Into the Distance: No Turning Back

by jtm1848

My take on the Affliction/Divergence two-parter.

The Klingon prisoner fought as he was dragged into the laboratory.

"What do you want with me?" he growled as he struggled, nearly ripping one arm free from the heavy clasp of the guard; but it was to little avail, as the beefy Klingon soldier held on tighter, unwilling to let his prisoner go.

"Secure him." This order came from a tall and somewhat hefty Klingon, his hair liberally streaked with gray; no doubt the commander of the facility, his own throaty growl carried a dangerous tone, one that brokered no discontent.

The twin guards shoved their prisoner into a chair and began strapping him down. "I demand to see the magistrate!" the prisoner shouted, still fighting to free himself from the grasp of his captors; he knew, somehow, that he was due to come to a painful, violent end if he could not escape.

The straps secured, one of the guards hooked an old-fashioned IV bag overhead, and the prisoner looked up, his alarm only growing; the liquid in the bag almost glowed a bright green, radiating danger. "My death sentence was commuted!" the prisoner shouted. He knew, if he could only speak with the magistrate, he would be spared from this end; the magistrate was a sympathizer, a fellow soldier, who would no doubt free him from this pending—

A needle was stuck into his arm, and the prisoner howled out. He could feel the green liquid begin to penetrate his arm, and his breathing became labored.

"NO!" he howled out, in last futile gasp for release before the pain started. His body was on fire, unlike anything he could have imagined, the pain reaching clear into his very cells.

The Klingon commander watched dispassionately from without, not caring much about the fate of the prisoner; their lab rat had plotted treason against the Empire, after all, and no ending was too bad for such a vile creature.

Except possibly this, the commander realized as he watched the transformation overtake the prisoner. The commander had never seen it happen before, and he realized now what a violent process it was.

The prisoner's forehead ridges were rippling as the cells within mutated into a new form.

…

Captain's Starlog, December 1, 2154. We're returned to Deneva Colony following our mission of exploration along the Klingon border. We depart for Earth tomorrow to attend the opening of the Babel Conference. In the meantime, I've authorized shore leave for our crew; it's been a long three months spent in dangerous space. On a personal note, I'm also saying goodbye to one helluva chief engineer. Commander Charles Tucker is leaving us for the chief engineer slot on board our sister ship, the Columbia. Captain Hernandez and the Columbia are also in orbit, awaiting his arrival.

…

"Trip" Tucker looked up from his bag to admire the graceful curves of the Columbia, parked several hundred meters off from the Enterprise. He was in his bedroom, finishing up with his packing, but found it difficult to concentrate with the beautiful starship just out his window. Crossing the small room to the window, he gazed outward, taking in the sight.

The doorbell chimed behind him.

"Yeah," he answered, not yet turning around as the door hissed open; only after a good, lingering last look at the Columbia did he turn around to see who his visitor was.

Commander T'Pol, the Enterprise's Vulcan first officer and science officer hybrid, had entered the room. Walking around slowly, she glanced down at his bed, where the half-packed bag awaited him.

Trip turned back to the window. "She's a thing of beauty," he said, looking again at the Columbia. He placed a hand on the upper rim of the window, leaning further forward until his nose nearly touched the transparent aluminum.

T'Pol stepped up next to the engineer. "The Columbia is virtually identical to the Enteprise," she said softly.

Trip chuckled lightly; it was a very—Vulcan—comment. "A good engineer can tell the differences." He lowered his hand and turned around, walking back into the center of the room. "You coming to the mess hall later?" he asked, glancing back at T'Pol. "My going-away party and all."

T'Pol turned in place to follow Tucker, who had begun packing his bag again. "I don't understand the logic behind this transfer," she admitted, her voice wavering slightly. "You're not being promoted—"

Trip broke in with a smile. "You think I'm doing this to advance my career?" he asked her. "I suppose this won't hurt, but it's not about my career."

"You wouldn't leave Captain Archer without sufficient reason," T'Pol countered. "You have been a member of this crew for three and a half years. You even followed him into the Delphic Expanse. Human loyalty—"

Trip stood up straight. "For one thing, T'Pol, this is a new challenge," he replied. "It took me a year to fine-tune the Enterprise. I figure I can do the same for Captain Hernandez in half the time. And she needs a chief engineer—the slot is open, and I've been out there. I have the experience. The fit makes sense." Finished, Trip leaned back over to continue his packing.

T'Pol wasn't done. "Are you leaving because of me?" she asked bluntly.

"This may come as a shock," he replied, still speaking from his hunched-over stance. "But not everything in my life revolves around you."

"Still," T'Pol responded, fidgeting slightly. "I don't want you to leave because of—me."

Trip stood back up and turned to the Vulcan. "I consider you a good friend, T'Pol, nothing less, nothing more," he said. "Was there a time when I had feelings for you? Yeah, I sure thought so," he went on, shaking his head. "But I got my head straightened out and moved past that."

"That is good to hear," T'Pol answered, still fidgeting.

"We're friends, T'Pol," Trip repeated. "Am I leaving because of that? Maybe a little, but it's the same with Captain Archer, Malcolm, Phlox, the rest of them," he continued. "I've grown too comfortable here. It would be too easy to stay here for—a dozen years, or more. But humans don't have that kind of luxury. It's time for me to move on, T'Pol. Find a new starship, find a new crew, find a new challenge."

…

"I'm glad we got here early," Hoshi Sato said as she and Doctor Phlox exited the restaurant, angling upstreet to their right. It was early evening, but the sky was already dark and the stars out on this particular portion of Deneva Colony. To combat the evening chill, Hoshi was dressed in a lightweight leather jacket.

"There never used to be a wait to get in," Phlox snorted in agreement as he ambled along beside Hoshi. He, too, could feel the chill, and was wearing a somewhat-beaten cardigan sweater.

"You didn't think Madame Chang's was going to be your little secret forever, did you?" Hoshi replied, gracing her companion with a teasing smile.

Phlox, too, let loose with a comfortable smile. "There were a lot of Starfleet people there," he noted, voicing perhaps the understatement of the evening; it seemed as though the greater portion of Starfleet's personnel had chosen that night to visit the quaint Chinese restaurant, tucked away in the heart of the new-founded colony.

"That's probably my fault," Hoshi said. The two officers stopped in mid-stride as Phlox turned to look at her. "I may have told a few friends about the place!" she added with an impish smile.

"A few?" Phlox snorted with disbelief.

Hoshi started walking again, and Phlox took a quick step to catch up. "I'm a communications officer," Hoshi commented as she reached her stride again. She shrugged under the leather jacket. "If there's one thing I know how to do, it's talk."

Phlox laughed lightly as they rounded a bushy corner. "You didn't tell me how your meeting went today," Hoshi continued, choosing to change the subject to something that didn't focus so much on her. "With the IME?" she said, referring to by its initials to the Interstellar Medical Exchange.

"It went extremely well," Phlox commented, shuffling his feet as they walked. Phlox had been a member of the IME for over a dozen Earth years; it was via their involvement with Starfleet that had ultimately placed Phlox as the chief medical officer of the Enterprise. "They asked if I was interested in becoming Director of Xenobiology."

"That's great," Hoshi answered. "Are you going to accept?"

Phlox took a moment to respond. "I'm not quite sure," he finally admitted, clearly weighing the decision; while the position had its definite appeal, it also meant a permanent placement on Earth. "The truth is," he continued, "I've grown rather fond of my shipmates. I'm not certain I'm ready to leave them just yet." He paused in the path to look at Hoshi. "What would you suggest?"

Hoshi gifted the Denobulan physician with an apologetic smile. "I'm the wrong person to ask," she admitted softly. "I've got a vested interest in keeping you around."

"Well, I—hello, what's this?" Phlox stopped dead in his tracks.

Three hooded individuals had stepped out from behind a bush, blocking their path.

"You, Denobulan," the first said harshly, addressing the doctor. Dressed in dark covers, his face completely covered by the hood, it was impossible to make out a species. "Come with us."

"What do you want?" Phlox countered, taken aback by the sudden interruption.

The assailant drew a gun and pointed it at the doctor. "Maybe you didn't hear me," he growled.

Hoshi let loose with a swift, whirling kick, knocking the gun free of the assailant's grasp, and the fray was on.

Hoshi swung first, but the first assailant moved fast, striking her with a fierce blow on the cheek, and the second assailant charged at Phlox; the two, attacker and doctor, began to arm wrestle as Hoshi slammed an elbow into the solar plexus of her target. Grabbing his arm, she flipped him over, catapulting the first assailant to the brick pathway.

As the first assailant lay there, groaning in pain, the third assailant slammed the butt of his pistol into Hoshi's head, knocking her to the ground; and, turning to face the still-wrestling doctor, the third assailant fired a quick burst of energy.

Woozy, Hoshi watched from the ground as the doctor fainted into the arms of the second assailant. Half-conscious and fading fast, she saw the first two assailants grab Phlox and wrestle him down the street, followed closely by the third attacker. "Dol'sha t'ung ner'Rleel!" the latter assailant growled.

And Hoshi slipped into unconsciousness.

…

The sun's first rays were creeping over the tops of downtown buildings when Hoshi finally returned to the scene of the abduction, cleared following an overnight stay at Starfleet's local medical facility.

"Hoshi!" Archer, standing around with a gaggle of Starfleet security, offered the young lieutenant a wan smile; he had been awake all night, trying his best to stay out of the way of the investigators. "How are you feeling?"

Hoshi gifted her commanding officer with a tired smile of her own. "I'm all right, sir," she answered. "A slight headache, that's all. Who did this?" she asked, hoping—against expectation—that the abduction was already solved.

A short woman, barely five feet tall, stepped up to Hoshi and Archer. "That's what we're trying to figure out, Lieutenant," the woman said. "Commander Collins, Starfleet Security. We met briefly in the medical bay." Collins' dirty-blonde hair was cut short, nearly as short as Archer's.

"There were three men," Hoshi commented. She had already told her story to Collins—at least, if her ragged memory of the evening could be fully trusted—but she had yet to brief Archer on the situation. "They were in the shadows," she added. "I didn't get a good look at them."

Collins reached up to scratch her head. "You told me before that one of them said something to the others."

"Yes," Hoshi answered, nodding as she spoke. "Right before I passed out. It wasn't English, I know, but I'm a little hazy. I can't remember it clearly."

"You did take a firm hit to the head," Collins noted. She turned slightly to face Archer. "The only DNA we've recovered belongs to Lieutenant Sato and Doctor Phlox. We did find some residual ionization traces—" she pointed to a particular location, in the direction that Phlox had been dragged off. "Over here."

"Ionization traces?" Archer mused with slight surprise. "Did they use a transporter?"

"That's our working theory," Collins answered. "It's hard to interpret the readings any other way. Still, very few people have access to that kind of technology."

Archer lowered his voice somewhat as he spoke. "Have there been other attacks?" he asked worriedly. "I mean, other attacks against—aliens?"

Collins shook her head. "I know what you're asking," she replied. She pursed her lips tightly. "I've read the reports from Earth. But Deneva Colony hasn't suffered from the same rash of attacks. Besides, the whole assault speaks to a professional abduction. This clearly wasn't some loudmouth in a bar."

"All right," Archer spoke with finality. "Have you had a chance to check with Starfleet Operations yet? Their satellites may have picked up the transporter activity."

"Not yet," Collins acknowledged.

"I'll have my chief tactical officer look into it," Archer decided. "Lieutenant Commander Reed. He's a top-notch officer."

…

Trip could feel four sets of eyes watching his every move as he stood in the center of Columbia's engineering compartment; four attentive assistant engineers were at attention, seemingly hanging on every word their new chief spoke.

At least, that's how he chose to view it.

"The dilithium matrix has got to be aligned within point-three microns," Trip said, looking up from his data padd; the ship's stats were laid out on the padd, and there were several that failed to live up to his standards.

Only one ensign offered to question Tucker. "The specs say point-five," Ensign Rivers countered. His short, stark black hair stood out among the other engineers.

Trip turn to stare down the young ensign. "And who do you think wrote those specs?" he asked.

"A warp field specialist?" Rivers answered, eliciting a hidden chuckle from his fellows.

"Exactly," Tucker declared, and he did his best to lessen the severity on his face. "Listen, those guys have never been outside our solar system. I've spent the last three and a half years crawling inside one of these engines. I know what I'm talking about."

Rivers nodded in acceptance. "Aye, sir."

"Bigg, Pierce." Trip turned to face two others, a man and a petite woman. "I want you to recalibrate the field stabilizers. Rivers and Strong, start with the injector assembly."

A chorus of ayes answered him.

Trip tightened his shoulders. "This bucket of bolts left space dock six months ago," he said, launching into his best speech mode. His voice rose in firmness. "And it's still not primed for deep space. Now, I guarantee you: when we warp out of this system at the end of the week, the Columbia will be ready. Let's get to work."

As the engineers turned and left, departing for their tasks, Trip turned to depart for his.

And there was the captain. A shorter woman, her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail; bangs came down to her eyebrows.

"It's customary to report to the captain after a transfer," Erika Hernandez said, a light reproach in her voice.

Trip broke into an apologetic grin. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he acknowledged. "I wanted to see what the situation was like before we spoke, and I guess I got a little into it." He stood up straight. "Commander Charles Tucker, reporting for duty."

Holding out a hand, he shook Hernandez's proffered hand. "Welcome aboard," Hernandez replied. "It's 'Trip,' is it?"

"That's right," Trip answered. "I'm the third 'Charles Tucker.'"

"So what do you think?" Hernandez asked. She paused to glance around the engineering bay, where the crew was scurrying to work. "Can she be salvaged?"

"I think there's a good chance," Trip allowed. "She's not quite up to the Enterprise yet, but give a week, and we'll win a time trial with them."

"Good to hear," Hernandez replied, smiling.

"Any word yet on Phlox?" Trip asked, shifting the topic.

"Not so far," Hernandez replied. She, too, was following the investigation closely. "If I hear anything, I'll let you know." She nodded at the scurrying engineers. "You sure know how to motivate the troops."

Trip shrugged nonchalantly. "We'll be pulling double shifts this week," he admitted. "We might as well get started right away."

Hernandez smiled at him. "You still need to eat, Trip," she answered. Her voice became firmer as she gave an order. "Captain's mess, tomorrow. Eighteen hundred hours. We can trade stories about your former CO."

"I'll be there," Trip agreed. "Sounds like fun."

"Oh, and Commander—drop by the quartermaster's at the end of your shift," Hernandez added.

Trip raised an eyebrow, confused by the request. "Ma'am?" he asked.

Hernandez patted the Columbia's mission patch on the arm of her uniform, then pointed to Trip's arm. "Might want to update your uniform," she said, indicating the Enterprise patch that still adorned his blue coveralls.

Trip smiled. "Aye, Captain."

…

Archer sat back in his chair, forcing his shoulders over the top, feeling the tense back muscles crack as he went; it gave him an instant sensation of relief, and he arched back forward, stretching and twisting as he went. It had been a long day, preceded by a long night, and sleep was still but a faint thought out in the future. He was snatching a few minutes of temporary quiet in his ready room, and the thought of a quick nap was entering his head.

The door chose that moment to chime.

"Come in!" Archer called out, uncertain if he really wanted the interruption.

Commander T'Pol stepped through the doorway, slightly hesitant to disturb the captain.

"Come in," Archer repeated, waving her in. The door hissed shut behind the Vulcan. "We've heard nothing from the kidnappers," he said, even though T'Pol would've been the first among the crew to know if a communique had been received. "Not even a ransom demand."

T'Pol nodded dispassionately. "I've spoken with the Denobulan ambassador," she reported. "He's notified the doctor's wives."

Wanting to leapfrog into the meat of the conversation, Archer directed a firm look at his first officer. "Hoshi thought she overheard one of the kidnappers say something in another language, but she was only semi-conscious at the time."

"That is—unfortunate," T'Pol allowed. "If there is anyone who could interpret it, it would've been Lieutenant Sato."

"That's my thought as well," Archer said wryly, realizing that he would have to be more direct. "Maybe you can help her remember."

T'Pol arched both eyebrows in transparent surprise. "How can I do that?" she asked.

"A mind-meld," Archer declared. "If you can help her recall what they said, she might be able to make sense of it. It's our best clue, Commander."

"I've never initiated a mind-meld before," T'Pol countered. For a Vulcan, she was backpedaling furiously. "I don't have the proper training. I don't—"

"But I do," Archer replied. "I know it's dangerous, but I can walk you through it."

"You?" T'Pol responded doubtfully.

Archer let loose with a smile. "I had Surak's katra in my head for four days," he answered. "I picked up a few tricks. I can get you through it, T'Pol."

…

Malcolm Reed, firmly ensconced in the armory, punched in the computer controls to open a channel, waiting for a clicking noise to confirm the connection. "Computer, access satellite logs one-three-seven," he called out. "Time parameters nineteen hundred and nineteen forty-five today." He paused momentarily, giving the computer a chance to pull up the relevant data.

But no sensor data emerged on the computer screen.

"Computer, confirm data," Malcolm called out.

A scrolling note rolled across the screen, informing Malcolm that satellite grid one-three-seven was offline for scheduled maintenance during the requested time parameter.

Malcolm furrowed his brow in puzzlement; it was unusual, albeit not unheard of, to take an entire satellite grid offline at the same time.

It was very unusual to have an abduction when the grid was down.

It's probably just a coincidence, Malcolm noted to himself, but it bore further investigating. Punching another control, he opened a communications channel. "Enterprise to Starfleet Operations," he called out, hailing Deneva Colony's nerve center. "This is Commander Reed, on board the Enterprise."

Nothing answered.

Malcolm absently rubbed his chin. "Starfleet Operations, please acknowledge." The computer screen flickered once, and a man appeared.

It was clearly not Starfleet Operations.

"Burning the midnight oil, Commander?" the man said, smiling genially. A few years past his physical prime, he wore his age with senatorial distinction; a carefully-coiffed design of salt-and-pepper hair rested above creased lines. Soft blue eyes spoke of experience and care. He wore a black leather suit.

"Sir?" Malcolm replied, tight-lipped. "I was calling Starfleet Operations."

"Let me guess," Harris answered with a light, friendly chuckle. "You're suspicious that grid one-three-seven happened to be down when your Doctor Phlox was abducted."

"Something like that," Malcolm responded. His muscles were clenched tight as he spoke.

Harris nodded. "Meet me at this address in one hour," the elder man said.

An address scrolled across the screen.

…

A solitary candle sat between T'Pol and Hoshi, its light flickering in the darkness of the latter's quarters; the two officers, along with Captain Archer, were gathered there, to honor a ritual that went back to the time of Surak—and perhaps longer, Archer acknowledged, uncertain of just when the first Vulcan mindmeld had actually taken place.

T'Pol carefully placed her fingertips on Hoshi's face, positioning them along precise neural fault-lines. "My mind to your mind," the Vulcan woman intoned. The candle flickered again, its light barely illuminating the faces of the two women. "My thoughts to your thoughts."

"My thoughts to your thoughts," Hoshi replied, somewhat uncertainly. She had never experienced a Vulcan mindmeld before—other than the captain, what human had?—and she was nervous.

Nervous, but she trusted her fellow officers.

"Our minds are merging," T'Pol intoned. "Our thoughts are as one. Our minds are as one."

Hoshi resisted the urge to shake her head. "Nothing's happening," she commented.

Archer stepped into the candle's faint light. "T'Pol, try to relax your emotional control just a little," he suggested. Reaching over, he shifted the position of one of T'Pol's fingers by a quarter inch.

"Our minds are merging," T'Pol intoned again. "Our thoughts are as one. Our minds are as one." Can you hear me?

Hoshi stiffened imperceptibly. Yes. Perfectly, she answered. Can you see my thoughts?

Take me back in time, T'Pol commanded, feeling somewhat like she was making it up as she went along. To the point where you and the doctor had just left the restaurant.

I'm glad we got here early, Hoshi repeated, beginning to relive the traumatic experience of the previous day. She shifted slightly, but T'Pol's fingers held on tight.

There never used to be a wait to get in, Phlox added. His words came unbidden to her mind.

…

As Phlox and Hoshi ambled down the street, they were joined by T'Pol.

"They asked if I was interested in becoming the director of Xenobiology," Phlox was saying as he shuffled his feet. The Denobulan physician was taking his time as he walked, enjoying the evening and the company.

"Where were you attacked?" T'Pol asked.

Hoshi pointed ahead, by about ten paces. "There," she said, indicating the place. She cringed, realizing that she was supposed to respond to Phlox's revelation.

Evidently, it wasn't necessary, as Phlox rolled on. "Truth is, I've grown rather fond of my shipmates," he said, continuing the conversation on his own.

"Do you see them?" Hoshi asked T'Pol, as she visually searched the bushes ahead; their assailants were well-hidden from sight, and she could not make them out.

But she knew they were there.

"—just yet," Phlox said, finishing a thought. "What do you suggest?" he asked.

A moment of silence passed as Hoshi blanked on her response.

Then three assailants stepped out of the bushes, stopping Phlox and Hoshi in their tracks. "You, Denobulan," the first thug said harshly, pointing at Phlox. "Come with us."

"What do you want?" Phlox replied with an indignant snort.

"Maybe you didn't hear me," the thug growled. Drawing a gun, he raised it at Phlox.

Hoshi, not waiting, waded in with a swift, high kick that knocked the gun from the first thug's hand.

The fight was on.

T'Pol could only watch as two of the thugs paired off on Hoshi and Phlox, the second one wrestling awkwardly with the Denobulan doctor while the first assailant traded blows with Hoshi; she delivered a fierce elbow to the thug's gut, bending him in half before she flipped him over, exhibiting her advanced self-defense training.

The third assailant chose that moment to step in, and T'Pol watched as he—it?—slugged Hoshi on the checkbone, knocking the light Japanese woman to the ground. Raising his own gun, he shot a single energy pulse at the still-struggling physician, and Phlox, stunned, fell into his assailant's arms.

The first assailant, picking himself up from the ground, helped grab Phlox under the arms.

T'Pol watched, again, as two of the thugs dragged Phlox away, followed closely by the third.

"Dol'sha t'ung nev'Rleel," the third assailant growled at his comrades.

…

"Dol'sha t'ung nev'Rleel," T'Pol repeated.

Together, they said it again. "Dol'sha t'ung nev'Rleel."

Hoshi slowly opened her eyes, the meld finished. "It's Rigelian."

…

"A Rigelian freighter left orbit two hours after Phlox's abduction," Travis reported as Captain Archer and Commander T'Pol entered the situation room. Travis was standing by the central computer console in the small alcove at the rear of the bridge, having already been briefed by the captain in route.

Archer shook his head slowly. "That's thin," he replied, mulling it over in his head. He badly wanted the report to be stronger, to justify chasing after the freighter; but simply matching up the alien species was…too thin. The Rigelian abductors could have just as easily boarded a Coridanite ship, or a Tellariate, or any other ship in orbit.

Travis nodded, understanding. "That's what I thought, too, sir," he replied. "Until I took a closer look. The Rigelian freighter filed a flight plan for Proxima Colony." He pointed down to the computer console, which laid out a map of Deneva's star system. A red line appeared, showing the projected flight path to Proxima.

A blue line then appeared, heading in nearly the opposite direction. "I pulled data on their trajectory," Travis explained, tracing the blue line with his finger. "They departed this way—headed down the Rigelian corridor."

That's it, Archer told himself. "What's their maximum speed?" he asked, hoping to overtake the freighter in a matter of a day or two. Nearly a full day had already passed since the abduction.

"Like us," Travis answered. "If they're fine-tuned, that ship can maintain warp five. It'll take us some time to catch up with them, sir, hoping they either slow down or make a stop somewhere soon."

Archer groaned inwardly; of course it wouldn't be easy, he reckoned. "All right," he said, coming to the clear decision. "Shore leaves are cancelled. Get everyone back on board, T'Pol. We're chasing after this freighter."

…

It figures, Malcolm thought as he walked down the wooden pier, looking around at the warehouses surrounding him. A bank of mist was rolling in from the ocean, covering the pier with a fine, gloomy veil. A foggy dock.

Ahead of him, a figure stepped forward, emerging from the fog, and Malcolm came to a stop. "Am I to understand that you are responsible for taking that satellite grid offline?" he asked, his lips tight.

Harris shook his head. "The grid was down for routine maintenance, Malcolm," he replied with a fatherly smile. "It's good to see you again."

Malcolm snorted. "But you're involved in this, somehow," he answered. "Phlox is my friend," Malcolm continued, stressing the final word. "Do you at least know where he is?"

Harris gave Malcolm a concerned look. "You've been forgetting who you are, Malcolm," he answered. "Your friendships on board the Enterprise are interfering with your mission objectivity."

"My friendships are not the problem, sir," Malcolm retorted, unwilling to bite his tongue. "My missions are."

There it was: it was out there now.

Harris smiled. "That doesn't sound like the Malcolm I know."

"Perhaps I've changed, sir," Malcolm responded promptly.

"This Captain Archer is getting to you, son," Harris went on, maintaining his smile as he spoke. "We placed you on board the Enterprise for a reason, but you seem to be forgetting that."

