enough for Archer to make out the clear shapes of the gigantic building. T'Pol consulted her scanner again, then pointed into the dark.

"The entrance is over there."

Archer tightened his grip on the phaser. "Are you sure there are no other bio signs?"

"Positive." T'Pol took another glance at the display. "Only two humans." She looked up at Archer. "One of them is in a room quite close to the entrance."

Up close the building seemed to have something sinister about it. As they approached the door, Archer's heart sank. In the wall beside the bulkhead there were no controls, not even a panel that looked like it would open the door, and the pale red material looked quite impenetrable. Archer turned to T'Pol. "How thick is it?"

"About seven centimeters," she answered. "We should be able to cut through it."

Archer raised his phase pistol, changing it to the highest setting. "Stand back."

A red beam shot out of the phaser's muzzle, cutting a straight line from top to bottom in the middle of the bulkhead. When the smoke had cleared, T'Pol stepped forward, latched her fingers in the gap Archer had created, and pushed the door apart. Feeling his heart thumping in his chest, Archer pointed his flashlight at the opening, illuminating a dark spacious corridor behind it.

"Let's go," he said, turning sideways to step through the narrow gap. Instinctively, he raised his phaser, letting his eyes wander over the shadowy hallway. "Power seems to be down," he said to T'Pol who'd followed him into the building and was now checking her scanner again.

"In this part of the complex it is," she said, recalibrating the scanner's settings. "The life sign is three hundred feet ahead, in this direction, Captain."

Archer motioned for her to lead the way, then threw a glance over his shoulder at Phlox and Mayweather, who were looking around quite apprehensively.

"Captain..." Travis said. "I can't believe there's no one in here. Couldn't... couldn't they be cloaking their bio signs or something?"

Archer shook his head. "The building was cloaked. There was no need for them to shield themselves before we destroyed the generator."

"That corridor, Captain," T'Pol interrupted, pointing at an even broader hallway branching off to the right. As they turned around the corner, Archer stopped for a split-second, almost startling at the enormous dimensions of the building. The corridor they were in now was so long they couldn't even make out the end, and you could easily have flown a shuttle along it without grazing the walls or ceiling that was at least a twenty feet from the floor. All along both sides of the hallway there were bulkheads, an endless row of doors stretching in both directions.

"What the hell is this?" he asked, but no one gave him an answer. Holding up her scanner, T'Pol walked over to one of the doors across from them, and Archer hurried to catch up.

"In that room, Captain."

Aiming with his phaser, Archer fired at the panel beside the door. Sparks erupted, and the bulkhead gave a low hiss, then slid open. Quickly stepping through the door, Archer raised the flashlight, but the room seemed to be empty.

"Hello?" he asked, his voice echoing from the walls as he spoke. No answer. Archer let the flashlight's halo wander over the room, and stopped dead when the light fell on a crumpled figure lying against the wall in a corner, a dark substance pooling on the floor around it.

"Malcolm!" Archer crossed the room and dropped to his knees beside him, feeling his hands grow cold at the sight. There was blood everywhere, on the floor, on Malcolm's hands and uniform, and Archer could feel it soak through the cloth of his uniform pants as he knelt beside Reed.

"Doctor!" he called, but Phlox was already there, all but pushing him aside as he got to his knees as well.

"Hold up the flashlight, Captain," the doctor directed, and Archer complied, gripping the flashlight harder as he tried to keep his hand from shaking.

"Phlox?" he urged, but the doctor didn't answer, motioning for T'Pol to come closer.

"Press your hands on his wrists," he said, opening his medkit. "It'll staunch the blood flow."

With swift and skilled movements, Phlox began to apply a pressure bandage on Malcolm's left wrist while T'Pol had her hands clamped over his right one. From the corner of his eyes, Archer saw Travis' worried face.

"What's wrong, doctor?" the ensign asked, watching as Phlox pushed T'Pol's hands aside and began to bandage Reed's other wrist.

"It seems Lieutenant Reed attempted suicide," the doctor said. "His wrists are slit." Finishing his work, Phlox pulled out a hypospray and pressed it against Reed's neck, then looked up at Archer. "Captain, you need to contact the ship. Lieutenant Reed has to be taken to sickbay immediately."

"Can we transport him?" Archer asked, and Phlox closed his medkit, getting up.

"There is a risk to it, but we cannot afford any further delays. He has lost a great amount of blood, and it would take too long to use the shuttle."

Archer nodded, pulling out his communicator. "Archer to Enterprise."

"Go ahead, sir," Hoshi's voice answered.

"We need to make an emergency transport," he said. "Phlox and Lieutenant Reed to beam up. Tell Ensign Cutler to have a med team with a gurney stand by."

"Aye, sir."

Hoshi cut the connection, and Archer waved a hand at T'Pol and Mayweather. "Stand back."

Taking a step backwards, they watched as first Reed, then Phlox disappeared in the sparkle of the transporter beam. When the last glitter of light had dissipated, Archer lowered the flashlight's halo to the puddle of blood and became aware of something lying on the floor next to the spot where Reed had been sitting.

"Shards," T'Pol said, crouching down and picking up one of the blood spattered pieces. "It looks like he used them to inflict these wounds on himself."

"Maybe he didn't do it himself," Archer said, the words coming out a little snappier than he'd intended them to. T'Pol only raised an eyebrow at him, and Archer abruptly turned the flashlight away from the blood, taking a deep breath. His knees felt a little shaky, and he swallowed, trying to concentrate on the matters at hand. They had to find Trip, and they needed to hurry.

"Let's go," Archer said, turning towards the door. Secretly, he was relieved to get out of this cold dark room that smelled of blood and urine and gave the impression of the walls closing in on anybody who stayed in here for too long. Briefly pausing in the doorway, he looked at his science officer. "T'Pol? Which way?"

Without another word, T'Pol brushed past him, her eyes focused on the scanner's display as she strode down the corridor in the opposite direction from where they'd come. Archer and Mayweather both kept their phasers ready as they followed, throwing wary glances over their shoulders as they made their way down the dark hallway. Despite the fact that the complex seemed to be deserted, Archer felt nervousness build in his stomach the longer they stayed in that huge, silent building. Somehow the atmosphere in this gigantic maze of corridors gave him the creeps.

"What would they need such a huge building for?" Travis said, and even though he'd spoken in a low voice, Archer almost jumped. Before he had a chance to answer, however, T'Pol spoke up.

"According to my scans, most of these rooms are empty," she said quietly, not turning around. "They seem to serve no obvious purpose."

Letting his gaze wander over the seemingly endless row of bulkheads along the wall, Archer couldn't suppress a slight shiver running down his spine. This whole business was getting weirder every minute, and Archer felt the need to get out of here as soon as possible. This was not a good place.

"This way, Captain," T'Pol said, indicating a smaller hallway to their left. A minute later she came to a halt in front of a door, and Archer raised his phaser. Again he had no trouble triggering the opening mechanism, and the bulkhead slid aside, revealing darkness behind it. Pointing ahead with the flashlight, Archer entered, and almost immediately his eyes fell on Trip who was sitting curled up against the opposite wall. He didn't raise his head as the halo of light fell upon him, and Archer saw that he had his arms wrapped around his knees and was moving back and forth in a slow, rocking motion.

"Trip?" Archer asked, taking a careful step towards him. At his voice, the man on the floor looked up, blinking in the bright shine of the flashlight. His face was expressionless, but his voice had a dangerous undertone to it as he spoke.

"Stay away from me."

Archer hesitated for a moment, then stepped a bit closer, careful not to make any rash movements. "It's me, Trip," he said. "It's Jon. We've come to get you out of here."

Slowly, Trip pushed himself up against the wall, shaking his head. "Leave me alone. Don't come closer."

"Trip!" Without thinking about it, Archer reached out to put a hand on his friend's shoulder, and the next second Trip whose movements had been slow and awkward up until now lunged forward, shoving his arm away.

"I told you, stay away!"

For a moment, Archer couldn't move, staring at Trip's face which was contorted in fury, his eyes filled with a fear and hatred that seemed to have nothing to do with Archer's presence, coming from somewhere deep inside. He saw Trip's hands reach out for his neck, and from the corner of his eyes noticed a quick movement. A moment later Trip's eyes rolled up, and he slumped forward into Archer's arms, rendered unconscious by the Vulcan nerve pinch. Looking up, Archer saw T'Pol raise an eyebrow at him.

"This will last for thirty minutes at the most," she said calmly. "I advise we bring him back to Enterprise as soon as possible."

Gently lowering Trip onto the floor, Archer pointed the flashlight at his friend's face and cautiously pulled up one lid. "It doesn't seem to be a drug induced state," he said, feeling his chest contract as he looked at Trip's pale, thin face. T'Pol consulted her scanner.

"It isn't," she said. "Except for a slight case of malnutrition the Commander seems to be physically fine."

"Then why did he attack me?" Archer asked. "He seemed ready to kill me."

T'Pol crouched down beside him, putting a hand on his arm. "Captain. We don't know what happened here and what the Commander went through. I strongly suggest we get him back to the ship so Dr. Phlox can help him."

Still looking down at Trip, Archer nodded. "Travis," he said, raising his voice a little, and Mayweather stepped up beside him.

"Sir?"

"You and T'Pol take Trip back to the shuttle and return to Enterprise. Come back for me when you're done." He got up. "I'll take a look around."

Handing her flashlight and scanner to Mayweather, T'Pol bent down to pick up Trip. As she straightened up with the heavy weight in her arms she gave Archer one last glance.

"Do you think it is advisable to stay here alone, Captain?"

Archer pulled out his scanner. "We need to find out more about these people," he said. "I count on you to get Trip safely back to Enterprise."

T'Pol held his gaze for another few seconds, then nodded once. "Follow me, Ensign."

After they'd left, Archer took another look around the room. It was completely empty except for a small jug and a cup standing on the floor, and again he noticed that smell of sweat, excrement and hospital hanging in the air. Picking up the jug, Archer tilted it to one side and saw that it was half-filled with some colourless liquid, presumably water. Examining it more closely, Archer realized that it must have been a container like this Reed had smashed to slit his wrists with the shards. The image of Malcolm sitting in a corner of that cold room, drawing a jagged piece of that smooth grey material across his arm came to his mind, and he pressed his lips together, dropping the jug with a little more force than necessary. It shattered with an ugly, crunching sound, and water splashed onto his boots, soaking the cuff of his uniform pants.

Abruptly, he turned around and left, not looking back as he strode down the corridor. A glance at his scanner confirmed that he was indeed walking in the right direction, approaching the strongest remaining power source in the building. T'Pol had said this was probably some kind of main computer, and even though Archer had a feeling it might be impossible or at least very difficult to access the data, he knew he had to try, anyway. Walking down another dark hallway, Archer kept his eyes firmly fixed on the scanner's display and tried to concentrate on finding his way through that maze. He knew that if he kept thinking about what had happened in the last half-hour, how they'd found Trip and Malcolm, he wouldn't be able to finish this job properly. Usually, Archer wasn't that easily affected by scary, strange-looking places, but this was different. There was something wrong with this place; not with the building itself, but with how it felt. It was like he didn't belong here, as if he was trespassing and the rightly owner of this place was following his every move, watching and waiting.

Nonsense, he told himself, picking up his pace a little as he turned around another corner. This was nothing but an abandoned building with thousands of empty rooms and corridors, strange maybe, but not some kind of haunted house. Archer raised his eyes from the scanner - and stopped in his tracks. Twenty feet further down the hallway where the corridor made a bend there was an odd blue glow in the darkness, the same light he'd seen back in the forest where Trip and Malcolm had disappeared. Swallowing hard, Archer gripped his scanner tighter and forced himself to keep walking. The light didn't move, and when he had reached the bend Archer saw that the hallway he'd entered was illuminated by ceiling lamps emitting that eerie blue shine. Power seems to be working in this part of the building, he thought, checking his scanner to see how far he was from the power source. He raised his eyebrows when he realized that the energy reading was actually three hundred feet ahead behind a door at the end of that corridor. As he walked down the hallway, he switched off the flashlight and tucked it away, pulling out his phaser. After a moment's hesitation he switched its setting to "kill", keeping it ready as he approached the door at the end of the corridor.

He fired at the panel next to it on the wall, and for a moment it looked as if the door wouldn't open. Then, however, it gave a low hiss and a small gap appeared between the two double doors. Pushing them apart, Archer entered the room. It wasn't very big, lit by the same blue light as the hallway outside, and it was empty except for a small terminal standing right in the middle. Stepping up closer, Archer saw that it wasn't even a real terminal, only a grey screen embedded in some kind of blank console. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch the monitor, and as soon as his fingers made contact with the smooth material of the surface, an image sprang to life. As Archer realized what it was that he was seeing, he pressed a hand to his mouth, feeling numb. Half the screen was filled with a full-shot of one of those rooms, the image focused on someone lying on the floor in a corner. Archer didn't recognize the species, but it was clear that the person was in a great deal of pain. The other half of the monitor was filled with some kind of text written in strange, angular letters, and Archer realized that it must be some kind of protocol. As he touched the screen again, the image changed, now showing different letters and the picture of another alien. Again, Archer didn't recognize the race, but it was obvious that this alien also was a prisoner, sitting in one of those empty cells. Another touch brought up another image, and suddenly Archer understood. This was an archive, protocols and recordings of hundreds, maybe thousands of people the owners of this building had abducted and used for their tests. Both disgusted and mesmerized, Archer touched the screen again and again, calling up file after same-looking file, until he came across an image that made him stop in his tracks. This alien was clearly Denobulan, a small woman kneeling on the floor in the middle of a cell, doubled up, her arms wrapped around her midriff. She was crying.

Archer had seen enough. Feeling sick, he turned away from the monitor, fighting the urge to destroy that perverted archive with one well-aimed shot from his phaser. Suddenly, something lying on the floor next to the console caught his attention, and he bent down to pick it up. It looked like a padd, and Archer turned it over in his hands, not sure if he should even try to get it working. He was spared the decision when the padd's display suddenly came to life all by itself, apparently triggered by the touch of his fingers. Staring down at the small screen, Archer felt a hard knot build in his chest. In this file, it was Malcolm in that cell, curled up in a corner of the room, his eyes closed as he leaned against the wall. He was shivering, and there seemed to be a thin film of sweat on his forehead. Tearing his gaze away from the image, Archer's eyes fell on the text beside it, and he almost lost his grip on the padd as he saw that those paragraphs were written in English.

Time 35801

After having received the fifth injection, Subject 1 seems to have lapsed into a state of unawareness. The drugs have the expected effect on his metabolism.

Time 35815

Subject 1 has suffered a minor seizure. Result of sleep deprivation?

Archer noticed that he was closing his fingers around the padd so hard his knuckles turned white, and deliberately loosened his grip. Briefly he closed his eyes, then shoved the padd into one of his uniform pockets, pulling out his communicator. He wasn't staying here for one more minute.

"Archer to Enterprise."

"Go ahead, Captain." Hoshi's voice echoed hollowly in the empty room.

"Is Travis already on his way back down to the surface?"

"No, sir." Hoshi paused for a moment. "He was held up."

"Held up?" Archer asked, frowning. Hoshi's voice sounded deliberately professional as she answered.

"Commander Tucker woke up on the way back, and there were some small problems. The situation is under control now," she added a little too quickly, but Archer decided not to ask further at the moment.

"Tell Travis I won't need him to get me," he said instead. "I'll transport up immediately."

"Everything alright, sir?" Hoshi asked, and Archer had to suppress a grim smile at the irony of the question.

"I'm fine," he said. "But I got some work for you and T'Pol, and it needs to be done as soon as possible."

"Aye, sir. I'll notify the transporter crew. Sato out."

He flipped his communicator shut, and when a few moments later the room dissolved in the glitter of the transporter beam, Archer realized that getting away from this place was the best thing that had happened to him all day.

Chapter 9

When Malcolm woke up, the sickbay lights were dimmed, and it was night on Enterprise. It wasn't the first time his mind had swum up from the depths of unconsciousness, but on those previous occasions he'd never been fully aware of what was going on. He had realized that he was on Enterprise, in sickbay, and he'd heard people talking to him, but he hadn't understood what they were saying. After a while, he'd always drifted off again, returning to that warm dark place where he'd spent what seemed like half a lifetime.

Now, however, he realized with something akin to surprise that he didn't want to go back to sleep again. That feeling of being rested, of not being tired, was something he hadn't experienced in quite some time, but he had no idea why that would be the case. He tried to remember what had happened, why he was here in sickbay, but his mind came up blank.

Slowly turning his head, he took a good look at his surroundings for the first time, and his gaze fell on the dropper bottle hanging above him. Idly, his eyes traced the tube snaking down towards the bed and came to rest on the needle inserted in the crook of his arm. He studied it for a moment, wondering why the stuff in the drip always looked like plain old water. Maybe it was water, he mused, and the doctors only got so much fun out of poking their patients with needles and telling them to lie still that they'd invented this devious device to be able to pursue these activities at their leisure. Thinking of what Trip would say if he could hear him - "there's only one person on this ship who'd come up with such a load of horse-puckey, Malcolm" - he felt a slight smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Tearing his gaze away from the band aid that was holding the needle in place, he noticed with mild surprise that his wrist was bandaged and that there were several healing cuts on his palm, glistening wet with some kind of gel. Suddenly, without warning, an image flashed through his mind, and his smile vanished in an instant.

-sitting on the hard floor, clenching his fist around something sharp that cuts his skin, hurting and shivering all over-

Malcolm gasped for air, turning his head to the other side, and saw that his other wrist was bandaged as well. Another image came up in his mind-

-blood pouring from the gash in his skin, warmth embracing his arm as the red liquid soaks through his uniform-

He closed his eyes, moaning softly. He didn't want to remember these things, but the images kept flooding his mind, and Malcolm had no way of protecting himself. And suddenly he saw Trip, red-faced, screaming-

-"You fuckin' son of a bitch, I'm gonna kill you!" He hears the voice and he is suffocating, hands are closing around his neck and Trip is choking him to death-

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, feeling hot tears rise behind them. He tried to block the memories and at the same time knew that he couldn't. He remembered now. Trip had tried to kill him, and there were these bandages on his wrists, bandages that could mean only one thing-

He heard steps coming nearer but didn't open his eyes, hoping that whoever it was would leave again if he pretended to be asleep. He couldn't talk to anyone now, convince them that he was fine as he always did. A moment later Malcolm felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Lieutenant?" Phlox' voice asked quietly. "Are you awake?"

Malcolm shook his head, aware of the fact that this was a ridiculous gesture. Go away, he pleaded in his head, go away. Leave me alone.

"Lieutenant." Phlox' grip became firmer. "Come on, look at me. Everything's alright."

Realizing that Phlox wouldn't go away until he complied, Malcolm reluctantly turned his head, slowly prising his eyes open to see the doctor smile down at him.

"How are you feeling?"

Malcolm only stared back at him, giving no response, and Phlox turned away to check something on the monitor above the bed, continuing to talk while he did so.

"You seem to be doing a lot better than yesterday, Lieutenant. Your cetone levels are almost back to normal, looks like we can take you off the drip in another day or so. I was able to rid your blood of the remains of the substances you-"

"Did I try to kill myself?" Malcolm interrupted, raising one bandaged hand. Phlox paused, looking back down at him, and Malcolm thought he saw something like dismay cross the doctor's features before Phlox was able to cover it up.

"Lieutenant... maybe this isn't the best time to talk about that. You should try and get some rest now-"

"Did I?" Malcolm insisted, but looking at Phlox' face he already knew the answer to his question. The doctor folded his hands, placing them on the edge of the bed.

