A/N: Here we are, ladies and gentlemen. This is the sequel to my story Haven, so it won't make a lot of sense unless you've read it. That being said, I've been told that it's a fairly quick read. This chapter fiction will rewrite the arc that includes the episodes The Forge, Awakening, and Kir'Shara. For the sake of continuity, we're assuming that the Borderland/Augments arc remains intact. Pairings include RTP and Troshi; at this point, you should expect nothing else from me!

By now you're probably wondering about the title. Many of you know that I'm Orthodox Jewish. One of the fables I heard over and over again as a child was the legend of Bostanai. I suggest that you look into it yourself, because it might shed some light on where it is this story is headed. But if you're feeling exceptionally lazy today-and I don't blame you-fear not, for we'll hear the legend in its entirety in chapter two, as told by Malcolm to Jonathan.

Thanks to my beta BonesBird, who endures a whole lot more than she has to. Without her, it's very doubtful this story would see the light of day.

Bostanai

Chapter One

It was well into the afternoon, and Malcolm Reed hadn't accomplished a single thing all day.

This was unusual for him. Any crewman that worked under him could normally testify to his efficacy and productivity, but right now that was not the case. The truth was that every time he tried to throw himself into virtual trials and upgrades, his subconscious keep needling him trying to tell him that something was wrong.

He ordered several ensigns to check the hatches and securing locks on various pieces of equipment, thinking that he might have seen something ajar when he had walked in at the start of his shift. Those that were left standing around were given a stern reprimand about wasting time, followed by the prompt to begin a running inventory of every piece of ammunition in the armory.

Now he stood in his office, arms crossed at his chest, gazing at the wall of monitors before him. It hardly qualified as an office, as it was—there wasn't a door, and anyone could enter the control center—but it served as his thinkspace, a location where the lieutenant could tinker with his experiments to his heart's content. In the early days of the mission, he had sought refuge here when the social interaction of mingling with the crew became unbearable. Although he relished the opportunity to manage and induce order, the personalities of his employees unfortunately kept getting in the way.

Maybe one of the gamma shift technicians had come in here to change the levels of lighting and had left a terminal unprotected by a password. He jumped at the opportunity to check each one of the main servers, but found no leads to that end.

Exhausted by the frantic state he had worked himself into, Malcolm sunk into his chair. In due time, he found himself scrolling through a list of his personal settings. Things around the armory were just now beginning to calm down after a confrontation near the Klingon Borderland. It wasn't often that their expertise was needed, but when it was, it was all hands on deck.

Perhaps it was just as simple as a task he had added to his mental checklist before going to bed the previous night. His dreams had once been orderly, filled of easily categorized patterns and functions. That had changed a little over a month ago.

His ears and cheeks grew red when he recalled exactly what had distracted him the previous night. Honestly, he had planned on sleeping alone, having worked well into beta shift to clean up the mess that combat had wreaked, but then she had shown up. Her eyes were fire, and each one of her actions had implored him to attend to her. And he couldn't tell her no, because after the past few days, neither of them could stand to be alone for the night.

Yes, married life certainly still held some surprises for Malcolm Reed, and a select few were sure to stick in his memory. Even though there was no one to witness his discomfort, he cleared his throat and brought his nose within inches of the screen. Suddenly, he became incredibly interested in the endless lines of data that swam before his eyes.

Soon, he was scrolling through records of every keystroke that had been taken on the computer in the past week. It was mind-numbing work, but quickly banished the burning sensation in his gut. And, if he had his druthers, he might even be able to track down whatever pesky bit of neurosis that had been plaguing him over the past few hours.

At the end of the third page, something stuck out to him, so blatantly obvious that it might as well have jumped out of the screen.

Manual security override approved. 0130 hours, 6 May 2154, accession number…

His heart leapt to his throat. It could have just been his second checking protocol from his quarters or one of Commander Tucker's system updates for better integration with the engineering department, but his paranoia suggested otherwise.

Following a series of links, he arrived at the last page the user had seen. He felt faint.

Malcolm was up in a moment, dashing out the door without the barest hint of a farewell to his staff. He wasn't exactly sure what the next course of action should be, but something told him that he should find his wife as soon as possible.

A minute later, he's on the bridge. When he looks to his left and sees her station empty, he panics. Luckily, there's a very anxious looking helmsman there to mitigate his concerns.