"I'm not forgetting anything, sir," Malcolm answered. "But I have learned a thing or two."

"We have an assignment for you, Malcolm," Harris replied gruffly, dropping the smile.

"I thought I made it clear to you," Malcolm replied, tilting his head. "I don't work for you any longer."

Harris let loose a faint snort. "You came to us, Malcolm, looking for help during your hunt of the Augments."

"And I did as you commanded," Malcolm responded. "I made sure that we destroyed any physical trace of them."

"You should know by now, Malcolm, that there's a greater price to pay than that," Harris answered quietly. "There's a job that needs doing, and it's your job to do."

Malcolm squared his shoulders. "I formally reject it, sir. Do to me what you want, but I'm done working for you."

Harris shook his head again. "You don't understand, do you, Malcolm? Your doctor's life is in grave danger. What I'm offering you is the opportunity to save him."

Malcolm pondered the words for a moment, but the decision was unavoidable. "What do I have to do?"

Chapter break

Two Klingon guards tossed Phlox to the floor of the laboratory, the deck plating thrumming beneath him with the hum of warp engines. He was unmistakably aboard a starship, destination unknown.

But somehow, he figured it was due for Klingon space.

"Welcome to our laboratory, Doctor," a third Klingon growled. Standing a head above the rest, his hair was streaked with gray. "I am K'vagh."

Phlox looked up from his prone position, eyeing the giant Klingon from his knees upward. "What do you want with me?" the doctor demanded, his voice trembling slightly.

K'vagh gave his best attempt at a friendly smile; it came out as a toothy grin. "You will work with Doctor Antaak," he said.

Phlox slowly crawled to his feet. "I will do nothing of the sort," he said, talking as he rose. His body was sore from the combined effects of the stun blast and the involuntary fall to the hard deck, but he did his best to appear spry.

K'vagh tilted his head, still showing his teeth. "Then you will die," he promised.

Phlox took a quick step back from the Klingon commander. "I'm sure there are easier ways for you to recruit a lab assistant."

"You misunderstand me," K'vagh replied with a short chuckle. "Antaak will be assisting you."

"It's good to see you again, Doctor," a third Klingon said, entering the verbal fray; shorter than Phlox, his hair had gone completely white, and he spoke with a deep gravitas. "I am Doctor Antaak."

Phlox turned to look at the newcomer. "I beg your pardon?" he asked in confusion, trying to place the Klingon doctor; to his knowledge, he had never met Antaak before. Or any Klingon physician, for that matter.

Antaak smiled. "I wouldn't expect you to remember," he answered. "We met briefly five years ago, at the IME conference on Tiburon."

Phlox frowned; he remembered the IME conference—he had given a lecture there, one of his first—but Antaak's insistence that they had met failed to coincidence with the Denobulan's memory. "I don't recall meeting a Klingon at that conference," Phlox said at last.

"I was disguised as a member of the Mazarite delegation," Antaak answered, clarifying the confusion for Phlox. "My people weren't invited."

Phlox said nothing, knowing the truth; the Klingons weren't invited.

In the ensuing silence, K'vagh decided to snort. "I will let you two get reacquainted," he remarked. Gesturing for the two guards to follow, K'vagh departed the room.

Antaak let loose a sigh of relief. "You must forgive the general's conduct," Antaak said, voicing an air of resignation; he had little control over K'vagh, not nearly enough to improve the Klingon's diplomatic behavior. "The soldier class has little use for social protocols."

Phlox shook his head, signaling that he was only slightly offended by K'vagh's curtness; it was everything else, after all—being abducted was a big deal to him—that was causing him discomfort. "What do you want with me?" he asked. "I'm assuming I'm here for some medical reason."

Antaak nodded gravely. "The Empire is facing its greatest threat since the Hur'q invasion," he replied, referring to that millennium-old event that had nearly annihilated the Klingon race. "A virus is racing from planet to planet. Millions are already infected. If this continues, the Klingon species will cease to exist."

"And you need my help to cure it," Phlox replied slowly, putting the pieces together; he knew that Klingon medicine was not nearly as advanced. "Why didn't you simply ask for our help? Starfleet and Denobula would've provided you with all the specialists you'd need."

Antaak chuckled lightly. "You don't understand the Klingon way, Doctor."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Phlox asked, perturbed by the comment. "This is about medicine. This is about saving lives."

"This is about our survival, Phlox," Antaak replied. "To ask for assistance—it would make us appear weak."

"Starfleet and Denobula wouldn't see it that way," Phlox responded immediately.

"You don't understand, Doctor," Antaak repeated. "This isn't about Starfleet or Denobula. This is about our own people. Klingon society has been gravely wounded over the past generation. We stand on a precipice of violent rebellion, one that would alter our very identity. To ask for help—to admit that weakness, in the eyes of our internal threats—would sway the last noble warriors to the standard of the rebels."

"But why me?" Phlox asked. "Surely you could find other doctors, other specialists, who could cure your disease."

"You're an impressive physician, Phlox," Antaak answered. "I was impressed by your lecture at the conference, and your paper on viral propagation has been very insightful. We believe that you are the best doctor to cure our plague."

Phlox narrowed his eyes as he looked at the Klingon. "If we're going to work together, you need to be a little more forthcoming," he replied. "What field of study are you in, precisely?"

Antaak shrugged nonchalantly. "Metagenic research."

Phlox stiffened. "Bioweapons?"

Antaak shook his head. "I've avoided that application. I'm afraid it hasn't won me many allies." He shifted his feet and pointed to a computer console. "I've already isolated the virus," he said, shifting modes. "I assume you'll want to start by mapping the nucleotides?"

Phlox shot a glare at Antaak.

"It wasn't my idea to abduct you, Doctor," Antaak answered apologetically. "Nevertheless, you are here, and millions of lives are at risk. Will you help us?"

Resigned, Phlox nodded his head. "Show me what you have."

…

"The freighter's warp trail has terminated," T'Pol reported without emotion, reading the data from her science console on the bridge; the lithe Vulcan woman fidgeted slightly, unaware of her movement.

"They may have dropped to impulse," Malcolm mused, chiming in from the tactical console. He, too, could see the readings on his own board.

"They're in the middle of deep space," Travis added. He, too, was following the sensor readings, this time on the navigations console.

Archer sat forward in his command chair, trying to will the Enterprise forward. "How long to intercept?" he asked, nearly on the edge of his seat.

Travis shook his head. "Eight-point-two hours," the navigator answered. "Assuming they're at a dead stop. Sir, we're maxed out on speed."

Eight hours was a long time. Can we get there any faster? Archer wondered, and he punched the arm of his command chair. "Archer to Engineering," he called out, opening a comm channel to the engine bay. "Lieutenant Kelby, please respond."

"Kelby here, sir." Kelby was one of the engineering sub-chiefs, and the likely favorite to succeed Trip Tucker; a little stuffy, and heavily by-the-book, Kelby was nonetheless a top-rate engineer.

"We could use a little more speed." By Archer's estimates—and he was a former pilot, not an engineer—they could squeeze another point-two or so out of the warp engines.

Kelby, however, was not as sanguine. "The injectors are already running at a hundred and five percent," the engineer responded, clearly hesitant about pushing them any harder; an overloaded warp plasma injector could, after all, take out the whole starship.

"Commander Tucker's pushed them higher than that before," Archer answered firmly, and he cringed a little; Richard Kelby was not Trip Tucker, after all, and it had taken Trip three years and a trip into the Delphic Expanse to reach that level of expertise.

"I'll see what I can do, Captain," Kelby acknowledged.

…

Trip wanted for the yeoman server to excuse himself before speaking. "I don't know who's in charge of your mess hall, be he could give the chef on the Enterprise a run for his money," the engineer admitted, dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin. Dinner with Erika Hernandez was delicious; the Denevan fish was broiled to perfection, topped off with a delicious miso glaze and accompanied by—again—fresh Denevan vegetables.

"I stole him from the Republic," Hernandez replied with a generous smile. She paused for a moment to put a tidbit in her mouth.

"That's quite some coup," Trip answered. "I don't think Captain Archer would give up his chef for anything." He cringed slightly, having not intended to compare the two captains.

Hernandez took no offense. "Captain Jennings said I could have anything when I left," she explained. "So I took his cook."

"I'm glad you did," Trip replied. "I think I'm going to reap the benefits. This fish is great."

"Deneva Colony has quite the fishing industry," Hernandez added, slicing off another bite of her dinner. "By the way, Commander, I've gotten two transfer requests from crewmen in your department." It was an abrupt change of subject, but a necessary one.

"Who?" Trip asked, his voice somewhat muffled by food.

"It's better if I didn't mention names," Hernandez replied, gently lifting a flake of fish to her mouth. She chewed it slowly, enjoying the taste, before continuing. "I denied the requests. You're already shorthanded."

"Thank you," Trip replied. "I don't mean to be rough on them, but most of the engineers here have never even seen deep space. It's a sharp learning curve."

Hernandez smiled again. "It's quite the impression you've made, Commander. You've been aboard less than two days and already some of your team want to jump ship."

"I've knocked a few heads together," Trip admitted, "but we're getting the job done. We'll be ready for new warp trials by Thursday." It was an audacious schedule, but he felt comfortable committing to the promise.

"I was surprised when you accepted this transfer," Hernandez continued, changing the subject yet again; she clearly had questions on her mind for her new chief engineer. "I saw an interview you did after the Xindi mission. You said you couldn't see yourself serving on any other starship."

"Well, you've got a good memory, Captain," Trip acknowledged. He waved off the yeoman server.

"It comes in handy," Hernandez replied.

Trip shrugged nonchalantly. "I've thought a lot about it," he said finally, having taken a moment to think. "I enjoyed serving on the Enterprise, even during our time in the Expanse."

Hernandez picked at a morsel of food. "So what made you change your mind?" she asked, taking bite of root vegetable.

Trip let loose a deep breath of air. "I suppose I was getting a little too comfortable on the Enterprise," he replied, leaning back in his chair. "Got a lot of friends over here, but sometimes it's easier to work with people who are just colleagues."

…

Nothing exists but the flame. Nothing exists but the flame, T'Pol repeated, reciting the mantra in her mind as she watched the flickering candle before her. Her quarters were dark, lit only by the faint light of the candle that twisted and danced its way into the air. Nothing exists but the flame.

T'Pol slipped into a white space, purely white; she sat, cross-legged, upon the ground, surrounded by a fine white mist. It was a peaceful place, a safe place, where she could go for her meditations, and already she could feel her body starting to relax, her mind beginning to slow.

She thought of nothing, allowing her natural mind to guide itself down a course, ready to tackle that which was troubling her.

"Hiya, T'Pol," she heard.

T'Pol looked up to see Trip Tucker wandering around in the mist of her meditation space. "Why are you here?" she asked abruptly, springing up to her feet.

Trip looked at her, a vaguely perturbed expression on his face. "I was about to ask you the same thing," he replied. "I was in engineering, and then I was—here, whatever 'here' is." He glanced around, but saw nothing beyond more white space. "Is this a daydream?"

"I'm meditating," T'Pol answered curtly. "This is where I go in my mind."

Trip snorted slightly. "Well, I would've thought you'd pick a more interesting place," he remarked flippantly. He waved a hand before him, trying to clear the mist between the two officers. "Like the beach, or one of those Fire Plains you showed me."

T'Pol did her best to hold back a sigh. "Please leave."

Trip gestured around them. "Where am I supposed to go?" he replied. "I don't exactly see any doors in here."

"Just go away," T'Pol retorted, her emotional grasp slipping slightly. "Anywhere. Just not here."

A crooked smile appeared on Trip's face. "Hey, I just thought of something," he answered. "Maybe this is my daydream. You go away."

…

"Commander?" Trip jumped slightly, startled by the word, and he was back in the Columbia's engineering bay. Ensign Rivers stood in front of him, looking curiously at Tucker. "Excuse me, Commander?" Rivers repeated. "Is everything all right?"

Trip shook his head, trying to clear the lingering white mist from his mind. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replied. "What can I do for you, Ensign?"

Rivers held out a data padd. "The diagnostic you asked for, sir," he reported.

Trip gave the young ensign a firm smile. "Thanks."

…

"Bridge to T'Pol." T'Pol jumped slightly, startled by the words, and she was back in her quarters on board the Enterprise. Exasperated by the results of her mediation session, she blew out a deep breath and closed her eyes, seeking to regain her composure before responding to the hail.

"Bridge to T'Pol," the voice of Captain Archer repeated, and her precious moment was up.

"Yes, Captain, this is Commander T'Pol," she replied. She leaned forward to blow out the candle as she stood up.

"Please report to the bridge, Commander," Archer's voice ordered. "We're approaching the terminus of the Rigelians' warp trail."

T'Pol smoothed the front of her uniform and was on the way out even as she spoke. "On my way."

…

Malcolm watched in mute horror as the mangled remnants of the Rigelian freighter floated across the main viewscreen. The starship was torn to pieces, some larger than others, but all were but fragmented pieces of the whole; the freighter's assailants had clearly taken the time to ensure that this particular starship would never fly again.

"No biosigns," T'Pol reported from her science console, her voice snapping Malcolm back to the stunned silence on board the Enterprise's bridge. Only T'Pol seemed to be unaffected by the carnage on the viewscreen. "I'm reading several bodies aboard."

Captain Archer, staring forward, took a moment to respond. "Is one of them Denobulan?" he asked, not taking his gaze from the scene.

A part of Malcolm didn't want to hear the answer.

"They're all Rigelian," T'Pol reported, and Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief; Phlox was not among the dead.

"Malcolm," Archer asked, still focusing his eyes forward, "can you tell who did this?"

"One moment, sir," Malcolm replied. He punched in the relevant controls on his console, but the results came back unknown. It could be anyone, he realized, all but certain of who it really was. "Unknown, sir," he reported. "I'll have to bring some debris aboard and analyze it."

"Prep a boarding party, Malcolm," Archer ordered.

"Rigelian ships typically carry a unified flight data recorder," T'Pol offered from her station, flanking the bridge from Malcolm. "If we can locate theirs, it might tell us something."

"Make that a priority, Malcolm," Archer confirmed.

Malcolm cringed involuntarily; his mission was not going to be easy.

…

"Unless I'm mistaken," Phlox said curiously, looking through the eyepiece of a laboratory microscope, "this virus is a mutated form of the Levodian flu." He looked up at Antaak for confirmation.

The Klingon doctor nodded in agreement. "You're on the right track, Phlox," Antaak replied. He sounded weary as he spoke, as if the weight of worlds rested on his shoulders—and it did. "It's immune to whatever antiviral we've tried."

"It does appear to be highly virulent," Phlox commented. "We should contact the IME," he repeated, hoping to press his point home to success. "They may have seen this mutation before. I'm certain they'll be willing to share their database with us."

"They haven't," Antaak replied forlornly. "And we're not contacting them."

Phlox held up a hand, trying to forestall the objection. "I know of a few indirect channels," he said, thinking of people he could contact while staying out of sight. "No one would have to know. Not even K'vagh."

"Doctor Phlox, there's no reason to contact them," Antaak answered, stressing the word. "We've already acquired their entire database." He gave his best nonchalant shrug, but was clearly embarrassed by the revelation.

Phlox could only stare at the aging Klingon. "You stole it," he stated flatly.

Antaak glanced around, as if worried that K'vagh had suddenly appeared. "Medical research isn't a priority for the High Council," Antaak replied softly. "I'm forced to obtain information however I can."

Phlox stared at his Klingon colleague, wondering just what he had gotten into. "That doesn't sound very honorable."

Antaak shrugged again. "Given the choice between honor and saving lives," he answered, "I choose the latter."

With that, Phlox realized that he needed to take new stock of the Klingon physician. He had misjudged Antaak, characterizing the doctor on the basis of racial assumptions.

It stabbed Phlox deeply, and the Denobulan let loose an apologetic sigh. "Perhaps you could arrange to steal a genome sequencer?" he asked, only half-flippantly. "We're not going to be able to map the virus without the proper technology."

Antaak laughed lightly, feeling amused for the first time in months. "I'll work on it, for you, Phlox," Antaak promised.

The heavy laboratory doors chose that moment to slam open. The giant K'vagh entered the laboratory first, followed by two guards dragging a semi-conscious Klingon male.

Phlox noted, to his surprise, that while the captive was unquestionably Klingon, his forehead was almost flat.

While it was the most curious note, the forehead wasn't all that Phlox picked up on. "This man's been infected," he said with equal parts horror and fear. The signs of infection were evident to the trained physician's eye.

"Very observant," K'vagh growled. He gestured for the guards to toss the prisoner into the waiting arms of the examination chair.

"We're being exposed," Phlox objected, his voice rising fast.

"Don't worry, Doctor," Antaak countered hurriedly, seeking to calm Phlox. "This patient is at stage one. The virus doesn't become contagious until stage three."

Phlox shook his head; it's a doctor's privilege to be around sick people, he reflected. He would have to take Antaak's word that the patient wasn't contagious yet. "When I asked you to bring me a subject for dissection, I assumed he'd already be dead," Phlox remarked acerbically.

K'vagh grunted. "He'll be dead soon enough," the tall Klingon answered. The guards stood back, having finished strapping down the patient.

Stepping forward, Antaak placed a Klingon-style hypospray onto the patient's throat.

"What do you think you're doing?" Phlox cried out in alarm as the meaning of K'vagh's comment became evident. Stepping forward himself, he bodily blocked Antaak, forcing the Klingon doctor aside.

Antaak looked at Phlox with a perfect expression of confusion. "Euthanizing him," Antaak answered.

"Out of the question," Phlox insisted. "You're not euthanizing a patient of mine! I thought you were committed to saving lives!"

Antaak looked a little sad as he replied. "It is more honorable to give one's life for medical research than to die of this disease, Phlox."

"Honorable this, honorable that!" Phlox was working up to a fit. "The choice is not ours to make!"

The sound of a Klingon disruptor silenced Phlox. K'vagh had drawn his pistol and shot the patient dead. "Proceed," the giant commander stated, turning to leave the room.

Phlox, astonished by the casual violence, found himself silent.

…

Several hours later, Malcolm sat down in his cabin, hesitant to complete his next task. Maybe "hesitant" isn't quite the right word, he realized. What about "completely unwilling"?

Realizing that he was forestalling the inevitable, Malcolm let loose a deep sigh and punched the computer controls. "Computer, establish an encrypted comm link," he ordered. "Starfleet frequency seven-nine-baker."

Moments later, Harris appeared on the computer screen. "Lieutenant Commander," the older man acknowledged, greeting Malcolm formally.

"Sir," Malcolm acknowledged in response.

Harris leaned forward slightly. "I take it you've found something of interest, Malcolm?"

Malcolm ran a hand through his hair. "Sir, the Klingons apparently rendezvoused with the Rigelian freighter, right on the schedule you laid out."

"I'm already aware of that," Harris answered gruffly.

"Sir, the Klingons destroyed the freighter." Malcolm lowered his head momentarily, thinking about the loss of life. "None of the crew survived."

Harris didn't flinch. "I regret what happened," he said. "But the Klingons had to cover their tracks. Leaving survivors would have been an unnecessary risk."

Malcolm swore that his blood ran cold as the words sank in. "Sir, there were twenty-seven crew members aboard that freighter."

"That's not your concern, Malcolm," Harris answered. "Speaking of covering their tracks…have you analyzed the weapons signatures yet?"

Malcolm felt his shoulders tense up. "Yes, I have," he replied tightly.

Harris raised both eyebrows. "You haven't told Archer?"

"No, sir," Malcolm responded. His voice was becoming frigid. "You ordered me not to, sir. But I'm not certain how long I can keep it from him."

Harris shrugged. "Orion raiders have been known to operate in this area," the older man said. "You're quite close to the border, after all."

"But the weapons signature," Malcolm protested. "It's unmistakably Klingon disruptors."

Harris leaned into the camera. "Klingon disruptors, maybe, but who was firing them? It's not unheard of for unlicensed raiders to use other weaponry. Other ships, even."

Malcolm sat back. "I could explain the situation to the captain," he said, his dismay growing.

Harris chuckled slightly. "You have a peculiar sense of humor, Malcolm."

"I've worked closely with the man," Malcolm retorted. "You can trust him."

"He's regular Starfleet, Malcolm," Harris answered. "They like transparency and openness. We operate best in the shadows. You know that. Archer—he would blow this thing of ours wide open. Admiral Gardner would be unable to contain it."

Malcolm pursed his lips. "I'm being compromised, sir, and I don't like it."

"Then I suggest you adjust your comfort level," Harris replied. "We placed you aboard the Enterprise for a reason."

The Enterprise chose that moment to be jolted with the unmistakable impact of weapons fire.

"Tactical alert." Hoshi Sato's voice came across the loud speakers. "All hands to battle stations."

"What was that?" Harris asked.

"I believe we're under attack," Malcolm replied grimly.

…

The Enterprise shook again under the impact of enemy weaponry as the Klingon ship, a Raptor-class scout vessel, flew past the larger Enterprise on another strafing pass.

"Hull plating's holding," T'Pol reported, ignoring the shaking vessel around her. Her voice remained steady amidst the chaos of the moment.

"Still no response," Hoshi added, as her fingers flew over the communications controls. The Klingons, unsurprisingly, were ignoring her attempts to hail them.

Archer was up and on his feet, pacing around the deck of the bridge. "Target their weapons," he ordered.

The Enterprise shook again, forcing Archer to grab the back of his chair to remain standing.

…

Four forms materialized on D-deck. Clad in brown leather outfits, they looked roughly human, with the focus on 'rough'; long, scraggily hair adorned all four, with bushy eyebrows swept upward.

A solitary crewman was in the corridor. He was shot down within a moment.

Gesturing to the others, the leader of the boarding party held a device up to a hatchway, and it opened up, revealing a Jeffries tube climbing upward. One by one, the boarding party made their way in.

"We've been boarded," Hoshi reported, watching the computerized reports trickle in to her console. "D-deck, starboard side. Access tube seven."

Archer's gaze darted to Malcolm. "Seal it off," he ordered. "Get security down there."

…

The boarding party rounded a corner as they exited the tube, making their way down a short corridor on C-deck. Their target was right in front of them: a primary computer console, unguarded by any of the crew, awaiting their assault. One of the assailants, holding the same device, stepped up to the console and began entering commands.

The lead alien glanced down the corridor, looking for any signs of an armed response, and he barked at his colleague; the colleague sent a quick glare back and continued his work, moving fast and furiously.

The group leader continued to watch down the corridor as four Starfleeters emerged at a T-intersection, some twenty or so feet down the pathway. He fired blindly, forcing them to duck back behind cover, two to each side of the intersection.

The group leader pulled out a handheld communicator. "Target weapons on this location," he barked out in his own language.

…

A volley of disruptor fire plowed into the Enterprise, and the alien leader watched with satisfaction as a power conduit exploded over the Starfleeters' heads, taking them out of the battle.

…

Archer was still on his feet, both literally and metaphorically. "Disable that ship," he ordered, looking intently at Malcolm. "I don't want them getting away."

…

The alien hacker nodded with satisfaction as jagged, alien script overwrote the computer console.

"Return to the transport site," the group leader commanded, again in his own language.

…

A security guard was waiting as the boarding party emerged from a hatchway. A quick shot took out the group leader, but the next alien in line took out the security guard. The remaining three took a moment to hunker down over their leader, checking his status, but took off running as security reinforcements came charging down the corridor.

…

"They've activated their transporter," T'Pol called out, reading the tell-tale signature on her science console.

"They're going to warp," Travis added.

Archer finally sat down in his command chair. "Pursuit course," he ordered.

Travis punched in the commands, but felt no movement beneath his feet. "The helm's not responding."

Archer sat back in his chair, wondering what had just happened.

…

Archer entered sickbay, followed closely by Hoshi and T'Pol, still half-expecting to see Phlox standing watch over their new patient. The presence of crewman Kozuri instead was a jolting reminder to the captain that they were no closer to solving the mystery of the Enterprise's missing doctor.

"Wake him up," Archer ordered roughly, finding that he cared little about the comfort of the captive. To the captain's eye, the prisoner looked mostly human—but not quite, he noted, eyes scanning up and down. There was something slightly off, something wrong about the patient, something that suggested he was some sort of alien.

But he looks human. Hairy for a human, perhaps, but fundamentally and basically human.

As he came to consciousness, he started struggling against the biobed's straps. "Why did you attack us?" Archer demanded, standing over the captive.

"SoHvaD pagh vlijatlh, human," the patient shot back.

"I have nothing to say to you, human," Hoshi translated promptly.

Alarmed, Archer took a step back. "That sounded like—"

"It's Klingon," Hoshi answered, finishing the thought. She, too, sounded alarmed.

It made some sense, Archer supposed; after all, the captive came from a Klingon scout ship. It wasn't that surprising that he would speak the language as well. But why was a human on a Klingon scout ship?

"There must be some mistake," T'Pol remarked, interrupting the captain's thoughts. Unlike the others, her focus was on the computer screens overhead, interpreting the obscure medical data that scrolled across.

"What is it?" Archer turned to look at the screens as well, but had little idea of what he watching.

