Warnings (for entire story): Violence, torture, depictions of terrorism, PTSD.
A/N: Set post season four. The title comes from Aeschylus; "In war, truth is the first casualty."
All the thanks in the world due to Volley & Vera, without whom this monster never would have survived.
Part 2 coming shortly!
The planet was a bright spot on the edge of Archer's vision, large in his ready room window. Its glare was a distraction, but he wanted it there, as he ran his eye down the numbers on his PADD. Pages of statistics, clinical figures, and each one translated into blood on the streets, into lost limbs, lost lives, into families putting their loved ones in boxes and lowering them into the ground.
And yet Niskaa, like all planets, looked so blameless from space, hanging touched by the system's sun. All those people down there, with their clashing emotions, their conflicts, their drives, their hopes and fears, lost in the marble swirls of cloud over green and blue. His own people too; Malcolm and a couple of his team were still working on the surface. Archer put his PADD aside, and resumed his report.
"Warring factions on Niskaa have recently declared ceasefire, and are now attempting to rebuild under a new united government. We've been in orbit for almost a month now, offering humanitarian assistance where we can. We've had engineering crews restoring power and water supplies to some of the more remote settlements in the northern hemisphere. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Reed has been leading a team assisting local forces in locating and disarming booby-trapped devices left over from the hostilities… Computer, pause."
Archer rubbed the bridge of his nose, his eyes still on the planet. The truth was that all they could really contribute was a token gesture towards helping Niskaa heal its wounds. At least it makes a change, he thought, to be doing something uncomplicatedly helpful for people.
It was a shame to be stuck in orbit for so long and able to let so few people go planet-side, but Niskaa just wasn't safe to let non-essential teams down to enjoy the air. Especially not in the northern regions, Parmaine Province, where Malcolm was still working. Mines had been laid in the ground and then misplaced by both sides of the conflict; many of them fitted with built-in scramblers that made them difficult to scan for. Even stepping off the paths could be a hazardous business. Archer, who'd been gazing at the green spaces on the world, and idly imagining running Porthos off-leash, caught himself and shuddered.
His communicator chirruped, breaking into his thoughts.
"Sato to Archer."
"Archer here."
"Captain, we have a communication from the surface."
"It is Malcolm?" Malcolm had yet to make his daily check in, and though Archer wasn't unduly worried – he'd been this late before – evening would be wearing on in Parmaine.
"No, sir, it's Premier Gruun. He wouldn't tell me what it was about, just says he wants to speak to you."
Archer frowned. Gruun was the governor of Parmaine province, an elected official, and he'd been one of their principal contacts on Niskaa. Archer had always found him accommodating, grateful, polite to a fault, but he had an air about him that was pure politician. Archer caught himself checking everything the man said for loopholes and doublespeak.
"Put him through, Hoshi."
Archer turned to his screen, and saw Gruun's face appear.
"Premier," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"Captain," Gruun greeted him. Like all Niskaans, he had pale, mottled skin, and eyes of a striking lilac shade. "Apologies for troubling you so late. Most regrettable."
"We keep our own ship time here, Premier. Is there a problem?"
"Captain, I'm afraid there is. It's my regret to inform you that there's been a death."
Archer's blood ran cold.
"Who?" he demanded, dreading the answer, whatever it would be, his mind racing through the faces of his people still planet-side. Malcolm, blond-haired Ensign Sorescu, serious-minded Lieutenant Peck… Had someone stepped off a path? Not on Malcolm's watch, surely. Archer could think of no one he'd trust more to manage a crew in a minefield. He'd watch his team better than he watched himself.
"A man named Armand Eska, Captain, a local man," Gruun said. Archer was nonplussed for a moment. He composed himself carefully, trying not to let his relief show to an inappropriate level.
"A local man? I'm sorry to hear that, Premier, but what does that have to do with us?"
Archer wasn't overly familiar with Niskaan facial expressions, but he suspected the look Gruun was wearing would count as shifty on any species.
"It seems Eska was involved in an – uh – incident with one of your officers. Your Lieutenant Reed. The lieutenant claims Eska attacked him with a knife. In the ensuing struggle, Eska was killed."
"Wait. You're suggesting my officer killed this man?"
"It's not a suggestion, I'm afraid, Captain. Lieutenant Reed does not, I understand, deny it, though he maintains he acted in self-defence."
Shoot, Malcolm. "If that's what he says, Premier, then that's what happened." Archer spoke firmly. "Starfleet officers aren't in the habit of starting brawls."
"I suggest no such thing, Captain," Gruun said smoothly. "Your officer is currently being detained by our police in Chibnia. Without force, I assure you, but you understand we must investigate this incident."
Chibnia, Archer recalled, was the major town in Parmaine province. Detained. Archer didn't like the sound of that, and imagined Malcolm liked it even less. He had a sudden vision of himself breaking the news to Trip and being told, Damn, Malcolm's gonna be madder than a wet hen.
"Is my officer injured?" he asked Gruun.
"There is no serious harm."
"Any unserious harm?" Archer raised an eyebrow.
"I'm afraid I don't have that information at present, Captain. Our doctors will have attended him. There is no cause for concern."
"I'm afraid I am concerned, Premier." And even more so at Gruun's slick tone. Archer thought quickly. "If you would return Lieutenant Reed to Enterprise, I can promise you his full cooperation with your investigation, all our cooperation. All of our technology at your disposal. We can remain in orbit until this has been cleared up. I'm sure it's not necessary for you to hold him."