"It seems so. You'd lost quite a lot of blood when we found you, and I had to give you a transfusion. You'll be alright, though."

Malcolm shook his head, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. "I don't remember."

"I'm sure it'll come back to you soon," Phlox said gently. "I gave you some sedatives and painkillers, they might be affecting your memory."

Remembering that last image that had flashed up in his mind, Malcolm turned his eyes back to Phlox. "What about Trip?" he asked. "Is he alright?"

Phlox hesitated. "The Commander will be fine as well," he said, but something in his voice caught Malcolm's attention. He'd already opened his mouth to ask further when Phlox again put a hand on his arm.

"I promised the Captain to notify him as soon as you're awake. If you'll excuse me, Lieutenant..."

Phlox left, pushing the white curtains back into place behind him. Malcolm heard him talking over the comm and closed his eyes, firmly telling himself that he mustn't fall to pieces now. He felt like it, he wished he could simply let the tears flow, but knew he couldn't do so. Archer was coming to talk to him, and Malcolm wasn't going to make a fool of himself by crying like a baby in front of the Captain. Biting his lower lip, he concentrated on calming down his ragged breathing and tried to get his upset feelings under control. He was not going to cry.

He heard the low hiss of the sickbay doors opening, and the muffled voices of Phlox and Archer talking at a distance. A moment later steps came closer to the bed, and the curtain was being pushed aside again. The Captain appeared beside the bed, and Malcolm took another deep breath. Don't cry, he told himself.

"Malcolm," Archer said, smiling. "Good to see you awake."

"Captain," Malcolm managed, speaking past the lump that had formed in his throat. The next moment he startled as a small bark came from below. Archer grinned, bent down and reappeared a moment later holding Porthos in his arms.

"He just wouldn't stay in my quarters," he said apologetically. "I didn't want him to start howling."

A little perplexed, Malcolm nodded, and Archer set the dog down next to him on the biobed. Sniffing and wagging his tail, Porthos settled down on the blanket and snuggled closer to Reed. Malcolm felt the dog's soft fur brush against his bare arm, and something about the animal's warm presence made his tense control waver, causing his upset feelings to surface again. In a last feeble attempt to hide his tears he turned his head away, closing his eyes, and a moment later felt Archer's hand on his shoulder.

"Malcolm," he heard him say. "It's okay."

Malcolm shook his head a little, raising a hand to wipe off the tears. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, wincing inwardly at his choked tone of voice. "I... I didn't..."

"It's okay," Archer repeated. "Don't apologize. Do you want me to come back later?"

Swallowing hard, Malcolm willed the tears to stop and tried to get a grip on himself. Bloody idiot, couldn't stop yourself from making a scene...

"That's alright, sir," he said, fighting for his voice to sound normal. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

Malcolm nodded, and Archer's hand lingered on his shoulder for another two seconds before the Captain went to get himself a chair. Feeling something warm and scratchy brush against his fingers, Malcolm glanced down and saw that Porthos was licking his hand, apparently trying to offer him comfort dog-fashion. For some reason it suddenly felt a lot easier to keep the tears at bay, and Malcolm looked back at the Captain who'd taken a seat next to the bed.

"How's Trip, sir?"

Archer's smile faded, and he averted his eyes, examining his hands. "Not so good, I'm afraid. He... he's not quite being himself."

Malcolm licked his lips, remembering the madness in Trip's eyes when he'd attacked him back in that cell. "What do you mean?"

Archer looked up, his voice sounding subdued as he spoke. "He's... very scared. He doesn't believe we're real, keeps saying all of this is some kind of trick or set-up. He won't let anybody come near him, and when you try to touch him, he... becomes violent."

Malcolm swallowed, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. "I know," he said barely audible. "Back in that place, he attacked me. He tried to kill me."

Involuntarily, his hand went up to his throat, and he heard Archer's voice, full of compassion as he continued.

"It wasn't his fault," the Captain said quietly. "After we'd gotten you out of there, we managed to download their computer archive. They documented these... tests of theirs, and from what we could reconstruct, it seems they deliberately put Trip in a situation that made him believe you were betraying him."

Malcolm closed his eyes. "I did betray him, sir," he whispered. "When... when they offered me the choice, I said I wouldn't cooperate in those tests again, even though-"

"I know." Again, Archer's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "I saw. They had everything documented. And I'm sure if Trip knew about this he'd understand. But that wasn't what I was talking about." He hesitated, and Malcolm opened his eyes again to see the Captain's face. Archer's features had hardened, angry lines forming around his mouth and eyes. "They staged some kind of set-up, making Trip believe he was escaping. They created a hologram adjusted to your looks and speech patterns, and programmed it to fake a get-away, open the cell door, steal a flitter and so on. It was all holographic, the vessel, the hangar, the landscape... I never saw that kind of technology before. When Trip was convinced he'd managed to escape, they staged a flitter crash. The hologram wouldn't let him repair the engine, telling him it - you - had sabotaged the flitter. They made Trip believe you had conspired with them to set up a false escape."

For several moments, Malcolm only stared at him, not quite able to grasp what the Captain was telling him. A hologram, a huge holographic setting, created solely for the purpose of tricking Trip into believing that his friend had betrayed him... what kind of perverted, twisted mind would it take to come up with something like this, to go through with something like this... Slowly shaking his head, Malcolm averted his eyes, unable to speak.

"They were monitoring him after the escape," Archer continued in that same quiet voice. "He went half crazy in that cell, crying, talking to people who weren't there... And then they took you back there to see what would happen."

"To see what would happen," Malcolm repeated, his voice flat and detached. Archer took his hand.

"They're gone, Malcolm," he said. "They're gone for good."

Feeling strangely weary, Malcolm shook his head. "They're not. We thought that last time, and they weren't."

Archer's voice sounded firm as he continued. "They are this time. They're gone and they won't come back. T'Pol was able to locate their building on the surface using the frequency of some fluctuations we picked up back on Eden. We found out that it was cloaked by some kind of space and time field sustained by a generator inside the complex. After we'd destroyed that generator, the field collapsed, and when we went down there, there was no one except you and Trip in that building."

Again, Malcolm shook his head. "That can't be. They went into hiding or something."

"I don't think so. After studying the data we downloaded from their computer, T'Pol came up with the theory that they were beings existing outside the normal space and time continuum-"

Malcolm frowned at him. "I don't understand."

Archer sighed. "I know it sounds kind of far-fetched, but T'Pol assured me there is lots of evidence supporting her theory. She said these aliens weren't part of our normal universe, but came from a place beyond space time, and were able to exist only within that space and time field they'd generated. As soon as we'd destroyed that field, they were thrown back to wherever they came from. They're gone."

Malcolm blinked a few times, trying to comprehend what Archer was telling him. Under normal circumstances, he'd have a hard time believing something like this, but remembering these tall robed figures that spoke with raspy hollow voices, radiating an eerie feeling of superiority, he found himself feeling inclined to believe T'Pol's theory. And actually he realized that he didn't really care. He didn't care where they'd come from, he didn't care what they'd been and where they were now, but was content with the knowledge that they were gone. That they wouldn't come back, ever.

"Malcolm." Hearing Archer's voice, he turned his head. The Captain was looking at him with a mixture of concern and sympathy on his face. "I'm sorry; maybe I should've waited to tell you all of this, but I thought it was better for you to know."

Closing his eyes, Malcolm swallowed. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. Archer gently tightened his grip on Malcolm's hand.

"Why?"

Again, Malcolm felt a lump forming in his throat, and firmly told himself to get a grip. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes. "I didn't want that. I... I didn't mean to do it..."

"I know you didn't," Archer said quietly. "And it's okay. Don't go blaming yourself for what happened. No one can say how they would react in a situation like the one you were in. It wasn't your fault."

Malcolm knew this wasn't true; he was to blame. But there was no use arguing with Archer, and so he simply nodded, letting out a sigh. Archer got up.

"I'm going to get Dr. Phlox so he can give you something that will help you sleep."

Briefly, Malcolm considered protesting, but when he opened his mouth Archer had already disappeared behind the curtains. Well, never mind; maybe sleeping a little wasn't such a bad idea. He was kind of tired, after all. Absentmindedly, he raised a hand to scratch Porthos who was still curled up in the crook of his arm. A minute later the curtains parted again, and Phlox appeared, hypospray in hand. As the doctor looked at the monitor above the bed, his face displayed slight annoyance.

"About time you got some rest, Lieutenant," he said, and Malcolm noted with mild astonishment that the doctor didn't seem to mind at all a dog lying on his sickbay blankets. The unpleasant sensation of the cold hypospray against his neck made him grimace, and only a moment later the world dissolved as his eyes began to droop. Sleep came easily and quickly, and Malcolm slipped away into slumber without wasting one more thought on what he'd been told in that last half an hour.

-###-

"He's asleep now."

Archer turned around to see Phlox emerge from behind the white curtains that hid Malcolm's bed from view.

"Talking to you left him quite exhausted," the doctor continued, putting the empty hypospray down on the counter. "But on the whole he seems to be doing a lot better. I was glad to see him lucid enough to follow a conversation." Phlox turned around to face Archer, sitting down on the edge of the counter. "How did he take what you told him?"

Sighing, Archer lowered himself onto a nearby chair. "As well as can be expected," he said, resting his elbows on his knees. "He didn't say much and still seemed a little out of it. I don't know if he was getting everything I told him. I got the impression he's quite upset about his... suicide attempt."

"That's a natural reaction, Captain. I guess it will take him quite some time to come to terms with what has happened." Phlox threw a look back at the curtains. "I saw you brought Porthos with you."

Archer smiled a little sheepishly. "Yeah, I thought it might make Malcolm feel a little better. I mean... you know what happened. There is not much to say, is there, and in my experience dogs make pretty good comforters."

Phlox smiled as well. "Good thing Mr. Reed is not allergic to canines, hm?" Growing serious again, Phlox picked up a padd from the counter. "I've been looking through these protocols you gave me. They are quite informative concerning Mr. Reed's and the Commander's condition, but still, I'm afraid I don't really know what to do to help Mr. Tucker. I can give him medication to fight the paranoia, but I wouldn't advise keeping him sedated over a greater period of time. If his condition doesn't change we will have no choice but bringing him back to Earth where he can receive intensified psychiatric treatment. I'm sorry, Captain."

Archer didn't move, staring down at his hands. Ever since he'd sat down at his desk last night to go through these protocols, there was that hard knot of anger sitting in the pit of his stomach, growing with every time he visited sickbay to receive more bad news and have Phlox look at him with that expression of helplessness on his face. The scenes he'd forced himself to witness still burned in his mind, and he just couldn't forget the image of Trip kneeling on the floor of that cell, laughing madly and crying at the same time, or Malcolm sitting in the corner, his face expressionless as he raised the shard to slit his wrists. And there had been those protocols, those cold scientific comments that made it all seem even more cruel and perverted. He remembered how Hoshi had come to his room last night, on the brink of tears, all but throwing her padds at his feet, saying she wasn't going to translate any more of these horrible lab reports no matter how important the information might be to Starfleet. Neither she nor T'Pol had been able to come up with any explanation for why the protocols were all in different alien languages, but it was clear that each file was written in the language of the victim. The "Subject". And since even the Vulcan science officer had refused to spend more time than absolutely necessary studying these reports, this mystery would very likely remain unsolved in the future as well.

"Captain?" he heard Phlox' voice and looked up, realizing that he'd been brooding. Again. Getting to his feet, he walked over to the counter and stopped in front of a monitor that showed the interior of the decon chamber. Staring at the image of the blue lit room on the screen, Archer suddenly felt disgusted with himself. Here they were, locking Trip up in a room that looked almost like that cell back in the building, observing him like he was only some kind of lab rat, recording his every move with the surveillance camera. It wasn't right.

"Can't we at least bring him to his own quarters, doc?" Archer asked, half-turning to look at Phlox. Regretfully, the doctor shook his head, coming over to stand beside him.

"I'm afraid not, Captain. The Commander is not only a danger to other people, he is also a danger to himself. It would be too much of a risk to let him stay in a room that provides so many means of hurting oneself. And, as I said, I can't keep him sedated all the time."

They both looked back at the screen where Trip was still sitting curled up against the wall opposite to the cot they had set up for him, again rocking back and forth in that slow, absentminded way. It hurt Archer's very soul to look at this picture of misery, but he didn't turn away. Doing so would be like abandoning Trip, like giving up on him, and Archer knew he wasn't going to do that. However hard it might become.

"Captain." He felt a hand on his arm and turned to look at Phlox' concerned face. "Why don't you go get some rest. It's the middle of the night, and I'm sure you could use some sleep."

Archer was already about to shake his head when he realized that Phlox was right. He knew he probably wouldn't be able to go to sleep, but overtiring himself by deliberately staying awake wasn't going to help anyone. Slowly, he turned away from the screen, meeting Phlox' eyes. "If there are any changes I want to be notified immediately."

Phlox nodded. "Of course, Captain."

Archer made his way to the sickbay doors, and suddenly felt almost relieved at getting out of here. Even though it made him feel guilty, he was glad to have some time for himself to sort out his thoughts, to escape all of this for now. Even if it was only for a short time.

Chapter 10

They had put him in another cell looking exactly like the decon chamber back on Enterprise. Sometimes Trip even believed it was Enterprise, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't fall for it, no matter if it was the real Enterprise or just another trick. The Voice had told him not to trust anyone, and he wouldn't. No way. No matter what they did.

When he'd realized that they were all working for his captors, he hadn't been very surprised after all. Why, Malcolm had betrayed him without a second thought, so why shouldn't Archer, Phlox, T'Pol, everybody? There'd been a time when Trip had wondered if they were doing this to gain some kind of advantage, technology maybe, or if they did it out of pure spite, to see if they could trick him again. But not anymore. It didn't matter. The Voice had told him it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except not trusting anyone, not believing anything. At first he'd had his doubts, had asked questions, what if all of this was real, after all, what if somehow, miraculously, Enterprise had come and had rescued him. These were the only times the Voice had gotten angry. Again it had spoken in that hysterical, screechy way, telling him not to even consider believing these lies, and he'd quickly assured that he wouldn't.

The only way of playing safe was not trusting anyone. Not believing anything.

Ever.

He didn't know how long he'd been in here. Hours, days, weeks, maybe. No, it couldn't be weeks, for he hadn't eaten or drunk anything since he'd woken up on that cot, and except for a little queasiness of the stomach he was still feeling quite alright. Not that they were trying to starve him; they kept bringing him all kinds of food, but he'd be a fool to touch any of those meals. He wasn't going to do them the favor of willingly consuming their drugs, not if he could help it. Not too long ago Phlox - if it was Phlox - had tried to give him an injection, but he'd managed to fight him off, landing a good punch on the doctor's nose when he'd come too close. He'd expected him to hit back, but Phlox hadn't done so, pulling out a kleenex to stop his nose from bleeding and talking to Trip in a low, soothing voice. Trip hadn't listened to him, though - the Voice had said not to listen to anybody, and by now he knew it was giving good advice - but had only waited for Phlox to leave again, which he'd done eventually. Nobody had tried to harm him since then, and Trip felt a grim satisfaction at the fact that they'd obviously realized he wouldn't play their guinea pig any longer.

Staring at the blue wall of the chamber, Trip noticed his eyelids getting heavy and felt a sudden surge of panic. He mustn't fall asleep, when he slept he was defenseless, and of course they would use that opportunity to administer some of their drugs, or worse. It was getting increasingly harder to stay awake, though, and Trip knew that sooner or later he would have to face the inevitable, allowing his body a short period of much needed rest. But not yet, not as long as he could still keep himself awake. Running his tongue over his dry, cracked lips, Trip pulled his knees tighter to his upper body and tried to ignore the nagging hunger that was wrenching his guts. It was awful, not being able to eat or drink, and every time he blinked it felt as if there were tiny grains of sand caught under his eyelids, rubbing against his cornea. But all of this was still better than letting himself go, giving them an opening so they could hurt him again. He wouldn't allow that. Ever.

The sound of the door sliding open made him raise his head. Phlox was back, carrying a tray with one of these silvery food containers and a bag of water on it. The bag's shoulder strap had been removed.

Trip tightened his grip on his knees and pressed his back against the wall.

"Commander." He saw that false smile spread on the doctor's face. "How are you feeling tonight?"

Trip licked his lips, following the doctor's every move as Phlox carefully lowered himself onto the cot across the room and put the tray on the floor at his feet. With certain satisfaction Trip noted that the doctor's nose was slightly swollen. Phlox bent down and removed the lid of the container, then carefully pushed the tray towards Trip.

"Here," he said. "I hope you like chicken soup for supper. Chef made strawberry shortcake for dessert, but I'm afraid there wasn't any left. I brought you some fruit salad instead."

Again, that smile appeared on Phlox' face, but Trip only stared back at him, not moving or looking at the food. The spicy smell of the soup made his stomach grumble, but he ignored it. After a while Phlox got up, picking up the soup bowl and taking a step towards him. Trip tensed, lowering his hands to the floor in case he had to push himself up if the doctor came too close. Moving deliberately slow, Phlox placed the bowl onto the floor a few feet away from where Trip was sitting, then retreated to the cot. Forcing himself to tear his gaze away from the bowl, Trip continued to watch the doctor, ready to jump up in case Phlox attacked him. The doctor, however, only folded his hands in his lap, looking at him with that particular expression that told Trip that Phlox was about to try another one of his tricks.

"You have to eat something some time soon, Commander, you know," he said. "Your body needs nutrition, and you'll get sick if you continue to neglect to take food."

Trip slowly shook his head, not quite able to believe they thought he would fall for this. As if any of them cared if he lived or died. They must be getting quite desperate if they tried things like that.

"I'm not gonna eat that food of yours," he said, his voice sounding hoarse from the dryness of his throat. "Don't you think I know it's full of drugs?"

Phlox watched him for a moment. "Well, Commander, I know it's no use telling you that there are no drugs in that food. But if you continue to refuse to eat, I'll have no choice but to sedate you and hook you up to the drip. It's your decision to make."

See? the Voice hissed, creeping up from where it had been lurking at the back of his mind. See? He's threatening you. They realized they can't trick you, so now they're threatening you. But you mustn't give in to them. As long as you don't trust them, they can't hurt you.

"I won't," he whispered, nodding and feeling relieved as he sensed the Voice's satisfaction. "I won't."

"Commander." Phlox' voice returned Trip's attention to the doctor. "Do you understand what I'm telling you? I don't intend to do you any harm, but you know that as a doctor it's my duty to keep you from harming yourself."

Trip pulled his lips into a sneer even though he didn't feel amused at all. "You're no doctor," he spat. Phlox sighed.

"What makes you think so?"

Trip shook his head. "Oh no," he said, and now he did feel a little amused at their stupidity. How could anyone be so obvious? "Face it, I won't fall for that. You're not gettin' any information from me, no matter what you try. I know it's a fake, and I know you're runnin' some kind of tests on me here. How come you think I'm that stupid?"

"I don't think you are stupid," Phlox said quietly. "But I do think that you are sick, Commander, and you're going to get a lot sicker if you keep refusing to eat."