T'Pol raised both eyebrows; she was very surprised. "According to his bio-signature, this man is a Klingon."

Archer turned and stared at the smooth forehead. How is that possible?

Chapter break

"He must have been surgically altered to look human," Malcolm remarked as the captain brought the senior staff up to speed. There were five of them, clustered in the situation alcove at the rear of the bridge, and it was a tight fit for all five to gather.

"I do not believe so," T'Pol answered archly. "I could find no evidence of surgical alteration."

"No offense, Commander," Malcolm replied tightly, "but what other explanation is there?"

"I need to run further tests," T'Pol fidgeted slightly as she spoke. "And Vulcans do not take offense."

Archer cut off the growing tussle with a stare. "What's the status of our engines, Travis?" he asked, turning to the Enterprise's all-purpose navigator.

"Their boarding party disabled our antimatter flow regulators," Travis answered promptly; he was prepared for the question. "Warp drive should be repaired in six hours."

Archer nodded grimly. "We need it online sooner than that," the captain replied. "The Klingons' warp trail is growing cold as we speak. Give Kelby a hand; see if you can hurry it up."

"Aye, sir," Travis acknowledged.

"And while you're down there, tell him to dig a little deeper. See if these Klingons damaged any other systems."

"Aye, sir," Travis acknowledged again. "With your permission?"

Archer nodded, motioning that Travis was free to depart for engineering.

"The Rigelian freighter," Archer stated, moving on to the next topic. "Did you get anything out of the flight data recorder?"

"It's been erased," T'Pol answered.

"It might've been a safeguard," Malcolm added promptly. "In case it fell into the wrong hands. We could've triggered it when we removed the recorder."

Archer frowned. "Work with Hoshi," he ordered. "See if you can reconstruct any data."

…

Phlox yawned as he rolled his head backward, trying to stretch the aching muscles in his neck and upper back; the Klingons had him working non-stop, with little opportunity for rest or food. His mind still felt sharp, but the physical strain was beginning to wear on him; and he ran a hand along the back of his neck, hoping a momentary massage would help relieve the soreness.

Not that he was complaining about the hours, mind you; as his medical investigation wore on, Phlox found that he was having a hard time remembering to step away. He was hot on the trail of a cure, he knew it; or at least a vaccine, he realized, with a bit more humility. But either way, he was focused on his task, throwing himself in whole-heartedly in the hopes of saving distraught lives.

But I sure could go for some egg-drop soup about now, he reflected.

His mind returned to the task at hand. "There is something familiar about these base-pair sequences," he spoke aloud, giving voice to the puzzle of the hour. He knew that he'd seen them somewhere before, maybe just once, but enough for it to tantalize him. It was hanging on the edge of his memory, teasing him with its closeness.

"Familiar?" Antaak replied, sounding concerned. K'vagh was in the laboratory as well, but the giant Klingon commander had not said a word for hours.

"Very familiar," Phlox repeated. He closed his eyes, picturing the sequences in his mind. Where was it? What were they? Why were they so familiar?

A snorting noise sounded from near Phlox's feet.

Phlox sighed as he opened his eyes, tired and irritated at the disruption—he was close, he knew it—and, glancing down, saw a Klingon targ nuzzling at his shoes.

"Boshar!" Antaak growled at the Klingon pig. "Feeding time is over. Go back!" Surprisingly obedient, the targ backed away from Phlox, returning to a corner of the laboratory.

Phlox allowed his forehead to sink into the palm of his hand. "Do you think it's wise to keep wild animals in here?" he asked, rubbing his forehead vigorously.

"There are dozens of creatures in your sickbay!" Antaak protested stridently.

"I don't let them roam free," Phlox countered.

"I could never keep Boshar locked up," Antaak replied, referring by name to his pet targ. "It's not in his genes."

His—genes? Phlox froze. Was it possible? Was that where he'd seen these sequences before? "I have seen these sequences before." Phlox's voice dropped into an accusatorial tone. "This is Augment DNA!"

Antaak nodded slowly. "Good work, Phlox," he answered. "I knew you'd figure it out eventually."

Phlox's senses reeled as the implications sunk in. "How did modified human genes find their way into this virus?" he demanded, wondering if there even was a satisfactory answer.

Antaak shrugged. "The human genes were intentional. The virus was not."

K'vagh stepped forward, choosing that moment to enter the conversation. "Is that really such a surprise, Doctor?" the giant Klingon growled, nearly inserting himself between the two physicians. "It took only two human Augments to commandeer a Bird of Prey and murder its entire crew."

"But those Augments are long since dead!" Phlox answered, his voice growing loud. "There are no more!"

"Are you willing to swear by that, Doctor?" K'vagh responded. "I'm sure that you would've sworn the same thing six months ago."

That's true, Phlox realized. "But every embryo was accounted for," he protested, walking over a troubled feeling deep within.

"But the knowledge still exists," Antaak pointed out, peering out from behind K'vagh.

The giant shook his head. "The Empire could not allow an inferior species to gain such an advantage on us. Imagine, every Starfleet vessel manned with genetically engineered humans!"

Phlox shook his head, still struggling to fathom what he was hearing. "But Earth banned genetic engineering decades ago!" he replied. "They would never use that 'knowledge' to create new Augments!"

K'vagh snorted loudly. "The Vulcans told that to the High Council," he answered gruffly. "They weren't very persuasive."

"Once the knowledge exists, Phlox," Antaak added, "you can't put it back in the bottle."

"We were simply responding to a threat, Doctor," K'vagh continued. "A very real threat."

"By trying to create Klingon Augments!" Phlox countered, still astonished by the revelation. "But the embryos were all destroyed. Where did you get the genetic information?"

This time, K'vagh fidgeted in discomfort. "We have sources within Earth's government," the commander answered. "They told us that they were simply maintaining a balance of power."

"But it didn't work, did it?" Antaak stepped out from behind K'vagh, holding his hands forward in supplication. "It turned out that our sources knew more about Klingon genetics than we do."

"What do you mean?" Phlox asked.

"We used the genetic profiles to re-sequence a number of test subjects," Antaak answered. "There were—unanticipated side effects." It was clearly an understatement.

"We believe they fed us tainted genetic material," K'vagh clarified.

Phlox nodded as he started to put the pieces together. "Augment DNA is very was more aggressive than you realized," he remarked, following the strands. "And it didn't mix well with the Klingon DNA."

"Their cranial ridges started to dissolve," K'vagh confirmed.

"For a time, it appeared that we were quite successful," Antaak continued. "Our Augments might have looked human, but they were Klingon where it counted. They were stronger, more intelligent."

"So what went wrong?" Phlox asked.

"Their neural pathways started to degrade," Antaak answered mournfully. "They died in agony."

"And let me guess," Phlox went on. "One of the test subjects was suffering from Levodian flu."

Antaak nodded in confirmation. "The Augment genes modified the virus. It went airborne, and carried the new genes with it. It's infected millions already, Phlox, and they're all dying!"

"You should've told me this earlier!" Phlox shot back. It pointed to a whole new direction of pursuit.

K'vagh snorted loudly. "If you hope to ever leave this place, Doctor, I suggest you stop asking questions and resume work."

…

Sitting on the table of T'Pol's favorite science lab, the Rigelian flight data recorder resembled nothing more than a charred lump of coal; burned to a crisp and heavily blackened, it had clearly endured a beating, one that even the tough little box was ill-suited to survive.

"What do you think?" Hoshi asked, looking at the mangled remnants of the recorder. She felt out of her element, engaged in what was essentially hard drive recovery; once it was recovered, then her linguistics skills would be needed, but Commander T'Pol was bearing the brunt of the work for now.

"We may be able to reconstruct the directory with a recursive algorithm," T'Pol opined, rating the odds of success as minuscule. The data recorder was, simply put, toasted beyond repair; all of T'Pol's skill has been unsuccessful thus far, and pointed to a dead-end task. It was logic, she understood, and not fatalism; the task given to her by the captain was insurmountable.

Hoshi watched the Vulcan carefully. "Is it unusual to have weird dreams after a mind meld?" she asked, finally choosing to broach the question that had been riding heavily on her mind.

T'Pol looked up from her task. "Subconscious thoughts are often exchanged," she allowed. "It is possible that they may surface during sleep." She wasn't completely sure—T'Pol had little knowledge of mind meld theory or application—but the explanation sounded reasonable to her logical ears.

Hoshi nodded. "I had a bizarre dream last night," she said, opting to launch straight in; she was hoping that T'Pol could add some clarity to what had transpired in her sleep the previous evening. "Commander Tucker was in it. We were in a strange place, all white. This is going to sound weird, but…there was almost a romantic quality to it." Hoshi shook slightly as a wave of goose bumps ran over her. "I don't ever remember dreaming about Commander Tucker before."

T'Pol raised a solitary eyebrow. "Most unusual," she allowed. "But I have had no similar thoughts."

"Oh, well," Hoshi replied, slightly chastened. "You know, Commander, we might be going about this recorder the wrong way."

T'Pol raised the other eyebrow. "How so?"

"Well…" Hoshi hesitated to offer her thoughts; T'Pol was, after all, far more of an expert. "The data recorder has been wiped, right?"

"Commander Reed said that there might've been a safeguard," T'Pol replied promptly. "Our retrieval crew could have triggered it in the process of removing the data recorder."

"Well, exactly," Hoshi answered. "Instead of reassembling the data, what if we start by figuring out how precisely it was wiped clean?"

…

So where is Phlox?

Archer couldn't shake the question from his brain, not even for a moment of relief. The missing doctor—my friend, Archer admitted, understanding that Phlox had become a trusted confidant over the previous three and a half years—haunted his thoughts, just the way the absent Denobulan should.

And they didn't have a clue, which was, definitely, the worst of it. Their only hint—the Rigelian freighter—was a dead-end, blasted to death by Orion raiders. Phlox's remnants were not on board the freighter, so presumably the raiders took him…but where? And why? And how to find the doctor again, now potentially lost somewhere in the depths of the Orion Hegemony?

The door to Archer's ready room chimed, disrupting the captain from his thoughts. "Come in," he called out, summoning the unseen officer(s) on the far side.

The door hissed open with a slight scraping sound, revealing Commander T'Pol and Lieutenant Sato. The Vulcan commander looked inside, fidgeting slightly in apparent discomfort, but the young lieutenant strode right in, handing a data padd to Archer.

Taking the data padd, Archer smiled, greeting them both. "What did you find?" he asked, mentally recalling their task; with any luck—any at all—the Rigelian's flight data recorder had given them something traceable, a hint of where to go to find Phlox. Find Phlox.

Hoshi demurred to T'Pol, who opened the report. "The data recorder was erased deliberately," the Vulcan said bluntly.

Archer nodded. "Malcolm said that there might've been a safeguard," he observed. It was disappointing, but hardly unsurprising.

Hoshi shook her head. "It's not like that, sir," the communications officer replied. "The memory core was wiped out by a microdyne coupler."

Archer's head swiveled to address Hoshi. "That's Starfleet technology." What were the Orions doing with that?

"Yes, it is," T'Pol answered wryly.

Hoshi cleared her throat and pressed on. "Sir, each microdyne coupler leaves behind a slightly unique magnetic signature. We traced this one back to the Enterprise."

Archer felt the cold surge run down his spine as the report sunk in. "Were you able to find it?" he asked, no longer sure that he wanted the answer.

"Yes, Captain," T'Pol replied. "Ship's inventory indicated that it's kept in storage locker C-14. The last person to access that locker was Lieutenant Commander Reed."

"Are you sure?" Archer asked, unnecessarily.

T'Pol took no offense. "We are certain, Captain," she replied. "Prior to that, no one had accessed the storage locker since we departed Deneva Colony."

Archer sat back in his chair, his thoughts now a muddled mess. Did this mean that Malcolm—of all people—had deliberately erased the data recorder? And if so, why?

…

"I'm not quite sure what you're getting at, sir," Malcolm enunciated—very carefully—as the captain finished laying out the findings regarding the data recorder. When he had been called to Archer's ready room, minutes earlier, Malcolm had found a sinking feeling in his stomach; but this—this was bad.

"Only three people had access to that recorder," Archer said softly, as if breaking bad news to his tactical officer; and in a way, he was. "Just you, me, and T'Pol."

Malcolm stood still, refusing to reveal any sign. "I agree, it is a bit of a mystery," he observed.

Archer eyed Malcolm carefully. "You're sure that the freighter was destroyed by Orion weapons?" he asked.

"There's no doubt," Malcolm answered. He cringed, knowing what was coming next.

"I asked T'Pol to double-check your analysis," Archer replied, somewhat curtly. "She found traces of Klingon disruptors, not Orion weaponry."

"With all due respect, sir, she must have made a mistake," Malcolm answered quickly. Too quickly.

"I've seen her analysis," Archer retorted, evidently perturbed by the suggestion; and Malcolm couldn't blame the captain for his umbrage. He was, after all, suggesting that both the captain and the first officer had made a rudimentary mistake.

"Someone could have tampered with the readings," Malcolm replied. It was a desperate accusation, and he knew it; but Malcolm had few cards left to play. Except the truth—and that was too dangerous.

Archer shook his head, tiring of this—game. "I want to know what the hell is going on, Commander," he said, his voice again soft; he was offering Malcolm a chance to explain himself, a chance to redeem his investigation. "You gotta give me something here, Malcolm, something I can use."

But Malcolm couldn't take the offer. "Respectfully, sir, I refuse to answer any more questions." He was caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place, with no good options for moving forward; on the one hand, he could betray his captain and his treasured colleagues…on the other, he could betray his oath and further endanger millions of lives.

No good options.

Archer let loose with a sad sigh. "You're leaving me with no choice here, Malcolm. You're obstructing our investigation." The captain's course was set for him, and Malcolm knew it; the way—the only way—to break free from it was for Malcolm to speak up, tell Archer about his mission and his obligations, and send the Enterprise screaming across space to rescue its abducted physician.

Malcolm stood silently.

Shaking his head, clearly not wanting to take such an action, Archer crossed the small room to the door; and it hissed open, revealing the waiting form of Ensign Rahimi. The captain looked back at Malcolm one last time, pleading with his eyes for something—anything—he could use.

Malcolm lowered his head.

Archer altered his gaze to address Rahimi. "Ensign," he said, the words coming but slowly, "Lieutenant Commander Reed has been relieved of duty. Please escort him to the brig and confine him."

…

Phlox took a step back and rubbed his eyes, feeling the little particles beneath the tips of his fingers; the days were starting to blur together, the nights far too short, and the breaks far too brief for even the dedicated physician's liking. His muscles were getting sore, his feet weary and his back aching from too many hours hunched over the Klingon medical equipment.

Reaching back with both hands, he massaged his shoulders, trying to bring relief to the tightened sinews. It brought a momentary respite from the pain, but the moment he stopped, the tissues seemed to tighten once again, rigidifying beneath his skin.

It's a fool's crusade, he thought angrily, cursing the Klingons for finding themselves in such a predicament; but remembering K'vagh's words, he forced himself to backtrack from the harsh accusation. What level of culpability existed for the Klingons, who had leapt at the opportunity to steal Augment genes—and what of their "benefactors" on Earth, who had, by all appearances at least, intentionally fed the Klingons genetic material knowing that the Klingon genome could not safely process it? Who bears more responsibility for this plague?

"We're running out of time," K'vagh growled, cutting off Phlox's momentary reverie. The large Klingon commander was standing watch over the lab, deep in the bowels of the Klingon battle cruiser.

"I can't sequence these nucleotides any faster," Phlox snapped back, letting his ire fuel his retort. There was no combating the fact that he was tired…and exhausted…and all-around worn out. "Perhaps you should've abducted Doctor Soong," he added, referring to the human geneticist who had bred a group of Augments twenty years earlier. Doctor Soong was currently sitting in a maximum-security prison cell for his crime of creating life. "He could've mapped this genome more efficiently than I can."

"We tried," Antaak grunted. The Klingon physician was present as well, serving more as a laboratory assistant than a true research physician; Klingon medicine, not nearly as advanced as Phlox's own, rendered Antaak a natural for such role. "Soong was under heavy guard."

No doubt, Phlox remarked to himself. With the Eugenics Wars in its not-too-far past, Earth tolerated no experimentation with genetic augmentation.

K'vagh growled again. "If you don't accelerate your efforts, there will be no one left to cure."

"I know, I know," Phlox grumbled irritably. "The virus is continuing to spread. I understand the stacks, Commander."

"I don't think you do, DenobulaS'ngan," K'vagh answered. "The High Council has dispatched a fleet. They have annihilated N'Vak colony."

Antaak drooped his head. "N'Vak was one of the first planets affected by the plague," he said sorrowfully.

They…what? "They're massacring the victims?" Phlox asked, his amazement overcoming his weariness. In all his years of medicine, he had never encountered such a barbaric response to a medical situation.

Of course, he had never encountered such a dangerous plague.

"The Council will do whatever's required to contain this outbreak," K'vagh confirmed.

Phlox's voice rose in stridency. "Commander, we're making progress, but I'll need a few weeks to develop an antiviral agent!" he insisted, mentally checking down the list of tasks still to complete. "Then it has to be tested—"

"Tens of millions will be infected by then," K'vagh cut in roughly. "The Council will not wait!"

"What's the fleet's next target?" Antaak asked. He was visually disturbed by the news of the massacres.

"Qu'Vat Colony." K'vagh's response was remarkably flat.

Antaak turned to Phlox. "Qu'Vat Colony is our home," he clarified. "Our genetic research facility is there."

"How many people?" Phlox asked. He dreaded hearing the answer, but had to ask the question.

"Over a million," Antaak answered. "How long until the fleet reaches Qu'Vat?" he asked K'vagh.

"Five days." K'vagh's response was, again, peculiarly flat. "That's how long you have, Phlox." It was the first time he had addressed the Denobulan by name.

"I can't cure this in five days!" Phlox exclaimed, astonished by the demand. Maybe there's some resistance in K'vagh after all, Phlox realized, wondering just what the Klingon commander actually thought about the eradication orders. Perhaps there was an opportunity to form an ally, an advocate to the Klingon High Council…

"They wouldn't destroy our base if they knew we had created Klingon Augments," Antaak added, thinking as he spoke.

"The experiment failed!" K'vagh exclaimed.

"It succeeded for a brief period!" Antaak argued back, seizing on an idea. "If Phlox and I can find a way to stabilize the human DNA prior to the onset of stage three, our Augments would survive. We could use it as leverage, force the High Council to give us more time to find a cure!"

Phlox stepped back, aghast. "You don't seriously expect me to help you create Klingon Augments?" he sputtered out. Genetic engineering was generally approved of on Denobula, subject to several regulations—but to Phlox, there was a difference between repairing genetic damage and augmenting a healthy individual.

And the human genetic material at the base of the Klingon program had proven itself to be uniquely dangerous.

"You could save the inhabitants of Qu'Vat," K'vagh grunted. "Doctor Antaak's plan has worth. The High Council may back down if we can save the infected and convert them to Klingon Augments."

Phlox shook his head, trembling as he did so. "I won't assist you," he stated. He knew, understood quite well, the probable consequences of his decision; both to himself, and to the millions of infected Klingons spread halfway across the Empire.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

As expected, K'vagh drew his disruptor from its holster, pointing the deadly weapon at Phlox.

"Kill me if you must," Phlox answered. He was scared, but certain of his decision. "I refuse to cooperate."

K'vagh gestured to the pair of Klingon guards standing just inside the lab's entrance. "Take him," he ordered.

As the two guards grabbed Phlox, one on each arm, and bustled him out the door, Phlox couldn't help but wonder what was in store for him.

…

What have I done?

The thought ran through Malcolm's mind, repeating itself like a broken data track, unwilling to relinquish any space in his mind for a less-recriminating statement. Sitting alone in the brig, locked away from his duty, his starship, and his comrades, it was all he could think.

What have I done?

He had betrayed his captain and his crew, that much was for certain; it was the unavoidable fact, the knowing result of his actions, a course that he had undertaken quite deliberately. He had hung Phlox out in the cold, at the tender mercies of the Klingon Empire, completely cut off from any hope or semblance of rescue.

What have I done?

Harris had placed him on board the Enterprise for a reason, those three and a half years previous; and Malcolm could readily admit that he owed quite a bit to the aging Director. During his long years of service, Harris had become a mentor to Malcolm, nearly a father figure; a trusted ear, a supportive smile, someone who guided Malcolm's path through right and wrong in a treacherous profession.

What have I done?

But, then, what of Jonathan Archer, the wide-eyed idealist? For despite Malcolm's reservations, the captain had grown on him, becoming in many ways a hopeful counterweight to the ever-realistic and sometimes cynical Director. Malcolm's loyalty to the captain was the sort forged in the heat of battle, and the hotter heat of diplomacy; Malcolm had willingly followed Archer into the depths of the Delphic Expanse, fully believing in this young captain to pull off the impossible mission.

What have I done?

Jonathan Archer chose that moment to appear at the door of the brig. "We've set course for Klingon territory," the captain barked out loudly, declaring his course of action. "We haven't picked up any warp trails yet. I may have to take this ship into their space. I don't have to tell you how dangerous that is. If you know where they've taken Phlox—"

"I have no idea where the doctor is, Captain," Malcolm broke in. He was fighting the urge to squirm under his discomfort; he had brought the captain's fury on himself, but he would endure it steadfastly. "On that you have my word."

Archer snorted. "Your word isn't worth a lot at the moment." Pressing the panel beside the door, Archer opened the cell and stepped inside. "The Malcolm Reed I know would give his life before committing treason," he added quietly, almost unwillingly. It was clearly not an accusation that Archer wanted to make, one that pained the captain as much as it did Malcolm.

"It's not like that, Captain," Malcolm exclaimed. He had thought himself prepared for the captain's onslaught, but when the words finally came out, they stung more than his steady strength could bear. "I'm not working for the Klingons."

"Who, then?" Archer asked, pressing for an answer; his tone was almost hopeful, as if Malcolm could say a magic word and make the whole situation go away. "You've betrayed everything that uniform stands for."

Malcolm ran through his options before responding. "Captain, there are some obligations that go beyond my loyalty to you and this crew." It was the least damaging of his choices, albeit one that would doubtlessly not satisfy his inquisitor.

Archer stepped closer. "What the hell does that mean?" the captain asked, voicing his confusion.

"I can't say any more," Malcolm answered. He wanted to say more, he really did; but he found that he couldn't, not now, not ever.

"You haven't said much of anything!" Archer countered. His ire was growing, his voice rising. "You've told me a lot about your father, his years in the Royal Navy," Archer added, shifting tracks to recall late-night bull sessions in the mess hall during the darkest days of their mission in the Expanse; it was there, after all, that the officers had truly gotten to know one another, bonding on another level, forging their commitment to one another. "Their tradition of honor and service. How do you think he'll react when he learns you're facing court-martial?"

"I wouldn't know, sir," Malcolm responded, but he knew the answer: Harris would save him from any such punishment, prevent any court-martial from taking place. All it would take was one call to Admiral Gardner, and Malcolm would be released without charge. His time as a Starfleet officer may be over, but his original career would continue unhindered.

…

Malcolm heard the far-distant sound of the neighboring brig door whoosh open and shut, the sound of feet shuffling across the deck plating as the new inhabitant was deposited within; and, without alarm, he stirred slowly, coming out of his semi-somnolent state of rest. Glancing through the translucent barrier, he saw the human-like Klingon pacing irately in the next cell. Letting loose a sigh, Malcolm raised himself to his elbows and addressed his fellow captive.

"So, what are you in for?" Malcolm asked. His tone was dry, only hinting at the dark humor he felt; he was in a cell next to a Klingon raider, reduced by his own actions to incarceration aboard the Enterprise.

The smooth-headed Klingon snorted with barely-restrained fury. "Is your captain hoping you'll obtain information from me?"

Malcolm let loose a short laugh. "I shouldn't think so," he admitted wryly. "My captain doesn't exactly trust me at the moment." Voicing it was painful; but at the same time, it brought his situation into sharper focus, bringing an air of immediate reality to his situation.

"Why are you here?" The Klingon asked, his anger dying beneath curiosity.

"That's a long story," Malcolm admitted; glad though he was to have punctured his new companion's ire, he had little interest in sharing his tale of betrayal.

"Entertain me." The Klingon's eyes stabbed at Malcolm, as if seeking to compel the one-time tactical officer to share all the details of his jailing.

Malcolm thought for a moment. "I lied to him," he stated at last, settling on the simplest, shortest explanation.

"You're fortunate to be alive," the Klingon answered. His voice audibly warred between surprise and fury. "A Klingon who betrays his captain would be immediately executed."

"Why did you and your men board the Enterprise?" Malcolm asked, wanting to get off the topic; he saw little benefit in sharing his own tale, but his own curiosity drove him to continue the conversation. He took a deep breath, guessing that he knew the answer to his question, and pushed ahead. "You know, you may find this hard to believe, but you and I actually want the same thing."

"And what is that?" The Klingon could not conceal his skepticism.

"A cure," Malcolm stated. It was his guess—his hypothesis—that the Klingon raiders had boarded the Enterprise looking for Phlox's medical archives. Which meant that this Klingon might know where Phlox was.