"Thank you, Captain. I'm sure this can be resolved. But I'm afraid it's impossible to allow him to leave at this point. At least, not before the hearing."
"Hearing?"
"We have scheduled a preliminary hearing for tomorrow morning our time, Captain. We are as keen to resolve this quickly as you are."
"Wait. Premier, is Lieutenant Reed on trial? Has he been charged?"
"No, no, of course not, Captain. This is simply our procedure. The hearing will determine if further investigation is necessary, whether charges might be brought. It is no cause for concern."
Archer wished Gruun would stop saying that; his level of concern was raising a notch every time. He glanced at the planet out of his ready room window. Parmaine was on the side of Niskaa he couldn't see, out of the glare of the sun. A thought struck him.
"What time did this happen?"
"I understand the incident took place yesterday evening."
"Yesterday?" Malcolm had checked in late afternoon yesterday by his local time. He'd given no indication anything was amiss; he'd been preparing to go into Chibnia to speak to the local peace keeping troops about the work he'd been doing in the field.
"Why am I only just being informed?" For the first time, Archer let a hint of his frustration show in his tone.
"Apologies, Captain. Communications, as I'm sure you're aware, can be unreliable here. Power outages. Interference. And I've been out of town myself, I only returned to Chibnia this evening."
This didn't feel like an answer to Archer, just a string of facts that might or might not be loosely connected.
"I'd like to come down to the surface, so we discuss this face to face," he said. "And I want to see my officer. Have my doctor check him out, too," he added, as an afterthought. No serious harm seemed to him to be a phrase with a rather wide margin for error.
"Of course, Captain. Though I assure you a doctor won't be necessary. If he needs medical assistance, he will receive it from our medics. We are not barbarians here in Parmaine." Gruun's tone remained pleasant, but Archer didn't miss the bite in his words.
"Of course not, Premier," he echoed Gruun's own tone. "But this is for my own peace of mind. I have a responsibility for my officer's well-being."
"As do we, Captain, while he is with us. I invite you, freely, to come down to the surface tomorrow. I will have an escort meet you. You can attend the hearing. We can speak then."
"I want to see my officer. Without delay, Premier. I appreciate it's late for you guys, but you waited until now to inform me –"
"Of course you shall see him, Captain. But tomorrow. It is late for him too. He will be sleeping. He is in safe hands, I assure you. And it may be – let us hope – that he'll be free to leave with you after the hearing in any case."
"And if not?"
"If you are correct, Captain, and this was certainly self-defence, we can resolve this without further trouble. There is no call for urgency here. Now, you must excuse me. We will speak tomorrow."
The screen went blank, cutting into Archer's reply. He held himself still, giving himself a second to cool it, then banged his fist against his desk anyway. Politicking bastard. What the hell happened, Malcolm? His armoury officer had told him nothing that indicated any kind of local hostility towards the crew of Enterprise. It was each other, not aliens, Niskaans tended not to care for.
For a moment, he entertained thoughts of busting down to the transporter room, beaming his people off the planet, and warping the hell out of there. But no. Diplomacy first. Gruun was a smooth-talking ass, but he'd not yet shown himself to be dishonest. Archer's mind was already clicking into action, running over his priorities; he'd have to inform Starfleet Command, his senior staff – the ones not currently under arrest, anyway. Madder than a wet hen, he reminded himself, but it didn't feel that funny anymore. He looked again at the glowing planet, hanging unabashed in space.
So much for being helpful and uncomplicated.
Niskaa was a green, wet planet, and though they landed at the shuttle port between flurries of rain, the very air was damp, and Archer quickly felt soaked to the bone. He brought only Phlox with him, wanting to keep his away team focused. Trip, in the end, had said nothing about wet hens, but had been hovering as they'd prepared to leave, radiating concern and indignation in equal measures. Warming as Archer found his loyalty to his friend, however, he doubted Gruun would be similarly moved. Archer had also had the rest of Malcolm's team recalled to Enterprise. Malcolm would have recommended it, given the situation, and it felt like an act of keeping faith to be following his advice in his absence.
A vehicle was waiting to take them into Chibnia, and Archer and Phlox passed most of the journey in silence. It was easy, looking at the greenery and open spaces, to forget the planet's recent bloody history. And hard to imagine Malcolm killed a man here hardly 24 hours ago. The doctor stared at the scenery, looking merely serenely interested, and Archer was satisfied anew with his decision to bring him, whatever Gruun had said. He couldn't imagine any fight intense enough to finish in a death could have resulted in no injuries. He almost hoped not – not that Malcolm would be hurt, of course, but that the case for self-defence would be clear and obvious.
Niskaa's scars became more apparent as their vehicle trundled into the built up areas. The roads were potholed, and the buildings had an unkempt air, with peeling paint and plants growing in cracks in the walls. There was graffiti on almost every surface, some of it murals by artists of some talent, the rest simply scrawls or obscene images. Towards the centre of town, there were buildings with missing roofs, holes blown in the walls; incongruous on streets full of people going about their business.
To Archer, the Niskaans had a wary, furtive air about them, no one seeming inclined to linger or to smile, but he reminded himself he was judging them through human eyes. He wondered what Malcolm had made of this place, if he'd become friendly with the people he'd been working with. His reports from the surface had been thorough, and even upbeat, since his work had been going well, but typically he'd included no personal insights.
It was raining again when they arrived at the courthouse, and the quality of the drumming suggested that the roof was thin. There were a few other spectators in the court, and Archer and Phlox were directed to sit among them, on wooden, free-standing chairs. As aliens, they drew some curious looks, but nobody spoke to them.