Trip shook his head again, not bothering to give an answer to that. Phlox' single-minded attempts at tricking him were getting kind of annoying, and Trip wished the doctor would leave again, and even more important, take that soup with him. By now his insides were giving him hell, cramping with hunger as the soup's aroma wafted around his nostrils, and he knew that eventually the smell of the food would become too much for his empty stomach to resist. Suddenly he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eyes, and his head snapped up. Phlox had gotten to his feet, approaching him with slow calculated movements that told Trip the doctor was up to something. Quickly, he scrambled to his feet, and for a moment felt close to panicking as dizzyness blurred his vision. Fool, he heard the Voice hiss scornfully. Don't you know that one unguarded moment is enough for them to-

"Stay away from me!" he said, blinking furiously to drive away the haze that was clouding his eyes. "Don't come closer!"

Pressing his back against the wall, he watched as Phlox slowly bent down, picked up the bowl and straightened up again.

"I don't want to harm you, Commander," he repeated in that faked friendly tone of voice. "But you do have to eat something."

"Stay away." Trip followed Phlox' every move with his eyes, ready to lash out in case the doctor tried something funny. Phlox took another step towards him, and Trip could feel his heart thumping in his chest, his breathing speeding up as fear made his throat constrict.

"Commander. Trip." Phlox came even nearer, holding out the bowl with the soup. "Why don't you-"

"Take that thing away!" Trip shouted, blind with panic, and shoved the doctor out of his way, hastily retreating to the opposite corner of the room. Sliding down the wall, he again flung his arms around his knees, protecting his midriff to prevent getting hurt when the doctor attacked. At the moment, though, Phlox didn't seem inclined to do so; he was slowly picking himself up from the floor, brushing off his shirt that was soaked with chicken soup. When he was back on his feet, he turned around to face Trip, but, incredulously, his face didn't display anger or any similar emotion.

"Well, soup's off the menu, then," he said, his voice carrying a certain dry tone that made Trip even more suspicious. "But won't you at least try the fruit salad? And drink some of that water? I know you're thirsty."

How would he know that? the Voice asked, almost startling Trip. They're monitoring you. They know everything. You mustn't trust them.

The familiar mantra helped Trip calm down a little, and his fear dissipated, leaving only a slight wariness and irritation in its wake.

"Don't you try to threaten me with that thing again," he said, watching as Phlox picked up the bowl Trip had sent flying when he'd pushed the doctor. "I'm warnin' you, I'll smash your face in if you do."

Regarding him for another moment, Phlox sighed again. "I don't doubt it."

Pulling a hanky from his pocket, the doctor cleaned up the few splashes of chicken soup that hadn't landed on his shirt, then straightened up again.

"I'll go now, but I'll leave the water and the fruit salad with you." Again, he smiled that malicious smile of his. "Maybe you'll feel like eating something later, hm?"

Trip didn't answer, continuing to watch Phlox as he left the room. The doors slid shut behind him, and slowly, very slowly, Trip felt his tense muscles relax. It was a relief, being alone again, not having to keep a wary eye on his enemy's every move. Still, he wished Phlox hadn't left that food with him. He was careful not to look over at the tray that was still standing on the floor in the middle of the room, but he couldn't help imagining how that water would feel running down his sore throat.

Those are drugs, the Voice spoke up again. You know that. If you eat or drink any of this, they will get you. And if they get you, they will use you for their tests. Or kill you right away.

"I know," he whispered. "I know that. It's just that I'm so hungry..."

It doesn't matter if you're hungry! the Voice snapped, again sounding as if it was about to get very angry. If you trust them, you're dead. Nothing matters except not trusting them. Not trusting anyone. Do you understand?

Trip understood. He'd understood a long time ago, but it felt so dark and lonely inside, sitting in that bare, empty room with no one but that hateful voice to keep him company. Even though the Voice had said it didn't matter, he couldn't understand why they were doing this, why they were being so cruel. Despite himself he turned his head to glance at the tray with the fruit and the water, and felt a sharp stab of hunger slice through his insides. He knew that the only reason they'd left this here was to torment him even more, giving him food that he couldn't eat. And all of a sudden he realized that there was no one, not a single person he could turn to. It wasn't just a matter of escaping this. Even if he somehow managed to get away, he would be alone. He had no way of telling what trick they would try next, and no one was going to help him. There was no way out.

Pulling his legs closer to his chest, Trip rested his forehead on his knees, and began to cry.

-###-

Staring at the surveillance monitor, Archer saw Trip curl up tighter in his corner and bury his face in his arms. For a moment Jon thought - hoped - that his friend was about to go to sleep, but then he noticed Trip's shoulders twitch and realized with a sinking feeling that Trip was crying. At first, it was only a slight trembling of the shoulder blades, but then the shaking got harder, and Trip began to retreat even further into the corner, pressing himself against the wall. As Archer watched, the image began to blur before his eyes, and without thinking about it he raised a hand to wipe off the tears that were threatening to spill. Drawing the back of his hand across his eyes in an almost angry movement, he blinked, telling himself to get a grip. Standing out here and falling to pieces wasn't going to help Trip in any way. Trip needed someone he could trust, someone who held him and told him it was going to be alright...

Archer was already about to punch in the code that would open the door to decon when a hand settled on his arm.

"Captain, what are you doing?"

"He's crying," Archer said without looking back at the doctor, proceeding to press the first two numbers of the code. "I'm going in there."

"No Captain," Phlox said quietly and Archer turned his head. "It wouldn't do any good if you went in there now. I know it's hard being forced to stand by and watch, but I'm afraid the Commander would not... respond to your efforts. Your presence would only agitate him even more."

At the clinical tone of Phlox' words Archer felt a surge of anger. "Don't talk about him like that! He's not one of your animals! I was against locking him up in that thing from the start, and I won't just leave him-"

"Captain." Phlox still wouldn't let go of his arm. "For the benefit of my patient I cannot allow you to go in there now. It would do no good. Mr. Tucker is not being himself, and I doubt he would react positively to your offers of comfort. You wouldn't even be able to get near him. He won't let you."

Archer stared down at the code panel for another moment, then drew his hand back. "But he needs help," he said, wincing at the hoarseness of his voice. "We can't just turn our backs on him."

"I understand your feelings, Captain, but I'm afraid there's not much we can do. I've tried a therapeutic approach, but I wasn't able to get through to him at all. He doesn't even trust us enough to eat. I won't have any choice but hooking him up to the drip as soon as he falls asleep. He's dehydrated already." Phlox hesitated, staring down at his folded hands. "Captain, I'm sorry, but we'll have to bring the Commander back to Earth."

Archer swallowed hard. He'd known that sooner or later Phlox would say this, but all the same he'd hoped he wouldn't have to face this, to give this particular order.

"So there is nothing you can do for him?" he said, the words sounding more like an accusation than he'd intended them to. "You've got a Ph.D. in psychiatry, there must be something."

"I could always try to treat him here on Enterprise," Phlox said, slowly walking back to the counter. Archer followed him, and together they came to stand in front of the surveillance screen where Trip was still huddled in his corner. "However my knowledge of human psychiatry is limited since I was trained to deal mainly with the Denobulan psyche." He looked up, and Archer saw deep regret in the doctor's eyes as he continued. "I hate to be so blunt, Captain, but I must ask you to keep in mind that treating the Commander here on Enterprise would include a lot of... inconveniences. Both for Mr. Tucker and for the rest of us."

Archer frowned. "Inconveniences?"

Phlox turned his gaze back to the screen. "As I said, I won't be able to keep him sedated for a longer period of time. We would have to keep him in decon for the duration of the treatment, and if he keeps refusing to take food, I would have no choice but to force-feed him. Hooking him up to the drip is only a temporary solution. I'll be honest with you, Captain, it could take years for the treatment to take effect, if it does at all. Under these circumstances I strongly recommend taking the Commander back to his home planet."

If it does at all. The words echoed in Archer's mind, but he wasn't able to accept the implications. Not yet. "You mean he... you mean this could be irreversible?"

Phlox didn't answer, but simply folded his hands and lowered his head. Archer glanced back at the screen. Trip hadn't moved, but his shoulders were still shaking, and it hurt Archer almost physically to know that there wasn't a single thing he could do to help his friend. The only thing he could do was bring him back to Earth, to a place where he would be locked up in another cell, surrounded by strangers who didn't know him as a person, but only as one medical case among dozens of others. Without another word Archer turned around and slowly made his way to the door. He knew what he had to do now, but he also was aware that giving this order would always feel wrong with him, no matter what the rational part of his mind said.

"Captain," he heard Phlox' voice behind him and turned around again. The doctor was leaning against the counter with his back to the monitor, still wearing that expression of sorrow and compassion on his face.

"I'm sorry to bring this up now, but we also have to consider what to do about Lieutenant Reed's condition."

Archer looked over at the curtains around Malcolm's bed. "Is he okay?"

Phlox hesitated. "Physically he is recovering as well as can be expected," he said then. "His state of mind however has me quite worried. He's asleep now, I gave him a sedative half an hour ago when I noticed that he was deliberately keeping himself awake. I've tried to get him to talk to me, but he would answer only yes or no, and wouldn't respond to any but the most basic of questions. All of this is mostly a natural reaction to the trauma he's been through, but when I checked on him earlier, I noticed that the needle of the drip had been loosened. I can't be sure, Captain, but I think he did it on purpose."

The doctor's words hit Archer like a slap in the face. "Are you saying he's... suicidal?"

Phlox paused, apparently weighing what he was about to say next. "Not necessarily, Captain. I think Mr. Reed is experiencing very strong, irrational feelings of guilt triggered by his suicide attempt down on the planet. I also noticed symptoms of a beginning depression. The Lieutenant seems to be very angry with himself."

Archer bit his lip. "You mean removing the needle was some form of... self-punishment?"

Phlox nodded. "I think so."

Archer was silent for a moment. "Do you think he... will he be alright?" Do you think he's losing his mind was what he'd intentionally meant to say, but he bit down on the words before they could leave his mouth. He wasn't even going to consider that possibility.

Phlox, however, saw right through him, of course. "I am quite sure Lieutenant Reed's... confusion is only temporary, Captain. His sanity is not in danger. However it will be some time until he will be able to return to his duties, or even resume every-day interaction with the crew. I'm doing everything I can to help him."

Archer nodded, regarding the doctor for a moment. "I know you do."

Phlox held his gaze for another moment, and Archer saw that behind the doctor's mask of professionalism there was deep regret and frustration at not being able to help. He knew he'd been projecting some of the anger he felt onto the doctor, and hoped Phlox would understand. As he always did. The Denobulan was one of the few people aboard who seemed to understand that even a captain wasn't unbreakable. Or invulnerable.

Pressing the panel to open the sickbay doors, Archer stepped out into the corridor and automatically began to make his way to the turbolift, even though he didn't really intend to go there. He didn't know where he was going. The image of Trip cowering in that corner, crying in that desperate, helpless way was hanging before his mental eye, making it impossible for him to see where his steps were leading him.

It could take years for the treatment to take effect. If it does at all. He repeated the words in his mind, over and over again until they became meaningless. If it does at all. So this was going to be it as far as Trip was concerned? Take him back to Earth, have them lock him away in some room with no sharp objects in it, call a few times to see how his treatment was coming - if it does at all - and then forget about him, push him out of their minds so it wouldn't hurt so bad? And Charles Tucker would probably be sitting in corners for the rest of his life, completely alone, for something in his mind had chosen to see the world as its enemy, and wouldn't let anyone come near him to help.

Another image came to his mind, suddenly and without warning. He, Malcolm and Trip, sitting at the campfire back on that green little world light years away, toasting marshmallows and cracking jokes at each other while the sun went down and darkness began to fall. He remembered Malcolm lecturing them on the actually-quite-wonderful English weather, Trip grinning sheepishly as he related his short but memorable time as a boyscout, and saw himself, listening to his friends' good-natured bantering with the contented air of someone who knew that things were going to be alright.

If it does at all. Again, Archer felt something hot stinging behind his eyelids, blurring his surroundings while his throat constricted in an almost painful way. Without realizing what he was doing he wiped off the wetness, but his eyes were still filling, and he couldn't seem to stop it happening. Get a grip, he told himself, what if some of the crew see you like that, a captain can't, a captain doesn't. But he couldn't order it to stop, and he couldn't pretend the pain wasn't there like he usually did.

In the meantime he'd passed the turbolift, and was wandering down some mercifully deserted corridor, passing bulkhead after bulkhead in search for a place where he could be alone. At the end of the hallway there was a small briefing room, and Archer entered, sitting down at the table next to the window. He wasn't a man used to letting his feelings out, and so his own sobs sounded strange to his ears as they echoed through the empty room. But if crying was the only way to ease some of that terrible pain hurting in his chest, then so be it, captain be damned.

It just wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, taking his friends away from him, hurting them so bad that they didn't want to go on living anymore or escaped into insanity, and it wasn't fair that there was nothing he could do about it. Destroying that generator and sending these monsters back to wherever they'd come from hadn't changed a thing. It hadn't stopped Malcolm from picking up that shard or pulling out the needle, and it didn't allow him to go into the decon chamber and take Trip in his arms, hold him while he cried and tell him that no one was going to hurt him here. Archer tried to convince himself that it had changed things, that they'd probably saved the lives and sanity of hundreds of future victims by blasting that ugly building from the face of the planet, but it didn't help. Those victims were only hypothetical, and his knowledge of the strangers being gone was only one of T'Pol's theories, very likely based on dozens of logical conclusions but nothing to derive reassurance from, let alone satisfy a deep primitive desire for revenge. Of course he knew that they were gone, but still, remembering those perverted protocols he'd been forced to watch the other night he wished they'd at least found some bodies, anything that told him these people were really, truly dead. Had paid for the atrocities they'd committed, if one wished to put it that way.

But no act of vengeance was going to help Malcolm forget about what had been done to him, or miraculously make Trip see that he was surrounded by people who wanted to help him, not enemies who were trying to trick him into believing their lies. It could take years for the treatment to take effect, Phlox had said, and while Archer knew that the doctor was not in the habit of lying to anyone, he was also aware that Phlox had tried to sound optimistic for his sake. In all likelihood Trip wasn't going to lose this fear of everyone and everything for a very long time, maybe never, which quintessentially meant that his friend was going to be alone for the rest of his life. Really alone. Remembering the Trip Tucker he'd known for more than ten years, the impulsive outgoing man who had the talent of making friends with almost everybody, Archer felt the knot in his chest tighten up again. It was so cruel that this should happen to Trip of all people. And he, Trip's friend and Captain, couldn't do anything to help him. Not a single thing. He felt like slamming his fist onto that table, venting his anger and pain by throwing the chair against the wall, but he did neither, staying where he was and allowing the tears to fall. It was no use.

A small swishing noise from across the room caught Archer's attention, and automatically his hand went to his face, wiping off the tears so whoever entered the room wouldn't see him crying. But he needn't have bothered. T'Pol stood in the doorframe, and she would have sensed that something was wrong even if the room had been pitch-dark.

Archer got up. "T'Pol," he said, clearing his throat and trying to sound as if there was nothing unusual about him being in here at this time of the day. "Is there something I can do for you?"

T'Pol raised an eyebrow, but it wasn't the usual tongue-in-cheek gesture of reproach, nor the quizzical look she always gave anybody who displayed "irrational human behaviour" in her presence. Instead there was an expression of concern in her eyes as she came closer, stepping up beside him in an almost awkward manner.

"Captain," she said quietly, studying him for a moment before turning her gaze away. Archer realized that he must be looking quite a sight, eyes all red and puffy from crying. He cleared his throat once again, then turned to look at the calming image of the stars flying past outside.

"T'Pol if you don't mind I'd rather be alone at the moment."

In a way he hated himself for being so blunt about it, but right know all he felt was the simple wish to be allowed to let out some of the feelings he'd been holding in for so long. T'Pol didn't leave, though, nor did she say any of those well-intended, useless words of Vulcan wisdom.

"Captain, I want to make a request."

At her formal tone of voice Archer turned around again, meeting her eyes. "A request? Concerning what?"

T'Pol paused, confusing him even more. Usually the Vulcan science officer spoke her mind right away, never hesitating for any reasons whatsoever. Still, when she continued, her words sounded slightly halted, as if she were feeling uncomfortable about something.

"I do not know whether he informed you, Captain, but I spoke to Dr. Phlox this afternoon, asking him to give a thorough diagnosis of Commander Tucker's current condition. Captain... it is very likely that no conventional psychiatric therapy is going to help him."

"I'm aware of that, T'Pol," Archer said quietly, looking back out the window. T'Pol paused again.

"On Vulcan," she said then, her voice seeming to come from far away, "there are other methods of healing. Methods of healing the mind. They're very different from other medical disciplines. Mainly, they're based on a procedure called 'mind meld'."

Archer turned his head to look at her. "Mind meld? I've never heard of such a thing."

T'Pol continued evenly, but Archer still had the distinct impression that she didn't really like talking about this. "It is not surprising that you haven't, Captain. It is not something Vulcans discuss in public. It... is a very private thing."

Archer held her eyes for a moment. "This mind meld... what is it about?"

"Vulcans are touch-telepaths. We have the ability to... enter someone else's mind by touching the neural nerve ends in the face of another person. In the mind meld you join thoughts, and communicate telepathically with you melding partner."

There was silence for a moment. Then Archer spoke up again. "Are you suggesting to do that... mind meld with Trip?"

T'Pol's eyebrow twitched slightly, but her voice sounded as calm as ever when she answered. "I think it is the only way to help Commander Tucker. He will not respond to any spoken words, thinking that everyone here is conspiring against him. In the meld, however, communication works in a different way. There is no room for any hidden truths or deception. In the mind meld you look directly into another person's thoughts, and only a very skilled telepath would be able to deceive another by "lying" mentally."

Archer sat down in his chair, not taking his eyes off her face. What she was telling him sounded strange, unbelievable, but still triggered a wild irrational feeling of hope inside him. What if this was really a way to help Trip, to do so without locking him up, giving him drugs or handing him over to some strangers back on Earth who didn't even know his name? He swallowed.

"Can... can it be harmful? It sounds quite a dangerous thing to me, tinkering with another person's mind."

T'Pol clasped her hands behind her back. "I will not be untruthful about this, Captain. There is a certain risk to the meld, especially in a situation when one of the partners has no telepathic abilities. No to mention the ethical implications."

"Ethical implications?"

T'Pol's voice sounded very calm as she continued. "You know as well as I do, Captain, that in his current condition the Commander is neither able nor willing to give his consent to my performing the meld. On Vulcan it is considered one of the most heinous crimes to force someone into a joining of thoughts. I do not make this request lightly."

Archer bit his lip when he realized what she was telling him. The decision to ask him about this must have cost her a lot. "But... suppose someone isn't able to give their consent? A sick person, or a... confused one? Doesn't that make it different?"

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "There have been cases when Vulcan healers had to perform a meld without their patient's consent. But they probably did not encounter much resistance once they had entered the patient's mind, since Vulcans mostly react to logical arguments and would not fight a physician who is trying to help them. This case is different. And I am not a healer, Captain. But I am willing to try."

Archer looked at her, and saw that her jaw was firmly set, indicating that she wasn't feeling as calm as she seemed to be. He could only guess how many inner battles she'd fought before coming here to make this request, and the simple statement "I am willing to try" revealed a lot more than that. Archer made a decision. He didn't know if it was even his place to make any decisions in this case, but he was the Captain. He had no choice but accept responsibility for something he hardly knew anything about.

"Did you talk to Dr. Phlox about this yet?"

"I did, Captain, and while he had certain... objections concerning the general risks the procedure implies, he said it was "worth a try"."

Archer nodded slowly. It didn't feel right to make this decision without even trying to talk to Trip first, but he knew just as well that it would be no use.

"Alright, T'Pol," he said. "You have my permission, but... be careful."

T'Pol met his eyes. "I will."