The Klingon seemed taken aback, surprised that the human knew anything about his people's great disease. It was, after all, a secret of the Empire, and best kept that way. "What do you mean?" he asked gruffly.

"There's no reason for you or any more of your people to die," Malcolm answered.

…

Travis saw the spike a moment before the warning alarm beeped. "Captain, plasma pressure is rising in the intermix chamber!" he called out, tapping his controls to find the source of the issue. "The antimatter flow regulators are locked open!"

Behind him, Travis felt the captain rise from his command chair. "Did the Klingons damage them?" Archer asked. The captain took two steps forward, crossing the well of the bridge, and took up a position beside Travis.

Travis' attention stayed on his console. "Uncertain, sir," he reported a moment later. "Pressure's approaching critical, sir."

"Can we drop to impulse?" Archer asked.

Travis immediately shook his head; dropping to impulse was not the solution. "The reactor would breach," he clarified. "We're dumping too much antimatter into the intermix chamber. We need to burn it off!"

"So we can reduce pressure by increasing speed?" Archer asked, following along quickly.

"Yes, sir," Travis responded.

"Go to maximum warp," Archer ordered immediately. Travis entered the commands, and the Enterprise thrust itself forward, accelerating to warp five. "T'Pol, get down to engineering," Archer ordered next, the words flying over Travis' head. "See what you can do."

…

T'Pol felt the all-too-emotional urge to curse the slowness of the turbolifts as she made her way to engineering.

Stepping through the main hatchway, she encountered a compartment that was in controlled bedlam. Engineers were running across the constricted space, taking little heed to not trip over each other as they barked out commands and reports, the words warring with the overpowering thrumming of the mighty warp core, itself pushed to its maximum.

Trip would never tolerate this chaos, T'Pol thought, realizing that she had, indeed, referred to Commander Tucker by his given nickname; the commander's engine room was a well-oiled machine, even during such times of stress and danger. It did not speak well of the leadership of the temporary chief, Lieutenant Commander Kelby. He was a competent engineer, she knew, but had—or rather, did not have—that certain something that human leaders seemed to possess, that sense of…something.

She found Kelby standing at a wall monitor along one side of the engineering bay, seemingly fighting with a recalcitrant control panel that refused to take his inputs. "Report," she ordered brusquely, taking position alongside the human.

"One moment, Commander," Kelby replied shortly, then: "Did you see that?"

T'Pol's head swiveled from the engineer to the monitor, but she was too late. "Please be more specific," she answered, hoping her composure would be contagious.

"On the monitor," Kelby responded.

T'Pol watched the monitor for several more seconds, patiently scanning it with her eyes for any anomalies.

It came and passed quickly, but the Vulcan's trained eyes caught it.

For a second—maybe even a half second—the whole monitor display flickered. The Starfleet symbols disappeared, replaced with a jagged, mean script. Klingon.

Alertly, T'Pol pulled out her handheld communicator and flipped it open. "T'Pol to Captain Archer," she called out, hailing the bridge.

"Archer here." The captain's voice came through loud and strong.

"Captain, the warp matrix has been compromised by a Klingon subroutine," T'Pol stated. She was trying to keep her voice steady, even to the point of being bland; but the sense of panic surrounding her crept in.

"Can you remove it?" Archer asked.

"I'm not certain," T'Pol admitted. She flinched slightly as the screen flickered again, revealing the angry script of the Klingon Empire. "It's infiltrated our command protocols."

…

Jonathan Archer reached the brig like a whirlwind.

"You sabotaged us!" he barked out, going straight for the smooth-headed Klingon prisoner occupying the cell next to Malcolm. Malcolm flinched slightly, unaccustomed to seeing the captain this way; even in the depths of the Expanse, Archer had generally kept his composure.

The Klingon, leaning back on the soft pallet of a bed, merely snorted in response.

"How do we repair the damage?" Archer demanded. He pounded on the reinforced plasticine with a fist, emphasizing the ire behind his words. "If our reactor breaches, you're going to die with us!"

The smooth-headed Klingon snorted again, and slowly, he rose to his feet. "I'm a soldier of the Empire," the prisoner retorted, calmly crossing the small cell to address his interrogator. "I'm prepared to die."

Malcolm was quick to his feet as Archer turned away. "Captain!" Malcolm called out. "You need your tactical officer! Please, sir. I can be useful!"

But Malcolm's words fell without effect on Archer's back as the captain left.

…

Travis could feel the Enterprise start to shake around him as he watched the readings continue to climb on his console. "Bridge to Captain Archer," he called out, tapping the comm button on his panel.

"Archer here," the captain replied immediately.

"Sir, plasma pressure is increasing again," Travis stated forcefully. "We need to increase speed."

"Take us to warp five-point-two," Archer replied.

"Sir, we can't hold that speed for long," Travis was obligated to point out. In point of fact, the Enterprise wasn't designed to go that fast in the first place.

"We're out of options, Travis," Archer responded. "Five-point-two."

"Acknowledged, sir," Travis answered; and as bidden, he input the commands to accelerate the great starship.

The Enterprise started to quake.

Chapter break

I should be on the bridge, helping.

The thought did Malcolm little good as he lay, chafing, on the padded shelf that doubled as a bed. He knew that he should be on the bridge, at the captain's side, as the Enterprise dealt with its mortal danger; he also knew that it was his fault, his own fault, that he was in the brig, unable to fulfill his duties to ship and captain.

I should be on the bridge, helping.

Nonetheless, he was unable to clear the thought from the forefront of his mind. Stuck down here—trapped as he were—there was nothing he could do to help, nothing he could do to aid his captain and his comrades as they sought to prevent their impending deaths at the hand of an overloading warp core. Despite that, the thought ran unbidden through his mind, tormenting him over and over again.

I should be on the bridge, helping.

He could imagine it, picture himself standing at his tactical station, then beside the captain, offering critical advice and a steady hand in a moment of chaos. It was his job, his duty, to be there, for his captain and—dare he say it—his friend, the man who had done so much to reorient Malcolm's thinking over the previous three years.

And there, unbidden, was the captain, standing before the reinforced plasticine barrier of Malcolm's cell.

"We have forty-seven minutes until our reactor breaches," Archer stated, skipping any pleasantries. Hours had passed since the captain's last visit to the brig; the countdown had continued, unhindered by the crew's desperate attempts to fix the damage wrought by the Klingons.

"What did the Klingons do?" Malcolm asked, hoping that he might be able to provide some semblance of an answer; he was not an engineer, and the hope was faint, but always present.

"They altered our engineering subroutines," Archer stated, shooting a glance at the smooth-headed Klingon warrior occupying the neighboring cell. The Klingon's eyes were closed, as if asleep; but neither Starfleet officer believed that the warrior was truly dozing. "The antimatter injector is locked fully open. If we go below warp five, the reactor will destabilize and explode."

"How can I help?" Malcolm asked, keeping the offer simple. It sounded like an engineering problem, one that he was ill-equipped to help with; but the captain—the good Jonathan Archer—was here for a reason, was talking to the dishonored Malcolm Reed. For a reason.

"I've been talking with Trip," Archer continued. His eyes narrowed, expressing his discomfort at confiding in Malcolm. "The Columbia is thirty minutes away. He says he can restore the subroutines."

Several thoughts went swirling through Malcolm's head. One answered itself; the Columbia had evidently departed Deneva Colony hours earlier, when the injector first locked open, hurtling across space with the Enterprise's former chief engineer. But that raised another question: why couldn't Kelby restore the subroutines? Was Trip Tucker—and only Trip Tucker—capable of doing the job?

Uncertain of what else to do, Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. "He can't do that from the Columbia," he answered.

Archer took a deep breath. "We're going to bring him onboard," the captain stated.

Malcolm quickly ran through the options in his mind, and was left shaking his head. "The transporter won't operate at warp, and docking's out of the question," he observed. He was uncertain as to what the captain's plan was; there was little left beyond those choices. Except for—

"Trip told me that you have experience transferring personnel at warp speed," Archer said, confirming Malcolm's last thought.

Ever-steady Malcolm could feel the blood draining from his face. "In training exercises, yes, and at warp one," he countered, stumbling slightly through the words. "Every move was rehearsed in simulators for weeks." In theory, it was doable—in theory, all it took was complex mathematical work, ace piloting, and a fair share of good fortune.

Malcolm didn't like in theory.

"We don't have weeks," Archer retorted.

"We'll have to match our warp field with the Columbia's," Malcolm replied, starting to run through the procedures in his mind. It had been—years—since he had taken part in such a transfer, but the protocols were there, fresh in his mind.

"T'Pol is doing the calculations now," Archer replied. "At warp five, we'll have to move within fifty meters of each other."

Malcolm nodded his head in agreement. "Closer would be better," he observed, recognizing that fifty meters—at warp five—was already an impressive showing. "Has anyone ever done this before?"

"Travis can handle the flying," Archer responded, not answering the question. "Can you get Trip over here?"

Malcolm nodded decisively. "I can do it, sir," he stated firmly. "But you'll have to let me out of this brig."

Archer grimaced. "I know."

…

On the bridge of the U.S.S. Columbia, Erika Hernandez tried to dig her fingertips into the armrests of her command chair; but the hardened plasticine gave her little satisfaction, withstanding even a yielding scratch from her tight grip. Around her, the bridge crew was similarly poised on high alert; and on the duranium support beams standing tall immediately behind her, double-columns of yellow light pulsed heartily, proclaiming the gravity of the situation.

One hiccup, and they could all be dead.

Hernandez tapped her comm control, opening a channel to the launch bay. "Commander Tucker," she called out.

…

This is insane, Trip Tucker thought to himself, and not for the first time. He—along with a Columbia crewman—was decked out in full EV gear, and his stomach was busy doing somersaults. "Tucker here," he responded a belatedly second later, glancing upward in the general direction of the bridge. The captain's voice sounded tiny inside the airtight helmet of his suit.

"Are you ready for this?" Hernandez asked.

Trip looked back down at his erstwhile comrade; and for his part, the crewman gave a thumb's-up, indicating that Trip's suit was checked out and successfully sealed. Trip bobbed his head in recognition. "As ready as I'll ever be," he replied. He cracked a nervous smile at his Columbia colleague, who responded with a grimace.

…

Hernandez, unable to bottle herself up any longer, stood up and stepped forward, where she came to a halt behind the conn officer; her eyes danced over the myriad readings, taking it all in with one steady look. "Open a channel," she ordered.

"Columbia to Enterprise." The voice came from behind, where the communications officer was hard at work. "On screen, Captain."

Hernandez stretched her back straight as Captain Archer's face appeared on the Columbia's viewscreen. "Captain Archer," she acknowledged.

"Captain Hernandez," he replied formally; the strain, however, was evident in his eyes.

"We're matching speed and trajectory as requested," Hernandez stated.

Archer nodded recognition. "Stand by, Columbia," he replied.

…

Truth be told, the respective launch bays of the Columbia and the Enterprise were virtually identical.

But that didn't stop Malcolm Reed from wondering what was going on barely a hundred meters away, on the Enterprise's sister ship.

"Archer to Reed."

Malcolm swore he could hear the tension in the captain's voice, even over the speakers located within his EV suit. He glanced over at his Enterprise colleague, the ever-reliable Perri O'Connell, before responding. "Go ahead," he answered.

"We're in position," Archer stated. "Your status?"

"We're a go," Malcolm replied firmly, ignoring the trepidation within himself. This can go one of two ways, he reflected soberly. Deadly…or miraculously.

…

Archer glanced back at Hoshi Sato. "Give me the Columbia again," he ordered.

"Aye, sir," Hoshi answered, then: "I have the Columbia."

As Hernandez's face filled the screen, Archer made a mental note to talk to her about banks of flashing lights on the Columbia's bridge; they seemed a tad…overdone, to his sensibilities. "We're in position, Captain. Start your rotation."

…

From an outside perspective, the two starships were virtually inseparable; flying in tandem, the Enterprise above the Columbia, barely a hundred meters from hull to hull, they were hurdling through empty space at many times the speed of light.

From inside the respective launch bays, that same hundred meters represented a vast gulf.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the Columbia began to roll to port, a maneuver that the starship was not designed to undertake; but even at the brutal forces of warp five, the ship held together, and within a minute had completed its rotation.

The two starships were now running keel-to-keel.

…

"Coming up on one hundred meters," Travis called out, watching the readings on his control panel; he ignored the warning lights that screamed danger as the two ships flew closer and closer together. "Ninety, now eighty meters."

"This is the bridge," Archer called out, triggering the comm control for intraship. "All hands brace for warp field contact!"

It was the most dangerous maneuver that Travis had ever tried, the most dangerous maneuver that he could imagine; the melding together of two ships' warp fields into one. It thus made sense, he figured, that it was accomplished with barely a jolt. "We're at fifty meters and holding!" the young navigator called out, his face breaking out in a relieved grin.

Archer, however, had nary a moment for relief. "T'Pol!" he called out, swiveling his head around to find the Vulcan science chief. "Make sure everything's ready for Trip in engineering." He tapped the comm again. "Archer to launch bay," he said, still unwilling to say Malcolm's name; the necessity of relying on Reed was wearing on him quickly. "You're all clear."

…

Despite the ambient gravity in the launch bay, Malcolm's magnetic boots clung to the ceiling.

Overhead—for him—the launch bay doors slowly opened, revealing no stars; instead, the belly of the Columbia stared back at him. Taking a long second, Malcolm's eyes tracked their way to the opposing launch bay, where he could see doors opening as well.

Glancing over at O'Connell, Malcolm took a deep breath. "Are you ready?" he asked.

O'Connell's stony glare back revealed the icy depths that Malcolm had fallen to. "Yes," she answered curtly.

I deserve that, Malcolm reflected, but he had no time to dwell on the thought. "Hold her steady, Travis," he whispered, then: "We're a go."

He knelt down awkwardly. The Enterprise's grappler had been removed from its usual port and fixed to the ceiling of the bay, but it had to be manually triggered.

With no time left for reflection, Malcolm triggered it.

…

Trip Tucker, standing on the ceiling of the Columbia's launch bay, took an involuntary step back as the business end of the grappler shot up before him, lodging itself in the plasticine sheeting. "Nice shooting, Malcolm," he murmured as he reached out to test the implantation. Pulling heartily on the thick cabling, he was unable to budge the grappler from its impalement.

Letting out a deep breath, Trip attached his body harness to the cable.

"Tucker to Hernandez!" he called out.

"Go ahead."

"I'm heading out."

"Quick as you can, Commander," Hernandez answered. "We can't hold this for long."

"Understood," Trip replied hurriedly. "Tucker out!" Flipping off the magnetic grip of his boots, Trip zipped up the cable, allowing the gravity of the launch bay to drop him down and out the doors.

…

In the midst of the cacophony and chaos, in between the urgency and threat of death, Trip found himself mesmerized as the crawled down the cable. "I never thought I'd see the stars like this," he breathed out loud, as the Cherenkov radiation flew past him, putting on a light show for the ages.

…

"You're doing fine, Trip," Malcolm whispered, as he watched from the opposing launch bay.

…

Too many things could go wrong, and the Enterprise shaking was one of them.

"Archer to engineering," the captain called out before the final quake had even subsided. "T'Pol, report!"

"I'm reading a fluctuation in the warp field," she answered, her steadiness incongruous with the thick tension on the bridge.

"Take power from wherever you need to, even life support!" Archer replied. "But keep the field constant!"

"Captain!" Travis interposed from the front of the bridge. "Sir, I'm having trouble holding position. Fifty-two meters. Now fifty-five."

…

The cabling was starting to shake in Trip's firm grip. "Tucker to Enterprise!" he called out, swallowing the sense of panic that was starting to well up within. "I don't mean to be a pest, but could someone tell me what's going on?"

"Malcolm here." Reed's voice was a godsend to the engineer. "You're almost here, Trip, but you need to keep going!"

…

"Engineering, report!" Archer belted out. The shaking was growing worse, not going away, and he needed an answer. Fast. Before the Enterprise shook itself apart.

"I'm rerouting power now, Captain," T'Pol answered. "Stand by."

"Fifty-nine meters!" Travis announced.

…

Malcolm, watching anxiously, saw Trip's head broach the launch bay doors. "The tether's at its limit!" he shouted, gesturing frantically at his former colleague. "Hurry up!"

…

Engineering was moving in concerted chaos, but in the middle of it, the Vulcan stood firm. "T'Pol to bridge," she said, triggering the comm control. "It's not working. The field cannot stand," she answered with a degree of finality.

Chapter break

"Almost here!" Malcolm shouted. Reaching up, he grabbed Trip's outstretched hand and finished pulling the engineer in; hands flying, he unhooked the engineer from the cabling a scarce moment before the grappler body rose up and flew out into open space. "Trip!"

Trip Tucker broke into the largest grin of his life. "Permission to come aboard, Lieutenant?" he asked happily.

Malcolm resisted the urge to hug the man. "Bridge, I have him!"

…

Archer sat back in his chair. One step done. "You all right, Trip?"

…

The launch bay doors were already clanging shut overhead, but Trip knew precious moments would waste as the bay refreshed with air. "I'll feel a lot better when this is over, Captain," he replied. "There's only one way to do this. A cold start." A cold start. Even the sound of it was horrifying. "I have to shut down the reactor and re-set the algorithms. Once we bring the warp engine back online, the subroutines should be back to normal."

…

Clenching his hand tight, Archer resisted the urge to slam it into the armrest of his command chair. Did Trip really miss the point? Couldn't be. "But if we shut down the reactor, Commander—"

…

Trip took a deep breath of "fresh" air as he eased off his EV helmet. "That's why we need to move inside the Columbia's warp field," he called out. No hesitation was in his voice, even though he knew what he was suggesting sounded like a quick path to a fiery death. "They can sustain our speed while I reinitialize the engines!"

…

It was times like this that the captain wondered if his engineer—former engineer—knew how mad he sounded. "They won't be able to hold us for more than a minute or two," Archer responded, taking care to enunciate the words. They sounded like a death knell for the Enterprise. "The Columbia just doesn't have enough power, Trip."

…

Trip let his EV gloves clank to the floor as a nonchalant grin flashed across his face. "I've got a shortcut in mind, Captain," he replied. "I'm telling you, I can have it done in a minute."

…

Archer shook his head slowly; he had not a clue what the engineer was planning, but time was running desperately short. "Shortcut?" he asked, wondering if Trip's plan would simply hasten the Enterprise's demise.

…

Even though the captain couldn't see him, Trip nodded affirmatively. "Aye, sir," he answered. With Malcolm's help, the main segment of the EV suit slid over his head. "Those routines would take hours to decrypt. But I can purge them and wipe them clean."

…

Archer sat back, releasing a low oomph as he weighed Trip's words. "I'll contact the Columbia," he announced finally. "God speed, Trip."

…

Their EV suits lay in pieces on the launch bay floor, but Trip and Malcolm expended no time in cleaning up; they could tend to such things later, Trip reflected wryly, hoping that there would be a later in his life. Despite his own affirmations, he recognized that his plan hinged on too many elements that he couldn't control; too many things that could go wrong, too many things that could be more damaged than he believed, and even a single hick-up would smash the delicate timeline to pieces.

And the Enterprise would be strewn across space in a million tiny pieces, just one more victim of a warp core explosion.

Trip ran a hand through his sweaty hair as the corridor doors hissed open before him. "Malcolm, can you—" He pulled up, brought to a stop by the sight of two armed security guards stationed outside the doorway. "Wait, what are they for?" he asked, turning to look at Malcolm.

For his part, Malcolm assumed a sheepish grin. "They're here for me," he answered quietly. "The captain and I have had a slight misunderstanding."

Trip's head swirled about as the guards grabbed Malcolm's arms. "How slight?" he asked; no grin creased his characteristically-wry face as the guards nudged Malcolm down the corridor.

"These gentlemen are here to escort me to the brig," Malcolm replied, glancing back over his shoulder as he followed the guards. "Don't worry, I'll tell you all about it when we're not quite so busy."

"You better," Trip breathed quietly. The sight of his best friend being escorted to the brig by Starfleet guards—that one troubled him. Deeply.

…

Trip raced his way through the corridors to engineering, feeling as though the seconds were ticking away as he slalomed his way down the hallways of the Enterprise; every step seemed to go slow, every turn seemed to have a person in his path, and the ship's near-constant quaking threatened to send him to the deck plating at every couple feet.

Rushing his way into engineering was like jumping from a flame into a fire.

Alarms were sounding everywhere as Trip Tucker entered the compartment, threatening to douse his hearing in the ear-splitting sounds of sirens screeching and trumpets blaring. Acrid smoke coated the room in a haze; the smoke interfered with his vision at every turn, and the blasted smell was trying to make his stomach turn.

And everywhere, engineers ran back and forth, somehow still operating like a well-oiled machine, shouting out commands and alert readings as they desperately sought to save their starship.

In the haze, Trip didn't recognize one crewmember until he came up beside her. "Fancy meeting you here," he offered, unable to pass up the flippant comment.

T'Pol glared back.

Unperturbed, Trip shifted his attention to the console readouts. "Intermix pressure?" he asked.

"Fifteen twenty-seven," T'Pol answered curtly.

Her fingers were dancing across the controls, inputting commands as fast as Trip's eyes could watch, but he knew it wasn't enough. "Field variance?"

T'Pol quickly pulled up the reading. "Eighty-seven millicochranes."

Trip grimaced tightly; even on the best of days, that was a bad result. "Somebody hasn't been taking good care of my engine," he muttered.

"Speak with the Klingons," T'Pol retorted, unable to stop herself.

The Vulcan's ire only brought a slight smile to Trip's face as he started punching in commands, and a new siren started to wail, cutting across the din of barked commands and screaming circuitry.

"What are you doing?" T'Pol asked finally; the commands were not anything she recognized, and indeed, if pressed to hypothesize, it looked like Trip was conspiring to crash the entire warp core. She moved slightly, as if preparing to stop him.

"You might want to take notes," Trip replied. His eyes were glued to the console. "I'm about to perform a manual shut-down and restart in less than two minutes."

"That's not possible," T'Pol responded promptly; such a feat was unheard of, even with the superior engineering found in Vulcan's ships of the line.

Trip just grinned as he watched a pressure reading drop precipitously. "Watch me," he answered. As the panel flashed red, he turned away; and jogging over to the main core, he scrambled up the side ladder, perching himself precariously on top of the booming chamber.

…

Erika Hernandez had sat still for as long as she could; but it was not in her blood to do so. "Columbia to Enterprise," she called out, knowing that her comm officer would open the channel. "Enterprise, come in."

…

For his part, Jonathan Archer was standing behind Travis, leaning forward and into the helm console. "Go ahead," he called out.

…

Hernandez took a deep breath. We're committed now, she realized. "I've routed everything I've got to my warp field," she reported. "Do me a favor, Jonathan. Make this quick."

…

Archer grabbed Travis' chair tightly as yet another quake shook the Enterprise.

"The Columbia is extending her warp field, sir," Travis reported, though Archer could see the readouts fully well. "We've merged!"

Archer slapped open a comm channel. "Archer to Tucker!" he called out immediately. "Now, Commander!"

…

"Stand by!" Trip answered; he would have no time to give reports to the captain, until they succeeded—or failed. "Everyone away from the bulkheads!" he shouted out, straining to carry his voice over the growing racket; around him, the Enterprise was threatening to shake herself apart. The starship was not designed to carry on such speeds, and the inertial dampeners were struggling to keep up. "It's going to get a little hot in here, people!"

With that, Trip pulled a relay out from the top of the core, and dashed down the ladder; he didn't want to be anywhere near it, not when he was engineering a controlled implosion. "Reactor shutdown in five! Four! Three! Two! One!"

The smoky haze flashed a bright white as a loud screech sounded from inside the core; and as the screech died away, the absence of the core's constant thrumming struck Trip as a mysterious silence.

But he had little time to think about it. "T'Pol, prime the injectors!" he shouted. "Jenkins, man the relays!" With no spare seconds to waste, Trip dropped below another console and started to rip out motherboards, haphazardly tossing them across the deck plating.

…

Hernandez gripped the arms of her chair tightly as she watched precious seconds slip away. Around her, the Columbia threatened to shake itself apart, undone by stress and pressures that the spaceship was not equipped to handle; sustaining warp five, with an extra starship in tow, was so far outside the design specifications as to be…insane?

"Columbia to Enterprise," she barked as the seconds ticked past thirty. There was little she could do but wait, and waiting was not a captain's strength. "You've got thirty more seconds!"

…

Archer glanced back hurriedly at Hoshi as the comm channel opened. "Understood, Columbia!" he shouted back. "Trip, how's it going?!"

…

Trip was literally inside a console, frantically rewiring relays, when the captain's voice intruded into engineering. At his feet, protruding outside the bulkhead, were the scattered remnants of his work; fractured conduits and engineering tools that he had freely discarded in his mad haste to reboot the warp core.

T'Pol, standing amid the wreckage, looked up towards the bridge. "One more minute, Captain!" she called out, well aware that the engineer lacked the time to respond.

…

Archer saw the counter ticking down on Travis' console. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen. "You don't have a minute!" he shouted back as the ship shook again, trying to send the captain sprawling to the deck.