Malcolm was already there when they entered, sitting at a low table across the room, his hands folded neatly out of sight on his lap. He was dressed in a drab, functional grey garment which served to highlight the grey tones already in his skin and eyes. Archer saw with a jolt that he had indeed been hurt – he had a long red slash on his cheek, starting just beneath his right eye and plunging down diagonally to his jawline. The wound had been stitched neatly enough, but it was still vivid against his pale face.
Archer glanced at Phlox as they took their seats, and found him eyeing Malcolm critically too.
"How does he look to you?" Archer whispered.
"Tired," Phlox replied, simply. "And that wound needs treating with dermitas, or he'll be left with a nasty scar."
Archer kept watching Malcolm as the room came to order, wanting to catch his eye, but Malcolm seemed fixed on the table in front of him. A Niskaan sat beside him, leaning towards him, and addressing him intently in a low voice. Malcolm had his head inclined slightly in his direction, and he wore a slight frown, as though he was concentrating deeply.
It was some minutes before he even looked up, long enough for Archer to begin to grow concerned. It was unlike Malcolm to be so unalert. When he caught sight of Archer, he seemed to stop himself just short of physically starting. Archer tried to frame his face to look confident, reassuring, and most importantly, not pissed, and was pleased when Malcolm held his eyes steadily, and pursed his lips in a minute and rueful smile.
The Niskaan beside Malcolm had followed his gaze, and leaned to speak to him again. Malcolm broke his look with Archer to turn and answer. The Niskaan had a stylus in his hand, like an old fashioned pen, and he tapped it against his teeth as he listened. Archer had been assured by Gruun that Malcolm would have defence at the hearing, and he assumed this man was it. Archer hoped he was good at his job, but the tooth-tapping made him feel nervous, as though the Niskaan had just a little too much energy bubbling beneath his surface.
There were two other men at the table too, standing firm and unobtrusive beside it, with the stance of guards. Malcolm utterly avoided looking at either of them, which made Archer suspect he was very aware of their presence.
The Premier himself was presiding in court, and he settled himself into his seat with an air of self-importance. He called the room to order, and proceeded to thank all present for attending, including Malcolm, which Archer felt was one layer of bullshit more than was strictly necessary. Gruun introduced Malcolm's tooth-tapping defence as Advocate Rasak, and another Niskaan who stood to address the court as Agent Fiest.
Malcolm watched Fiest take his place steadily, looking ready to fight, but nonetheless, the first question seemed to take him oddly by surprise.
"Could you give your name, please?"
Malcolm blinked, and glanced at Advocate Rasak beside him, who made an encouraging gesture. He cleared his throat before he spoke, but his voice was clear enough.
"Lieutenant Malcolm Reed."
Fiest consulted a pad before him.
"'Lieutenant' is your rank, correct? Your given name is Malcolm Reed?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Then please just answer the questions as they are put to you, Lieutenant Reed."
Malcolm blinked again. Obviously he had been given as little idea of what to expect here as Archer had.
Fiest proceeded to read what Archer assumed was Malcolm's statement, pausing to ask him to confirm points – which Malcolm did with a nod, until Rasak whispered in his ear, after which he replied out loud.
Yes, he had been attending a meeting of the regional peace keeping forces in Chibnia the evening before last. Yes, he had gone to walk back to the compound where he was staying afterwards. Yes, alone. It was only a few hundred yards. Yes, he'd been attacked from behind. His assailant had grabbed him, and thrown him forward. He'd hit his head against the wall. Swung around to find a knife at his face, which had been sliced across his cheek. His assailant hadn't spoken. He'd gone to stab him, still without speaking, but Malcolm had grabbed the blade in both hands and stopped it – mostly. The point of the blade had gone into his stomach. Here, Fiest flicked to what appeared to be a medical report, which described a shallow wound to Malcolm's torso. Muscle damage only, Fiest said. Yes, Malcolm said. That was correct. By this point, Archer was grinding his teeth at what Gruun had omitted to tell him. But Fiest wasn't done.
Yes, Malcolm confirmed, his attacker had tried to stab him again. Malcolm had caught the knife, and turned it away from himself. His attacker, lunging, had taken the knife in his own chest. His own weight drove it home, Malcolm said. His voice and his expression were bland, but Archer could see the tightness in his jaw from across the room, noted the way he addressed his answers to an empty space beside Fiest rather than speaking right to him.
Fiest put his pad aside, and addressed Malcolm directly.
"So you killed him."
"I didn't go to kill him."
"But he did die."
Malcolm shifted, and seemed to gather himself, but before he could reply, Advocate Rasak spoke from beside him.
"Lieutenant, would you show Agent Fiest your hands."
Archer had been thinking that something about Malcolm's pose was oddly static, and when Malcolm moved, he saw why. His armoury officer was in chains, his wrists shacked firmly together and linked back to his waist with a looser chain. He had to lean forward to raise his hands above the table and display them to the court. There were jagged slashes deep in the meat of his palms, and across his fingers. Like the wound on his face, they'd been stitched, but still stood stark and red against his skin. Archer felt a rise of anger, but Advocate Rasak spoke across it, forcing him to clamp down on it and listen.
"Sustaining defensive wounds to the hands is very common in a struggle such as the one Lieutenant Reed describes. It should be noted post mortem examination revealed Armand Eska had no such defensive injuries, which would tend to confirm that Eska was the principal aggressor."