Chapter 11

"And you are really sure about this?"

Turning around, T'Pol looked at Dr. Phlox' worried face. Somewhere in the less controlled parts of her mind, she felt actual surprise at his obvious anxiety; usually the Denobulan doctor kept his feeling strictly under control, displaying an almost Vulcan serenity in the most dire of situations. But she guessed it was the mind meld that made him feel uncomfortable. Most non-Vulcans reacted with various degrees of discomfort to the concept of melding, of "tinkering with another person's thoughts", as the Captain had put it when she'd talked to him yesterday.

Realizing that the doctor expected an answer to his question, T'Pol strode for her most controlled, Vulcan tone of voice, speaking with a calmness she certainly did not feel at the moment.

"I have made my decision, doctor. And the Captain gave his permission. We have been through this before."

Sighing, Phlox leaned back against the counter and cast a glance at the surveillance monitor next to him.

"I know we have," he said. "But to be honest, I'm worried."

"I told you the procedure is not going to harm Commander Tucker in the slightest," she said, careful not to let any trace of impatience creep into her voice. She knew that this was a very delicate subject, especially when discussed with people who were not familiar with telepathy. "Should I realize that I am not able to get through to him, I will end the meld immediately."

Phlox folded his hands. "T'Pol, I'm also worried about you. The Commander's mental state has shown some deterioration over the last twelve hours. There were times when he didn't even recognize me, let alone listen to any rational arguments. He's terrified of anyone who comes near him, and becomes increasingly violent when confronted with situations he finds threatening. I'm not going to question your judgement, but I've read in the Vulcan medical database that during a meld one mind can become... contaminated by the other."

T'Pol turned her gaze to the monitor. The Commander was sitting at his usual place opposite the cot, staring into space with a blank, absentminded expression on his face. For once, though, he wasn't rocking back and forth but was sitting completely motionless, his arms wrapped around his knees. Every time she saw him like that the image brought up strange hurtful feelings she had not experienced before, at least not in this intensity. Humans were quick to name those emotions, sorrow, anger, despair and what not, but T'Pol only knew that these feelings were the true reason for her decision. When she'd struggled with herself whether or not to do something that contradicted her entire upbringing, her ethics, it had been the image of Tucker sitting against that wall that had caused her to put aside her doubts and go to Archer. And seeing him once again on that monitor, T'Pol knew that her decision was made.

"I am aware of the risks, doctor," she said quietly. "And I will end the meld at the first sign of... confusion on my part. But I believe my mental discipline is trained enough to avoid any "contamination"."

Phlox sighed again, holding up his hands in defeat. "Far be it from me to question your abilities, T'Pol. But I must ask you to be extremely careful."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "I always am."

Picking up a hypo from the counter, Phlox filled it with some clear liquid and handed it to her.

"Only in case. I managed to give the Commander a light sedative earlier, not without serious objections on his part, of course." Dryly, the doctor gestured at a darkening bruise on his left cheek. "It should keep his aggression in check, at least for a while, but I don't know when it will begin to wear off. Do not hesitate to use this in case he attacks you."

T'Pol took the hypo, pushing it up her sleeve so it was hidden from view.

"I do not think it advisable to go in there carrying a hypospray in my hand," she explained when she noticed Phlox' raised eyebrows. "As the Captain would put it, 'this would be a bad way to start'."

"Suit yourself." Phlox turned back to the screen. "I will be monitoring you all the time, and at the first sign of... discomfort I'll interrupt the meld immediately."

His tone told her that he was still not quite happy with allowing these kind of things in his sickbay, and T'Pol realized it was better not to argue. She knew, of course, that the doctor probably wouldn't even be able to recognize her discomfort when it occurred. A mind meld was not something one could monitor on a screen. But she wasn't going to tell him so.

"Very well, doctor."

Giving her a last concerned glance, Phlox turned back to the monitor where Commander Tucker was still sitting motionless.

As T'Pol punched in the code to open the doors to decon, she concentrated on taking slow, even breaths. It was necessary for the mind meld to be initiated in a calm quiet way, and while she knew this was not going to happen, she at least wanted to be prepared. Slow breathing. Draw air. Hold it. Let it out. The way she'd learned to do it as a child when she'd first been introduced to the techniques of melding. In. And out. After a few seconds the calm repeating of the mantra took hold, and her breathing adjusted to the patterns it dictated. In. And out.

The doors slid open.

As she entered the room, the Commander raised his head. His face didn't show any sign of recognition, and she noticed him tense as she took another step into the room. He kept following her every move, and even though he made no sound, T'Pol could tell that he was frightened. Careful not to make any sudden movements, she slowly made her way to the cot and sat down, resting her hands in her lap so he was able to see them. Phlox had said it was only a matter of time until the sedative wore off, but she knew she mustn't rush this. If she did, she might do irreversible damage, both to her mind and the Commander's.

He was still watching her with an alertness that reminded her of a wounded animal watching an approaching predator. T'Pol took another breath. In. And out.

"Commander," she began, "do you know who I am?"

His eyes narrowed a little, but otherwise he didn't move at all, nor did he give an answer. T'Pol tried again. "Do you recognize me?"

This time he did move, hugging his knees tighter and pressing his back against the wall. "I don't give a shit who you are," he said, his voice sounding almost weary. "Just leave me alone."

"I am T'Pol," she said, for the first time noticing how haggard he looked. Phlox had said that he hadn't touched any food in days. "I have come to help you, Commander. You are ill."

"Sure." It was only one word, but he said it with such hatred and derision that she hardly recognized his voice. T'Pol held his gaze, speaking quietly as she continued.

"I know you do not believe me, and it is understandable. I have given you no proof that I am speaking the truth. But I can do so." She paused. "There is a Vulcan technique, called mind meld. It enables people to become aware of each other's thoughts, to communicate telepathically. You cannot lie in a mind meld. It is not possible. I will touch your face, and you will see in my thoughts that I am telling the truth."

She had not even finished when he was already on his feet. His voice was hoarse with panic as he spoke.

"You come one step closer and I'll kill you! I won't fall for your tricks! If you think you can inject me with some more of those drugs, you're mistaken! I told that other asshole I was gonna kill him next time, and the same goes for you! Leave me alone!"

"I am not going to give you any drugs," T'Pol said, staying where she was. "You will see that I am telling the truth."

"You lie!" he hissed. "All of you. You come here and I swear I'll knock you out cold."

T'Pol slowly got to her feet. She had hoped he would at least listen to what she said, but he was clearly too terrified to think of anything but keeping her away from him. Continuing this fruitless conversation would probably only lead to more agitation on his part. She expected him to attack her as she slowly approached, but he didn't. A look of pure terror crossed his features as she came closer, and he retreated further into the corner, pressing his back against the wall as if he hoped to merge with it.

"Leave me alone," he whispered, and she noticed that his lips were bleeding, dry and cracked from dehydration. "Leave me alone."

"I am not going to hurt you," she said, again concentrating on her breathing. Draw air. Hold it. Let it out. "You will see that I am telling the truth."

"No!" Sliding down the wall, he flung his arms over his head as if to protect himself in case she hit him. "Leave me alone!"

T'Pol slowly crouched down in front of him, and noticed that he was crying. His arms trembled, and he didn't even lash out at her when she took his hands, gently pulling them away from his face.

"I am not going to hurt you," she said, aware that he wasn't listening but hoping her calm tone of voice would convey her good intentions as well. "I am only going to touch your face. I am not going to hurt you."

"No," he sobbed, turning his head away. "No. Leave me alone."

Carefully, T'Pol reached out and put a hand on his cheek, gently turning his head so he was facing her. She saw the tears running down his cheeks and the snot gathering on his upper lip, smelled his sweat and fear, but she didn't feel disgusted.

"I am not going to hurt you," she repeated, reaching up with her other hand and spreading her fingers to touch the melding points. His eyes widened the instant her hand made contact with his skin, and for a second T'Pol felt the wetness of his tears under her fingers before she entered the meld and the outer world disappeared.

Chaos. It was the first thing she became aware of. Swirling, red chaos threatening to pull her down, to drown her. Somewhere there was fear, a blind panic reaching out for her, but mainly there was disorder and mayhem. A mind that had lost control. Chaos reigned, and it didn't like any intruders, pushing her away and at the same time tugging at her, trying to pull her into those ugly, raging, whirling colours-

No. T'Pol concentrated on her surroundings, blocking out the fear, willing the storm of emotions to stop. No. We are calm. We are not afraid.

Her mental voice echoed through space, and again there was an uproar of angry, agitated feelings, fighting her presence.

Get out! Why are you here?

T'Pol focused on the words, and gradually, the storm subsided, but it was still close beneath the surface, ready to break loose any moment.

I am not going to hurt you. Can you see that I am speaking the truth?

Silence answered her question, and now she could See. She was standing in front of a high wall - nothing else, no ground, no up and down, just a big wall looking as impenetrable as the hull of a spaceship. It was silent in here, and she could feel the chaos that had been fighting her fading away, but it wasn't a good silence. It was a fearful, trembling silence, the silence of someone hiding from his pursuers, holding his breath so they wouldn't find him. And T'Pol knew she was the cause of that anguish. She was an intruder, had all but forced her way in here, and even though she had managed to block out chaos, she couldn't break down that wall of fear.

Can you see that I am speaking the truth? she asked again, and this time there was an answer, timid but clearly articulated.

I told you to go away. What do you want? Who are you?

I am T'Pol, she said. You know me. I am not an enemy. I do not mean to harm you. I want to help.

Fear grew stronger, and this time she could feel something else mingle with it, a hateful distrust that didn't come from the small frightened presence who had answered her from behind the wall, but from another place, from somewhere beneath. The other presence seemed to have noticed as well; she could feel it shrinking back, retreating further into the darkness where it was hiding.

Go away! How can you be here? Why can I hear you?

I am within your thoughts, she answered, but this only caused panic to flare up again.

GET OUT! I DON'T WANT YOU HERE!

The distrust became stronger, and again she had the distinct impression that it was coming from somewhere below, mixing with the fear and causing the wall to become even thicker.

I will leave, she said, projecting calm and serenity as she spoke. But first you need to listen to me. I need to tell you the truth.

There was a pause. Truth? The panic faded to be replaced by wariness, and, as T'Pol noticed with a very un-Vulcan surge of hope, a faint trace of curiousity. What truth?

The truth about where you are. About the people around you.

Now something like a bitter laugh echoed behind the wall, a short, angry sound.

You don't need to tell me. I already know.

Really? She hadn't spoken in a provoking tone, but still felt the anger of the other presence grow stronger.

Yes really! They are plotting against me. They are lying. I mustn't trust them. If I trust them, they'll hurt me. Kill me.

That is not true. She projected the words with great care, making sure they were being heard. If you will let me, I can show you. No one is trying to hurt you. I am speaking the truth.

Again, silence followed, and T'Pol could feel the presence hesitating, considering. Once again, there was a small trickle of curiousity, then: How could you show me?

Right then, something happened. It was as if the place - or rather not-place - they were in started trembling, shaking. T'Pol could feel it before she heard it; a voice, screeching in a terrible, hysterical tone, radiating pure anger and fury.

See what she's trying to do? See? She's trying to trick you, make you believe her so she can give you some more of their drugs, hurt you-

No. T'Pol interrupted, still speaking very calmly. I do not intend to do any such thing.

The voice became louder. Of course she is! She's lying! They're all lying! You mustn't trust them!

That is not true, T'Pol said, feeling that the other presence was still listening to her. That is not true. I am not lying.

I can see that. There was something like confidence in the statement, and T'Pol felt unfamiliar excitement when she saw the wall beginning to crumble.

Yes. You can. And if you will let me, I will help you see the truth-

NO! The voice sounded shrill now, furious. And frightened. DON'T TRUST HER! DON'T TRUST ANYONE! YOU KNOW THEY-

But it couldn't stop the wall breaking apart, pieces crashing down and dissolving into nothingness, and together with the wall the dark chaos that had been lurking nearby faded away, allowing light to pour into the place.

NO! the voice screeched, but this time T'Pol didn't answer. She didn't need to. The other presence, growing stronger and stronger as the wall kept breaking apart, pushed it away, rejecting it with a force that surprised T'Pol.

I don't want to listen to you anymore! You're the one who is lying! Get out of here!

The voice let out one more angry, frustrated scream, but no one listened. The wall was nearly gone now, and together with the last ugly pieces the fear was washed away, taking the voice with it.

Again, silence echoed through the place. A different silence, though. It was like stepping out the door after a rainstorm and feeling the first sunrays warm up your skin. Everything smells still wet, and the sky is a light, bluish grey, but you know that it is only a matter of time until the last shreds of clouds will be gone, and the sun will begin to dry the glistening bushes and trees.

In that silence T'Pol turned around and finally saw him. The other presence. He was still rather weak and shaky from what had just happened, but he was looking at her. Seeing her.

What's going on? I... can hear your thoughts. The statement held no fear or panic, only faint wonder. T'Pol?

Yes, she said, and in the privacy of her - their - thoughts she allowed herself a smile. I am here.

Carefully, tentatively he answered her smile, still rather confused. How come you are in here?

She spoke, feeling the place fill with light as they talked. I am here to help you.

He hesitated, trying to remember. You said you were going to show me... the truth?

Yes, she said. The truth. But I can only show you if you will allow me to help you see.

More confusion. I don't understand.

She paused, seeking impressions to convey what she wanted to do without scaring him away. If you want to see, you will have to think my thoughts... be what I am. You will have to allow me to complete the meld. Only then will I be able to show you the whole truth.

She expected him to shrink back from the idea, but he didn't. Again, there was curiousity, but also something else, and T'Pol's Vulcan composure briefly wavered as she realized what it was. Trust. He trusted her.

What do I have to do? His question came out haltingly, but at the same time T'Pol felt the curiousity growing stronger. She allowed herself another small smile.

You are not required to "do" anything. Only listen to my words, and do not fight me. I will not harm you.

I know. Again, T'Pol could feel the implicit trust he placed in her, and it moved her like few things had before. Her own confidence grew, and she put her doubts aside. This joining of thoughts was not going to be a forced one, a crime in the eyes of any telepathic species. It was based on mutual agreement, and it would make him see. Really see.

Listen to my words, she repeated, and when she began the ancient chant of the mind meld, she could hear her every word being echoed by a second voice.

My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts, never and always touching and touched...

And they saw.

They saw him sitting in that cell, waiting for their captors to bring Malcolm back, they watched the escape, and Malcolm telling him he had sabotaged the flitter-

A surge of anger and hurt.

He betrayed me!

He did not.

They saw her sitting in front of a screen together with Archer and Phlox, relived her anguish as she realized what those people had done to her crewmates...

A set-up? I don't understand.

They wanted you to believe he had betrayed you. It was not him. It was only a holographic projection. He never worked for them to conspire against you.

Another image flashed up before their eyes, suddenly, and accompanied by a searing stab of anguish and pain. Malcolm on the cell floor, his face turning red, a retching sound coming from his throat-

I killed him. I'm a murderer. And he never... are you saying he never...

He did not betray you. And you did not kill him. He is alive.

Joy washed over them, a relief so intense that it made them sway. Malcolm was not dead. And they had not killed him. It was almost too good to believe-

They glanced at a brief image of Malcolm lying on a sickbay bed, looking rather pale but definitely alive, Porthos snuggling in the crook of his arm. And they did believe. Malcolm was alive.

Another image. They saw him sitting on the floor of the decon chamber, curled up against the wall, his shoulders shaking as he cried silently, face buried in his arms. Memories resurfaced, feelings of utter desolation and abandonment, and it still caused them a lot of pain to think of that.

I thought you were trying to use me for tests... I thought... I thought everybody was plotting against me. And... there was no one I could turn to... Shame mingled with the memory of the pain they had endured. I tried to attack you, didn't I? I think I hit Dr. Phlox...

He does not blame you. No one does. The only thing that is important now is that you see the truth...

I... I do...

There was silence for a while, and maybe they cried a little, but it were mostly tears of relief and exhaustion that were running down their cheeks. More images kept swirling through their mind, but right now they didn't have the strength to look at them. They were so tired.

It is time to return.

Her voice, swimming up from the depth of the meld, slowly disentangling her thoughts from their joined consciousness. T'Pol felt her own mind beginning to detach from the meld, and noticed with mild chagrin that she was actually feeling a little disappointed at ending this experience. The emotion was mutual, though, and she sensed his mind reaching out for hers.

Hey, don't leave!

Commander, it is time to return.

The formal use of his title brought first surprise, then amusement, and she could feel him coming closer, examining her thoughts not in an intruding way, but with honest curiousity.

Commander...

What's that?

During his careful exploring he'd come across part of her mind she had shielded, and she could sense his curiousity grow.

What are you hiding?

Very deliberately, T'Pol projected slight annoyance into her thoughts. It is time to return.

What are you hiding? The question sounded more urgent now, and she felt something in him resurface, something that had kept him behind that wall for so long. Why can't you show me?

T'Pol let out a mental sigh. When she'd decided to perform this meld, she'd sworn to herself that she would keep that part of herself hidden, concealed under the layers of logic she had buried it under long time ago. Leave it to Commander Tucker to ruin her plans. She knew that if she refused to show him now, all her efforts of today might prove futile, after all. So she dropped her shields, and he saw.

First, there was a moment of silence. Then a small sound came from his direction. T'Pol didn't recognize it immediately for she had never heard it before, but then she realized it was telepathic laughter. It was friendly, good-natured laughter, but it still made her feel slightly embarrassed.

Well, how about that? He was still chuckling. How about that.

The temptation was great, but T'Pol refrained from telling him that she saw exactly how his teasing was only a feeble try at hiding the real emotions he felt at his discovery. There would be enough time to tell him when he had recovered. For now, a mental raising of an eyebrow would have to suffice.

Now that you have satisfied your curiousity, I suggest we do as I said before and return.

He grew serious again. Sure thing.

Slowly, carefully, she broke the meld, and again felt something like disappointment as their minds drifted apart. Eventually, his mental voice faded away, and she could feel her consciousness returning to the real world.

They were still positioned in the same way they had been at the beginning of the meld, he sitting curled up with his back against the wall, she crouching down in front of him. But when T'Pol carefully withdrew her hand from his face, she realized that everything else had changed. Commander Tucker was looking at her, and instead of panic and fear there was an expression of amazement in his eyes. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then he licked his lips, clearing his dry throat.

"It... it really happened, didn't it?"

Again, she allowed the tiniest of smiles to cross her lips. "Yes, it did."

He shook his head. "I... I don't..."

His voice failed, and T'Pol reached behind her, picking up the water bag from the tray.

"Here. I assume you must be rather thirsty."

He nodded, allowing her to help him guide the water bag to his lips and hold it as he drank. He emptied nearly half the bag before she gently pulled it away.

"Take it easy, Commander. I do not think the doctor would approve if you made yourself sick by drinking too hastily."

Again, he looked up at her and she saw a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Guess you're right." He sighed. "I don't know... somehow I feel awfully tired."

"It is a natural reaction. Mind melds are very straining both to telepaths and non-telepaths. I suggest you try to rest now."

He nodded wearily. "Sounds like a good idea."

She made as if to help him up so he could lie down on the cot, but he waved her off. "Here's jus' fine."

"As you wish." She brought him the blanket he'd never so much as looked at during those last three days, and he wrapped it around his shoulders, looking up at her again.

"T'Pol..."

She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Commander?"

"Would you... would you mind stayin' here for a while?" He looked slightly embarrassed. "Guess after all that time alone I could use some company..."