…

A loud bang sounded from inside the bulkhead as Trip began to slither out. "Get ready to initialize the matrix!" he shouted, trusting that an engineer was standing ready to enact the command.

…

On the Columbia's bridge, a conduit blew open, showering the engineering substation in a spray of fireworks, and a sharply-increasing whine told Hernandez that another conduit was ready to go. "Enterprise, we're losing the field!"

…

"Almost there," Trip muttered to himself as he leapt to his feet, his thoughts already racing ahead to the next several steps. His coveralls were nearly black with soot, and a nasty bruise was erupting on his forehead, but he paid no heed.

"Full power to containment!" T'Pol called out, her voice straining to be heard over the rattling noise of a starship shaking itself apart.

Trip slammed the heel of his palm onto the console, triggering the final command. "Firing up the anti-matter stream!"

…

Archer's stomach was clenched tight as he watched the final seconds tick away. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.

…

The warp core flashed a bright white as it ejected a pulse of heat. "Now, Travis!" Trip shouted out, hoping the bridge could hear.

…

"We got warp power!" Travis exclaimed excitedly as Archer simultaneously shouted out, "Columbia, cut us loose!" The counter continued to tick down. Two. One. Red light!

…

In the stillness of coldened space, the two starships separated, each one carried forth by its own warp field.

…

As she let out a deep breath, Erika Hernandez crashed backward in her command chair, unknown muscles easing their tension as the Columbia steadied and ceased its quaking. "Columbia to Enterprise," she called out, no longer screaming over the dying din. "Status?"

…

Archer glanced around the bridge before responding. "Stand by, Columbia," he answered. "Bridge to engineering!"

…

In engineering, Trip looked upward with a face-splitting grin. "The subroutines have been purged, Captain. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to drop to impulse for a while, just to check things over."

…

Archer, too, split into a smile. "Acknowledged, Commander. Someday you'll have to tell me what you did." He ran a hand across his forehead, trying to massage out the stress. "Columbia, the subroutines were successfully purged. We're standing down to impulse."

…

The Columbia bridge broke into scattered applause. "Aye, Captain," Hernandez replied happily. "But don't think you're getting away with my chief engineer that easily."

…

"Of course not, Captain," Archer rejoined, his voice carrying a light-hearted lilt. "Say, do you have any plans for the next few days?"

Hernandez's reply was prompt and energetic. "What've you got in mind?"

Chapter break

Phlox was hallucinating, and loving every minute of it.

Sitting reclined in a Denobulan community bath, along one side of the spacious heated pool, water lapped about his waist, warming him to the point of pleasant sedation. Steam rose high from the water's surface, whispering its way to the low-hanging ceiling, obscuring the stone motifs in the warm fog and keeping the delicate fragrance of scented bath salts close to the bathers; today, the spa's tenders had chosen the delicious aroma of caryophylla fruits, one of Denobula's greatest delicacies, and the tantalizing smells tingled in Phlox's nostrils, easing him further into a state of great relaxation.

Around him—cloaked in the steam—were a dozen of his fellow countrymen, each one similarly nude in the carefully-maintained waters of the bath. A faint chatter could be heard as two or three discussed the affairs of the day, but for the most part, the room was silent, broken only by the chirping of griseola birds piped into the room's hidden speakers, a soft sound that encouraged happiness and cheer on the part of the afternoon's participants. Here and there, an attendant knelt next to a bather, offering a tray of fine-stemmed glassware holding sibirica wine.

Phlox smiled widely as he eased backward, letting the water rise over chest and up to the base of his neck. These were the days he missed, these were the experiences that he longed for, these were the recollections of home that reminded him of the uniqueness of Denobula, and the experience wrapped itself about the doctor, immersing him in the richness of the moment.

"Phlox?" A rough male voice sounded next to him, incongruous in the luxurious atmosphere of the spa. Perturbed by the interruption, Phlox turned his head, but saw no one.

"Phlox?" The voice sounded again, this time coming from the other side.

Turning about, Phlox nearly jumped at the sight of a craggy-faced Klingon with an unkempt mane of dirty white hair. "Who—what?" Phlox sputtered out, trying to make sense of the interruption.

"Phlox, wake up!"

And with that, the sensuous bath house disappeared, and the pain returned. Phlox felt the receptors lighting up from all parts of his body; his joints were aching, his bones as if fractured, and his insides as if on fire. He was broken and battered, wore down and weakened, and nary a part of his body offered any solace from the screams of misery erupting in his head.

"This will help," the Klingon offered, and Phlox felt the rim of a bottle pressed against his lips; but the smell was overwhelming, a vile, bilious stench, and he turned away, feeling a fresh surge of pain erupt from the base of his neck as he twisted his head too quickly. Resisting the urge to vomit, uncertain if his body could handle the violence, he coughed bitterly instead.

"My apologies for the general's conduct," the Klingon said, his voice as soothing as gravel. Slowly—ever so slowly—the Klingon's face was coming into focus, and frightened by the visage, Phlox felt the need to crawl away; but his muscles did not respond, and the Klingon came closer, until the blurry background view was blocked out entirely. "So cruel," the Klingon stated sadly. He shook his head.

"An—Antaak?" Phlox spit out, realization slowly dawning in his mind. He recognized the Klingon now, recognized his erstwhile fellow doctor, recognized that he was in no more immediate danger; for Antaak, despite his race's proclivities, was not a violent man.

"Yes! Yes, it is me!" Antaak exclaimed excitedly. The Klingon physician straightened up, allowing Phlox to slowly push his torso upward and glance around the room.

It was—crew quarters of some sort, a darkened room lit by red lights. He lay on a bed of fur, which he found to be of some comfort, despite the faint smell of decaying blood. It was a room that Phlox did not recognize, but then, his recent memory was hazy. "Where am I?" the doctor asked carefully, unwilling to test too many muscles at once.

"We've made planetful," Antaak stated as he turned away, busying himself about the room. "We're at Qu'Vat Colony. It is the epicenter of the plague. Over a million Klingons here have been inflicted." Finding the discarded bottle, he approached again. "This is no way to treat a man of science."

This time, as the bottle neared his lips, Phlox allowed the stream of liquid to pass through. "Then end it," he replied. He couldn't recall a drink of water that had ever felt better. "Contact Starfleet."

"I can't do that, Phlox," Antaak answered sorrowfully. He held the bottle steady as Phlox drank. "My people need you. We have no healers with your abilities."

Grateful for the drink, Phlox sank back into the fur. "You want me to create Klingon Augments, Antaak," he retorted bitterly. It was beyond admission, something that he could not accept. "I won't do it."

Shifting Phlox over, Antaak sat down on the edge of the fur-lined cot. "But I've been reviewing your work, Phlox," the Klingon physician replied. "It's brilliant." His voice was pleading with Phlox, begging the Denobulan doctor to help, to cure the plague before millions died needless deaths. "You managed to pinpoint a weakness in the virus carrying the plague." Antaak grabbed a PADD from beyond Phlox's sight and held it up before the doctor. "If we interrupt the transcription sequence here—"

"Yes. Yes, I know," Phlox admitted unwillingly. He had held back his finding from Antaak, despite its promise of a cure. "That would stop the virus in stage one." Phlox moaned softly from the pain of talking, but felt compelled to continue; he needed to explain himself to this Klingon, this fellow physician who bleed so strongly for his patients. "There'd be changes in physical appearance, but no development of stage two characteristics, no enhanced strength or speed or—or endurance." In a way, it was an elegant solution; it promised exactly what Phlox wanted to deliver, a cure without the augmentation. "But then General K'Vagh would not get his Augments," Phlox concluded, spitting out the name like a hurled invective. "He would quash the research, and never allow us to cure the afflicted."

Antaak shrugged his broad shoulders. "What if we don't tell him?" the Klingon asked.

Phlox looked back with confusion. "Don't tell him what?"

"What if we tell him that we can Augment the afflicted?" Antaak clarified. The Klingon leaned in conspiratorially, eager to share his thoughts but hesitant to be overheard. "We can save our patients, Phlox."

Phlox had a sudden mental image of his head being separated from his body. "Do you understand what will happen when the general learns that we've deceived him?" the doctor replied, well aware that there was no if, only when; he knew there was a chance that he would be returned to the Enterprise before the general figured out the scheme, but Antaak…Antaak would surely die.

It was unavoidable, if the physician's plot were to succeed.

Antaak shrugged his broad shoulders. "A cure would save millions of lives," he said quietly. In the moment, he accepted his fate, content in the knowledge that his death would serve a greater purpose. "What more honorable death can there be for a healer?"

…

Captain's Starlog, supplemental. I've asked the Columbia to join us in our search for Phlox. We'll have a better chance of making it through Klingon territory with twice the firepower.

…

Over the course of his adventurous career, Malcolm Reed had found himself imprisoned on several occasions.

As prisons went, the Enterprise's brig was fairly nice. He had a cot, and a chair to sit in; the air was temperature-controlled, neither too hot nor too cold, and he received three standard meals a day, each one delivered by a curious security guard too nervous to ask just why Malcolm was on the wrong side of the door. He had asked for, and received, a deck of cards to pass the hours, and there was always the chance to engage his Klingon neighbor in conversation, however testy it may be.

But Malcolm was born for action, not inaction, and as the hours and days passed, he found the constant sense of boredom came to rule his life. He could only play so many games of solitaire before it became rote; and the Klingon, after a few exchanged curses, fell mostly quiet. The guards came and went, but few offered any words to their prisoner, choosing instead the more circumspect route of stony silence. His time was passing uninterrupted by the ebb and flow of normal starship life, and a man accustomed to the inner workings of the command crew was cut out of a critical mission to save one of their own.

And I deserve it, Malcolm reminded himself wearily. Phlox—his friend, his comrade—was in grave danger, abducted by Klingons and spirited off to parts unknown. Malcolm, ever obedient, ever proper, had followed his orders to slow the Enterprise's pursuit, and the guilt of his actions rested heavily on Malcolm's shoulders.

It was thus with mixed feelings that Malcolm stood up as two guards entered the anteroom, stepping their way to his door. Ensigns Perri O'Connell and Jada McKinley, formerly two of his best, but now they treated him like the enemy he had become.

Without a word, the brig door hissed open, and Malcolm stepped out slowly, knowing not to make any sudden movements; he would make this easy on his captors, a small gesture of his repentance and sorrow for his crimes. "I don't suppose you can tell me where I'm going this time?" he asked. He expected no answer, and received none. "No, I didn't think so."

…

What do I do?

It was all Archer could think as he stood alone in Malcolm's former quarters, the interior lights dimmed as he watched the stars fly by the open viewport. It was normally a sight that excited the captain, creating a real sense of forward movement as the Enterprise flew out deeper and deeper into unexplored territories, but today it failed to stir his hope; today, it failed to stir him from the morose melancholy that had set in the moment Malcolm had betrayed him, betrayed the Enterprise, and betrayed Phlox.

So, what do I do?

The question dogged Archer's thoughts, interrupting his brief moments of revelry, interrupting his quiet moments of contemplation. Malcolm, of all people; a loyal comrade, an honorable officer, a man who would give his life for the ship and crew, had incomprehensibly turned traitor.

Something didn't add up right, and Archer was determined to figure it out.

Archer glanced away from the viewport as the door hissed open, revealing Malcolm standing just beyond; flanked by O'Connell and McKinley, the former tactical officer stood silently, waiting for an invitation to enter his former quarters. Archer waited a second, then gestured Malcolm in. The door hissed shut behind Reed, sealing the two officers in.

Without a word, Archer pointed his head towards the computer monitor sitting on Malcolm's old desk. On the screen, frozen in place, was a man; a few years past his physical prime, he wore his age with senatorial distinction, and a carefully-coiffed design of salt-and-pepper hair rested above creased lines. Soft blue eyes spoke of experience and care.

He wore a black leather suit.

"Those are my personal files," Malcolm commented at last, breaking the difficult silence that had settled between the two men. His voice bespoke not just a sense of violation, but one of worry; he was clearly concerned that the captain had managed to access the image, and Archer wondered just why.

Archer let out a deep breath from his nostrils before replying. "Not when they affect my ship," he answered sharply. It gave him no pleasure to speak to Reed in such a tone. "T'Pol restored everything you tried to erase."

"I—I see, sir," Malcolm replied slowly. He shifted his stance, as if uncomfortable, but offered no defense. He had, in fact, attempted to purge his logs, and it should have been successful; it was an open question as to how T'Pol had managed to retrieve the destroyed data.

A question that he would never know the answer to.

Archer stepped towards the monitor. "We ran his face and voiceprint through our database," the captain went on, pressing ahead with the advantage; he was unwilling to let up, unable to ease his tone of accusation. "His name is Harris. He worked in Starfleet Security up until five years ago. After that, his file ends." Archer shook his head, still surprised by the surfeit of information on this mysterious Harris; the man had disappeared completely from Starfleet's records, leaving no trace of where he had gone or what he was doing now. Only the absence of a discharge report suggested that Harris was even still in the service.

"Captain, there's nothing more I can add." Malcolm's sincerity seemed real, but Archer no longer knew what to believe when it came to Malcolm Reed; assurances that the captain had never questioned before were now being called into doubt, every word suspicious and every hesitation meaningful. Malcolm's simple statement—there's nothing more I can add—could mean anything, Archer realized.

Perhaps it was even the truth.

"I can't accept that," Archer countered, eyeing his once-fellow officer carefully. He was unwilling to accept Malcolm's reticence as an answer. "I won't accept that. This is the time, Commander. This is your opportunity to come clean." The captain took care to watch the tone of his voice, to avoid the sense of pleading with Malcolm to do the right thing.

Malcolm waited a moment before responding, as if weighing his final words. "I've told you all I can, Captain," he said.

But what did that mean? Archer wondered. Had Malcolm really told everything he knew—or was he holding back, constrained by some other obligation? For the sake of what remained of their friendship, for the remainder of Malcolm's career in Starfleet, Archer was determined to figure it out. "You endangered every member of this crew, Commander," he stated carefully, emphasizing the last word. "You have to answer for that, and you answer to me. Is that clear?"

Unwilling to look the captain in the eye, Malcolm averted his gaze to the viewport; standing silently, he offered nothing more.

Archer took a deep breath. "I thought I knew you, Malcolm," the captain said, shifting tactics from a command presence to one of a fellow crewmember. It was worth a shot, Archer knew, realizing that he was quickly exhausting the tools in his kit. "We've fought together. We've bleed together. Hell, we ran into the Expanse together."

"I remember that quite well, Captain," Malcolm answered formally, yielding no territory. "It was my pleasure to accompany you."

Archer could do little but press on. "I thought—I thought you trusted me, Malcolm. You could've come to me. Whatever hold this Harris has on you, you could've come to me."

Malcolm's gaze finally found the captain's. "I'm under orders, sir," he offered, clearly unwilling to make the admission.

The statement momentarily flummoxed Archer, as it only served to raise additional questions. Under orders from who? Harris? "This is my starship," Archer countered, beginning to raise his voice. "And I'm your commanding officer! You take your orders from me!"

Malcolm flinched, but gave no response.

Archer's anger was continuing to build, egged on by Malcolm's evasiveness and outright denials. Was Reed really going to stonewall him? Even with Phlox's life on the line? It left the captain with few good options. "If you don't tell me what's going on, I'll go to Starfleet," he threatened, his voice falling low. "Whatever you're trying to hide, it'll come to light anyway." But it may not come in time to save Phlox. Is that what you want, Malcolm? Is that really what you want?

Malcolm's façade finally cracked. "I can't tell you what I don't know," he replied, his voice begging with the captain.

It was a moment of truth between the two men, and Archer realized that he had pushed as far as he could; Malcolm had nothing more to offer, nothing more to give, and that left the captain with…absolutely nothing.

Archer could feel the weight of nothingness crashing down on him, but he had one more card left to play. "Then let me talk to someone who can," he said, hoping that Malcolm would—and could—cooperate with this final request. "Send a message to Harris. Tell him that we need to talk."

…

And so it was that Phlox found himself back in a Klingon medical laboratory, this one somewhere on the colony of Qu'Vat; not that the name had much meaning to the good doctor, who knew little of Klingon worlds and star systems, but he firmly lodged the word in his mind. It felt—better, somehow, more hopeful, that he was at a destination, and no longer working in the belly of a battle cruiser hurtling across space. Staying in one place, he reasoned, would make it easier for the Enterprise to find him.

And without a doubt, he knew that the Enterprise was searching for him.

The laboratory was little different here than on the Klingon ship. Slightly larger, perhaps, but all the requisite medical equipment was present. Much of it had not been properly maintained, and all of it predated Phlox's own lab by several decades' worth of progress, but it was functional; and Antaak, to his credit, was busy wiping surfaces of accumulated dust and grime. The Klingon physician had been relegated to lab assistant, but offered no complaints.

Reaching a temporary pause as the computer ran a genome analysis, Phlox grabbed a waterskin from a nearby table and took a deep drink. His previous pain had lessened, thanks to a stern analgesic from Antaak, but Phlox knew that it would take several days of complete bedrest for him to return to normal.

"Has the House of Phlox always been one of healers?" Antaak asked abruptly as he tossed a dirty rag into a bucket. The aroma of harsh cleaning chemicals rose from the bucket, the remnants of Antaak's hasty mission to cleanse the laboratory.

Phlox smiled as he shook his head. "There is no, uh, House of Phlox," the doctor answered with gentle humor. "Denobulan family units are quite different from Klingons, I'm afraid." The computer chimed, indicating that the analysis was complete.

"Ah, yes, I've heard," Antaak replied gruffly. "Three wives for each husband. Three husbands for each wife. Your mating practices must be very complex."

"Wondrously so," Phlox confirmed, grabbing a PADD to download the data as he spoke. Denobula had few taboos around the topic of sex, and he was accustomed to fielding questions from well-meaning but curious aliens. "What about the House of Antaak?" he asked, glancing over at the aging Klingon. "Does your healing touch run in the family?"

Antaak's bushy white hair shook with his head. "We are a warrior family," the physician answered. "For many generations, our sons and daughters have marched off to fight and to die. I chose to do—something constructive, something noble, so I became a healer instead. I wanted to save lives, in amidst the death."

The computer had failed to find the much-needed RNA match, but Phlox scrolled carefully through the data, hoping the computer itself had failed. "How did your family react?" he asked a moment later, genuinely curious in the conversation.

Antaak let out a deep breath. "When I became a healer, my father disowned me," the Klingon replied sadly. "I nearly went back and enrolled in the military academy, but I decided to stick by my convictions. I am—I am a Klingon without a house, Phlox. Do you know how that feels?"

His eyes getting sore from reading the small print, Phlox set down the PADD. "I don't know," he confessed, debating whether he could even imagine being without a family. "On Denobula, family means everything. Those who have lost their own families are adopted into others—no one is left adrift."

"I have paid the price for my choices, Phlox," Antaak answered. The regret hung heavily in his voice.

Phlox looked carefully at his new Klingon comrade. "But as a physician in the Imperial Fleet, you've served in the military," the doctor pressed lightly.

"It wasn't enough for my father," Antaak replied. "The only honor he cared about was victory in combat."

Phlox couldn't help but harrumph. "Victory against death seems like the highest honor to me," he stated, uncertain of how Antaak would respond. Phlox waited a moment, but nothing more was forthcoming. "So what happened?" he prodded, hoping for more.

"Honor no longer means what it used to mean in the Empire," Antaak spoke sorrowfully. "I fear for my people, Phlox, but truth be known, I feel powerless to stop it. A dark day is ahead for the Klingon race."

"I hope for your sake that you're wrong, Antaak," Phlox replied slowly. "But you must realize, regardless of what others think, you have done great deeds as a physician."

"No, I have not," Antaak stated. His head drooped down and his shoulders shuffled slightly, as if fighting back tears. "I did not screen my subjects properly, Phlox."

Phlox swore he could feel the blood run cold in his veins. "What happened?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice soft.

Antaak looked upward, catching Phlox in the eyes. "This plague, all its victims, it's all my fault, doctor," Antaak replied. "I made a mistake, and caused the plague. My failure—is the reason you're here."

…

The food at Qu'Vat left something to be desired.

The colony existed for the primary purpose of supporting its genetic research and implementation institute, and as such, was not listed on the main star charts of the sector; instead, it was classified as a military secret, sectioned off from normal trade and interaction with its neighbors. The only shipments that came were those approved by the High Command, which treated medical research with sneering disdain. The colony was often forced to scrounge for food, attempting its hand at agriculture on a barely-sustainable world. To supplement the half-dead greenery that clung to life in the rocky soil, a small number of dwarfish rodents stubbornly burrowed through the dirt, offering a limited supply of flesh for the Klingon colony to eat.

K'Vagh growled mightily as he flung a tuber against the sheet-metal wall of his makeshift office. Klingons are not meant to eat such a thing! he reflected miserably, choosing to maintain the dull ache in his stomach rather than dine on the starchy root. While still burly, he had lost weight during his lengthy stint at Qu'Vat, and he pined for the still-bleeding heart of a targ.

A harsh chime sounded, indicating that he had visitors. The Klingon commandant arose, happy to ignore the remnants of his dinner. "Enter!" he barked out.

Into the room strode four—Klingons, K'Vagh was forced to remind himself as he eyed the afflicted quartet, for they appeared to be quite human. Much shorter and narrow of chest, they were puny next to K'Vagh, and seemed to be drowning in their fur-lined tunics. Most alarmingly, none bore the proud forehead crest of Klingon legacy; instead, their foreheads were smooth and flat, a trait shared only by the human species.

Not even the Romulans had flat foreheads.

"Report!" K'Vagh demanded, taking no time for pleasantries.

The leader of the quartet, a young female warrior named Laneth, stepped up in front of her squad. "The humans could not stop us," she stated pridefully. Despite the strength of her boast, she appeared…sickly, K'Vagh thought, recognizing the physical signs of her genetic battle.

It only took the commandant a brief second to catch the lapse in protocol. "I am your superior," he snarled at Laneth, taking slight joy as the much smaller woman flinched slightly. "You will salute!"

With a proud sneer, Laneth pounded her right fist against her left breast.

"Much better," K'Vagh grunted. Even though the plague sickened his warriors, he had vowed to treat them no differently; they were still Klingon warriors, after all, and in their chests beat the fearsome heart of his people. He would honor their courage, even while he demanded their obedience.

For we are KLINGON, he thought to himself. And for the general, that simple statement meant everything. "Now, report."

"The Enterprise was destroyed," Laneth stated boldly. K'Vagh's keen eye noticed that she was trembling slightly as she spoke. "Starfleet will think it was her engines."

K'Vagh nodded approvingly. Laneth's plot to destroy the Enterprise was a little complicated for his liking, and bordering on subterfuge—he preferred the straightforward and honorable course of destroying his enemy in combat—but he recognized the political advantages of hiding the cause of the Enterprise's demise.

Laneth's report finished, K'Vagh chose the moment to address the looming matter before him. "One of you is missing," he intoned. He had sent out five afflicted warriors; four had returned to stand before him.

"Your son was slow," Laneth countered, yielding no ground as she answered. Laying the blame at the feet of the deceased, the statement was a simple one. "The humans killed him," she finished.

K'Vagh nodded slowly. He gave no outward indication of the pain and disappointment he felt within; pain at the loss of his son, disappointment that the youth did not fight better. "Did he die with honor?" the general growled in low tones, threatening his subordinate if she did not offer the correct answer.

Laneth spat on the floor before responding. "He let humans kill him," she repeated, accenting the dreaded word.

K'Vagh could feel his heart starting to beat loudly. "You are dismissed!" he barked at the quartet, and they quickly left in silence; knowing that the general was ready to explode, the foursome had little interest in remaining.

In a sudden burst of fury, K'Vagh lifted his dinner plate and flung it against the wall, smearing the bulkhead with mashed tubers. Is this truly the destiny of my people? Stripped of our strength, stripped of our courage, and stripped of our honor? He could tolerate the death of his son—indeed, in the Klingon fashion, he could rejoice if the youth was in Sto'Vo'Kor—but the genetic virus seemed to be taking more than just the noble forehead crests of his race. Before, honorable warriors, dedicated to the greatness of Qo'Nos, had proudly served under his command.

And now, he thought disgustedly, his warriors were weak, choosing subterfuge over combat, and leaving their comrades to die at the hands of an alien foe.

K'Vagh paused for a moment, then tilted back his head and let out a mighty roar, warning the honored dead that a warrior was coming to meet them in the afterlife; the effort may be futile, he knew, depending on the exact circumstances of his son's death. But it seemed nonetheless appropriate, a fitting tribute to the young warrior he had known.

His moment complete, K'Vagh strode angrily from his office and down the short, darkened corridor. "Report!" he barked out, entering the nearby medical laboratory.

Antaak, clearly caught by surprise at the general's sudden arrival, looked up from a collection of PADDs. "Doctor Phlox has made excellent progress," the physician stated, his excitement standing in sharp contrast to the low lighting of the facility.