"Until, of course, he was killed," Fiest countered. "It doesn't get more aggressive than that."
"Lieutenant Reed has not denied Eska died at his hands." Rasak addressed Gruun rather than Fiest. "We're trying to ascertain motive, Premier, and this evidence does indicate self-defence was a legitimate concern."
Gruun nodded at the advocate, which seemed to mean he'd scored a point. Rasak's manner was smoother now he was speaking, and Archer felt slightly reassured. Agent Fiest turned back to Malcolm.
"Did you know Armand Eska, Lieutenant Reed?"
"No," Malcolm said. He had folded his hands back in his lap again, and sat neatly, though his composure seemed slightly shaken. "I didn't know who he was."
"He just attacked you?"
"As far as I could tell."
"Nothing in his behaviour implied a motive? Did he demand you hand over possessions, for example? Did he make xenophobic comments to you? Did he attempt to sexually assault you?"
Malcolm flicked an eyebrow at this last, but remained otherwise expressionless.
"No."
"He said nothing to you at all?"
Malcolm shifted again. His eyes flickered over to Archer.
"No," he said. "No, he didn't say anything."
"You are, of course, a security officer aboard your Enterprise?" Fiest continued.
"It's one of my responsibilities."
"So it is the case that you are trained in hand-to-hand combat? Have you been trained to fight with knives?"
"I've been trained to defend myself," Malcolm said.
"But you never learned not to grab the sharp end?" Fiest asked, earning himself a chuckle from the onlookers. Malcolm was equal to it, however, and simply replied, "Better in the hand than in the gut."
"You've been taught that?"
"Actually, I worked that out myself."
Another chuckle from the court, but Archer felt a rise of unease when Fiest joined in. He doubted the agent would laugh if he felt he was losing the point.
"What do they teach you for such a situation?" Fiest asked.
"That you'll probably get stabbed," Malcolm returned evenly.
"That's a pessimistic outlook."
"When an unarmed man is attacked with a knife, it's pessimistic odds."
Regulations in Parmaine forbade the carrying of firearms on the streets for everyone except troops and police, a ban which had included Enterprise's away teams. Malcolm hadn't been too happy about it, of course, but Archer had considered it nothing but another bureaucratic inconvenience, since his people would be working closely alongside Niskaan troops anyway. Now he had to remind himself not to waste energy cursing his own lack of foresight.
"So, aware of these pessimistic odds, you decided to even them?" Fiest pressed on.
"I didn't decide anything. I just reacted. He'd already stabbed me. I didn't know how badly... I mean, I didn't know if it was bad. I couldn't exactly stop to check."
"Not that bad, as it turned out."
"No. I didn't know that." Malcolm's voice was carefully bland.
"But there must have been a point, when you had the knife in your hands, that you ended up pointing it at him, sticking it in him," Fiest persisted. "There must have been a decision involved."
"I didn't even have hold of the knife properly. I just grabbed it and turned it, and he ran into me."
"But you turned it towards him."
"I turned it away from myself."
Fiest regarded Malcolm for a moment, speculatively. Malcolm's head was slightly lowered, but he returned Fiest's gaze steadily. That, and his tightened jaw, gave his pose a touch of defiance in Archer's eyes. He hoped Fiest wouldn't detect this and misread it. After a loaded second of silence, Fiest changed tack.
"Have you been to Niskaa before?"
"No, I haven't."
Rasak stood again. "The crew of the Enterprise are the first members of Lieutenant Reed's species to visit Niskaa. There is no documented record of any human having been here before."
"No documented record." Fiest nodded slowly. "Lieutenant, it may interest you to know that Armand Eska was a member of a Separatist cell during the troubles here. He was imprisoned for his role in the bombing of a public transport vehicle here in Chibnia. A device attached to the underside. Eleven civilians were killed."
Malcolm looked genuinely shaken. "That's terrible," he said.
"Indeed. But such things were common place here on Niskaa. Unificationists have split their share of blood also. But this is all past now. Since you are new to our planet, I will explain – the treaty which secured the ceasefire and established our united government included a clause which required the release of key prisoners on either side of the conflict. As a good will gesture. Eska was one such, released on a peace bond eight months ago."
"Oh," Malcolm said, since something seemed to be expected of him.
"So you see how odd it is that he would attack you."
"Perhaps he doesn't like the work I've been doing in Parmaine. It may be his work we've been disarming."
"It may well be. But such things, as I said, are behind us. We acknowledge fault and blame lies with both sides. Eska put his name to the ceasefire agreement, pledged to lay down arms. You've been working for the same peace which guaranteed his release."
"Perhaps he wasn't so committed to it as you believe."
"Perhaps. Either way, we are left with a great many questions that you don't seem able to answer."
"I can –" Malcolm had to clear his throat. "I can only account for my own behaviour. I can't account for his."
"Nor can I, Lieutenant. And you see, the strange thing is, you being a stranger to Niskaa and all, is that Eska claimed that he knew you."
A ripple of interest ran through the court. Archer frowned.
"Did you hold a séance?" For the first time, Malcolm's tone was really defensive; snappish even, and Archer sent him a silent warning to keep his cool. Fortunately, Fiest seemed only nonplussed, and Archer hoped the remark hadn't translated. Rasak stood again before Fiest could reply.
"To clarify, Premier, Eska claimed that he was going out to meet a man he knew yesterday evening. He did not identity this man as Lieutenant Reed."
"And yet Lieutenant Reed was the man that he met," Fiest said.