"There is no need to explain." Settling down next to him, she helped him lie down on the floor, allowing him to rest his head in her lap. Again, he opened his mouth to say something, probably apologize for the inconveniences he was causing, but T'Pol put a finger to his lips.

"Sleep now."

She watched as his eyes drifted close, and continued to stroke his hair until she felt his breathing become even and his body relax. After a while, her eyes began to droop as well, but she kept sleep at a distance. Right now the only thing she wanted to do was sit here and watch the Commander sleep, relishing the knowledge that he was going to be alright.

Chapter 12

Sitting at his desk, Trip stared down at the warp core schematics on the screen in front of him. There was something reassuring about the symmetry of those lines, the way they created patterns and merged together in a form that looked complicated to the layman but held no mysteries for him. It was a good feeling, to know that he could sit here, look at these blueprints, and understand them, better than anyone else on Enterprise. That, at least, hadn't changed. No matter that he had spent three days in Phlox' decon chamber, refusing to eat and threatening to kill everyone who came near him, no matter that T'Pol had dragged him back to reality by... doing whatever it was that she'd done, no matter that he was still feeling as if he was walking an emotional tightrope and could lose his balance if his attention slipped only for one brief moment; all of this couldn't change the fact that he was still able to put the engineering part of his brain to work, concentrating on mathematics and solving problems like he'd used to do before.

These days, that certainty sometimes was the only thing that kept him from throwing things against the wall of his quarters, taking out his anger and pent-up frustration on inanimate objects that didn't offer any resistance, that one could smash and rip apart at one's leisure without doing any real harm. But Trip knew that destroying his possessions wasn't something Phlox would regard as a sign of mental stability, and it was only due to the doctor's observation that Mr. Tucker seems to be more or less stable at the moment that he'd been released to his quarters. They kept him monitored, of course - no, not "they", Trip reminded himself firmly. Phlox. Phlox kept him monitored, and he did so for Trip's own good, so Trip wouldn't go and hurt himself, or do any other things mentally stable people weren't in the habit of doing. And Trip wasn't going to put the little privacy and dignity of being in his own living space at risk by indulging in those strange urges that sometimes rose in less controlled parts of his mind. So instead of screaming and smashing things, he spent hours sitting at his desk, revising old calculations and projects he hadn't looked at for years, trying to find out if there might be something useful stored away in that terminal of his, after all. The plainness and simple logic of the mathematics made it easy for him to get absorbed, to keep his mind off other things. Like the security guard in front of his door, for example. Or the strange, disturbing yet not unpleasant memories of T'Pol's voice speaking inside his head. The shame he'd felt when he'd noticed the bruises on Phlox' face, and had realized that it must have been him who'd put them there. The memories of the things T'Pol had told him. The thoughts of Malcolm-

No. Trip returned his attention to the screen in front of him, his eyes tracing the yellow lines of the schematic with an almost fierce determination. When he'd worked on this more than eighteen months ago he'd marked several places of the blueprint red, indicating that some modifications needed to be made in these areas. Systematically, Trip went over each of the marked spots, trying to think of the parts he'd meant to recalibrate, and noting down the steps that had to be taken before the modifications could be performed. It was dull work, and usually Trip wasn't in the habit of meticulously listing things, but right now he felt he had to get this done as neatly as possible. It kept him stable.

Trip was just about to finish the seventh mark when the sound of the door signal startled him out of the world of warp conduits and power relais. Rather reluctantly he pushed aside the padds, raising his head.

"Come," he said.

The bulkhead slid aside, revealing Jon standing in the doorframe. Trip caught a short glimpse of Ensign Hsan standing guard in the corridor before Archer stepped into the room, the door closing shut behind him.

"Hey," Jon said, smiling a little awkwardly. Trip answered his smile, finding it got easier every time to produce those meaningless, every-day gestures.

"Hey." He got up, motioning Jon to the desk chair. "Come on, take a seat."

Jon opened his mouth, probably to tell him to stay seated, but Trip plopped down on his bed, making it clear that this was where he was going to stay. Jon smiled again, lowering himself into the chair.

"Thanks."

There was a short pause, and Trip racked his mind almost frantically to find an appropriate topic of conversation he could bring up. Something he and Jon would talk about when they were hanging out together. But Jon didn't quite fit the image of someone coming over to have a beer and a chat with one of his buddies. Not with that expression of carefully guarded concern on his face, and not with that anxious undertone in his voice as he spoke.

"How're you feeling, Trip?"

Trip sighed, giving the answer he'd given so many times before.

"I'm okay. A little bored perhaps."

Jon smiled apologetically, and Trip wished he wouldn't do that all the time. Being so damn understanding, wrapping him in cotton wool like one badly put statement could set him off and make him go berserk anytime.

Come on, Jon. Tell me I'm lucky Phlox didn't insist on the strait-jacket. Say that being bored is a small price to pay for getting the chance to take a good swing at my fellow officers. I can take a joke.

But Jon did nothing of the sort, and Trip resigned to the fact that it would probably be a long time until he would be able to joke and laugh with the others like he'd used to. Before. Before all this rotten, blasted shit had happened.

"Trying to get some work done?"

Trip raised his eyes and saw Jon looking at the schematic that was still displayed on the desk screen. He nodded.

"I started that over a year ago, but somehow I never found the time to finish it." He smiled, and again it wasn't at all hard to take on the expression. He didn't even have to force it. "Thought I might jus' as well do somethin' useful while I'm-"

Stuck in here, he'd been about to say, but bit down on the words before they left his mouth. He didn't want Jon to think that he was complaining.

"- off duty," he finished a little awkwardly. Jon nodded, turning away from the screen and looking back at Trip.

"You know what, Stanford won the State Cup again," he said, and for a moment Trip had no idea what Jon was talking about. Then it came to him. Water polo. Jon was talking about water polo.

"Oh, really," he said, and even managed to get a little excited at the news. "Against which team were they playin'?"

"Pecos," Jon said. "It was a close call, though."

"Bet it was," Trip said, getting increasingly annoyed with himself for giving these seemingly indifferent replies. It wasn't that he didn't like talking to Jon, rather the opposite; he'd been waiting for someone to drop by all afternoon, and was genuinely enjoying his friend's company. But somehow he didn't seem able to show it, to keep the conversation flowing and contribute to the small talk the way he'd used to. Now he had to consciously formulate every single statement in his mind, forcing himself to concentrate on the subject of conversation. Talking to people suddenly was hard work to him, a thing he found a little unsettling, given his former reputation as the only person on Enterprise who was able to out-talk even Dr. Phlox.

When the silence was getting awkward, Jon cleared his throat.

"You know, Trip," he said, absentmindedly picking up a pen that was lying on the desk top and tapping it against his palm. "I guess you don't really want to talk about that now, but... I just wanted to say, I'm so glad to have you back. I mean," he added hastily, "I know things aren't back to what they used to be, but... a few days ago, I thought it would be quite some time until I would be able to talk to you like that again. I was afraid..."

He trailed off, but Trip knew what he'd been about to say. Jon had been afraid he would never be able to talk to him again, and from the few things Phlox had said Trip assumed that if it hadn't been for T'Pol, that might just as well have been the case.

He nodded. "It's good bein' out of the decon chamber," he said quietly. Jon put the pen back down on the table.

"T'Pol told me she didn't even help you that much," he said, and another sort of smile appeared on his face. After a moment Trip realized rather surprised that it was a proud smile. Jon was proud... of him?

"She said you pulled out of it pretty much on your own," Archer continued. "You did it yourself, Trip. I'm proud of you."

There. He'd said it. Trip shook his head, and all of a sudden the words seemed to come out of his mouth all by their own.

"Why would you be proud of me? I attacked you, I nearly broke Phlox' nose, I accused all of you of conspirin' against me, and I... I nearly killed Malcolm."

He'd wanted it to come out in a sarcastic tone, but at these last four words his voice was almost a whisper. Lowering his eyes, he stared at the floor and only noticed that Jon had gotten up when he sat down next to him. For a brief moment he tensed, but then he was able to suppress the slight wariness he still felt when someone came close to him.

"Trip," Jon said, tentatively putting a hand on his shoulder. "You weren't being yourself then. And they set you up; it was all in those protocols. There was no way you could've known it wasn't Malcolm-"

"I could have known!" Trip said a little louder than he'd intended to. "I should have known! I know Malcolm would never do that kind of thing, no matter what circumstances, and I knew then, too. And I didn't even try to ask him about it, I... I simply went for him and..."

He trailed off, biting his lip, and felt Jon put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer.

"It wasn't you, Trip," he said, stressing every single word. "It wasn't you. In a situation like that, everybody would have snapped sooner or later. If the roles had been reversed, if Malcolm had been the one they tricked with that hologram... he might have reacted just the same way. It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't Malcolm's, either; the only ones who are to blame are those people."

"What do you mean, it wasn't Malcolm's fault?" Trip asked. "He didn't try to kill anyone."

He felt Jon's arm tighten around his shoulders, and Archer's voice was very quiet as he spoke. "He tried to kill himself. Later, when he was alone, he smashed that water jug and slit his wrists."

Trip sat frozen, his blood pounding in his ears. He repeated the words in his mind, not quite able to believe them. Malcolm had tried to kill himself? Later... meaning after Trip had attacked him, after he seemingly without reason had turned against him. Slowly, he shook his head.

"No," he said hoarsely. "No. He didn't."

"He feels guilty about it," Jon said. "Blames himself, just like you do. But it wasn't your fault. The only ones to blame are they."

"I made him do it," Trip whispered. "If I hadn't turned my back on him-"

"No, Trip," Archer said firmly. "They made him do it. They kept giving him drugs to keep him from sleeping, driving him half mad, and I guess at some point he just couldn't stand it anymore."

Trip only shook his head, unable to speak. He realized that Jon was trying to make it easier on him, but he knew that drugs wouldn't make Malcolm Reed go and kill himself. He knew exactly what had brought Malcolm to do this. It was that feeling of being completely alone, that feeling of abandonment that was worse than everything else that had made him do it. And it was him, Trip, who had abandoned him. Who was to blame.

Feeling a hot burning sensation rise in his eyes, Trip buried his face in Jon's shoulder and began to cry.

-###-

Malcolm guessed it had been about two hours since he'd woken up, but he wasn't sure. It could have just as well been minutes. All he'd been doing was staring at the grey ceiling of his quarters, not able to muster even enough energy to roll over and pick up the novel that was lying on his nightstand.

Come to think of it, he hadn't really done anything else than sleeping or gazing into nothingness ever since Phlox had released him to his quarters two days ago. The doctor had seemed quite reluctant to let him go, and thinking of the incident with the hypodermic needle, Malcolm believed he knew the reason why. Phlox thought when left alone in his quarters he would try and kill himself again, and considering what had happened, Malcolm wasn't really surprised. It was reasonable, after all. Still, even though he wasn't going to waste his breath telling the doctor so, Malcolm had no intention of doing harm to himself. At least he assumed that was the case. In fact, he didn't really know what to think anymore. Ever since he was back things just seemed to happen without him taking an active part in them, at least not consciously so. Like pulling out that needle; he couldn't remember ever really deciding to do this, nor did he know why he'd done it. All he knew was that suddenly Phlox had appeared at his bedside, his features growing unusually serious as he noticed the drip's tube hanging loose. The doctor had started asking questions, but since Malcolm couldn't give an answer to any of them he simply remained silent, watching Phlox as he re-attached the needle, that expression of worried concern never leaving the doctor's face.

It was a little scary, doing things you had no control over, but all in all Malcolm couldn't really bring himself to care. These days, nothing seemed important enough to trigger any emotions in him. The hours went by as he lay in his bed; sometimes the monotony was interrupted by people bringing him food or just stopping by, but mostly Malcolm spent his time staring at the ceiling, simply letting his mind drift. He tried not to think of anything that might disturb the blissful state of indifference he had created, and most of the time he succeeded, too. There were times when glimpses, unwelcome fragments of memories flashed up in his mind, and usually these were also the times when those unexpected things happened, like pulling out that needle or biting down so hard on the ball of his thumb that he was bleeding. Phlox had taken care of the bite without a word or comment, but when Archer had come by his quarters a few hours later he'd been even more persistent than usual, asking over and over again if Malcolm was feeling alright.

But Malcolm didn't know how he was feeling. He didn't know why he kept doing these things, and he didn't know what to do to make it stop. He had nothing to say to the Captain's questions, and so he kept answering "I'm fine" until Archer left again. It always brought a certain relief to hear the door swish shut behind one of the visitors, and while Malcolm appreciated their efforts, he preferred being left alone so he could retreat again behind that fragile shell of detachment that kept all hurtful thoughts and emotions at a distance. Especially Trip; thinking about Trip hurt the most. When he'd still been in sickbay, Archer had told him that Trip was doing better, that T'Pol had done something to help him, and while Malcolm had been relieved to hear it, he'd only nodded at these news, not asking any further questions. Neither had he asked to be allowed to see Trip, and even though Archer had tried to cover it up, Malcolm had noticed a look of sad disappointment cross the Captain's features at his seeming lack of interest. But it wasn't due to any indifference on his part that he didn't ask any questions about Trip; Malcolm simply knew that if he thought about Trip too much, everything else would come back to him as well, and he wouldn't be able to stand that.

Malcolm turned onto his side, taking the covers with him, and felt a sharp pain lance through his arm as he hit his bandaged wrist on the bed frame. Cursing softly under his breath, he pulled his hand closer to his chest, stopping as he noticed that the end of the bandage had come off. Instead of re-attaching it, Malcolm wrapped off some more of the white gauze, pushing a finger underneath to be able to scratch the itching skin of the healing wound. Another stab of pain made him wince, and he pushed the bandage back into place. For a split second a strange thought crossed his mind - how would it feel if he ripped off the bandage and scratched the wound so hard it started bleeding again - but Malcolm firmly pushed it away, tightening his hands on the covers. He wouldn't allow himself to turn into some kind of screwed-up freak who kept hurting himself on purpose, not if he could help it. He knew Archer and Phlox were already thinking he was missing some marbles, and he didn't want to give proof to their theory by doing crazy things like the one that had just crossed his mind. The worst thing about it was that sometimes he felt inclined to do a close count of his marbles himself, and those crazy thoughts only confirmed his suspicion that there was something seriously wrong with him.

Malcolm closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind of these broodings. He was only going nowhere fast with it, and besides he was awfully tired. Again. He always seemed to be tired these days. Phlox said it was only a natural reaction to the loss of blood he'd suffered, but somehow Malcolm felt that it wasn't right to give in to that weariness. He'd caused that loss of blood himself, after all, and even though he knew he was being silly, it just didn't seem right to sleep all day. At the moment, though, he didn't think he was able to keep himself awake for much longer, and so he allowed his eyes to slip shut and his mind to drift. He was almost asleep when suddenly the sound of the door signal startled him awake again. He sat up.

"Come," he said, rubbing a hand through his mussed hair and blinking to clear his vision. The door swished open, revealing Hoshi who was holding a tray in her hands.

"Did I wake you up?" she asked, taking a few steps into the room and setting the tray down on his desk. He forced himself to answer her smile.

"That's okay," he said, watching as she took the lid off a food container and picked up a spoon.

"Here," she said still smiling, and handed him the bowl which contained plain tomato soup. "Phlox said you're not to eat any solid food for a while, I hope you're not too disappointed. I brought you some mint tea as well; it's in that pot over there."

"Thanks." Reed stared down at the red thick liquid in the bowl, feeling his stomach churn at the thought of having to eat that soup. Ever since Phlox had taken him off the drip, he hadn't really been able to bring himself to eat a proper meal, let alone do so on a regular basis. It had gotten so that Phlox had started to stand next to his biobed while he was eating, watching him to make sure he finished his meals. Malcolm felt embarrassed at being supervised like that, but somehow the mere thought of putting food into his mouth made him feel like vomiting.

Right now, though, it looked like he had little choice; Hoshi seemed to be channeling Phlox' spirit and had taken a seat on his desk chair, watching him with an expectant expression on her face. Malcolm sighed a little, slowly picking up the spoon.

The first mouthful wasn't that bad, after all, but the longer he kept eating, the more he felt like he was going to be sick any minute. After a while Hoshi, who'd been chattering away up until now, telling him the latest messhall gossip, stopped her rather one-sided conversation and raised her eyebrows at him.

"I think your soup's growing cold, Lieutenant," she said. "Something wrong with it?"

Malcolm shook his head. "No, it's fine."

Stirring the soup, he tried to bring himself to eat another spoonful, but somehow he just couldn't. Sighing, he put the spoon down, looking up at Hoshi.

"I don't think I'm that hungry right now," he said. "But thanks, anyway."

"Lieutenant." An expression of exasperated concern appeared on Hoshi's face. "You do have to eat, you know that. Phlox says your body needs to get used to food again, and starving yourself is not the right way to do that."

Malcolm glanced back down at the soup, and this time his stomach did give a slight lurch. He swallowed hard, telling himself to stop acting such a fool, but it was no good. Hoshi was still regarding him with her eyebrows raised.

"Come on, Malcolm. Half a bowl to go."

Malcolm stared down at his hands, inspecting the band aid on his right thumb. After a few moments of awkward silence he heard Hoshi sigh and looked up again.

"You just can't do it, can you?"

He shook his head, and she got up, taking the bowl away. Putting it back onto the tray, she turned her head to look at him.

"Care for a cup of tea?"

He nodded, thinking that some hot, rather flavourless fluid wouldn't offend his queasy stomach too much. "Thanks, some tea would be nice."

Handing him the steaming cup, she sat back down, still studying him with that worried look on her face. "You sure you're feeling alright?"

"Sure," he said, taking a sip of his tea. "I'm fine."

Hoshi smiled a little, pouring herself some tea as well. "Uh-huh. Is it the I'm-feeling-a-little-under-the-weather-but-I-don't-consider-it-worth-talking-about-I'm-fine, or is it the I'm-feeling-like-shit-but-I-sure-won't-tell-you-I'm-fine?"

This actually startled a grin out of him. "Guess it's the I-don't-really-know-how-I'm-feeling-I'm-fine."

Hoshi nodded wisely. "Ah, that one." Putting down the cup on the desk, she turned the chair around so she could take a backwards seat on it. She rested her forearms on the headrest and fixed him with a thoughtful look. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Malcolm lowered his eyes, absentmindedly gazing down into the brownish-transparent liquid, his fingers tightening around the cup's warm metallic material. "I don't think there's much to talk about."

"Oh, do you."

Malcolm turned his head at that dryly delivered statement and saw that Hoshi had sat up again, her face now displaying an expression that reminded Malcolm of how his sister had always looked when she'd realized that he was pulling her leg about something. A look that could maybe be described as affectionate exasperation. It embarrassed him a little, so he quickly averted his eyes again.

"Yes, I do."

Hoshi was silent for a moment, and Malcolm was just about to relax, thinking she had decided it was no use, when she spoke up again. "Lieutenant," she said, her voice carrying a hidden undertone Malcolm didn't like at all, "what did you do to your thumb?"

Reed sat motionless for a moment, feeling his jaw clench. Then, frantically looking for something to do, he quickly raised the cup to his lips. "Nothing," he said before taking a sip. "It's nothing." He closed his eyes as he drank, feeling hot mint tea run down his throat and at the same time hearing a sigh coming from Hoshi's direction. He lowered the cup but didn't look up. After a few moments' silence he heard her sigh again.

"Malcolm..." she began. "I get the impression that you're not doing so well. And I'm not the only one. I know that Phlox is worried about you, and so is Captain Archer. And I think they do have reason to be worried. Or don't you agree?"