Not for the first time, K'Vagh realized how distasteful this entire project was to him. Altering the inner workings of Klingons to make them more alien, just to gain an advantage on the battlefield—no, he thought disgustedly, true warriors should fight as Klingons, noble and pure-blooded. A real warrior needed no such genetic tinkering.

And to die of genetic tinkering gone wrong—that was even worse, a fate that he would not chose for any warrior.

K'Vagh cursed the unknown individual who had exiled him to this forsaken posting. "Details," he demanded with a growl, shifting his gaze to the Denobulan doctor.

Phlox, for his part, didn't wilt under the angry gaze of the general. "I've identified the RNA sequence that codes—"

"Details I can pass on to my superiors," K'Vagh interrupted. During his time at the genetic institute, he had become familiar with such things as RNA and genetic sequencing; it was hard to avoid, when he was tasked with overseeing a group of doctors and scientists. But his superiors would know little, and care less, of such things.

Phlox nodded, thought for a moment, and spoke again. "I know where to look for the switch that will turn off the virus," he offered.

This made sense to the general; this was the sort of thing he could communicate to the High Council. "How long until you find it?" K'Vagh asked.

"An hour," Phlox stated. The doctor glanced over at Antaak, who nodded in agreement.

"Very well," K'Vagh grunted. "One hour." With a final glare at Antaak, the general left the room as abruptly as he had entered.

Marching back down the short corridor to his office, K'Vagh stepped behind his desk and pounded commands into his computer console. Within moments, the visage of an old, wizened Klingon appeared on the small screen.

"What do you want?" the aging Klingon demanded. It was Fleet Admiral Krell—a dangerous Klingon, in more than one way, the Fleet Admiral had won countless bouts of personal combat during his lengthy career. His survival into old age, when most Klingon warriors would have long since passed, bespoke his skill with a bat'leth.

And his ascension to Fleet Admiral highlighted his cunning.

"I have news for the High Council," K'Vagh grunted.

"Explain," Krell demanded, leaning inward.

"The Denobulan is close to perfecting the Augment's genome," K'Vagh stated evenly. It was, in fact, the best news he had delivered in months, and it justified the risk the Empire had taken in abducting the Denobulan doctor.

Krell fell back from the monitor with a bah. "The Council has shut down your project," the admiral intoned. The words fell heavy and hard, as if passing judgment on millions of hopes and lives.

K'Vagh, for his part, swallowed hard, for he knew that the High Council had terminated the genome project; in fact, he was under orders to kill the personnel working on it, including Antaak and Phlox, and prepare the diseased colony for sterilization.

And he was disobeying those orders. He knew that Phlox was close to a solution, a way to save his afflicted people, and K'Vagh was unwilling to give up hope when the light was so near.

"If you sterilize this colony," K'Vagh countered, "then all of our research will be lost." He leaned forward, filling the camera's feed with his craggy face, as if hoping to intimidate the smaller admiral over subspace.

Krell waved a beefy hand lazily at the monitor. "The fleet will reach you in three days," the admiral stated blandly. "If you're successful by the time we enter orbit, I'll spare QuVat. But make no mistake, General." Krell's baleful stare centered on K'Vagh. "If necessary, I will kill every living thing on that forsaken planet."

Chapter break

Deep in the belly of the starship Enterprise lay the officially-dubbed "Command Center," installed during the hasty renovations prior to the Xindi mission. Bristling with the best computers and electronics, it was designed to be a nerve center for the vessel, a place for the command crew to do their best work with the assistance of the best technology Starfleet had to provide.

It never caught on.

During the two years following installation, the command center had become noteworthy for one reason: with the lights turned off, it provided a state-of-the-art three-dimensional holographic star chart, hooked up to the best astrometric sensors that Earth could design. Readily adjustable to zoom in on a single star, or zoom out across sectors, officers could literally walk through the starfield as they charted a new route across unexplored space.

Tonight, approximately an hour after the proper end of their respective duty shifts, the captain and T'Pol found themselves in amidst the stars. The Vulcan science officer was systematically surveying each system along the shifting Klingon border, while the human captain was doing his best to remain patient.

It was thus with relief for Jonathan Archer that the doors hissed open, depositing Trip Tucker into the command center. "What's up, Trip?" Archer offered by way of greeting, blinking his eyes furiously at the intrusion of light.

Trip stepped forward, allowing the doors to hiss shut behind him. "Captain, Commander," he stated with lax formality. Taking a closer look at the holographic star system centered in the room, he hazarded a guess. "It's Klingon, isn't it?"

"Of course," Archer confirmed. "The—which system is it, T'Pol?" he asked, not certain that he wanted to attempt the harsh Klingon pronunciation.

"2012 W/D 233119," T'Pol answered, delivering the human nomenclature for the nondescript system; she heeded the two humans little attention, her focus resting on the scrolling readouts on the computer screen beneath her fingertips. "The Klingons call it Doq bo'Degh," she added smoothly, still not altering her gaze. "A standard yellow dwarf orbited by seven planets, the third of which is capable of supporting familiar life."

Trip shifted his look from the star to the captain. "It's going to be a while before everything's back to normal in Engineering," he said as he handed Archer a small PADD.

"Can Kelby handle it?" Archer asked, accepting the device from his former chief engineer. He scrolled through the data quickly, taking note of the repair estimates and timelines; while no major systems were out, engineering had been hit by the proverbial thousand papercuts.

Trip paused for a moment before slowly shaking his head. "I'd like to say he's up to it," he allowed. "Kelby's a decent engineer, but…I suppose I could stay aboard for a little while to help him out." Trip ran a hand through hair, leaving several strands spiked high. "I'll check with Captain Hernandez."

"I appreciate it, Trip," Archer answered, his voice warm with sincerity. When Trip made no move towards the exit, Archer raised one eyebrow and spoke again. "Is there something else?"

"Well, yeah, Captain," Trip said. Overcome by a sudden bout of nervousness, the engineer opted to forge ahead strongly. "What the hell's going on with Malcolm?"

Sighing deeply, Archer cupped his left hand about his mouth as he exhaled. He remained silent for another second as he contemplated the best answer, searching for one that would satisfy his old friend. "Nothing I can get into right now," he said finally, aware that the answer offered little for Trip Tucker.

Trip nodded slightly. "Fair enough," he responded. He knew the captain well enough to believe that a full answer would be coming, when the time was right. "Guess I'd better get back to engineering," Trip added.

T'Pol chose that moment to re-enter the conversation. "I'll walk with you," she offered, causing both men to turn and look at her. "If that's alright, Captain," she added belatedly.

"I think we can take a breather," Archer responded with a weary smile; while T'Pol seemed to relish the inundation of data they were reviewing, it was slowly deadening his brain. The offer of a break—perhaps, even, allowing him to slip out to the crew's mess for a slice of pie—sounded quite wonderful.

Trip stepped towards the door, causing it to hiss open. "After you, Commander," he said, ushering her out.

Stepping through, T'Pol waited for the door to hiss shut behind them before she began. "Are you enjoying your time on Columbia?" she asked lightly.

"Sure," Trip answered, following a half-pace behind. His voice, formerly friendly when addressing the captain, now carried an air of peevishness. "Why wouldn't I?"

"You haven't been experiencing any problems?" T'Pol asked. She was keeping her voice flat, but the subtle twitching of her body indicated that she was profoundly uncomfortable asking the question.

"Such as?" Trip retorted. He couldn't help but wonder what T'Pol was getting at, and that curiosity was keeping him in the conversation.

T'Pol did her best approximation of a human shoulder shrug. "Adjusting to new food, new routines," she offered. She paused for a second, then pressed ahead. "Trouble sleeping?" she added, unable to keep a sense of weight from forming in her words; it conveyed more than she wanted to, giving too much hint as to her true meaning.

Trip glared at his former colleague. "I sleep just fine," he answered sharply. "How about you?" He had picked up on the hint, and was throwing it back at her.

T'Pol sniffed slightly as she answered. "Fine."

Now Trip finally cracked a grin as he spoke, but his eyes sent a far different message. "You sure about that?" he countered.

"Quite," T'Pol answered firmly. "No problems at all."

…

It was not turning out to be a good day for General K'Vagh. Indeed, it had not been a good year for General K'Vagh.

He had earned his honor the hard way, climbing up the ranks from a lowly soldier, serving the Empire to the best of his ability; he had never turned down an assignment, never shied away from combat, never given his superiors reason to question his obedience nor given his inferiors reason to question his judgment. He had been a loyal soldier from the first day, dedicated to the Empire until his last day, the sort of Klingon who stood tall and brought honor upon himself and others.

And for his loyalty, the High Command had assigned him the task of babysitting a geneticist, a doctor engaged in some high-tech form of biowarfare. K'Vagh knew that he should be out commanding noble troops in the glorious cause of expanding the Empire; but instead, he was here, watching his noble troops die of a plague.

K'Vagh growled deeply as the door clanked open before him. "Your hour is up!" he bellowed as he entered the laboratory.

Of the two researchers, only the alien paid up any heed. "We're getting the test results now," Phlox offered, his voice expressing his irritability at being interrupted. The Denobulan barely looked up from the microscopic scanner to acknowledge the general's presence.

It did little to help K'Vagh's mood. "We are running out of time!"

Now Phlox looked up, and he held his hands out before him, as if to placate the angry Klingon. "General, I know the Klingon fleet is on its way," Phlox spoke, voicing his words carefully to express patience and understanding. "And I understand what this project cost you, personally." At K'Vagh's warning growl, Phlox pressed ahead. "Antaak told me about your son."

The reference to his son brought K'Vagh up short, momentarily deafening his anger. "He died in combat for the Empire," K'Vagh responded, as if that said everything; and indeed, for the Klingon general, it did.

Phlox nodded slightly, as if in understanding. "At least he was spared the final stage of this disease," the doctor continued. He paused for a moment, and shifted slightly, as if debating his next words. "May I ask how he was infected?"

K'Vagh grunted. "Command chose his unit for the Augment experiment when we had exhausted our supply of prisoners," the general answered as he straightened his back, bringing his full height to bear on the shorter Denobulan. "My son was a warrior. He asked for no special treatment, and received none."

"You must be very proud of him," Phlox replied, his words brimming with sincerity.

"I am," K'Vagh retorted, his words masking the ambivalence of his own feelings. Laneth had insinuated, after all, that Marab's death was less than honorable.

Perhaps, K'Vagh realized, it's time to question Laneth more thoroughly.

…

With only a flimsy plastic knife and a spork at his disposal, Malcolm was struggling to cut his meat; the thin slab of charred flesh was holding fast, refusing to yield to the cheap utensils and driving the commander's ire to surprising heights. With little else to focus on—little more was happening in the brig, save his neighbor's similar battle with the overcooked rations—Malcolm's battle with his dinner seemed magnified in importance, and a symbol of his own impotence as he simultaneously fought against his imprisonment.

It was with little surprise, then, that he heard the soft clatter of a plastic food tray hitting the dividing wall between the cells, accompanied by the frustrated growl of a smooth-headed Klingon. "BlHnuch!" Marab bellowed out, seemingly calling his own dinner a coward. It was, perhaps, a strange insult for a dead piece of meat; but Marab chose to double-down on it, shouting "BlHnuch!" a second time as he glared at the unmoving lump of meat laying on his deck plate.

"And what did they give you?" Malcolm asked laconically, addressing his erstwhile comrage in incarceration. He raised his arms above his head and arched backward, stretching the aching muscles in his back; and they groaned with relieved pain. Malcolm had not slept well the night before, nor the night before that, and his body was bearing the misery of nights spent in unrelieved tension.

"It's dead," Marab growled angrily. He rose quickly to his feet and pointed at the thin slab of meat, but it refused to move, refused to show any sign of life-giving life. Klingon food was, as a rule, either alive or close enough for the blood to still flow; and a charred piece of liver was scarcely food fit for a warrior. He hurled another invective at it before speaking again to Malcolm. "I can't eat that."

"It's all you're getting," Malcolm countered. "It's all we're getting," he added despondently, wondering where dinner had gone wrong; he had eaten many rations over his career, and he couldn't recall any as bad as those he had gotten while in the Enterprise's brig. Indeed, he was growing to dread meal time; but he knew he had to eat.

"No wonder you're all so weak," Marab retorted, seemingly oblivious to the double standard he was asserting; a knock-down battle of strength between the warrior and the Starfleet commander, after all, wouldn't necessarily end in favor of the smooth-headed, watered-down Klingon. Starting to pace, he quickly reached one end of the cell and turned around, a low growl still erupting from his throat.

Turning to face the Klingon, Malcolm set down his utensils and stood up slowly. "Physical strength isn't everything," he replied. Despite his best efforts, he was finding himself drawn into conversation with the jailed Klingon warrior; and it was curiosity that drove Malcolm. In nearly twenty years of service, he realized, he had never carried on a true conversation with a Klingon. Indeed, to Malcolm's knowledge, few people had.

Marab paused his pacing to glare through the reinforced plasticine wall. "You can't win wars without it," he rejoined.

"Being smart is more important," Malcolm answered. He furrowed his brow as he dredged up an old memory, recalling lessons from a long-past class at Starfleet Academy. "General Sun Tzu said that the greatest victories are those won without fighting at all," he stated, quoting the ancient Chinese general. Malcolm wondered what his new Klingon friend would make of Sun Tzu.

"What a fool," Marab responded with a sneer, thus answering the commander's unspoken question; the warrior clearly had little time for such nonviolent platitudes. He resumed his restless pacing, hitting one, then the other end, of the cell before continuing to speak. "The great Kahless said there's no victory without combat."

"Are you sure Kahless said that?" Malcolm asked. It was a genuine question from the former tactical officer, and not an attempt to needle his way beneath Marab's skin. At least, not mostly, Malcolm amended. He was rapidly learning how easy it was to provoke the smooth-headed Klingon, and Malcolm realized that he needed to practice more care if he was to have a useful conversation with Marab.

Marab glared back, his expression making clear his anger; the youthful warrior did not appreciate the line of questioning.

Taking a moment to center his thoughts, Malcolm ran a hand across his face, feeling the stubble of unshaven beard. "Do you ever question why you fight?" he asked at last, giving voice to the question that had been driving him for days. It had been paramount on his brain, keeping him awake at night as he contemplated his duty both to Captain Archer and to Director Harris.

"Soldiers don't question," Marab snorted. "They obey." It was a simple statement, one born in certainty of the way things are done, expressing no doubt in the correctness or integrity of that system.

Malcolm stepped towards the plasticine wall until the two men where now a foot apart, staring at each other through the barrier. "But what if your superiors are wrong?" he asked carefully, uncertain if the young Klingon had even considered such possibilities. The question was capable of provoking a wide range of responses, but Malcolm trusted the reinforced plasticine keeping the two men apart.

"Then we kill them," Marab snorted, as if the answer was obvious; and to be fair, Malcolm noted, it was obvious to Marab.

Malcolm nodded, as if in understanding. "But that's not how we do things in Starfleet," he countered. But how DO we do things in Starfleet? Malcolm found himself wondering. He was, somehow, trapped between two commanding officers, stuck in a treacherous no-man's-land between Harris and Archer.

In a way, the answer was simple: no one would fault him for simply obeying the dictates of the higher-ranked officer, who was, unquestionably, Director Harris. But is it really that simple? Malcolm thought to himself. Jonathan Archer is still my direct commanding officer. And, if I were held captive by the Klingons, the captain would end at nothing to retrieve me. Harris would write me off as a casualty of the greater good.

In a way, it was a straightforward binary equation. Malcolm could choose to follow the orders of his long-time superior, the man who had trained him and educated him; a man who was cold and calculating, but always in touch with the bigger picture. Or he could choose to follow the orders of his captain, a youthful ideologue who made a habit of charging headfirst into the stars, confident in his own abilities to win over enemies and save the day. A man who has defied the odds before.

No, Malcolm was beginning to realize, as he turned the conundrum over in his mind. Harris' course of action would condemn Phlox to death. The captain would give Phlox a fighting chance at life. It was a value judgment, the act of placing one above the other, that finally swayed Malcolm's mind.

Marab finally cracked a smile and leaned inward until he was practically kissing the plasticine. "Which is why the Empire will defeat you, TerraSngan," he replied, spitting out the final word as if a curse. It was as if the Klingon was privy to Malcolm's internal crisis, and responding to Malcolm's chosen resolution.

Malcolm, too, smiled broadly, feeling that he had a final retort. "Then how come you're in the same brig that I'm in?"

…

Few things could turn the stomach of a seasoned Klingon warrior; and General K'Vagh, the veteran of a dozen campaigns, had seen more than most. From the swamps of M'kemas III to the frozen tundras of Tarellia, the killing fields of Campur IV to the blood-letting of Galdenterre, he had seen enough blood and gore to inure even the weakest of warriors to life's harsh ending. Death on the battlefield; that was the Klingon way, and K'Vagh could handle it, even appreciate it.

But death due to disease—and especially the slow, painful death brought on by the Augment virus—that was different. That was nasty, underhanded, a dishonorable attack on the brave warriors who had submitted themselves for the genetic testing.

"You said we'd become stronger," Laneth hissed at him, openly flaunting his vastly superior rank. Once a proud, strong female warrior, she seemed to be shrinking before K'Vagh's eyes; wilting away into nothingness as the Augment virus took hold of her genome, rewriting it in brutal fashion. "This is what you've done to us." She gestured about the room, at the other three members of the team, all of whom were bedridden and writhing in pain.

It troubled K'Vagh in ways that he didn't dare voice, lest he show his own fear, his own weakness, to his subordinates. This—virus—that had promised so much, had turned traitor on its hosts, attacking them from within; and as he observed the afflicted warriors, he couldn't help but feel a disgusting sense of compassion for them. "He will become infectious soon," K'Vagh finally answered, pointing to one of the quartet; the smooth-headed Klingon, stripped of his crest, stripped of his strength, was now sweating profusely as he twisted about, fighting the genetic fire within. "He should be quarantined."

"We'll all remain here," Laneth snarled angrily. "If we're going to die, then we'll die together, as comrades." Much went unspoken in her comment; for the fact was, only another of the afflicted would bear to see their comrades die in such a manner. Only another of the afflicted would offer the Klingon death roar for such an ignoble end.

K'Vagh raised one hand, as if to tame the infuriated woman. "Be patient, Lieutenant," he countered, offering his most soothing voice; the general, though he was loathe to admit it, was feeling something akin to sympathy for his afflicted troops. How disgusting. "The Denobulan is working to stabilize the human DNA," he added, trying his best to offer hope for the quartet. "When he does, you will all be healthy again, and stronger than any Klingon!"

"Will he restore our appearance?" Laneth hissed back, running a hand across her smooth forehead to emphasize the point.

K'Vagh fleeting thought about telling a small falsehood, but it wasn't his way. "I don't know," the general admitted instead. In the end, there was little he could do but tell the truth. "Phlox hasn't made any promises," he added. It was up to his troops—brave Klingon warriors, all of them—to face that simple truth with courage, just as they would face a foe in combat.

That was the Klingon way. At least, as far as K'Vagh understood the teachings of Kahless.

But the shrunken warrior before him was still angered. "How do you expect us to return home looking like this?" she growled, refusing to back down from her commanding officer. "We will be outcasts. There will be no place for us in the Empire!"

K'Vagh let loose with a low growl from his own throat, trying to remind Laneth of her place; in light of her condition, he was tolerating a great amount of insubordination, but his patience knew limits. "Your heart is still Klingon," he added a moment later, as if that meant everything; and it did, to the general. He cared little what his troops looked like, as long as they lived and fought and died as noble warriors.

Laneth backed up a step, but she pressed forward verbally. "Are you certain of that?" she demanded. "During the battle with the Starfleet ship I felt fear for the first time since I was a child!" It was an extraordinary admission by the young woman, but that was not all she had to say. "I wasn't alone," she added, drawing the rest of her team into the conversation. "I could see it in the eyes of the others."

A part of K'Vagh—a small but growing part of him—debated whether to order her execution on the spot. Her recalcitrance was not befitting a warrior of the Empire; he was her superior officer, and she would obey. That was her duty and her role; not this—this obstinacy, this truculent attitude of defiance. This, alone, was cause for discipline. So why am I holding back? K'Vagh wondered, mystified by his own tolerance.

"We've become like them," Laneth spit out. "Weak, cowardly." Her only encounter with the humans had been the brief battle on board the Enterprise, but humanity's reputation for frailty and fear preceded them within the Empire.

To K'Vagh, it smacked of dangerous arrogance.

Laneth wasn't finished. "It would be better for us to die," she added, her voice crumbling slightly as her ire was finally spent. Weakened by the exertion, she lowered herself onto a cot until she finally collapsed, unable to support her own weight.

K'Vagh eyed the quartet of afflicted Klingons carefully. "As long as I draw breath," he said, "the Empire will not turn its back on you." It was the best he could do, but it was a promise that he could keep; as long as he survived the coming apocalypse of Admiral Krell, as long as he lived to fight on another day, he would advocate for the afflicted warriors under his command. Surely, after all, there was still a place for them in the Empire.

Right?

…

The expressiveness of a beagle knows no bounds.

But today, as Porthos lay on the edge of Jonathan Archer's bed, head forward on his paws, eyes drooping slightly and ears dangling downward, there was only one word to describe the pup's feelings: forlorn.

"I get the feeling that you miss Phlox, too," Archer said sadly as he sat down beside Porthos. His hand hung over the pup's head for a moment before descending softly behind the dog's ears. "Maybe it's just the stash of cheese he's got in Sickbay," the captain noted as he began to scratch, but Porthos didn't even raise his head; the pup was clearly feeling out of sorts, as if something in his life was missing.

And so do I, Archer admitted to himself, unwilling to even give voice to the thought. He had flown through space before without trusted crew at his side—but this one was different, this one hurt somehow. Knowing that Phlox was out there somewhere, being held against his will, when the doctor should be here on the Enterprise…

Porthos lifted his head and let out a soft whine, and a moment later, Archer's computer monitor beeped. "Hold that thought," Archer murmured, more to himself than the pup. The captain rose from the bed and, taking a couple steps to cross the room, tapped open the comm channel on his monitor.

On the screen, frozen in place, was a man; a few years past his physical prime, he wore his age with senatorial distinction, and a carefully-coiffed design of salt-and-pepper hair rested above creased lines. Soft blue eyes spoke of experience and care.

He wore a black leather suit.

After a split-second delay, the image moved slightly as the man adjusted himself. "Captain Archer," Harris said gravely, "I'm told you have some questions for me." The director carried an air of unquestioned authority about himself, and spoke with an unmistakable sense of solemnity.

Archer, leaning over the monitor, launched right in. "Where's my doctor?" he demanded, hoping that the mysterious Harris knew the answer to the question; it was not a sure thing, Archer realized, acknowledging that he was simply following the only thread of a lead that he had. Harris might or might not know the answer; and critically, could Archer force the unknown man to divulge the sought-after information, if he had it?

Harris nodded. "I imagined that you would want to know," the older man replied. "All I can tell you is that Phlox is safe. He's on a mission of great importance to Starfleet."

Safe—in the hands of the Klingons? Archer easily remembered his own treatment at the hands of the brutal alien race. "Phlox was kidnapped," Archer countered harshly, unwilling to accept what he had been told. "Starfleet would never authorize that." He spoke with certainty, as if absolutely ruling out the possibility of Harris' words. Starfleet would never countenance the abduction of a civilian, Archer knew. Even a civilian serving aboard a Starfleet vessel. It wasn't the Starfleet way; it wasn't the Starfleet that Archer had sworn an oath to.

And where did Harris fit into the Starfleet picture?

Harris shrugged slightly. "Certain measures had to be taken," he answered blandly. "Reread the Starfleet Charter, Article 14, Section 31, Captain," the director added. "There are a few lines that make allowances for bending the rules during times of extraordinary threat."

Archer had to admit to himself that he couldn't recall Section 31 of Article 14 of the Starfleet Charter, but he resolved himself to read it at the earliest opportunity. "What threat?" he asked instead, pursuing a different angle. The captain was out here, after all, on the figurative front lines, and he was not clear on what 'extraordinary threat' may exist…there were average threats, to be sure, but something that would justify kidnapping Phlox? Archer shook his head, certain that nothing like that existed.

"Take your pick," Harris commented. "Earth's got a lot of enemies."

"I should know," Archer retorted immediately, unable to hold himself back. "I've fought most of them." He had also defused tensions with a number of potential enemies, turning them into potential friends—or at least neutral neighbors.

"Captain," Harris replied, "you're the last person I should have to lecture on the dangers of space."

"Then don't," Archer shot back. "Tell me where my doctor is!"

Harris leaned forward slightly, filling the monitor with his visage. "What I want to talk about is Lieutenant Commander Reed," the director answered. "He's done good work for us over the years."

I don't even know who 'us' is, Archer thought to himself. But it's surely not the Starfleet that I serve. There was something about this Harris character that was making Archer profoundly uncomfortable, and the notion that Malcolm had worked for Harris—it was forcing Archer to question just how well he knew his former tactical officer. Four years of service together, including ten months in the Delphic Expanse…was it possible that Archer had barely scratched Malcolm's surface? "He disobeyed my orders and endangered my crew," the captain responded, allowing his anger to peak in his voice.