"This is circumstantial."
"Thank you, Advocate," the Premier rumbled.
Malcolm broke his eye contact with Fiest and looked at Rasak as he sat again, a frown etched on his forehead. His moment of snappishness seemed to have passed. He blinked, looking for a moment more confused than angry, and Archer was struck again by how tired he looked. He hoped the timing of Rasak's interruption was more than just fortunate. Malcolm could use a canny and understanding counsel.
Fiest inclined his head to concede Rasak's point, and continued.
"The last person to see Eska alive, as far as we can discern, was his brother. That's apart from yourself, of course. He gave us a statement this morning. He claims Eska told him he was going out to pay a call on an old business partner. An off-worlder, he said. Barely two hours later, he was dead at your hands. An off-worlder."
The pause before Malcolm answered felt slightly too long. Perhaps he was waiting for Rasak to intervene again, as Archer half expected he might, but the advocate made no move to.
"Perhaps he mistook me," Malcolm said, eventually.
"And yet, as Advocate Rasak has confirmed, no member of your species has visited this planet before. So you would have us believe he mistook you not only for another individual, but for a member of an entirely different species. Quite a coincidence that there should be a resemblance."
"It was dark," Malcolm said, though he sounded doubtful himself now. Fiest nodded, and changed tack again.
"I have described to you the kind of business Eska has done, the kind of business we might assume any former partner of his would also know. Let's see..." Fiest read from his pad. "The bomb on the bus in Chibnia was a radio detonated device. It says here peroxyacetone detonating thermite. Are these the kinds of devices you've been dealing with in your time here?"
"No," Malcolm said. "We've been working with booby trapped devices, mines, not remote detonated explosives."
"Some of the same chemicals, perhaps?"
"No, not the same."
"I wonder why not."
Since Fiest was plainly expecting an answer, Malcolm gave him one.
"Thermite is difficult to detonate. It wouldn't be much use in a booby trap, it wouldn't go off." Fiest was still looking at him expectantly, so he continued. "Peroxyacetone... I wouldn't be surprised to find it in a mine, but we haven't. But a lot of the devices we've been working with are old, forgotten. Peroxyacetone is very unstable, too unstable to stay dormant for very long."
"Interesting. Thank you, Lieutenant. Another factor which you may not be aware of is that acetones don't occur naturally here on Niskaa. Wherever we have found peroxyacetone in devices here it has off-world origins, smuggled here, no doubt, by the kind of man Eska might call his associate. As I'm sure you've learned, most of our equipment is calibrated to detect nitrogen-based explosives. By using exotic chemicals, terrorist cells were able to build devices which evaded detection."
Malcolm looked a little pale at that, and Archer didn't blame him; he'd seen the trap Fiest's line of questioning was leading to too.
"Would you be able to make a bomb like that, Lieutenant Reed?" Fiest's tone was conversational, but the look in his eye was precise. Malcolm shifted, his shackles clinking audibly in the silent room.
"I need to understand how they work. I couldn't take them apart if I didn't."
"Is that a yes?"
"That's not what I do."
"I didn't ask what you do. Could you build a bomb like that?"
Malcolm hesitated. Archer watched Rasak, thinking if he was any defence worth his salt, he'd intervene, but the advocate was still now, inexpressive.
"I would know how," Malcolm said, eventually. Fiest seemed to find this admission enough. He nodded, and turned to Gruun.
"Premier," he said. This seemed to mark a finish. Gruun raised an eyebrow at Rasak, who stood.
"Premier, Agent Fiest has offered nothing but circumstantial evidence to the court today. Lieutenant Reed's injuries are consistent with his version of events. He has been cooperative. He did not try to run, as a guilty man might. I agree this incident raises some unsettling questions, but if Lieutenant Reed's account is accurate, it follows that he would not be able to answer them."
"Fiest?" Gruun said.
"Premier, I accept that my evidence is circumstantial. I submit, however, I have established that this incident warrants further investigation. That Eska should go out to meet a particular off-worlder with whom he used to do business, and instead meet another, who apparently shares both sufficient physical resemblance and expertise in the same field is quite a coincidence. I also remain unsatisfied by aspects of Lieutenant Reed's account. I move for charges to be pressed, and a thorough investigation conducted."
"I agree," Gruun said. "Lieutenant Reed, you are hereby charged with the unlawful death of Armand Eska, and will stand trial at a date to be determined. Thank you, gentlemen."
The verdict came so abruptly, and with such firmness, that Archer was taken unawares. Beside him, Phlox shifted and clucked his tongue. Malcolm, in contrast, hardly seemed to react at all; his eyes locked on the empty air before him. Archer looked to Advocate Rasak, wanting him to protest, but the advocate was simply gathering his papers, looking as though he was having a perfectly normal day at the office. That was it? Archer thought. Your whole defence? A few nitpicks, a ten second speech, and then you just let them have him? He stood.
"Premier, I object," he said, his voice carrying and clear. The eyes of the court turned towards him, Rasak frozen in the act of shuffling papers, Gruun paused in the middle of a low conversation with one his aides. Malcolm looked up abruptly too, as the two guards stepped into place beside him, displacing Rasak and placing firm hands on his shoulders.
"This is out of line, Premier," Archer spoke on. "This man has been on your planet, helping your people disarm mines, and you're pressing charges against him because he knows how a bomb works?"
"Captain Archer!" Gruun shouted across him. "I insist you sit down. You'll show respect for our process or you won't be welcome on our planet."