Carefully, he placed his tea on the nightstand, then leaned back against the wall, pulling the covers up to his chest. "I told you, it's nothing."

"It's not nothing," she said, but now her voice didn't carry any exasperation anymore, only concern and worried compassion. At her tone Reed felt all his internal defense walls slide firmly into place. "I know it's not nothing, you know it, Phlox and the Captain know it," she continued. "Don't you think talking about it would help?"

Twisting the covers between his fingers, Malcolm firmly fixed a spot at the foot of the bed. He licked his lips, forcing himself to answer. "I... " He cleared his throat. "I don't think I'm quite ready to talk to anyone," he said, knowing good and well that he was lying. He was as ready as he'd ever be, it was just that he couldn't bring himself to do it, to open his mouth and talk. He was too scared of what he might be setting loose. "I suppose I... might still need some time."

Hoshi said nothing, and when he could finally muster enough courage to raise his head and look at her, he saw that she was watching him with an expression of deep concern... and something else. Maybe sadness. "You're tormenting yourself, Malcolm," she said. "You're not eating, you're not talking, you probably aren't even sleeping... this can't go on, you know that. I can see why you need time... after what happened to you, I mean..." She swallowed, lowering her eyes, and Malcolm clamped his fingers around the covers, praying that she wouldn't go on. "Anyway," she said after a moment, "I can see why you need time... but don't take too long. You have to at least try. Promise me that you'll try."

Malcolm forced a small smile onto his lips. To himself it felt more like a grimace, but judging from her expression, it was enough for Hoshi. "Promise," he said, desperately hoping that she would allow him to steer the conversation back to the small talk he'd actually started to feel comfortable with earlier. "Thanks for bringing me supper."

Hoshi smiled a little, getting up. "Not that you ate it, but you're welcome anyway."

Malcolm watched her as she gathered up the tray, feeling a little guilty at the relief that took hold of him as he realized that she was about to leave.

Balancing the tray on one arm, Hoshi reached for the door panel. "I'll come back in a few hours to see how you're doing, alright?" she said, and Malcolm nodded, even though he feared that when she came back later, she would only press him even more to talk to her. But right now agreeing reassured her, and if she was reassured, she would leave. So he nodded.

"Well then, see you later." The door swished open, and Malcolm watched her disappear through it. Then, sighing, he resumed his close observation of the foot of the bed.

He hadn't meant to freeze her out like that. It wasn't fair, she was trying to help him, after all. She was helping him, actually; by stopping by every now and then and talking to him she and the others reassured him that he really was where he thought he was, and that all of this was not some kind of self-induced dream. He needed that reassurance. He hadn't left his quarters at all ever since Phlox had released him from sickbay, and sometimes, especially at night, when the lights were dimmed and his protective shell of indifference wore thin, he almost expected to wake up any moment to find himself back on V'nera. Of course he told himself that this was nonsense, and most of the times he could even believe himself. A small part of him, though, he could never quite convince. He assumed it was his pessimism, or maybe the paranoia that people told him was part of his nature. Whatever it was, it kept its doubts, and could only be silenced if he now and then provided some reassurance that this was, in fact, reality. The people who brought that reassurance were the people who came here from time to time, talking to him and keeping him from burying himself under his dark thoughts.

You're not making their job a very easy one, Malcolm thought with a touch of bitterness. It wasn't as if he didn't know exactly what Hoshi had been talking about when she'd said he was "tormenting" himself. It was clear to him what she meant, although he wouldn't have put it quite that dramatically. But he didn't seem to be able to make it stop. He knew that talking to someone would help - and that meant real talking, not the one-sided small talk that seemed to be the only kind of conversation he allowed himself to participate in these days. The talk didn't even have to be about... what had happened, he assumed it would be enough if he were able to tell someone about how he was feeling right now. The thing was, he didn't know how to voice his inner sensations without sounding like a complete fool. No, that wasn't quite right. He didn't know how to word his feelings at all. If he were to try, he assumed it would make him sound like a fool, at least to his own ears. But that wasn't really important; if his time on Enterprise had taught him anything besides how to run the Security Department on a starship, it was that how you sounded to yourself mostly wasn't how others heard you. People were kinder than one suspected. Nevertheless, this didn't help him any, for if you just didn't know what to say, you couldn't even say something foolish.

Malcolm rolled onto his side, facing the wall, and pulled the blankets up almost to his ears. If he'd been able to, he would have slept, but Hoshi's penetrating questions had made a small dam in his mind give way, and now a small river of thoughts was flowing through his head like a mountain stream - narrow, but fierce, fast. He was standing at the riverbank and watching the water flow, a little unsettled by its wildness, not understanding most of what he glimpsed between the waves. The one thing he understood, though, was that he couldn't stand there for much longer. It was too scary. He'd always been pretty much in control of what was going on in his consciousness, and having lost that control so completely, being so confused that he had to shut down all the more complex parts of his mind to prevent a mental breakdown frightened him deeply. And he realized that Hoshi had been right about something else: it couldn't go on like this. If it did, he knew that sooner or later he'd lose his mind. Or suppress his conscious thoughts for so long that he wouldn't be able to retrieve them, which basically came down to the same. But he wouldn't let it come to that. He knew he had to take some kind of action, and slowly the realization of what he had to do began to crystallize. It would be a hard thing to do, but he was sure that he would be able to go through with it. There seemed to be no other way, at least none he could see, and so Malcolm, half-reluctant and half-relieved, made his decision.

He noted that he felt better now. The stream was still raging, but he wasn't watching that closely anymore. Closing his eyes, he willed sleep to come, and fifteen minutes later he was resting quietly, the covers still pulled up almost over his head.

Chapter 13

The messhall was empty. Even Chef had retired for the night, and the darkened galley told Trip that it had to be past midnight already. Usually the ship's cook would stay on duty till 10 pm at least, being as fond of his domain as Tucker was of his beloved Engineering department. Now, however, the room was deserted, and Trip was grateful for that.

It was now three days ago that Jon had come to his quarters, intending to talk to him and succeeding in crushing Trip's fragile state of mental equilibrium completely by telling him about Malcolm.

There, Trip told himself, stabbing at the piece of pie standing before him with an almost violent force. You're doing it again. Blaming others for things you are responsible for. Jon tried to break it as gently as he could. It's your fault and only yours that you're sitting here, unable to sleep or even eat that damned pie.

He stared down at the pie that resembled something like a molehill by now, a small heap of mashed crust and sugar-covered pecan nuts. Suddenly and without forewarning Trip remembered a casual remark he'd made over a year ago, sitting at this very table in messhall.

"... can you believe it, he ate the same meal every day for over a year!"

His female audience had giggled appreciatively at this oh-so-witty remark and the tone of mock despair he'd used, but right now Trip couldn't see anything funny about his statement.

It seemed so characteristic of him - and not in a good way. Speaking whatever stupid thought popped up in his mind without thinking about whom he might hurt with that remark, making weak jokes at the expense of others - it was just what you'd expect from a superficious, egoistic idiot. And once again, of course, Malcolm had been the butt of his joke. Trip always told himself the Lieutenant's stiff by-the-book attitude was simply too tempting for him not to poke fun at Reed about it, but somewhere deeper in his mind he knew that was not quite the truth. The Armoury Officer's earnest and determined way of doing things, of living his life, sometimes made Trip feel insecure, unsure of himself and what people called his "easy-going manner". At the beginning of their mission this feeling of insecurity had triggered a certain distrust in him where Malcolm was concerned, and he'd been sure he would never be able to understand this weird, reserved man who refused to "fraternize" with the crew and never spoke of his personal interests beside work. Who, according to Archer, didn't even have a hobby. The incident with the shuttlepod had changed that. Trip had seen that Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, who never showed any interest in socializing or even getting to know his colleagues, cared very deeply. And they had become friends.

Still, their friendship was based on a bantering, jocular rivalry, friendly, but always creating a certain air of competition. And Trip realized that it had been mostly him enforcing that rivalry by doing exactly what he called "poking fun at Malcolm." He had never really been able to take the Lieutenant's way of doing things without comment, had always felt the need to justify his own actions by making fun of Malcolm's point of view. Malcolm had reacted, of course, by retorting in that dry, caustic way of his, but he'd never really felt the need to initiate one of their famous "repartees". And he would have never talked to a third person about Trip in that careless, slightly condescending manner.

But it wasn't enough, Trip thought, crushing the last remaining bits of pie crust in an almost savage manner. It wasn't enough that you had to make those stupid remarks. That you could never leave well alone and simply accept him the way he is. No, you had to make it complete and turn your back on him when he needed your friendship the most. You had to fall for a stupid trap some sadistic weirdos set up and make him think that you never really trusted him anyway. You just had to, didn't you, asshole?

For a moment Trip felt like picking up the plate, ruined pie and all, and throwing it against the wall as hard as he could. He'd never deserved that friendship, and he didn't deserve people coming and talking to him, fussing over his moods and ailments while he himself couldn't even muster the courage to go and apologize to Malcolm.

Feeling an almost physical disgust, Trip let go of the fork he'd been stabbing the pie with and watched it fall onto the table with a soft clatter. He knew he wouldn't be able to finish that dish, even though it was pecan pie and he hadn't had one for at least two months. Several days ago when he'd still been confined to his quarters, he'd already experienced a certain lack of appetite, but then he'd blamed it on the solitary environment of his cabin, thinking that it would get better once he was allowed to eat in messhall again. In the meantime, however, Trip had come to the conclusion that being out of his quarters wasn't really changing anything.

"Good evening, Commander."

Trip looked up. He hadn't heard the door open, and was surprised to see T'Pol standing at the resequencer, raising one eyebrow at him. He cleared his throat.

"Evenin', T'Pol. Didn't hear you comin'."

"That is obvious." T'Pol turned back to the dispenser unit. "Camomile tea. Hot."

Trip watched her take the cup out of the slot, and actually found himself feeling kind of relieved that someone had come. It wasn't like he was very keen on making small talk at the moment, but he realized that all this brooding wasn't getting him anywhere.

"May I join you?" she said, and he motioned her to sit.

"Sure."

Placing her cup in front of her on the table, she sat down gracefully and gave him a brief look before turning her eyes to the window. In the meantime Trip had grown quite skilled in reading the subdued Vulcan body language, and he could see that T'Pol was feeling a little uncomfortable. Her discomfort didn't show by something as blunt as shifting on the chair or turning her cup in her hands, but there was a certain tension about her posture that told him there was something on her mind.

No surprises there; this was a rather awkward situation, after all. The last time they had spoken, other than the occasional brief informal greeting in the corridors, his head had been resting in her lap, and she'd been stroking his hair, telling him to close his eyes and go to sleep.

"I assume Dr. Phlox has informed you that getting sufficient rest is crucial in your current condition, Commander?"

Trip looked up and actually felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. T'Pol's way of asking "Why're you up so late". She was still staring at him with an expression of calm inquiry on her face, eyebrow arching a fraction steeper than usual. He cleared his throat.

"I know," he said. "It's jus' that... I'm not really tired, you know."

He expected her to say that it was illogical not to spend one's night resting when one's body was in need of sleep, but she didn't.

"You are troubled," she stated. Trip looked back down at the remains of his pie. Vulcan straightforwardness could be very refreshing at times, but it did need getting used to.

"What makes you think so," he muttered, and he didn't have to look at her to know that her eyebrow had climbed even higher.

"It is obvious," she said and he couldn't help but utter a dry chuckle at her statement.

"Guess it is." Picking up his fork he once again poked the molehill that was left of his pie, then pushed away the plate. As he raised his eyes he saw that T'Pol was regarding his dish with her nose slightly wrinkled in disgust. Despite himself he felt a teasing grin spread on his face. "Want some?"

She looked up, and to his surprise he saw an answering glint in her eyes. "Certainly not." Folding her hand, she placed them in front of her on the table. Trip watched the shadow of amusement vanish from her features, and again had the impression that she was feeling self-conscious in that aloof Vulcan way of hers.

"Commander," she said, "we need to talk."

He immediately shook his head, looking back down at his hands that were still holding the fork. "T'Pol," he said hesitantly, not wanting to hurt her feelings, "I really appreciate what you're tryin' to do, but-"

"We need to talk about the mind meld."

An awkward pause followed these words. Carefully, Trip put the fork back down on the table, involuntarily matching T'Pol's gesture as he interlaced his fingers. In a way, he had been waiting for this topic to come up, but at the same time had been dreading the moment when he would have to voice his feelings on that strange, terrifying but still somehow mesmerizing experience he'd had. They'd had.

The silence between them stretched, and when T'Pol didn't speak up again, he felt obliged to say something.

"Well," he said hesitantly, "I guess I have to thank you. For what you did. When... when I wasn't feelin' well, I mean." He cringed inwardly at his choice of words, realizing that he must be sounding like a complete idiot. "I... I know it musta been... difficult for you... you know, with me bein' all-"

"It is alright, Commander," she interrupted, and to his mild chagrin he noticed that some of the amusement had returned to her eyes. "There is no need to explain. And there is no need to thank me." He opened his mouth again, but she held up a hand. "Actually, I am of the opinion that I owe you an apology. On Vulcan, there are very strict ethics concerning the joining of thoughts, and I compromised these principles when I initiated the meld without your explicit permission. I ask your forgiveness."

Trip stared at her, completely thrown off his tracks for a moment. T'Pol was apologizing... to him?

"Well," he said after a moment when he'd recovered his voice, "I don't know anythin' about Vulcan ethics, but... there's nothin' you have to apologize for. Hell, a week ago I was sittin' in that damn decon chamber, refusin' to eat and threatenin' to kill anyone who tried to come near me."

Anyone else would have tried to interrupt him now, to tell him it hadn't been his fault and he mustn't blame himself. T'Pol however simply listened, watching him with what he would have called a cool stare only a year ago. Now he knew better, and it was a relief, being able to speak what was on his mind without having to take human sensitiveness into consideration.

"You... you really saved me. It sounds stupid, but you did. It... it was so awful, thinkin' everybody had turned against me, and that I was completely alone... " He paused, struggling to keep his voice steady as he continued. He didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable by displaying the emotions that were raging inside him all too clearly. "I don't know what made me think so. It was just... at some point back in that cell, after that whole business with the... the hologram had happened, I somehow lost it. Started to talk to myself, to... to that voice..."

He trailed off. Up until now, he had never brought himself to acknowledge that there had indeed been a voice in his head, whispering hateful accusations and threatening him not to trust anybody. It was not a sign of mental stability, talking to voices only oneself could hear, and besides the mere memory of that ugly, hissing sound forming evil words inside his head sent shivers down his spine. But there was no fooling T'Pol as far as his mental state was concerned - she had experienced first-hand how screwed-up he'd been. And maybe still was. And she knew about the voice. She had made it go away, after all.

"I... sometimes I think it was them. That they did something to my head, made me hear things they said... and... and that I'll never be able to know if they're really gone or..."

He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. Staring down at his folded hands, he noticed absentmindedly that the knuckles had turned white from clenching his fingers so hard. But he'd done it. He'd managed to voice his deepest fear which kept him awake at night, and which would never allow him any real peace, no matter how firmly he kept telling himself that everything was alright. There was a small careful movement on the other side of the table, and suddenly another hand came into his range of vision, gently settling on his clenched-up fists.

"Commander. Charles."

Trip slowly raised his eyes, and saw T'Pol looking at him in her calm, unobtrusive way. She didn't pull her hand away, tightening her grip ever so slightly as she continued.

"It is understandable for you to experience such doubts, but I can assure you, they are not based on any actual facts. That "voice", as you call it, was not planted in your head by anyone. It was part of your hallucinations, a manifestation of your paranoia."

Her words sounded clinical, almost unfeeling, but her tone of voice told Trip that she was trying to make herself as clear as possible, help him see the facts so he could finally discard those fears which had been tormenting him ever since he'd returned to the real world.

"You must not expect your upset feelings and confusion to vanish over night. It is perfectly normal for you to experience these emotions, and the way you keep them under control is admirable."

Her features were still perfectly Vulcan, but Trip had the impression that her rigid expression softened a little when she spoke these words. Hesitantly, he allowed a small smile to appear in the corner of his mouth.

"Why, T'Pol, I'd never thought you'd compliment me on my emotional control one of these days."

Her left eyebrow twitched slightly, and for a fleeting second Trip believed he saw the corners of her mouth curving upwards.

"You may have a point, Commander. It is quite hard to believe."

For a moment their eyes locked, and Trip found it astonishing just how clearly Vulcans could express their amusement without moving one facial muscle. This Vulcan, at least. The laughter dancing in her eyes, daring him to say more, combined with the fact that her hand was still resting on his brought something to his mind.

"T'Pol," he said, trying to sound off-hand but not quite succeeding. "mind if I ask you somethin'?"

T'Pol's eyebrow twitched again, and she carefully pulled her hand back, resting it on the table next to his. "I assume that depends on the nature of the question."

The trace of amusement still lingering in her voice encouraged him to go on. "During that meld..."

Her eyebrow climbed higher. "Yes?"

"In the end, there was somethin' you didn't want me to see, but I kept pressin' you about it... guess I was still feelin' a little... wary..."

"Indeed. The reason I dropped my shields was not to agitate you when you had just recovered." T'Pol's voice sounded dry, but not in an unfriendly way. He nodded.

"Yeah, I remember. What I meant to ask you..." He looked up, and noticed her watching him intently. There was no sign of discomfort in her eyes, though, only curiousity, and an openness he had seldom seen before.

"You meant to ask me whether I actually experience these feelings?" T'Pol asked quietly, and he looked back down at the table, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

"Yeah, guess that was what I wanted to ask. I'm sorry if-"

"There is no need to apologize. I believe you are entitled to ask this question." Again, the faintest trace of dry humor in her voice. "And yes, I do experience these emotions. Even though..." She paused, and if he hadn't known better, he would have said she did it deliberately. "Even though they are completely illogical."

A warm, happy feeling suddenly spread in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn't remember when he'd felt like that last time. Had they been in one of the movies they watched on Friday night, he would have bent forward now, taking her hands in his and bringing his face close to hers. Kiss. Freeze. Credits.

But this was real life, and in real life Trip only smiled, saying the most stupid thing one could say in a situation like that. "Oh."

T'Pol raised her eyebrow. "Have I answered your question, Commander?"

Trip nodded. She had, although he would never have expected quite such an honest answer. And there was no point in saying what they both knew. Being no telepath, he had not been able to hide anything from her during the meld, and he suspected she had known long before taking a look into his mind. All the same, despite the feeling of happiness that was still lingering in his stomach, he knew that now was not the time for these things. He had been released from his quarters only two days ago, and was still under close medical observation. His nights he spent mostly in messhall, not eating his pie and hating himself for what he'd done to one of the best friends he'd ever had. No, it certainly wasn't the best time for scenes from a Friday night movie.

Again, he felt the warm touch of T'Pol's hand on his fingers.

"Charles." The unique way she said his name almost made him smile. It sounded so serious, so distinguished compared to his nickname. "I think it would be the most... helpful if we continued this conversation at another time. You have a lot to deal with at the moment, and I believe it will take a lot of time. And it is important for you to take that time." Again, their eyes met, and they shared a moment of mute understanding before T'Pol carefully pulled her hand back. "In fact, I ask you to take that time."

Trip nodded, grateful that she had said what he would never have been able to put into words. "I will, T'Pol. Promise."

T'Pol folded her hands in front of her, and sat up a little straighter. "Actually, there is another thing I would like to ask you to do."