"Don't be too hard on him," Harris countered. The older man's patience was clearly nearing its end. "He was just following my orders. And to be perfectly candid, Captain, my orders do supersede yours."

Archer slammed the palm of his hand against his desk, and winced inwardly at the pain. "You put him in an impossible position!" Maybe that's the truth here, Archer realized, and his anger at Malcolm lessened slightly. Malcolm was caught between two commanding officers, between obedience to his orders and duty to his ship and crew.

At that, Archer resolved to give Malcolm a final chance to come clean.

"I can understand why you would feel that way," Harris offered, "but this is bigger than one captain and one ship. Commander Reed understands that."

"You're going to have to do better than that," Archer growled.

Harris nodded. "Let me say this, then," the director answered. "What I can tell you is that, if you interfere before Phlox completes his assignment, the repercussions will affect worlds. Do you really want that on your head, Captain?"

…

Taking a deep breath, Phlox placed his hands on his lower back; and arching backward, he felt pained muscles scream as they loosened up from their rigid postures.

It had been—days, now—since he had taken a substantial break from his work; in fact, he would've had to check a calendar to ascertain exactly how much time had actually passed since he had initially awoken in the Klingon vessel. Wrapped up in his work, caught up in the effort to cure the Augment plague, he had little awareness of time passing around him; there was only a semi-steady tick tick in his head, a mental reminder that as he worked, more and more sentient beings were dying.

But now, for the moment, he had reached a pause; there was little he could do to hasten the process while sample genetic materials grew and matured in old-fashioned petri dishes. "One of these four strains has the appropriate genetic trigger that can neutralize the virus," he told K'Vagh, who had entered the laboratory moments earlier. "The other three are fatal."

The general grunted his understanding. "Which one?" K'Vagh went on, demanding an answer.

Wearily, Phlox shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know yet," he explained unhurriedly; there was no rush. The samples would mature at their own pace. "That's why I have to check each of them."

K'Vagh glared at the shorter Denobulan doctor. "And how long will that take?"

Phlox shrugged again. "A week," he answered. "We have to allow each sample time to mature, and then allow time for testing on our patients…I can't hurry the process, General. We simply have to wait it out."

"A week?" K'Vagh growled deeply. "That will not work, Doctor. Fleet Admiral Krell is barely six hours away. He has orders—he has orders to sterilize the colony. The only way to prevent him from killing all of us is by providing a perfected genome."

"Six hours?" Phlox was aghast. "That's not remotely enough time!" The doctor paused as he racked his brain for a solution. "How about this: his fleet can quarantine this world while I complete my tests. Sterilization is not necessary."

"Admiral Krell is not a bargaining man," K'Vagh answered harshly. "He will not extend his deadline."

"But the only possible way to get results on Krell's schedule is to—to infect four healthy Klingons!"

K'Vagh gestured broadly about the room, encompassing himself, Antaak, and two Klingon guards. "You have four right here!" The two guards moved up, as if expressing their willingness to participate; but Antaak held back cautiously.

"But only one of these strains will work!" Phlox sputtered. "The other three will be lethal. Ethically, it's unthinkable."

"The ethics, Doctor, are simple," K'Vagh countered with a low snarl, indicating his displeasure with Phlox's objection. "Three lives to save millions."

…

Malcolm Reed paused as he brought his hand up, hovering in front of the door chime panel to the captain's ready room. Am I ready to do this? He asked himself, staring at the door in front of him. Am I ready to tell the captain everything? After all, if he told the captain, he would be betraying his oath to Starfleet—and if he didn't tell the captain, then, well, wouldn't he be betraying his oath to Starfleet?

I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't, Malcolm reflected with a tight grimace. There seemed to be little road forward between the metaphorical rock and the hard place—and what road existed, was curved and unlit, a treacherous place for him to travel. No, he thought, finding that he was even now debating his decision in his mind. I can't walk that road anymore. I must choose.

Perri O'Connell, standing guard behind Malcolm, cleared her throat to indicate that it was time; frozen as he was by indecision, Reed had waited long enough. It is time, he realized; it's time to come clean to the captain.

And hope that he can protect me.

Malcolm's finger reached out and pressed the door chime, and before he was truly ready, the doors hissed open before him. He took a brief step forward, across the threshold of the captain's sanctuary, and O'Connell followed close behind.

Captain Jonathan Archer stood behind his desk, staring out the small viewport. "You're excused, Ensign," Archer said without turning about; and with a brief acknowledgement, she stepped back, leaving the doors to hiss shut behind Malcolm.

Archer said nothing more, and as the silence grew more acute, Malcolm began to fidget. "At first, it didn't seem like lying," he said at last, breaking the pregnant pause between the two men.

Archer finally turned around to face Malcolm. "What else would you call it?" he asked lightly, but both men understood the weight in the words.

Taking a deep breath, Malcolm pushed the air out between his lips. "It was covert operations," he answered. "When I was a fresh ensign, I thought it was exciting. But the longer I worked with Harris—the less I enjoyed it. I didn't want to lie to you, Captain," he added, trying to keep the air of desperation out of his voice. "But I was under—I was under higher orders, sir." Finished, Malcolm uncharacteristically bit the bottom of his lip, hoping that Archer would appreciate just how many codes of conduct Malcolm was violating by talking.

Archer nodded slowly, but gave little indication of what he was thinking. "How do you feel about it now?" the captain asked.

Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. "I thought it was done, Captain. This is the first time that Harris has contacted me since I've served on the Enterprise." And that's another lie, Malcolm reflected, wondering at how instinctually it had come. "He told me—that there was a plague spreading in the Klingon Empire, and that they needed Phlox to help the Klingons find a cure." That much was accurate, at least. "I was supposed to slow us down, to give Phlox time to cure the plague."

Archer scowled as he extended a data PADD to Malcolm. "Did Harris tell you about this?" the captain asked, with just a hint of anger growing in his voice. "I had T'Pol take a closer look at our prisoner's medical scans.

Malcolm immediately recognized the scrolling display as DNA samples, but needed a little help from the notations on the bottom of the screen to further identify them. "It's human DNA," he said, breathing softly at the realization. "This doesn't make sense."

"Not just that," Archer replied roughly as he snatched back the PADD. "It's Augment DNA. Our Klingon prisoner has been infected with it, and now he's dying."

The sound of the universe crashing down on him sounded in Malcolm's eardrums as he started putting the puzzle together, reaching back in time to various events of the previous year. The theft of Augment DNA from the Genetic Research Institute. Harris' role in smuggling the DNA to the Klingons. The sickened Klingon warrior, physically human, now laying in sickbay as his DNA structures fall apart. A plague—stretching across a dozen systems in the Empire, affecting millions of Klingons.

I see why the Klingons need Phlox—but why is Harris helping them? If he went to so much trouble to infect the Klingons, why does he now want to cure them?

"I'm guessing the plague is the side effect of an Augment experiment gone wrong," Archer continued onward, unaware of everything rolling through Malcolm's mind. "The combination of human and Klingon DNA proved to be genetically poisonous."

Malcolm let out a slow breath. "Especially if the human DNA contained intentional errors," he added hesitantly. "If the Klingons got their hands on polluted Augment DNA…it would explain the poison, as you call it."

Archer stared anew at Malcolm. "What are you suggesting, Commander?" he asked, placing special emphasis on the last word.

I don't know—do I? Malcolm wondered to himself, uncertain of his own thoughts. There's a piece of this puzzle that's still missing…and dare I disclose all of this to the captain?

I've gone this far, Malcolm realized. My career—my honor—is now in the hands of Jonathan Archer. I can only hope that he appreciates what I'm doing. "Sir, I think Harris—people working for Harris—may be responsible for the polluted DNA," he said slowly.

The heavy accusation settled into the room, taking a deep hold before Archer spoke again. "If they did, that's—that's biowarfare," Archer replied, taking a slight step back as the implications sunk in. "I can't believe that Starfleet ever would've signed off on such a thing."

"Harris operates…freely," Malcolm countered, choosing the final word carefully. "If he did do this, it's likely that no one outside of his organization knows."

"But you do," Archer responded roughly. He stepped out from behind the desk, taking position directly in front of Malcolm. "And you waited until now to tell me?"

"I wanted to tell you everything, Captain!" Malcolm cried out, feeling the desperation in his voice.

"But you haven't, Commander," Archer cut back with steel. "Tell me what I need to hear."

"I wasn't told where Phlox was taken!" Malcolm countered fiercely.

"That's not good enough," Archer replied.

Where could Phlox be? If it's a genetic virus—Malcolm grew the ghost of a smile as he realized that he might, after all, have the answer. "The Klingons have a genetic research facility on Qu'Vat."

Without moving his eyes from Malcolm, Archer hit a comm button. "Archer to the bridge," he called out.

"Mayweather here, sir," the answer came back promptly.

"Travis, do you have a Klingon colony called Qu'Vat?" Archer asked, his tone finally hopeful.

"One moment, sir…yes, I have it on the starcharts."

"How long at warp five, Travis?"

"Six hours, sir."

"Set a course and engage." Archer triggered the comm channel shut. "Now, Malcolm…what are we going to do with you?"

Chapter break

To Phlox's way of thinking, the laboratory was growing crowded; in addition to himself and Antaak, General K'Vagh and two Klingon guards were present, readying themselves for an injection of augmented DNA. It was a procedure that Phlox could take—would take—no part in; but at the same time, he was not callous towards the lives of a million Klingons, all hanging in the balance. Phlox was, instead, straddling the line of his ethics; he could not inject four healthy patients with the deadly virus, but if they chose to inject themselves, he would not reject the results.

It was the best he could do, for the doctor's ethics in this matter were still unmovable.

"Why did you think you'd succeed in perfecting Augments when Doctor Soong failed?" Phlox tossed out the question as he busied himself about the laboratory, preparing the Klingon hypospray for use.

K'Vagh grunted as he waited impatiently for the doctor to complete the preparations. "Soong's mistake was that he made too few of them," the general answered.

"Earth once had thousands," Phlox responded, glancing over at the larger Klingon warrior. He paused for a moment to check a test tube, making sure that the volume of liquid inside contained no air bubbles. "They became tyrannical and started a war."

Doing his best to express his irritation, K'Vagh glared at the Denobulan doctor. "The way of Kahless teaches us discipline. Honor. Obedience. We can teach them our ways, Doctor, and channel their aggressions."

"I don't think so," Phlox countered. Satisfied with the first test tube, he inserted it into the hypospray and handed the contraption to K'Vagh. "Unlike you, I've dealt with Augments before. Their increased aggression is matched by their decreased inhibitions. They become cocky and arrogant, believing that they're born to rule. Doctor Soong tried to teach them discipline, General, and he failed. Do you really think you can do any better?" Phlox shook his head. "You'd lose control of them, just as humans did."

"Your Doctor Soong was weak, Denobulan," K'Vagh grunted angrily, unaccustomed to being challenged in such a matter—and unable to draw a d'k'tahg in response. "If the Klingon Augments are the strongest of us all, then yes, they deserve to rule. We Klingons respect strength. We don't fear it."

He swiped the hypospray from the doctor, and in one clumsy motion, brought it to his neck and pressed the injection trigger. A quiet hiss sounded, indicating that the small machine had done its job. "Now, how long until we know which one of us survives?"

Phlox couldn't help but feel a sense of acute horror as the general infected himself with the lethal virus. "An hour, at most," he replied finally, taking several seconds to shake off the muteness. He was unable to shake the tension from his voice.

K'Vagh scowled downward at the doctor. "Would bloodwine affect the results?" the general asked.

Phlox shrugged once. "I don't believe so," he answered.

"Good," K'Vagh responded roughly. Drawing a flask from an inside pocket, he raised it into the air. "Then we shall drink to the bravery of these warriors!" he bellowed out, his voice building precipitously; and with that, he took a deep swallow, pausing only to wipe the overflow from his mouth.

K'Vagh tilted the open flask towards Phlox. "Doctor?" he asked, offering up the contents.

Phlox opened his mouth, shut it, and then opened it again. "Never on the job," he replied.

…

In a word, Marab was sick, and there was little the crew of the Enterprise could do about it.

Laying down in sickbay, his brown skin was now a ghostly gray, sunken in and showing his bones; Marab had clearly seen better days. His long, bedraggled hair was matted down with sweat; the stench of decay arose from his body, filling the room with the aroma of death, and he lacked any strength with which to fight the restraints that bound him to the biobed.

The face of Jonathan Archer, the terraSngan captain, loomed over him; and Marab would've lashed out, if only he could. Archer was the enemy, his foe, the focus of his ire; and it grated on Marab that here he lay, unable to move a limb, while Archer paced about sickbay without restraint.

"We know Phlox was taken to the colony at Qu'Vat to work on a cure," Archer said. His ugly face filled the Klingon's field of vision. "We're going to be there in less than an hour.

Offering what little retort he could, Marab let out a weak snort. "Krell's patrols will crush you long before you get there." His voice was rough and sickly; and it disturbed the once-vibrant warrior to hear himself in such a manner. If only…he disposed of the thought immediately, not wanting to retread the journey that had led to his infirmities; but he knew, without a doubt, that it was the human DNA within him that was making him weak.

And he cursed the humans.

Archer, still hovering above, shook his head. "Krell's patrols have been shifted to patrol quarantine zones," the human captain announced. "Our path is clear."

Marab tried to growl, but it emerged as a barking cough.

Archer leaned in further. "Phlox will be in the medical facility," he stated. "We need the coordinates."

Marab struggled to lift his head from the soft pillow. "I won't help," he rasped out, and for good measure, the Klingon attempted to spit upward at the hovering human; but the spittle died in his mouth, unable to find the strength to propel itself.

"I imagined that much," Archer responded. His voice was tough, challenging the remaining pride of the smooth-headed warrior. "Phlox is working on a cure for you. If you don't want to help us, then help your people."

…

The medical barracks at Qu'Vat smelled worse; for crammed into the small room was a quartet of dying Klingons, each laid flat on their cot, unable to move any longer. The strength had been drained from them, as death settled in, and each was left to contemplate the inglorious nature of their end.

Laneth was barely able to lift her head as Phlox entered the room, but she had one question on her mind. "My brothers?" she asked, her voice cracking with the strain. With the exertion complete, she sunk back into her cot, exhausted from the effort.

"They're quite ill," Phlox said, his kindness failing to rile the female warrior. He knelt down beside Laneth's cot and ran a scanner across her body; the device chirped and whistled, causing Phlox to frown. "So are you," he added. Seeing that Laneth's feet were tangled in a furry blanket, the doctor took a moment to unweave the mess and redistribute the heavy skin over her. "Try to rest," he advised.

Clanging doors drew Laneth's attention, and she tilted her head to one side as Antaak strode in; Phlox rose to greet the Klingon physician, leaving the patient to eavesdrop as the two healers spoke.

"Doctor," Antaak said gravely, as he nodded recognition to Phlox. For his part, Phlox let out a wan smile; the Denobulan was clearly wearied and lacking sleep, but he had not given up on his task. "The two guards," Antaak continued, "are displaying the first symptoms."

Phlox shuddered perceptibly, still discomfited by the ethics of infecting healthy Klingons. "That accounts for two of the three lethal strains," the doctor noted. He was keeping his own voice low and soft, but Laneth could still clearly make out the words.

"So either General K'Vagh lives, or I do," Antaak observed, his voice expressing his worry.

Lifting his medical scanner, Phlox ran it over the physician.

"It's the general, isn't it?" Antaak's voice peaked as Phlox said nothing; from her angle, Laneth was unable to make out the expression on the doctor's face, but Antaak's reaction said everything. "His strain has the cure."

Laneth, feeling a surge of laughter swelling up inside, could only cough loudly as she considered the justice of what was happening; the Klingon physician, the brains behind her affliction—and the affliction of millions of others—had been infected by his own disease!

Phlox, however, responded with sympathy and haste. "If we work quickly, there's a chance we can treat you in time," he told Antaak.

Antaak nodded slightly, but the worry was evident in his face.

…

Klingon warriors, tough and ready to rumble in other respects, are remarkably picky about their food; and so it was that Fleet Admiral Krell, with first choice of his ship's larder, found himself with a plate of fresh gagh. The live serpent worms were still twisting and climbing upon one another, forming a nice, thick stack on his plate as he sat in his office, awaiting the inevitable call.

Picking one up, he tilted his head backward and dangled the worm over his mouth, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. He felt as though he could taste its fear, as it stared down past his jagged teeth and into his black maw, but he was not quite ready to swallow it; instead, he watched as the worm twisted itself upward, trying to escape the vile breath coming from below.

Then his monitor beeped, signaling that a comm channel was opening. With an irritated growl, Krell dropped the worm back onto the plate of oozing gagh and slammed his hand onto the monitor, opening the channel from his own end.

On the screen was a man, a terraSngan man. A few years past his physical prime, he wore his age with senatorial distinction; a carefully-coiffed design of salt-and-pepper hair rested above creased lines. Soft blue eyes spoke of experience and care. He wore a black leather suit.

"What now?" Krell growled, demanding an answer out of his counterpart. The Fleet Admiral had known this call was coming, but had rehearsed little; it was of little consequence to him, just one more thing that stood between him and his squirming dinner.

"There's been a complication," Harris stated flatly. The screen behind him was dark, offering little indication of his location.

Krell felt the need to yell erupting in his throat; this project had been nothing but complications from the start, one problem after another interfering with the ultimate aim of creating genetically augmented Klingon warriors. Indeed, with so many setbacks, and little hope of success, the High Council had already shut the project down; and Krell was happy to be the instrument of the Council's order. "Another one?" he shot back, wondering what it could be now.

Harris nodded slowly. "This time, your people failed to stop the Enterprise," he answered. "They survived your little raid. They're on the way to Qu'Vat, with the Columbia."

Incompetent morons, Krell thought disgustedly, directing his inward ire at the afflicted warriors who had failed to destroy the Enterprise. He should've sent his own troops, true Klingon warriors to the last one; but instead, he'd allowed the craven K'Vagh to send his half-human pets to do a warrior's job. "Order them to withdraw," he responded gruffly.

Harris shook his head. "You know I don't have that authority."

Krell groaned audibly. His patience for ineptitude was strictly limited, and he was rapidly approaching the end of it; his fleet—a battle cruiser and two Raptor-class scoutships—was less than an hour away from Qu'Vat. It appeared that he would have another loose end to tie up. Besides, he thought wolfishly, how much glory will I get when I defeat the Enterprise? The enemy vessel had been making a name for itself as a foe of the Empire, and his stature would only increase when he brought back the battered hull and enslaved crew as trophies of battle.

Krell leaned forward to address Harris again. "Then I'll destroy them," he replied.

"We had an arrangement!" Harris responded immediately, appearing startled by the Klingon's declaration.

Krell snorted loudly. "You did what I wanted," he answered derisively. His patience had clocked to expiration, and he was no longer going to hold back; this terraSngan deserved to know exactly what the admiral thought of Harris, his Starfleet, and his race. "I don't need you anymore."

Harris narrowed his eyes. "You agreed that both our governments would benefit if the two of us worked together."

Krell let out a single chortle. "And you believed me!"

…

Harris sat back in his chair, carefully waiting for the comm channel to close before allowing a slight smile to crease his face. Everything was coming together as he had expected; even the betrayals were right on schedule.

Now, however, there was little left for the director to do; what remained was in the hands of Jonathan Archer and the doctor, Phlox. Together, it was up to those two to save the day for Earth. The odds, Harris acknowledged, were against the valiant duo; but just the same, Harris was doing something extremely uncharacteristic for him.

He was betting against the odds.

…

Phlox's work was nearing the end point.

After—how much time has it been? —Phlox was, truly, uncertain how much time had transpired since his abduction. There had been little in the way to mark the passage of time; no exposure to the outdoors, no sense of a regular sleep cycle, and all along he had been focused on his work to the exclusion of other considerations. Buried in the genetic research and restructuring, he could only say that time had passed, but he was at a loss to answer how much.

But it was worth it; he knew that much. The correctness of his mission had driven him from day one; for he was, indeed, on a mission to fix a genetic stew, to heal his patients (counted by the millions), and to undo the damage wrought by others in the misguided pursuit of super-Klingons. Even the looming threat of his own death did not faze him; he was a doctor, damnit, and he had patients to cure. His own life was inconsequential next to those he could save.

"Load the amino acids," Phlox ordered, and Antaak dutifully followed the command; the two doctors were joined in the main laboratory by General K'Vagh, who was starting to sweat in un-Klingon fashion. Admiral Krell's fleet would arrive soon, too soon, and all three men were well aware of the death and destruction that Krell would bring unto them. "I'll extract the viral DNA from his blood," Phlox continued, referencing the blood sample from K'Vagh. He bustled about, inserting the ampule into a piece of stolen Denobulan medical machinery.

The doors to the laboratory clanged open.

Phlox's first reaction was to mutter a curse; whoever it was, he did not welcome the distraction, not now, when he needed to be focusing so carefully on his work. He looked up involuntarily, ready to yell at the newcomer for picking such an inopportune moment.

The words died in Phlox's throat as he realized that the newcomer was Jonathan Archer. Flanked by two Starfleet security guards, the threesome had phase pistols drawn and directed into the room.

"Captain!" Phlox exclaimed in surprise. He had assumed all this time that the Enterprise was on his tail, doing everything to seek out and find their missing doctor; and yet, Phlox found himself nearly flabbergasted to see Archer appear in the threshold of the laboratory.

Finding little resistance—K'Vagh simply stood silently—Archer holstered his phase pistol and entered the room. "You all right?" Archer asked, directing the concerned inquiry to Phlox.

Phlox let loose with a relieved grin. "Better, now that you're here," the doctor answered, happy to see his commander and comrade. It may have pressed logic, but Archer's arrival led Phlox to believe that everything would work out fine…but it also begged a question. "How did you find us?" the doctor asked cautiously.

Instead of answering, Archer nodded to an unseen individual in the hallway; and in entered a young Klingon male, smooth-headed like his human counterpart. The Klingon was clearly sick, and to Phlox's trained eye, was likely in the final stages of the viral disease.

"Father," the young man said carefully, addressing himself to K'Vagh. The young man stepped forward, stumbling slightly as he sought to maintain his precarious balance.

K'Vagh eyed Marab with utter surprise. "I was told that you had been killed," the general answered slowly, as if disbelieving his eyes; K'Vagh had clearly never expected to see his son again, much less upright and clinging to life.

Struggling to meet his father's gaze, Marab glanced downward at the deck plating. "The humans spared me," he replied. "They did not let me die."

K'Vagh grunted once, and Phlox surmised that the seasoned warrior did not know how to process his son's survival. Was it honorable? Or was it dishonorable?

Archer, for his part, had little intention of letting the tension linger. "I came to get my doctor back," the captain announced firmly, stepping closer to the much-larger Klingon general. "I came for Phlox."

K'Vagh finally shifted his gaze from his stricken son. "That's impossible," the general growled. "We need him here."

Archer shook his head in defiance. "I have two ships in orbit, heavily armed—"

"Gentlemen, please," Phlox interjected hurriedly, not wanting to see the disagreement come to blows. "I think I can speak for myself."

"Phlox, get ready to leave," Archer replied, a tight warning tone in his voice.

"Captain." Phlox squared up his shoulders against the human. "I can't leave yet. I need a little more time to cure this plague."

"Cure?" K'Vagh turned to face the doctor, his face awash with fury. "You were supposed to perfect the Augment genome!"

"I lied," Phlox responded tartly. Strange as it seemed, he had no fear left. "Your son may be alive for now, but he will not survive much longer if I don't complete my work."

The response seemed to take K'Vagh aback. "You think you can cure the plague?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes," Phlox answered firmly. "A few more hours, Captain, that's all I ask," he added, turning back to face Archer. "Several million patients are counting on it."

"I'm not sure I can give you a few more hours, Phlox," Archer answered slowly. "I'm afraid you're out of time."

…

T'Pol, sitting in command of the Enterprise, knew what was coming before it registered on the starship's sensors.

"Commander!" Neda Rahimi's voice rang out clearly from the tactical station. "Three Klingon ships have just dropped out of warp! I'm reading—one battlecruiser and two scoutships!"

Plenty of firepower, T'Pol recognized. Plenty to destroy us. She had, alas, little hope for a negotiated settlement. "Open a channel to the Columbia," T'Pol ordered, glancing to the left to address Hoshi Sato.

"The Klingons are jamming everything!" Hoshi replied a split second later. "I can't get through!"

Very well, T'Pol thought to herself, resigned to the inevitability of her course. "Sound general quarters!"

…

At that moment, a klaxon rang in the Klingon laboratory on the surface of Qu'Vat.

"What is it?" Marab asked, looking upward at the ceiling for the source of the harsh ringing.

"Krell's ships are here," K'Vagh grunted. Slamming a fist into the comm panel on the wall, he opened a channel to the facility's control center. "This is K'Vagh!" he bellowed out. "Raise shields!"

With that command, he declared war on Admiral Krell.

Archer paused only a moment as the implication set in; K'Vagh was preparing to defy the admiral overhead and give Phlox a chance to develop the cure. "Keep working," Archer said, directing the command at Phlox; and he pulled a communicator out of his pocket. "Archer to Enterprise!" he called out. "Tell the Klingons we have the cure!"