"Respect?" Archer fired back. "You've shown no respect for me, or for my officer, Gruun."
"Be mindful of what we agreed, Captain. If you don't sit down now, you'll have no visit with your officer. If you can't contain yourself, you'll be found in contempt of court. I'll have you removed."
The court room was deadly silent. Malcolm was on his feet now. One of his guards had a hand on his arm; the other took a step away, towards Archer, waiting to act on Gruun's command. Malcolm's pose was tensed, his eyes on Archer, as though looking for a cue. He looked ready to fight, and Archer realised in a flash that it was himself that Malcolm was ready to fight for, even in chains, if the guard moved towards him.
It hit him then that they were cornered; that he had no way of preventing them from taking Malcolm away, and no means to do anything but make things worse by shouting. Best case scenario, he'd lose his visit; worst case, he'd get himself arrested too, and Malcolm into deeper trouble for trying to defend him. Either way, he'd let Malcolm down. He couldn't do that. He swallowed.
"Excuse me, Premier," he said, though gritted teeth, and sat.
He couldn't watch as they took Malcolm away. He felt like a heel. He looked at Phlox instead, and read his own concern and consternation written on the doctor's face.
"Boy, are we not done here," he said to Phlox, because he had to say it to someone.
Archer wanted to speak with Gruun right away to have it out, but was met instead by one of his aides, polite to a fault and impassable He told them that the Premier would speak with them later – but in the meantime, if they wanted to visit with Lieutenant Reed, their escort was waiting with a vehicle to take them to the holding facility. They hadn't left the courthouse, however, before a voice hailed them.
"Captain Archer, Captain Archer!" Archer turned to see Advocate Rasak hustling down the corridor towards them, his arms full of papers.
"Captain, I'm Advocate Rasak." He dipped his head in greeting.
"Advocate? You're Malcolm's defence lawyer, right?" Archer lowered his voice, but didn't bother to try and hide his anger. "Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?"
Rasak glanced about them. "Do you have a minute to speak, Captain? My office is just here."
"Only a minute. I have a visit with my officer."
"You do have a visit? That's good. Lieutenant Reed was asking, I didn't know."
Archer was no expert on Niskaan physiology, but close to, Rasak looked very young. Like all his people, he had bright coloured eyes, and he moved with fast, darting motions like a bird. Archer introduced Phlox, who was eyeing Rasak's sheath of papers with interest.
"I don't suppose you have a copy of Lieutenant Reed's medical report in there?" Rasak hesitated, and Phlox added smoothly, "Premier Gruun agreed to my examination." It sounded good, but Rasak had clearly met Gruun, since his brows came together in faint suspicion.
"Please, I won't keep you." He gestured, and Archer allowed him to shepherd them into his office. Rasak deposited his bundle of files on his already loaded desk, rifled through them, and drew out a sheet which he handed to Phlox.
"As it happens," he said. "I am permitted to conduct my own investigations into the evidence the court presents, so let's call this that. If you notice anything untoward, please tell me."
Phlox nodded in thanks, but Archer was not mollified. Rasak's behaviour in court still defied his understanding. Clearly this showed in his face, because Rasak was raising his hands in a conciliatory way before he even began.
"This is a very sensitive case for us, Captain," he said, speaking quickly. "You must understand that if what Lieutenant Reed says is true, it could have serious consequences. Our peace is built on this treaty that secured Eska's release from prison. If Eska attacked Lieutenant Reed because he's been disarming bombs in Parmaine, then he's working to undermine that ceasefire, and our united government. We can't accept that without close investigation."
"It sounds to me like Lieutenant Reed has been caught in the middle of your politics," Archer told him. "We have every sympathy for your situation; we've been working here to help you, but I draw the line at scapegoating one of my people to save your government face."
"This isn't a case of finding a scapegoat. Were the implications less dire for us, I doubt they would even try him. Had it been anyone but Eska... " Off Archer's look, Rasak added, a touch defensively, "You asked why, and this is why."
Archer paced, in his frustration, the length of Rasak's office. It amounted to about two steps before he had to turn around. "So this terrorist, this murderer," he said. "Kills eleven people for his political cause, gets released from prison in some kind of forgive-and-forget deal – and then he attacks my officer, and my officer is the one who has to answer for that?"
"Forgetting was not part of the deal." There was no defensiveness in Rasak's voice now; instead, Archer heard echoes of the courtroom. "Captain, political causes have divided our culture. Each side has traded blood for blood for generations until it hardly mattered what words like Separatist and Unificationist meant – only that you were one, and that man over there was not. Perhaps you've never noticed how remarkable it feels to walk down the street without fearing for your life. We must protect our peace."
Archer rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head was spinning. "I understand that," he said, softening his tone. "Look, your Agent Fiest said this Eska was going to meet someone he knew. He doesn't know my officer, I can assure you of that. It's not possible. If he mistook Malcolm for someone he has a personal grudge against, that's got nothing to do with him, or your ceasefire."
"Eska's business associates, sadly, would tend to have a lot to do with our ceasefire. He might have breached the terms of his release just by trying to meet this person, and who knows for what purpose. Besides which, Eska's brother could have lied to cover his true motive – he has Separatist loyalties himself."
"There's a lot of mights and could haves there, Advocate."
"Precisely our problem. Captain, look –" Rasak lowered his voice. "Legally, we couldn't hold your officer any longer without charges being brought. It's possible the Premier charged him simply to keep him here, so we can conduct our investigation. If nothing else, he's a key witness. If you took him back to your ship and left, we might never get the answers we need."