Surprised, he raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

T'Pol looked him straight in the eyes as she answered. "I want you to go and talk to Lieutenant Reed about what has happened back on V'nera."

Trip sat motionless, feeling the tenseness return. T'Pol, of course, knew why he was sitting here instead of getting some much-needed sleep, and she knew why he couldn't bring himself to eat. She knew he couldn't forgive himself for what he had done.

"T'Pol..." he began, but she interrupted.

"I know you believe you cannot do that, that he will not talk to you. I know it will be difficult. Nevertheless... I ask you to consider it. Will you promise me to do so?"

A moment's silence followed, then Trip nodded. It was an almost involuntary gesture, but he meant it nonetheless. "I promise."

"Good." T'Pol held his gaze for another moment, then she gathered her untouched cup of tea from the table and got up. "I will return to my quarters, and I suggest you do the same, Commander. You need rest."

In the meantime Trip had gotten used to the abrupt way Vulcans ended conversations, and so he didn't feel offended when she simply walked off to get rid of her cup. At the door, however, she turned around one more time, and once again it looked as if her features softened for a brief moment.

"Good night, Commander."

He smiled. "Good night, T'Pol. And... thank you."

She raised an eyebrow. "There is no need for thanks. Sleep well."

The door swished shut behind her, and Trip stared at the closed bulkhead for another few moments before turning his gaze to the window. The passing stars had something calming about them, and Trip realized that the urge he'd felt before, to destroy something, throw something against the wall, had vanished completely from his mind. For the first time since he'd woken up in the decon chamber he felt completely at peace, and thinking of the promise he'd made to T'Pol didn't even make him feel tense. He just hoped he would be able to find the strength and act on it before it was too late.

-###-

It was around 1000 hours, and Jonathan Archer was sitting at the desk in his ready room, staring at the screen in front of him and trying to keep his thoughts with the task that he had assigned himself this morning. He was finally going to write that report for Command, something that he'd been procrastinating for almost two weeks. Of course, he'd sent a brief outline of events immediately after they'd retrieved Trip and Malcolm, but the actual after-mission report was yet to be handed in. And written. Usually, the officers concerned would compose it, but for obvious reasons that wouldn't be the case this time. Trip and Malcolm were both only just recovering, and least of all things they needed Starfleet bureaucracy to force them to meticulously document what they'd gone through. Besides, Archer could tell Command just as well what'd happened. He'd watched the protocols, after all.

All that didn't make writing the report easier, though, or changed the reluctant feelings he experienced when describing what he'd seen in those protocols in the matter-of-fact, clipped language of Starfleet reports. Doing that felt wrong, somehow. He knew that was irrational, but all the same he'd already deleted three different beginnings. He briefly wondered if he should ask T'Pol to write it, then dismissed the thought. Putting off something he felt uncomfortable with on his First Officer wasn't exactly fair, even though he knew that said First Officer wouldn't complain. This report was his job, and he would do it.

His thoughts kept wandering, though. Gazing at the small, green-blinking light on the frame of his screen, Jon let his mind return to the matter of his two off-duty senior officers. About an hour ago, he'd stopped by Trip's quarters for a short visit to find his friend sitting at his desk, going over the same engineering schematics he'd been occupying himself with these last few days. Archer didn't know for sure, but he assumed that these schematics were some kind of self-prescribed therapy for Trip. The viability of the improvements to be achieved by making these modifications ranged from almost non-existent to pretty low, but all the same Trip spent almost all his time at his computer terminal, brooding over tables and stats. Not that Jon disapproved of it; he knew that there was nothing that would distract Trip from his worries more efficiently than engineering problems. And he did seem to be coping alright, considering what had happened. Archer knew that it would be a long time until things would come even close to being like they'd used to be, if they ever did, but he also knew that Trip was getting better. If slowly. At least he was talking to people, interacting with his environment - in a limited amount, though, but he was.

That, however, didn't seem the case with Malcolm. Jon hadn't talked to him in a while, two days at least, but when he'd last seen him, he hadn't noticed any change from the time when Reed had been released to his quarters. When Malcolm had talked to him right after waking up in sickbay, Archer had been surprised, he hadn't been expecting it. But after that, Malcolm had clammed up, not letting anyone in on how he was feeling. A couple of times still, Jon had tried to make him talk, but it seemed to him as if Reed had withdrawn behind massive defense walls that allowed neither anyone reaching him nor him getting access to the outer world. Hoshi, who'd taken the greater part of the job of looking after Malcolm upon herself, had a similar impression, plus that he was refusing to take any food or leave his quarters. Jon knew about the incident with the loosened drip needle, and Phlox had told him that there'd been other occasions when similar things had happened. The Captain didn't know what exactly to think of the matter, he was certainly no psychologist, but he was aware that something like this couldn't mean any good, and the way Phlox had seemed worried and uneasy when he'd told him about it left Archer feeling even more unsettled. He knew that something needed to be done about this, but, to quote Phlox, "they mustn't rush things". Malcolm probably only needed a little more time.

That's not quite right, spoke up a part of his mind, and you know it.

Archer would've liked to think that was pessimism talking, but at the same time realized that it probably was more something like realism. Of course he knew that it wasn't time what Malcolm needed the most urgently, but someone to talk to. Someone who told him he was going to be fine, even if that didn't seem possible at the moment. Jon had tried to do that, but he wasn't getting through to Reed. He hadn't really been expecting to, either; Malcolm had never really opened up to anyone except Trip, and certainly wouldn't talk to his captain about his state of mind.

Well, but sending Trip to talk to him probably won't do any good, Archer thought. Neither was Trip ready to provide any comfort to other people, being busy enough getting his own life back into order, nor did Jon know if Malcolm would even only look at Trip, let alone talk to him.

Sighing, Archer turned his gaze back to the blinking cursor on the otherwise blank screen. He needed to finish this report, not indulge in brooding that wasn't going to get anyone anywhere. He was just about to re-write the few sentences he'd deleted earlier when the door buzzer went off.

"Come," Jon said, noticing in slight dismay that he actually felt a little relieved at the distraction. The door slid aside, and to Archer's startled surprise revealed Malcolm standing in the doorway. Covering up his reaction, Jon turned around in his chair and got up.

"Malcolm. Come on in, take a seat." He gestured at the armchair opposite his desk, and Reed lowered himself onto the seat.

"Thank you, Captain."

There was a few seconds' silence, and Archer sat back down, folding his hands on the desktop and giving his Armoury Officer a questioning look. Malcolm wasn't looking much better than he had two days ago; his cheeks were hollow, and dark shadows displayed beneath his eyes. He was wearing his uniform, but Archer noticed with slight confusion that the Lieutenant's insignia on his right shoulder were missing. He frowned a little, waiting for Reed to say something. When he didn't, Archer opened his mouth.

"How are you feeling, Malcolm?" he asked. Reed, who'd been studying his hands, raised his eyes.

"I'm fine, Captain." He shifted a little on the seat. "I hope I'm not disturbing? I'd... I need to speak with you."

At that, Archer slightly raised his eyebrows. When Malcolm didn't continue, he nodded encouragingly. "Go ahead."

Again, Malcolm averted his eyes, his fingers fiddling with a loose thread on the armrest. After a short pause, he began to speak.

"I... had a lot time to think these last few days," he said hesitantly. "About... what happened and... all of this. About what I'm going to do."

"What do you mean?" Archer asked, not sure if he really wanted to know what Malcolm was aiming at. This introduction didn't make the matter seem like something he was going to like. Malcolm didn't look up, only folded his hands in his lap.

"I wasn't sure how... how I was supposed to deal with what happened. To be honest, I still don't really know. But... I think I'm not going to be able to do anything as long as I'm on Enterprise."

"What exactly are you saying, Malcolm?" Archer asked but feared that he already knew what Reed was going to tell him next. Finally, Malcolm raised his eyes, and his gaze carried an almost apologetic look as he spoke.

"I want to resign, Captain."

Archer took a deep breath as his suspicion was being confirmed. He met Malcolm's eyes that looked sad, regretful, but also determined, and licked his lips before he began to speak.

"Malcolm..." He paused, searching for words. "Are you sure there's-"

"Please, Captain." Malcolm again wasn't looking at him. "Don't try to talk me out of it. I thought it through, several times. I don't see any other possibilities."

"Maybe you don't right now, Malcolm. "Archer got up and walked around his desk, leaning against the edge of the tabletop. "Look... it's only six days ago that we got you back from V'nera, and you've only been out of sickbay for three days. Don't you think it's a little early to make a momentous decision like this?"

"It's not a matter of how many days it's been, Captain," Malcolm said, and Archer noted that his voice had a certain bitter irony to it. "What matters... what decides if I'm going to stay or not is whether I'll be able to fulfill my duties in the near future or not. And I have reason to believe that I won't."

Archer paused, thinking. He couldn't say that this took him completely by surprise; he believed that somewhere, subconsciously, he'd known all along that something like this would be coming. Which didn't mean that he liked or even accepted it. After a few moments, he spoke up again. "I can see why you're feeling this way at the moment, Malcolm. But... give it a little time. I'm sure that right now, it doesn't look as if things are going to be like they used to, but I can only repeat... give it time. It's been only six days. Don't rush your actions."

"I'm not." Malcolm had looked up again, and now his gaze was closed up, cold. It seemed as if a wall had come down behind his eyes, shutters for the windows to his soul. "I thought this through, believe me. My decision's made. And as far as I'm familiar with Starfleet regulations, you'll have to accept my resignation."

At that, Archer blinked. He hadn't expected Reed to attack him that way. But maybe it wasn't even an attack, come to think of it. The shutters had closed completely, but all the same Archer believed he could see that Malcolm was a little afraid. Maybe that he wouldn't accept the resignation, he didn't know. But Reed's statement hadn't been an attack, more a defense measure. He cleared his throat. "Yes," he said. "If you insist, I'll have to accept your resignation. But... won't you at least think about it one more time?"

"Captain." Now Malcolm seemed almost a little exasperated. "I have thought about it. And I do insist."

Archer regarded him, not saying anything for quite a while, waiting, hoping that the silence would make Malcolm uncomfortable so he would try to explain, maybe initiating a longer talk about his reasons for this course of action. But obviously Malcolm had attended the same rhetoric classes at the Academy as Archer had, or maybe he was a better conversation strategist by nature. Either way, Reed answered the silence with a hard, unwavering stare. Seconds dragged by, then Archer finally relented. "Very well, Malcolm, if you insist. I'll notify Command and the Vulcans. I guess they'll be sending a ship as soon as they can spare one. But I want you to consider this one more time as long as you still can, alright?"

Malcolm was silent for a moment, then lowered his eyes, a humourless smile playing about his lips. "All right, I will. But I very much doubt that I'll change my mind." Without giving his captain a chance to react, Reed got up again and nodded politely. "Thank you, Captain."

Archer only looked at him for a moment, feelings of reluctance, regret and even slight anger creating a minor turmoil within him. But he kept them where they were, not displaying any emotions on his face. "You're welcome," he said.

Malcolm still didn't move, and Archer realized that he was waiting to be dismissed. Reed hadn't acted as one of his officers, had initiated this conversation rather in a personal than in an official manner; he wasn't even standing at attention, so Archer had forgotten all about these formalities. "Dismissed," he said now, and Reed turned to the door, pushed the panel and left the room without saying another word.

The bulkhead slid shut, and Jon stared at it for quite a while, thinking. He wondered if he should have been more persistent. Malcolm was right, Starfleet regulations said that he had to accept a resignation from any officer if it didn't create severe complications, and even in that case it could only be postponed. That wasn't the case here, though; it wouldn't be easy to replace Malcolm, but not impossible, either. But Archer didn't want him to leave, and not only because he'd be losing the fleet's best security chief and weapons specialist, not only because it would demoralize the crew in a big way, especially the other senior officers. No, he also doubted that it would be good for Malcolm if he left. He couldn't quite point out the reason for it, but he had a feeling that leaving would be the worst thing Malcolm could do at the moment.

Maybe I need to talk to him once again, he thought, but at the same time realized that it wouldn't be any use. It had proved more than one time over the last few days that Malcolm wasn't inclined to talk to him.

Someone else, Archer thought, resting his elbows on the desk and examining his hands. Someone he'll open up to.

He knew who that would be, but he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to initialize a confrontation between those two so soon. But later, there wouldn't be any time. Sighing, Archer turned off his terminal and got up, leaving his ready room and taking the turbolift to B-Deck.

Chapter 14

Taking a deep breath, Trip pressed the door chime to Malcolm's quarters.

Half an hour ago, Jon had come to his quarters, looking troubled, and when Trip had persisted, Archer had eventually told him about Malcolm's resignation. Jon had said that in a way he'd been expecting something like that, but to Trip the news had come as a shock. It was strange, come to think of it, but he had never considered the possibility of leaving, not for himself and not for Malcolm, either.

After Jon had left, Trip had been sitting on his bed for about five minutes, trying to bring the thoughts and emotions swirling through his mind back under control. Hearing these news had thrown him off track. He'd been thinking he still had time left, time to deal with his own feelings before he tried to find the strength to go and talk to Malcolm. All the time in the world, so to speak. But obviously he wasn't going to have that time; Malcolm had decided to resign and he would be leaving soon. As soon as the next Vulcan vessel came within comm range.

He waited, his hand hovering over the door opener, and felt nervousness building a hard knot in his stomach. After a few more seconds of silence Trip pulled his hand back, turning away. Maybe it was best-

"Come," a muffled voice said from inside, making him jump. Trip swallowed, pausing a moment before he pushed the panel to open the door. The instant it slid aside Trip realized that the last time he'd actually seen Malcolm had been back in that place, in that cell. When he'd...

Trip clenched his jaw, taking a step into the room. Malcolm was sitting cross-legged on his bed, wearing civilian clothing and no socks. Noticing that, Trip felt surprise somewhere at the back of his mind; he'd never seen Malcolm go barefoot when he was off-duty, not even in his own quarters. When he entered, Reed looked up from the book he'd been reading, and Trip saw his eyes widen fractionally as Malcolm realized who his visitor was.

Trip cleared his throat, producing an awkward smile. "Mind if I come in?"

The instant the words left his mouth he realized that he already was inside the room, and immediately he felt stupid. Reed put his book down, and even though he didn't smile, his voice sounded level enough as he spoke.

"Please, take a seat."

Feeling rather self-conscious, Trip perched on the edge of the desk chair, briefly letting his eyes wander over the room. Reed's quarters were as neat as always, and even the covers of his bunk were completely uncreased despite the fact that Malcolm was sitting on them. Only the tidy stacks of padds with security reports on his desk were missing.

Looking back at Malcolm, Trip saw him meticulously marking his place in the book, and for a brief, almost frantic moment considered asking him what he was reading. This whole situation was so unbearably awkward, so absurd, and Trip wanted to say something to make it seem a little more normal. Malcolm raised his head again, and getting a good look at Reed's face for the first time since he'd entered the room, Trip momentarily forgot all about his unease. Malcolm's features were drawn, almost gaunt, and Trip noticed dark, bruise-like smudges under his eyes. He looked like he hadn't been sleeping for a week.

"Are you feelin' okay?" Trip asked, the words coming out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Malcolm averted his gaze and quickly crossed his arms in front of his chest, a gesture that surprised Trip. Only a moment later he realized that Malcolm was obviously trying to hide his bandaged wrists, and he bit the inside of his lip. This was not going to be easy.

"I'm... okay," Reed said, still not looking at him. Trip knew that under normal circumstances Malcolm would have said his usual "I'm fine", daring Trip to tease him about it, and he would have reacted by rolling his eyes and muttering something about stubborn, pig-headed Brits. But that was the past. Now Trip only studied Malcolm for another worried moment, then looked down and folded his hands in his lap without pursuing the subject any further.

The silence between them stretched, and Trip felt increasingly uncomfortable. Malcolm still had his arms crossed, pressing them against his chest, and Trip saw the muscles in his jaw working. He didn't give the impression of being angry, or resentful, though. To Trip he only looked tense, as if he had withdrawn behind his defense barriers and was determined not to let anyone in. After a few more oppressing minutes of non-conversation, Trip heaved a sigh.

"Well, shit," he said. Malcolm raised his head in an almost involuntary way and to Trip's utter astonishment the corner of Reed's mouth twitched slightly.

"I agree," he said. "'Shit' does cover it pretty well."

Trip felt a small smile spread on his face, and found that suddenly it was a little easier to speak the words he'd been planning to say.

"Look Malcolm," he said, shifting a little on the seat, "I... actually I came here to apologize. I know it doesn't change anythin' about what I did, and I'll understand if you jus' kick me out right here and now, but... I jus' wanted to say, I'm terribly sorry for what happened back there. For what I've done."

For a brief moment the silence returned.

"Trip..." Malcolm's voice sounded very quiet as he spoke up again, and Trip forced himself to meet Reed's eyes. They held no accusation, only confusion and insecurity. "I... to be honest, I don't really know what to say. I'm not angry at you and I'm certainly not going to kick you out, but I don't know if I can talk about that at the moment. I... it's... sometimes I feel it's just too much..."

He trailed off, and Trip nodded quietly. Malcolm hadn't really accepted his apology, but the simple fact that Reed was talking to him at all brought immense relief. Trip hadn't really been expecting to stay in here for more than a few minutes, and seeing that Malcolm wasn't going to tell him to leave was more than he had dared to hope for.

"I understand," he offered, and Malcolm visibly relaxed, unfolding his arms and resting his hands in his lap. Involuntarily, Trip's gaze shifted to the white gauze bandages around Malcolm's wrists, and although he quickly turned away when Malcolm lifted his eyes, he knew that Reed hadn't missed his look.

"I don't remember doing it," Malcolm said very quietly. It startled Trip; he hadn't expected Malcolm to say anything about that, let alone bring up the topic himself. Jon had told him that except for the first time when he'd woken up in sickbay Reed had never talked about his suicide attempt. And that he was blaming himself.

"It wasn't your fault," Trip said, wincing at how meaningless that statement sounded. People kept telling him none of this was his fault, and had he ever believed them?

"And I'm sorry, Malcolm. I'm so sorry I made you do this, and I'm sorry I ever believed you had turned against me. I... I should've known. It's my fault-"

"It's not," Malcolm said, and there was something to his voice that made Trip fall silent immediately. "It was suicide. I tried to kill myself. Nobody made me do it but myself."

He said it with a bitterness Trip had never heard before in his tone. Malcolm often blamed himself for things he couldn't really have changed anything about, but Trip had never gotten the impression that he really hated himself for any of these matters. Now, however, it was obvious in the way he stared down at those bandages, pressing his lips together in a thin line, that Malcolm was feeling utter contempt for himself. A contempt so overwhelming that it drowned every other emotion; anger at those who had hurt him, relief at being alive, anything.

"That's not true, Malcolm," Trip said, raising his voice a little to ensure that Malcolm listened. He got up and started to pace as he sought words to express what he wanted to say. "Think about it. Think about how it was. Two people are bein' abducted, abducted by the same people who kidnapped and tortured them before. They're bein' separated, and neither of them knows what's happenin' to the other one. So after the interrogation one of these guys sits in his cell, all alone, and probably scared to death. They keep givin' him drugs to keep him awake, and he goes half mad with sleep deprivation, wishin' it was all over-"

"Trip-" Malcolm interrupted, but Trip held up a hand.