The only feedback was static.

"Enterprise! Respond!" Archer bellowed out, hoping against reason that this time, he would receive a response. And he did—but not from Commander T'Pol and the Enterprise.

"This is Fleet Admiral Krell." The harsh voice resonated from the speakers in the room. "I'm under orders to eradicate this colony. Drop your shields immediately, K'Vagh, or be branded an enemy of the Empire."

"You don't have to do that!" Archer called out, directing his voice to the hidden receivers in the room. "My doctor can stop the plague!"

"I have a more effective solution," Krell hissed back. "Stand down, Qu'Vat."

"Hello, Admiral Krell," Phlox spoke up, assuming the lead. "This is Doctor Phlox. I am transmitting the details of an antivirus." He paused for one moment to enter the necessary commands into the computer console. "Feel free to have your physicians confirm my findings, and you're welcome to call with any questions."

"My orders are clear." Krell's voice seemed to fill the small room. "Captain Archer, your ships are now property of the Klingon Empire. Stand down or be destroyed!"

…

"The battlecruiser is moving into a lower orbit," Rahimi called out from tactical. Her voice easily crossed the bridge, settling in T'Pol's ears; and for her part, the Vulcan commander accepted the report with equanimity. It would do no good, she reasoned, to add to the tension already filling the bridge. "They're charging weapons!"

Now, T'Pol stood up from the command chair, in unconscious imitation of the human captain she had followed for so many years. It felt—it seemed—to give her more of a command presence, standing in the well of the bridge, ready to lead the Enterprise charging into battle.

And those were her orders. "Intercept course!" she called out, and was rewarded a split second later by an affirmation from Travis Mayweather. Turning to one side, she addressed Hoshi with a single word. "Columbia?"

Hoshi shook her head dejectedly. "I can't get through."

"Commander, they're firing on the colony!" Rahimi's voice cut across the bridge again.

T'Pol's head whirled back to the main viewscreen to see green globules of energy spitting out from the battlecruiser's weapons banks. "Target their disruptors and fire!" she ordered.

…

The laboratory rocked as disruptor fire hit the energy shields overhead.

"How strong are the shields around this place?" Archer yelled out. He was forced to grab a table to keep his balance, as the floor seemed to quake beneath his feet; a ceiling panel above his head partially collapsed, coating the captain with dust and debris.

"Not strong enough!" K'Vagh bellowed back. The Klingon general stood firm and unassisted. "You said you had two ships in orbit!"

"I do!" Archer shot back. "I'm sure they're doing everything they can." He flipped open his handheld communicator again, hoping that the jamming signal had been dropped. "Archer to Enteprise!" he called out.

Only static answered him.

…

"Come about for another pass!" T'Pol's voice was rising in volume as she struggled to be heard over the screeching sirens, each one signaling a different form of danger as she took the Enterprise into pitched combat.

"Commander!" Rahimi's voice countered over the din. "The scout vessels are closing from astern!" And as the Raptor-class vessels came to bear, the Enterprise shuddered for the first time under the impact of weapons fire.

It was a costly strike. "Aft cannons are down!" Rahimi reported loudly, and she ducked quickly as a panel exploded behind her head.

…

"Columbia to Enterprise!" Erika Hernandez called out, as she watched the first shots unfold on her viewscreen; nothing but static replied, indicating that the jamming signal was still in full force. Not one to linger, she shifted thoughts quickly. "Looks like the Enterprise can use a hand, people! Let's keep those ships off their tail!"

…

"Your ships are taking damage!" K'Vagh grunted loudly, as the din within the laboratory rose to a fevered pitch. "They're outclassed, Captain! If you have a surprise, now is the time!"

"How much time?" Archer's voice darted to Phlox, who despite the steady trembling of the room was still busying himself about the medical equipment.

"As I said," Phlox shot back, "In another few hours—"

"Can you speed that up a little?" Archer retorted. Letting go of the table, he stumbled his way over the doctor. "Listen, Phlox, I have an idea! But if we want to get out of here in one piece, we've got to get that cure, and we've got to get it fast!"

Phlox hesitated before speaking. "I could finish the antivirus in less time if I had a human host to replicate enough antibodies," the doctor replied, but the doubt was etched hard in the Denobulan's face.

Archer replied without hesitation. "I volunteer, Phlox."

"Captain, I would have to expose you to the plague!" Phlox's discomfort was evident. "I cannot predict what it might do to you!"

"Your ethics be damned, Doctor!" K'Vagh's voice boomed across the small room. "This is the time!"

Archer nodded in agreement. "Will it give you the cure, Phlox?"

"Unquestionably," Phlox answered.

"Then let's get started," Archer replied. "What do you need from me?"

"I need—I need to strap you down," Phlox replied, pointing the captain towards a chair in the corner of the room; the arms and legs of the chair possessed strong restraints, gauged to hold down a berserk Klingon warrior.

K'Vagh continued to stand strong as the room heaved upward for a split second, never shaky in his balance. "What do you intend to do, Captain?"

Archer stumbled into the chair, grateful for a chance to sit down amid the quaking. "This virus may be our best weapon against Krell," the human captain answered. He gestured to Phlox. "Ready when you are."

Phlox gulped once and started fastening the straps.

…

The Columbia was shaking wildly as it came under fire from both Klingon scoutships, but Hernandez was willing to accept the blows; each shot that the Columbia took was one less impeding the Enterprise, and their sister ship had its hands full dealing with the battlecruiser.

For now, at least, the Columbia was holding up to the assault.

"One of the scoutships is losing power!" tactical reported. "Their port nacelle is vulnerable!"

Hernandez leaned forward in her command chair, as if she could see the difference on the viewscreen. "Then fire at will!"

…

Archer winced as Phlox tightened the last strap, securely fastening the captain into the hardened chair.

"In addition to the virus, I'm injecting you with a metabolic catalyst to accelerate your immune response," Phlox stated grimly; reconciled as he was to the necessary course of action, the doctor was still not pleased to be infecting a healthy human—his friend and comrade, no less—with the lethal Klingon virus. "It won't be pleasant."

…

The Enterprise shook again under the impact of weapons fire, causing T'Pol to tightly grip the arms of the command chair; without restraints, the quaking would otherwise have tossed her from the seat and across the well of the bridge like a limp doll, beaten and battered as the Klingon battle cruiser took aim at the Starfleet flagship.

"It's no use!" Ensign Rahimi called out from tactical. Her face was obscured by the acrid smoke cloaking the Enterprise bridge, and her voice struggled to be heard over the screaming sirens and bone-chilling moans of the starship. "I can't penetrate their shields!"

"Commander!" Hoshi called out a moment later; she, too, could barely be seen. "I've broken through their jamming frequencies!"

T'Pol futilely glanced over at the communications console. "Open a channel to the captain!" she shouted.

…

In the midst of the battle din, Archer's communicator whistled sharply, drawing the temporary attention of the entire laboratory.

"T'Pol to Captain Archer!" T'Pol's voice sounded tiny when compared to the furious whoomps of disruptor impacts and the groaning of the battered structure. "Captain, respond!"

Phlox quickly rifled through the captain's pockets in search of the device. "Doctor Phlox here!" he said, flipping it open; he held the communicator close to his face, in hope of being heard. "The captain is indisposed at the moment!" Archer was already starting to twitch in pain, as the virus took root in the captain's system. "I imagine you have your hands full up there!" Phlox continued, shouting as loudly as he could.

"To say the least!" T'Pol replied a moment later. "What is your status?"

Archer started writhing as the pain increased exponentially, shooting outward through every nerve in his body; within moments, there was no part of him that did not feel as though it were on fire, and he twisted and turned in the chair, fighting against the tightly-held restraints.

Phlox shook his head, uncertain if he should fill T'Pol in on the full situation. "We have a plan to defuse this!" he shouted, "but we'll need a few more minutes to carry it out!"

"Time is at a premium, Doctor!" T'Pol replied sharply.

"Just the same, Commander, I'd appreciate it if you could keep the ceiling from caving in on us until then!" Phlox answered back as the floor quaked yet again, sending the doctor scrambling for balance.

"Understood!"

…

T'Pol had been in command of the Enterprise during the disastrous Battle of Azati Prime, when the Xindi had beaten and broken the starship down to its duranium frame.

Next to that experience…this is still bad, she reflected grimly as the engineering substation exploded upward, showering the bridge in colored fire. "How much hull plating do we have left?" she shouted out, hoping that Ensign Rahimi could hear over the spray of the automated fire suppression system.

"Sixty-two percent!" Rahimi shouted back.

Time to jump into the fire. "Mister Mayweather, put us directly between that cruiser and the colony!" T'Pol commanded.

…

Jonathan Archer knew nothing but pain.

Every cell in his body felt like it was on fire, burning brightly and with limitless fury. There was no end to it, no relief in sight; it was the entirety of his existence, the existential flame that threatened to consume him. He writhed in agony, seeking solace where he could find none.

For his part, Phlox looked on with astonishment. "It's working!" he called out. He was not immune to the captain's suffering, not in the least; but there, as if right on cue, Archer's forehead was morphing into a Klingon ridge. "It's working!" Phlox repeated, more quietly, stunned at what he had done.

…

"They're shifting their orbit!" Travis reported; his eyes were glued to the navigation console as he sought to fight a battle in three dimensions, moving the Enterprise about to keep the starship in the battlecruiser's line of fire.

"Stay with them!" T'Pol ordered sharply.

"Hull plating's down to forty percent!" Rahimi added in.

"Keep firing!" T'Pol gulped as she ran quick figures through her head, realizing how quickly the Enterprise's main line of defense was failing. "Captain Hernandez, please direct your weapons at the battlecruiser!"

…

Erika Hernandez slammed the heel of her palm into the arm of her command chair. "Wish I could help, Enterprise!" she called out dejectedly. "We just lost our weapons!"

…

"It's done!" Phlox shouted out, gesturing frantically for K'Vagh to hold down the captain; under the influence of the virus, Archer was winning his fight against the toughened restraints, threatening to break free to harm himself and others. "Hold him!"

K'Vagh grunted in response and slammed Archer back in the chair, allowing Phlox a free second to draw a vial of blood from the agonized captain.

"We've got it!" Phlox quickly shifted his attention away; the captain would, for better or worse, have to wait. "Is the canister ready?"

Antaak stepped up from behind thick cloud of smoke, holding forth a foot-long metallic canister. "It's set to disperse five seconds after transport!" the physician answered, affirming that he had done his job.

With great haste, Phlox poured the blood sample directly into the canister. "Send it!" he ordered roughly; Antaak, scurrying across the room, placed the canister on a small transporter pad and activated the controls. Within a moment, the canister vanished. "Open a channel to Krell!"

Heavy static indicated that the comm channel had been opened. "Admiral Krell! Doctor Phlox again." The Denobulan took a deep breath and forged onward. "By now you may have noticed the small package we sent to your bridge."

…

Up above, in orbit of Qu'Vat, Krell held the mystery canister.

"What you may not know is that it contains a potent sample of the metagenic virus," Phlox continued. "Even as we speak it is dispersing throughout your ship, infecting you and your crew."

With a sharp growl, Krell hurled the canister against the wall. "You're lying!" he barked out, but his voice betrayed just a hint of uncertainty. He lifted a hand in the air, indicating that to the weapons officer that their bombardment should temporarily halt.

"Check your internal sensors," Phlox stated. His voice steadied on the comm channel as the weapons fire ceased. "You will find that your atmosphere contains approximately twenty parts per million of the viral strain."

Krell gestured rudely to another bridge officer as Phlox went on. "Or if you don't trust your sensors, trust your senses," the doctor said. "You will feel the initial symptoms in about thirty minutes. A tightness in the chest, irregular heartbeat, and tingling in your cranial ridges."

"This is a cowardly attack!" Krell bellowed; he stood up from his command chair, wishing for an enemy that he could do honorable battle with. "This is biowarfare!"

"Maybe so," Phlox answered. "But I'm prepared to give you the cure."

"A cure?" Krell snorted loudly. "I and my crew are prepared to die! Can you say the same, Denobulan?"

"Perhaps you are," Phlox replied. "But think about the millions of Klingon lives that we can save. Of course, if you destroy this colony, well, treating you and your people could prove difficult." Phlox's voice took on an iron firmness. "I suggest you power down your weapons, Admiral, and let me cure your people."

…

Captain's Starlog, supplemental. Admiral Krell has stood down, and convinced the Klingon High Council to call off their sterilization program. They've promised to distribute Phlox's cure throughout the Empire. I have to admit, it comes as a bit of a surprise to me; I fully expected that Krell would choose death. I guess it goes to show that we have a lot more to learn about the Klingon way.

We are headed back to Earth, our original destination, and should arrive just in time for the opening of the Babel Conference. On another note…I have released Lieutenant Commander Reed from the brig, and confined him to quarters. I have opted to not file charges against him, but I have ordered him off the Enterprise upon our arrival at Earth.

…

Ah, yes, Phlox thought contentedly as he ran a proper medical scanner over Antaak; the device beeped and chirped an old, familiar tune, one that the doctor could interpret by sound. It's good to be back in my own sickbay. After weeks spent in Klingon laboratories, the Enterprise's sickbay was a welcome respite, in more ways than one; it was home, Phlox decided, wondering just when the Enterprise had earned that appellation for him. The lighting, the sounds, the aromas, the arm space…all of it was just as it should be, just as he had unwillingly left it weeks earlier.

The scanner chirped again, indicating that its analysis was complete; checking the readout, Phlox offered his trademark, cheek-to-cheek smile. "There's no trace of the virus in your bloodstream," he said, happily offering the good news to Antaak.

Antaak, delighted as he was by the news, still harbored a frown. "My targ won't even recognize me," the Klingon physician answered as he touched his smooth forehead; his cranial ridges, the pride of any true Klingon, had completely disappeared, replaced by a human-like smoothness.

Phlox nodded in understanding; the antivirus, though effective at eliminating the deadly affliction, had certain unwanted side-effects. "In the future, perhaps," Phlox mused, "it may be possible to reverse the cosmetic effects."

"I suppose this is what I deserve," Antaak replied after glowering for a moment, taking umbrage at the suggestion that the loss of his ridges was merely a cosmetic effect. He held his head down, struggling to make eye contact with the Denobulan doctor. "Millions of my people must live with this—this disfigurement, because of what I've done," Antaak continued. The guilt weighed him down, pulling his stature from the once-tall pride of a Klingon to that of a broken man. "It'll be passed on to our children. Life won't be easy for us." He could barely conceive of what the consequences would be, of how proper Klingon society would react to their smooth-headed kin; all Antaak could say was that the afflicted would not be welcomed easily back into the Klingon fold.

Phlox tut-tutted lightly. "You did your best to correct your mistakes," he countered, seeking to cheer the physician up. "That's all we can ask of ourselves." Left unsaid, content in the silence, was the doctor's professional forgiveness of Antaak's deadly oversight; Phlox's mercy was far more than Antaak felt he deserved, and far more than the Klingons would afford the fallen physician.

Antaak shook his head mournfully. "My superiors will likely execute me."

The comment alarmed Phlox. "We can talk to Captain Archer—I'm sure he can arrange asylum aboard the Enterprise—"

"I don't want it," Antaak responded gruffly, cutting off the doctor. "It'll take time for my case to reach the end. In the meantime, I can work on spreading the cure to this affliction. Let me do this, Doctor Phlox; it is my penance."

Phlox nodded with understanding.

…

Behind Phlox, the doors to sickbay hissed open, depositing Captain Hernandez and Commander T'Pol into the compartment; speaking softly between themselves, the duo quickly crossed to another biobed. Jonathan Archer sat at the foot, twisting his body about as he sought relief from the uncounted aches and pains that plagued him. Commander Tucker stood nearby, holding a mirror up for the captain.

"How are you feeling?" T'Pol asked primly; she was the measure of dispassion, save for her gaze, which was fixated on Archer's forehead. There, several v-shaped bumps still emerged from his head, the remnants of his fight on the planet's surface.

Archer nodded lightly. "Not too bad," he answered slowly, taking into account the battered status of his body; he had definitely been better, but given all he had been through in the previous day…I'll take this, he decided. "aside from some strange cravings. A plate of live gagh sounds pretty good right now."

Hernandez broke into a soft smile. "I'm afraid I can't help you with that, Jon," she answered. "But my chef does cook up a mean steak."

"The cravings should disappear in a day or so," Phlox said as he stepped into the conversation; properly welcoming the guest captain into his sickbay, he gifted her with a broad smile. "Along with your ridges."

"Nah, I'd keep them if I were you, Captain," Trip countered with a crooked grin. "It makes you look intimidating."

Archer shot a glare at the engineer.

The room fell into a temporary silence. "I should be getting back to the Columbia," Hernandez said, breaking into the quietude. "Duty calls, and all that."

"Of course," Archer answered with a smile and a wince; even his facial muscles still ached from the contortions he had undergone. "Thanks for your help, Erika."

"I don't know how you survived all these years without me," Hernandez replied with a teasing grin. "We'll see you back at Earth, Jon." The captain of the Columbia nodded her farewells to the remaining crew and took her leave.

T'Pol, for her part, seemed to tremble slightly as she spoke. "Shouldn't you be joining her?" the Vulcan asked, addressing her comment to Trip.

Trip shook his head as Archer spoke up. "I asked Trip to stick around for a little while to help us out with repairs," the captain answered evenly, hesitant to interpose himself between the two quarreling officers.

"Indeed." T'Pol raised both eyebrows, indicating her surprise. "Our new Chief Engineer will no doubt be delighted for the help." She couldn't resist emphasizing the words, new Chief Engineer; as in, you're no longer it.

"No, Kelby's got nothing to worry about," Trip replied, taking the directed dig in a different direction. "I'm only here temporarily."

…

I spoke to God today, and she said that she's ashamed.

What have I become, what have I done?

I spoke to the Devil today, and he swears he's not to blame.

And I understood, cause I feel the same.

Sitting on the side of his bed, Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed, formerly of the starship Enterprise, sat with his head in his hands, wondering what had become of him.

Recently—so recently—things had been going well for Malcolm. The former secret agent had found a home and a family; the respect of his colleagues and commanding officer; and an important part to play in the most critical mission he could conceive of. Yes, things had been going well.

But it all was lost—lost in one decision, a split-second action that had pulled him apart and dashed everything he had built for himself.

What have I done? Malcolm repeated to himself, still uncertain how things had gone so badly, so quickly. He had betrayed his captain, betrayed his comrades, betrayed his new-found ideals, all because of what exactly? What have I done?

Awash in his self-reprobation, Malcolm barely heard the spoken voice that sought to interrupt his thoughts. "Malcolm Reed, as I shit and bleed."

Malcolm groaned softly to himself as he dropped his hands and raised his head, certain that this was the last person he wanted to see. "I thought I killed you," he said slowly, taking stock of the newcomer who had mysteriously appeared before him. It was a thinly-built man of indeterminate age, possessing blue eyes and dirty blonde hair.

"You did," the man answered easily, smiling at Malcolm as he spoke. "You killed John Kelly, that is. But I'm willing to overlook that." He shrugged nonchalantly, as if the issue of his own death was no big deal. "I'm Peter Clark now."

"What do you want, Clark?" Malcolm's eyes shot out darts at the other man.

"Oh, the usual," Clark answered casually, as if seeking to get under Malcolm's tense skin with indifference. "Peace and harmony in the universe. A brotherhood of man and alien. And a good steak dinner." Clark paused to lick his lips. "Turns out that this path of life doesn't provide for many good meals."

"Quit joking around," Malcolm retorted tersely. "I don't have the patience to deal with you."

Clark nodded slowly, as if considering Malcolm's words. "I'm just here to express our boss' gratitude for your performance, Malcolm," he answered.

"I don't want it," Malcolm shot back immediately. Rising to his feet, he took a step forward.

"You're getting it anyway," Clark responded, refusing to back away. Together, the two men stood only feet apart, with Malcolm standing slightly taller and broader of shoulder. "The director is quite pleased with how you handled this mission."

Perplexed by the comment, Malcolm could only shake his head. "I told Captain Archer about my orders from the director," the former armory chief replied.

"Yes, you did," Clark answered. "Right on schedule, no less." He broke into a half-smile. "That's one of the best things about you, Malcolm. You're imminently predictable."

Malcolm growled with frustration. "Perhaps the director missed the message," he retorted sharply. "I'm not part of your organization anymore. I won't play these games of yours."

Clark's relaxed stance stood in sharp contrast to Malcolm's tension. "Oh, come now, Malcolm," Clark replied lightly. "You know that no one truly leaves the organization. People may depart for extended missions…but they always come back."

"Not this person!" Malcolm shot back.

"We're well aware of your growing admiration for Captain Archer, Malcolm," Clark observed as he ran a hand over his chin, directing a shift in the conversation. "Personally, I just don't understand it. He's a youthful idealist. And you? You're a seasoned veteran of the galaxy. It's an incongruous match."

Reed snorted loudly. "I believe in the captain. I'll admit, I used to be like you and the director…hardened and cynical, unwilling to believe that anything truly good could ever happen. But the captain showed me a different way, Peter Clark, and I believe in him; I followed him into the depths of the Devil's Expanse, and he showed me that the hand of peace can work."

Clark's face fell in somberness. "As I recall, he started a civil war within the Xindi."

"He forged peace with them," Malcolm countered, shaking his head fiercely. "And he made me believe in hope and the good that can come from humanity."

"Yes…and when you returned, on your first new mission, you were already reaching out for the director's assistance," Clark responded immediately. "I do hear your words, Malcolm; but I see your actions as well. And when the shit hit the fan, you called us."

"I did what was necessary to preserve lives," Malcolm answered tightly.

"Call it what you will, Malcolm," Clark replied. "I know the truth. As much as you fight to believe it, our organization is a part of you."

"Not so much." Malcolm's face was drawn in cold stone. "I want nothing more to do with your organization."

Clark let out a light laugh. "Yes…ever since you returned from the Expanse, you've been engaged in these games of pushing us away and then seeking us out," the agent answered. "The director's been happy to help you out, Malcolm, but he's not going to wait forever while you try to square away this little crisis of conscience that you're having."

"I'm not having a crisis, Clark," Malcolm shot back. "I've made my decision. I'm done with you."

Clark nodded slowly. "Of course you are, Malcolm," he answered. "We'll see how long it lasts this time."

Malcolm eyed his once-comrade carefully. "I only have one question for you."

"What is it?" Clark's face fell into an expression of perfect openness, of perfect willingness to answer any question that Malcolm may have.

"Why did you need Phlox?" There. It's out there, Malcolm realized as he said it. It was the one piece of the puzzle that he still didn't have, the one part that still troubled him.

"We didn't. At least, not initially," Clark answered willingly. "The goal was simply to discourage the Klingons from engaging in genetic augmentation. But their physician made a mistake. The DNA sequences fused with the Levodian flu, and went airborne, infecting millions."

"So what?" Malcolm responded as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Since when did you care if millions of Klingons were in jeopardy?"

Clark folded his arms in conscious imitation. "The Klingon Empire can handle a few thousand dead prisoners. But the threat of millions of infected warriors? That jeopardized the stability of the Empire."

Malcolm nodded gingerly as it came together for him. "And what destabilizes the Klingon Empire…"

"Destabilizes the entire quadrant," Clark replied, finishing the maxim. "We had to act, to bring the virus to a halt and offer a cure."

Unfolding his arms, Malcolm ran a hand through his hair. "You realize that the captain has ordered me off the Enterprise?"

"Of course we realize that," Clark answered slowly; his tone expressed only a hint of regret. "It's a negative consequence, but one that couldn't be avoided."

"I've built a new life here," Malcolm responded harshly, launching an accusation at his former partner. "I have friends and comrades. And thanks to your scheming, I had to betray all of them."

Clark smiled. "But you helped preserve humanity."

Malcolm could only shake his head in disagreement. "So my life is simply an acceptable casualty?"

"All of us are disposable, Malcolm," Clark answered with a slight snort. "When weighed against the survival of the human race, what is a single life?"

"That's easy for you to say," Malcolm replied a moment later. "After all, it's not your life."

"Easy there," Clark retorted with an air of admonition. "Remember, you've killed me before."

Malcolm scowled. "I'm done, Clark. I want nothing more to do with you, the director, and your entire organization."

"It's a shame, Malcolm. I thought you understood better." Clark dropped his arms to his sides and took a half-step backward. "You can't simply walk away."

Malcolm let out a deep breath of exasperation. "Why did you come here, Clark?" he demanded, completely tired of the conversation.

"To express our gratitude, as I said," Clark answered, shifting back to his main talking point. "This mission wouldn't have succeeded without you buying time for Phlox to find the cure."

"There, you've said your part," Malcolm answered tersely. "Now leave."

"Malcolm, I—"

"Don't ever contact me again," Malcolm demanded, taking a step forward, as if he could intimidate the smaller man. "Is that clear?"

"Of course, Malcolm." Clark finished off with a slight smile. "But we'll be waiting to hear from you. And, Malcolm, you and I both know that you'll be reaching out to us again."