"Your premier could have just asked us to stick around. I promised him we'd cooperate."
"Politicians," Rasak said, with a wry smile. "They judge everyone by their own standards – and so they don't trust anyone. Look, you should go and have your visit. I'll be here all afternoon, if you wish to speak further. And please, if you or your doctor learn anything new, understand I'm not your enemy here. I'm sure we can help each other."
Archer was less sure, but he recognised that Rasak had at least given him some answers. He nodded his thanks.
"Is anything untoward?" he asked Phlox, as he handed the report back.
"I'll tell you once I've compared it with the real thing."
But that wasn't quite so simple either. At the holding facility, they were met with another demonstration of the Niskaan art of being faultlessly polite and yet utterly unhelpful. Of course they were expected, and welcome to visit, but they couldn't be permitted to bring alien medical equipment into the facility – it was against procedure, and in any case unnecessary; they had medics of their own. Archer wondered if Gruun had briefed these people.
Archer, fearing a deadlock, and being forced to leave without a visit, suggested a compromise – they'd leave their equipment at the front desk, for now, but Phlox himself was coming in.
They were allowed, finally, to have their meeting in a well-lit room with only one chair, already occupied by Malcolm when they entered. A guard stood at attention in the corner, unobtrusive, but nonetheless there. Archer's first words as he entered were directed towards him.
"Is that really necessary?" For Malcolm was still shackled, and the way he held his hands neatly folded in his lap as though he chose that position felt like a final straw to Archer. He had to turn his face away to manage his anger.
"Procedure," the guard replied.
"It's alright, Captain," Malcolm said softly. He had the knack, always had, of being able to drop his voice without losing any of the edge, the firmness, in his tone. He was so entirely himself in this alien situation that Archer felt bad for not greeting him properly straight away. He made up for it by moving to him now, clasping him by the shoulder hard. Malcolm moved to stand, but Archer made it plain with his free hand that he needn't. Close to, he looked about as sick as Archer had ever seen him, pale beneath the slash on his face, his eyes bloodshot and ringed with shadow.
"How are you doing?" Archer asked him. He wasn't sure, but he could have sworn Malcolm's eyes slid to the guard for a split second before he answered.
"Getting by, sir." He offered a wry, tired smile.
Phlox, meanwhile, troubled himself with no such social niceties. After simply saying, "Lieutenant," which Malcolm answered with a nod, the doctor moved straight into his personal space and started probing at the cut on his cheek.
Archer turned to the guard again and asked, "Could we have a moment alone?"
"I'm afraid not, sir. Procedure."
"They're fond of procedure here," Malcolm said.
"You noticed that too, huh?" Archer had a sense that Malcolm was being pointedly light, trying to defuse trouble before it might start. He opted to concede, to let Malcolm have some power over his situation, at least. Besides, it would hardly reassure him to catch a glimpse of the extent of Archer's frustration.
"Captain, I am sorry about this," Malcolm said, having to look at Archer from the corner of his eye in order to keep his head still for Phlox.
"You have nothing to apologise for," Archer said firmly. "We're going to sort this out, Malcolm. Don't you worry."
"I'm sure we will, sir."
Archer was a loss as to what say then that wasn't a platitude. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, about what happened, about Malcolm's reading of the politics here, about how he'd been treated, but none of those seemed topics sensible to raise in front of the Niskaan guard.
Phlox tilted Malcolm's head until he was staring at the ceiling light and peered at his pupils. Malcolm submitted matter-of-factly enough, but Archer felt like an intruder into this necessary intimacy between doctor and patient. In some ways, he reflected, Phlox must know Malcolm better than any of them.
Watching them together, something about Malcolm struck Archer as oddly passive. Perhaps it was because the shackles restricted him, but he moved only when Phlox prompted him to do so, and allowed himself to be physically manipulated without resistance. When Phlox moved to touch his hands, however, he flinched.
"I'm sorry," Phlox said. "May I see?"
Malcolm raised his hands as high as his restraints would let him. Archer could have sworn he detected a tremble, but Phlox caught Malcolm's hands and cupped them, palms up, in his own, before he could be sure. Phlox bent close to look at the wounds, turning them this way and that to catch the light. Malcolm watched a spot on the wall until his eyes began to glaze.
"The wounds are clean," Phlox observed, acerbically, as though this was the best that could be said of them. Malcolm's attention was recalled by his words. He blinked.
"I can't bend my fingers properly," he said. "Particularly on the right."
"There may be some damage to the tendons," Phlox said. "Can you try for me?"
Malcolm did, unable to hide a grimace, and Phlox quickly called his efforts to a halt. Archer leaned to look. Malcolm's hands looked tense and clawed, and the cuts were jagged and deep, across the palms and fingers. The right did look worse – his grabbing hand, Archer reasoned. The violence of the attack was brought home to him; the slam of bodies on brick work, and Malcolm, in desperation, catching the blade in his bare hands to save himself.
"Rasak was right to ask you to show those in court," Archer said. "I don't know how anyone can look at that and doubt it was self-defence."
"They have their jobs to do, I suppose," Malcolm said. Archer looked at him thoughtfully. It was like Malcolm to fall back on wry humour, like him to be pragmatic too, but though the words were right, something in his manner wasn't. Archer had noticed it in court a little too, though he'd put it down to stress and nerves. But Malcolm seemed worse now; monotone, and looking like he might just fall asleep at any moment.