"Wait. Let me finish. So after a while they take him back to the other cell, and I guess he's quite relieved to see the other guy again. It's no fun bein' alone in that place. But when he's back in that cell, the other guy acts completely insane, accusin' him of bein' a traitor. He... he even attacks him, tries to kill him. Later, when he wakes up, he's all alone again, and he has no idea what's goin' on. He knows they're goin' to use him for more tests, he knows that there is little chance of ever gettin' away from there again, and besides he can't think straight anyway, bein' pumped full of their drugs. And now that guy, actin' on a sudden impulse, grabs the first sharp object he can get hold of and slits his wrists. Maybe he didn't even want to kill himself. Maybe he just did it."

Trip stopped in his tracks, looking back at Malcolm. Reed had clenched his hands together in his lap and stared down at them, not moving. His chest was rising and falling quickly, his breathing going fast, and Trip noticed that his shoulders were trembling.

"Malcolm," he said quietly. "Tell me, do you really blame that guy?"

Reed didn't answer, the shaking of his shoulders getting harder, and Trip hesitated only a short moment. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed next to Malcolm, taking him by the shoulders.

"Do you, Malcolm?" he asked again, and this time Reed raised his head. Tears were spilling down his cheeks, and his voice sounded choked and hoarse as he spoke.

"I don't know...no, but-"

Trip shook his head, pulling Malcolm into a hug. First, he felt him stiffen, and was already about to let him go when the crumbling dam broke away and Malcolm relaxed against him, burying his face in Trip's shoulder and sobbing uncontrollably.

"No but," Trip said. "No but. You are not to blame. It was an extreme situation you were in, and you weren't really in control of your actions. Don't go thinkin' you meant to do it, 'cause you didn't. I know you didn't."

He felt a tremor run through Malcolm's body as Reed heaved another sob. Trip realized that there was nothing more to say, and so he simply sat there, holding Malcolm while the Lieutenant gave in to the tears he'd been holding in for so long.

It was strange. Here he was, comforting the man he'd come to apologize to, whom he'd expected to hate him for the rest of his life. Malcolm indeed seemed ready to forgive him, and even though Trip could barely believe it, he felt glad and grateful for it. Maybe this was going to work out alright, after all.

They sat there for quite a while until Malcolm's sobs subsided, and Trip felt him stir in his arms. Carefully he let go of him, and Reed sat back, raising a hand to wipe his eyes. There was a moment's silence, then Malcolm looked up again, his gaze shifting to Trip's shoulder.

"I got you all wet," he said, and there was something so melancholic to his tone that it startled a small laugh out of Trip.

"I'll live," he said, and the ghost of a smile crossed Reed's face for a fleeting second before he furtively wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"Sorry."

"That's okay," Trip said, rising to get a box of kleenex from the desk. Handing it to Reed, he leaned back against the desk and watched Malcolm blow his nose. Reed sniffed, stuffing the kleenex into his pocket, then raised his eyes again.

"No, really," he said. "I didn't mean to fall to pieces like that. I... I guess it just had to come out at some point." Again, that half-smile flitted across his face. "Looks like you were the unlucky person to be around when it did."

Trip shook his head. "It's no problem, Malcolm. I'm glad you're talkin' to me about it. Keepin' it all inside is not healthy."

"Guess it's not."

There was a moment's silence, and Trip watched as Reed began to absentmindedly straighten the covers, smoothing out creases that weren't there. After a while, Malcolm raised his eyes.

"I think I have to apologize to Hoshi," he said, and Trip raised his eyebrows.

"Why's that?"

Malcolm didn't answer immediately, studying his hands. "These last few days, she always came to see me," he said then. "At least twice a day. Bringing me food and everything. She tried to get me to talk about... all of this, but... I just couldn't. It must have seemed to her as if I was being deliberately rude."

"I'm sure she knows you weren't bein' rude," Trip said. "I think she knows that simply stoppin' by once in a while can help a lot. She probably didn't expect you to talk much."

Reed sighed. "Still. I could have pulled myself together. I bet they're all thinking I'm only out for pity or something, the way I've been acting..." Reed tightened his grip on the covers. "I even started blubbering when the Captain came to see me back in sickbay."

"Malcolm, look..." Trip trailed off, starting to pace again. It hurt to hear the self-contempt in Reed's voice as he talked about these things. Malcolm had always been that way, had never been able to simply accept any weakness on his part, thinking he was only making himself a burden to other people by letting them in on his life. Being troubled or sad, he always tried to deal with his problems on his own, hardly accepting any offered help, let alone asking for it.

Trip turned around. "You need to stop doin' this to yourself. People don't expect you to get over this just like that. It's okay that you need time. Everybody would. I do too. When the Cap'n came to see me a few days ago, I also started cryin' on his shoulder. I couldn't help it. It's nothin' to be ashamed of."

Malcolm's eyes were still lowered, his fingers tugging at the covers. "I... somehow I just can't forget about it. It's always there, you know? Even when I'm sleeping, I'm dreaming about it. I'm back in that cell, they're there, it's all happening all over again..."

Malcolm's voice had dropped to a whisper, and Trip had trouble understanding the last few words. Crossing the short distance between them, Trip sat back down on the bed next to Reed. Malcolm's hands were still twisting the covers.

"Of course you're thinkin' about it," Trip said quietly. "And of course you're dreamin'. I guess those dreams won't go away for quite some time. But it's no use fightin' these feelings, or bein' ashamed of them. You have to accept it as somethin' that happened to you, that you couldn't change anything about. Don't force yourself to forget about it. Just try to get up in the mornin' an' live through another day without makin' it harder on yourself than it already is."

Malcolm's voice was still very quiet as he spoke. "That's a damn hard thing to do."

Trip nodded. "I know it is. But you can do this, I know you can."

"I'm not so sure," Reed said, letting go of the covers and drawing his knees to his chest. "Sometimes I feel like I'm losing control, you know? Like the time I pulled out the needle."

At these words, Trip flinched, but fortunately Reed didn't notice his reaction, continuing in that same quiet voice.

"Or the time I bit my thumb. I don't even really remember doing these things, and I certainly didn't do them on purpose. Or maybe I did. I don't know."

Trip took a deep breath. Only then did he notice the band aid on Malcolm's right thumb and the red scratches on the back of his hand that looked as if someone had drawn their fingernails across the skin with violent force.

"Malcolm," he began. "I... I think I know what you mean. I don't know if anyone told you, but... I lost control a lot worse than that. Hell, I practically went crazy back on that planet. They... they had to lock me up in decon because I attacked everyone who tried to come near me." Trip swallowed past a lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. The mental pictures and memories resurfacing in his mind were still very painful, and Trip was not sure he would be able to keep his emotions in check. But he couldn't afford to fall to pieces now, couldn't burden Malcolm with his own, tangled-up feelings. Not now. He owed him that much. Taking a deep breath, Trip continued. "It's a terrible feelin', but it's not forever. You can get over it. And it's a lot easier to do so if you accept people's help." Reed didn't answer, and Trip continued quietly, "And the people on this ship want to help. They're your friends. I'm your friend. And we don't want you to leave."

At these words Malcolm briefly raised his eyes. "The Captain told you I resigned?"

"He did," Trip said. "Gave me quite a shock, to be honest."

Again, Reed didn't say anything, only staring down at his abused hands which were tightly clenched together. When the silence began to stretch, Trip spoke up again.

"Malcolm," he said. "Why do you want to leave?"

For a long time, Malcolm gave no response, and when Trip was already about to repeat his question he said, "I can't stay here."

Trip waited for him to continue, but he didn't. "Why?" Trip asked quietly.

Reed slightly shook his head. "I don't know. It's not that I want to leave. But... I see no other possibility. I can't stay here."

Trip studied him for a moment, noticing Malcolm's hunched up shoulders and the way Reed kept biting his lower lip. Realizing he was staring, Trip quickly lowered his gaze.

"Where're you plannin' to go?"

Malcolm gave no answer, and Trip raised his head again. Reed met his gaze, and Trip saw the confusion and helplessness in his eyes. It hardly fit the meticulous way Reed usually planned out things, but Trip got the impression that Malcolm had given no thought to that subject at all.

"I..." Malcolm hesitated. "Maybe I'll go back to San Francisco. They always need teachers at the Academy."

Trip nodded slowly. It didn't sound as if Malcolm was very happy at that prospect, but Trip decided not to comment. He couldn't imagine Malcolm as a teacher at the Academy, and he didn't believe Reed would enjoy a desk job where you started at nine and left at five, but there was no need to tell him so. He seemed to know it very well himself.

"You said you don't want to leave," Trip said, hoping his persistence wouldn't cause Malcolm to clam up. "I still don't really understand why you feel you have to."

Reed let out a sigh, again beginning to fiddle with the covers. "I can't really explain it, Trip. It's just that... all the time, I somehow feel like I'm stuck. Heading down a dead-end street, you know? It just feels to me like I'm totally changed. All the things on Enterprise, my work, my department... somehow I can't bring myself to care anymore. It's... it's strange, but sometimes I feel like sleeping all day long, so I don't have to think about... anything. Everything on this ship reminds me of... of what happened, and I need to get away from it."

Reed's hands were gripping the covers so hard his knuckles turned white, and he kept his gaze lowered, not meeting Trip's eyes. Trip hesitated. He knew exactly what question he'd like to ask, but it seemed a little cruel, slapping it right in Malcolm's face. But maybe that was just what he needed, something that shook him up so hard that he finally admitted what the real problem was.

"And what about the people on this ship?" Trip asked quietly. "Don't you care about them anymore, either?"

Reed's face didn't change, but all the same Trip could see the wall come down in his eyes.

"Maybe it would be better if you left now," he said, and it almost hurt Trip to hear how he tried to sound haughty and failed miserably. His statement sounded more like a plea than anything else.

Trip shook his head. "No, I don't think it would. Not before you answered my question."

"I said leave." Now there was a tense anger to Reed's voice, and Trip bit his lip. For a moment he considered actually doing what Malcolm said, but then decided against it. They didn't have time for that.

"No," he said simply. This time Reed did look at him, and his expression was so angry that at first Trip didn't even notice the tears pooling in his eyes.

"What? What do you want me to say? Of course I do, of course I care about the people on this ship, but I can't stay here! Do you think that decision was an easy one to make? Do you think I'm happy at the prospect of leaving, of going aboard that Vulcan ship and flying back to Earth where I have no idea what I'm going to do? I told you, I don't want to leave, but it's the only possibility I see. I thought it through, dozens of times, and I always came up with the same two possibilities. Either go away or kill myself. And no matter what some people think, I don't want to act on that second possibility. So can't you see that I don't have any choice?" Now Malcolm was crying, and he averted his eyes, wiping off the tears in an angry movement. "And I just can't stop crying about the whole fucked-up business either!"

In any other situation, the statement would have sounded kind of funny or at least piteous, but Malcolm said it with such fury and despair in his voice that Trip actually startled.

"Malcolm..." he began, then trailed off again. Reed was clearly not listening, wrenching the covers between his fingers so that they were almost ripped apart and staring at the wall while tears kept running down his cheeks. Trip felt unable to speak. He knew Malcolm hadn't been lying when he'd said he'd kill himself. The signs were clear enough - the bitten thumb, the removed hypodermic needle and the deep scratches on the back of his hand spoke unmistakably of the anger and hatred Reed had buried in his soul. And they also showed just how much of that hatred was directed against himself. Malcolm couldn't forgive himself for his suicide attempt, and yet he was ready to do the same thing again, simply because he saw no other way. And it was tearing him apart.

Almost five minutes passed before Trip spoke up again. "What about the third possibility, Malcolm?"

Trip hadn't expected it, but Reed turned his head to look at him. "What?"

"The third possibility," Trip said. "You said there were two possibilities, either goin' away or killin' yourself. I think there is a third one."

Malcolm stared at him. "And what would that be?" he asked hoarsely. Carefully reaching out, Trip put a hand on his shoulder. Reed didn't shake him off.

"You could try and accept help," Trip said quietly. "Don't think you have to do it all on your own. There are people who can help you, who want to help you. And they're here on this ship, not back on Earth. No one can deal with that kind of thing completely on his own, it's impossible. Try to take it slow. If you don't feel up to workin' in the Armoury right now, then don't. If you feel like sleepin', then sleep, and if you feel like cryin', then don't hold it in. And most important, if you feel like talkin', talk. There're people here who'll listen, and they won't think badly of you or laugh at you. Try to be a little less hard on yourself, and give it time."

Reed raised his eyes, and again they were filled with tears, but the closed-up, angry look in them was gone. Trip tightened his grip on Malcolm's shoulder.

"Ever considered this possibility?"

Reed shook his head, the tears spilling over, and without thinking about it, Trip pulled him into a hug again, holding him as he cried. This time Reed didn't even try to hold back the sobs, and Trip realized that this was the first time Malcolm really let himself go about the whole thing. Before, he'd still been pulling himself together, not allowing himself to take real comfort from a friend, but now that hesitation was gone. Reed was crying and crying, and the intensity of his feelings told Trip that he'd listened to him. Malcolm was not going to leave.

And while he held his friend, Trip felt relieved not only for Malcolm but also for himself. It wasn't like Malcolm was the only one who had ever considered the second possibility.

Epilogue

"It's been a year."

Malcolm buried his hands deeper in the pockets of his jacket, blinking through the snow at the remains of the huge building in front of them. He'd never seen the outside of it, and realized with something akin to surprise that it didn't at all fit his mental picture of it. It only looked like a gigantic ruin, a heap of grey stones charred black by a phaser blast that had been fired over a year ago. When he and Trip had climbed out of the shuttle earlier, they'd hardly been able to spot it, it being almost completely covered with snow.

Tearing his gaze away from the ruins, Malcolm cast a sideways glance at Trip. He didn't exactly look very shaken up either by the sight, and Malcolm had to suppress a grim smile at the irony of it. One should think it would affect us more, he thought. Being back in the place where the things had happened that still showed up in his dreams quite frequently, and which at times kept him from sleeping alltogether. He'd expected the sight of the building to trigger fear in him, or at least anger, but now that he stood here, he realized that it didn't. It was only a ruin on an alien world, covered by meters and meters of snow.

The realization surprised him, and even made him feel a little at loss. He'd come here to face these emotions, to stand up to his fear and anger and prove to himself that he could master them. But now that these feelings didn't even turn up, Reed didn't quite know what he was doing down here.

"I hadn't thought it was quite that big," he said, simply to say something, and Trip turned his head.

"Looked even bigger when I saw it first time," he answered, and Malcolm nodded.

"It wasn't destroyed then."

"Really," Trip said dryly, and Malcolm smiled ruefully. It was obvious to both of them that he'd only been making conversation, and a not very good one, either. Falling silent again, he looked back at the building.

Malcolm had never thought he'd actually return to this place one day. Last week, however, they had received orders to fly to V'nera and check on the development of the planets pre-warp society. It had taken them only two days to get here, Enterprise being less than six light years away from the V'neran system, and during those two days Malcolm had never thought about whether he was going down to the surface or not. He was, he'd known that. It had never been a question of whether or not.

Navigating the shuttle through the planet's atmosphere he and Trip hadn't spoken much. There wasn't much to say, it seemed; both of them knew why they were going down there, so what was there to discuss?

"Damn cold," Malcolm heard Trip say beside him and nodded.

"It is."

Trip crossed his arms, burying his hands in his armpits. There was a moment's silence, and Malcolm already considered asking Trip whether they should get back to the shuttle when he noticed a movement from the corner of his eyes.

"Where are you going?"

Trip waved a hand. "Just..."

Malcolm didn't ask any further but simply turned back, again staring at the stone wall of the building. It didn't surprise him as he realized that it was of exactly the same shade of grey as the walls inside, the same grey of the cell that kept appearing in his nightmares. Still.

It had already gotten a lot better, though. During those first weeks after he'd withdrawn his resignation, the time he'd spent mostly in his quarters waiting for his body to heal, he'd still received an injection every night that helped him sleep. When he'd resumed his work in the Armoury, though, he'd refused to take medication any longer and of course, after that he'd woken up from dreams almost every night. Or hadn't slept at all. Strangely, though, it hadn't been as bad as it had been after the first time they'd been abducted. The time when the tests had still been fresh in his memories. Fragments of those former dreams returned as well, but mostly he kept seeing those scenes which became scarily familiar after some time; Trip who attacked him back in that cell, shards and blood, the assistant.

Again, he frequently spent his nights in messhall, and again Trip joined him sometimes, but it wasn't like after the first time. He and Trip didn't spend so much time together because the crew shut them out, treating them like traumatized victims, but because it helped them both. Right after returning to Enterprise, Malcolm had seriously doubted their friendship would ever recover from what had happened back on the planet, but actually they seemed to have gained a new understanding of each other. The good-natured bickering that had always been the base of their interaction had grown into something... deeper? Malcolm couldn't really put his finger on it, but maybe that was even the word he'd been looking for.

A lot had happened over the last year. One could say that it hadn't been a very eventful year, with Enterprise being mostly on standard research and first contact missions, but to Malcolm it felt like a lot had changed among the crew. They seemed to have grown closer, somehow. Malcolm had also noticed that Trip and T'Pol were spending a lot more time together than before. He didn't know if they were just friends or if there was something going on between them, but even if there was, it certainly wasn't any business of his. He was simply relieved that he - them both - had managed to return to something like a normal life, after all. And most of the times when he woke up at night, sweating and feeling his heart thumping in his chest, it sufficed for him to get up, splash some cold water in his face and remind himself that things were alright. In the beginning, he'd hardly ever been able to go back to sleep after waking up from one of those nightmares, and it had taken a lot of hard work, but now he was finally back to an average of around six hours' sleep a night. Only once or twice the nightmares had left him so upset that he felt he just had to talk to someone about it, and on these occasions he had not simply gone to messhall, allowing his dark thoughts to drown him like he would have done before. Instead, he had called Trip, and despite the nightly hour Trip had always listened to him.

Malcolm sighed. One of the less favourable changes he'd noticed was that he was now even more given to brooding than before, and he realized in mild chagrin that he'd apparently been taking a walk down Memory Lane again. It happened way too often these days. And standing here staring at these scorched ruins wasn't getting him anywhere, either.

He was just about to turn around when suddenly something wet and cold hit him hard on the side of his neck. Malcolm felt icy slush trickle down his back and turned around to see Trip standing there, an apologetic smile on his face.

"Sorry," he grinned, "but it was too great a temptation."

Malcolm stared at him for a moment, unable to speak. "You... you threw a snowball at me?" he asked incredulously. Trip's grin broadened.

"Yeah, well, you were standin' there lookin' all lost in thought, and -"

"You actually threw a snowball at me?" Malcolm repeated, advancing on him, and Trip took a step backward.

"Er - yes - hey, stop, what are you do-"

That very moment a snowball hit him smack in the face, and Malcolm watched in satisfaction as Trip sputtered and shook his head, using both hands to wipe the snow off his face. When he'd recovered, Trip bent down again to scoop up some more snow, and after a brief moment of consideration the tactical officer decided that a strategic retreat might be in order. Too late, though. A second later he was being hit with loads of snowballs, and hardly found the time to gather up some ammunition himself.

It was maybe the third snowball fight in Malcolm's entire life, and certainly the strangest one, but he enjoyed it. And it seemed like Trip did, too. Pelting each other with snowballs, they were both laughing and laughing, and the sound echoed strangely through the silent ruins.

In only a few minutes' time their fight would be over, and they would stand there in the snow, panting and grinning at each other about their foolishness, but not yet. Right now they had forgotten all about their surroundings, all about past events and allowed themselves to simply enjoy the moment, like any friends do now and then. They would be leaving the ruins behind, but right now they weren't in a hurry. There was no reason to. After all, they had all the time in the world.