"I'd like to have a look at that stab wound," Phlox was saying. He helped Malcolm strip his shirt off over his head – carefully, and awkward, because of the chains. The shirt had to stay looped around his wrists since it couldn't be pulled off past the shackles.
Half stripped, Malcolm hardly had the presence of a killer. He was lean and pale under the artificial lights, with bruises on his torso, keeping his arms out of Phlox's way as best as he was able. There was a pad taped over the wound on his side, and Phlox dispensed with this quickly.
Archer had been making a small effort at looking modestly away, but now he stepped over to look at the damage. He saw a short, ugly gash, ringed with bruises, right above Malcolm's right hip. Malcolm held his breath while Phlox probed at the wound.
"How bad is it?" Archer asked.
"It would be easier to say if I had my scanner," Phlox remarked. "But I see nothing here to contradict the medical report. It does seem to be just muscle damage. This was the evening before last now?" This last to Malcolm, who missed a beat before nodding.
"Yes," Phlox continued. "If the blade had struck any major organs, you'd be very unwell indeed by this point. You were lucky. An inch or so to the left, and you might have had a perforated intestine."
"I saw it coming," Malcolm said. "I was twisting away." He frowned, but whether at the memory, or because Phlox had started poking at the bruises on his rib cage, Archer couldn't tell. Archer removed his scrutiny again, and looked round at the nothing in the room, letting his eyes slide past the guard, pretending not to hear as Phlox asked Malcolm if it hurt here, or here, or how about if he pressed here.
When he looked again, Phlox was helping Malcolm work his shirt back on. This done, he pressed firm fingers to Malcolm's chin and tilted his head to the lights again.
"You hit your head during the attack," he said. A statement rather than a question, but Malcolm nodded anyway, against his hands.
"I think you have a concussion," Phlox told him. Malcolm smiled minutely.
"I concur," he said.
"Glad to hear it." Silence for half a minute as Phlox shifted his fingers to Malcolm's neck to take his pulse. Malcolm kept his gaze on the ceiling, and when Phlox finished, he looked back with the air of someone whose thoughts had been recalled from miles away.
"Have you been given any medication?" Phlox asked.
Again, Malcolm's eyes flickered to the guard, rather slower this time, and Archer had the uneasy suspicion he was supposed to notice. But when Malcolm spoke, his tone was normal enough.
"An antibiotic, they said. And an analgesic."
"I see. Well, as far as I can see, the medical report I've seen was largely accurate. To be blunt, you're a bit banged up, but you'll live. Your hands concern me the most, but with proper treatment, there's no reason there should be any permanent damage. I'd like, if I can, to speak with the medic here," Phlox looked at Archer at this point, who nodded consent. "Meanwhile, I'd recommend you try to get as much rest as you can."
"I'll bear that in mind," Malcolm said, a little dryly, but if Phlox noticed, he didn't let on.
Instead, Phlox stepped back and announced that he would go and try and locate that medic now, if it was alright with the captain. He turned to the Niskaan guard, and asked if he'd be so good as to show him the way. For a moment, Archer thought Phlox might be able to persuade the guard to leave with him, but at the last moment, the guard halted in the doorway, and gave complicated directions instead. Undeterred, Phlox interrupted him for clarification several times, and then repeated them back to him wrongly.
Archer, feeling a wave of gratitude towards the doctor, took full advantage the guard's distraction. He crouched beside Malcolm's chair and spoke to him in a low voice.
"How are you really? Are you alright?"
"I'm okay, sir," Malcolm said. He glanced towards the door, then leaned forward. "Sir, I really didn't... I didn't go to kill that man, I didn't mean to –"
"I know. I know," Archer cut in. "We're caught up in some politics here. But we're going to work it out, I promise you."
"I'm sure." Malcolm's chains clinked as he shifted his weight. "But, sir –"
But at that point, the guard, having disposed of Phlox, clicked the door shut behind him, and stepped back into his position. Malcolm sat back up, leaving his sentence dangling in the silence of the room. He moved to raise his hands to his face, and hit the end of his chain before he remembered.
They talked in a desultory fashion for a few minutes more, Archer doing his best to sound upbeat, but Malcolm wasn't a great smalltalker at the best of times. He seemed to be zoning out again, blinking far too often, and far too slowly.
When the guard signalled their time was up, Archer reached for his shoulder again.
"I'll see you again soon," he said. "Don't worry. Rest, like the doc said."
Malcolm nodded, and rose to his feet as the guard stepped towards him. Archer was turning away when Malcolm spoke again behind him.
"Captain," he said, abruptly. "Sir, I can't bend my fingers. Look." He raised his hands to show, as best he could.
Archer frowned at Malcolm's face instead, unsure if he was aware that he was repeating himself – but he found Malcolm's eyes were sharp, and pointed, and fixed on his. He looked.
Malcolm was right; he really couldn't bend his fingers well, and he had to hold the ones he was trying to lower at right angles to his palm rather than folding them away. It cost him something to do so, too; there was no question his hands were trembling now. It took Archer a second to see past this to what he was being shown.
On his right hand, Malcolm was holding up three fingers. On his left hand, he was holding up one.
The guard stepped between them. Malcolm let his hands drop, and lowered his eyes, and Archer was ushered from the room. He felt like he'd taken a curveball to the gut. Memories came flooding back of the last time he'd seen Malcolm trapped like this, cornered by questions he just couldn't answer, except that time it had been at his own hands. But it hadn't been Archer who'd put Malcolm in that corner in the first place. It had been Harris, and his Section 31.