"Commander T'Pol. Where?" He huffs out breathlessly, knowing that he couldn't form a coherent sentence to save his life.

Crewman Downes cuts a glance to one of Hoshi's communication specialists, who looks pretty damn near to tears. Now that he can afford him another look, he notices that Travis's second is white as a sheet. The entire bridge is quiet, deathly quiet, almost in the way it had been after they'd heard of the Xindi bombing of Florida.

He didn't have time to think about it.

"She went to find the Captain. Said he was in cargo bay two with a lot of the senior staff. But you should know that—"

Malcolm was out the door before he could finish the sentence.

Once on the appropriate deck, his pace increased. The heavy pounding of his steps on the deck mimicked the frenzied pounding of his heart. Finally, Malcolm caught a glimpse of a ruddy colored catsuit disappearing around the corner.

When he reached her, he was taken aback by her devastated expression. Pulling her to the side of the corridor, he said: "Someone's got it."

That was about as cryptic as emergencies got. Freeing herself from his hold on her arm, T'Pol continued her brisk jaunt to the cargo bay. "What do they have?"

His fear was so great in that moment that he couldn't bring himself to verbalize what he knew had happened. If he were to say it, that might somehow make it more real.

In the meantime, his wife reached the doors of the cargo bay and stepped through them. From her body language he could determine that she had intended to speak immediately, however it appeared now that this would be impossible.

Travis stood at the far end of the room, a basketball under one arm. He was engaged in spirited conversation with Captain Archer, who was also dressed in exercise gear. From the looks of it, the two had interrupted the senior staff in the midst of one of their weekly basketball tournaments.

Decompression from stress was an integral part in serving aboard a starship, something he could personally attest to. Phlox and Cutler stood under the makeshift hoop, probably discussing his technique. The good doctor had a natural talent for sports, something that stood out against his physical stature.

Hoshi and Trip were near the towel rack, clearly enjoying each other's company. That was something he envied about the couple. Even though they had the Captain's blessing, he couldn't bring himself to show affection to T'Pol in full view of others. Perhaps it was the nature of his childhood, wherein he had been brought up to appreciate the benefits of propriety. Whatever the case may be, the romantic overtures of his two friends were soon to be the least of his concerns.

"I've just spoken with Starfleet Command," she begins without preamble, and all eyes fall on her.

All those years ago, perhaps he had been wrong to refer to himself as the angel of death.

-0-

Soon after their arrival at Vulcan, the conference room hosts a meeting of special significance. There's been a bombing of the United Earth Embassy in Shi'Kahr. While the death toll stands at forty-three and the public outcry for an arrest is considerable, there were no leads at the present.

He crossed paths with the boarding party almost immediately after he'd come aboard. His curiosity nearly got the best of him, but his view was restricted to the backs of three sandy colored robes. Two elderly Vulcan men and one younger accept Captain Archer's greetings and follow him into the turbolift. How he so desperately wanted to be a fly on the wall for this conversation. As security officer, it was his responsibility to protect everyone aboard the ship, including T'Pol. And while this didn't really extend to her entire race, he can't help but ponder what was going on in that room.

Something jogs his memory. There was something familiar about one of the men. The slight variation on the traditional haircut, the shape of his shoulders and the slight way he dragged his feet as he walked…

He's got his feet propped up on his desk when the hail arrives, deep in thought. Instantly, he slides them off the tabletop guiltily and answers the call.

If Archer and T'Pol needed back up, why did they not request Commander Tucker's presence? He was next in command, after all. Perhaps they had, for the gathering was getting quickly out of hand. Whatever the case, he reached the conference room on the double.

The first thing he beheld upon his interest was the Captain, who had adopted his signature defensive stance at the head of the table. Head tilted, arms crossed, he was clearly engrossed in what his guests had to say.

His wife had remained seated, eyes wide, looking for all the world like a cornered animal of prey. As he stepped into the room, his gaze followed hers, and he soon saw what was causing her fear.

"This is our chief security officer, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed," Archer said, temporarily tearing himself away from the conversation. "May I introduce Stel, Chief Investigator of the Vulcan Security Directorate, and Minister Kuvak, who's currently standing in for Ambassador Soval."

He nodded at the two men, but his focus was really drawn to the imposing figure in the center. Jonathan kept talking, pausing briefly to indicate where he expected Malcolm to sit.

"And finally this is Administrator V'Las, head of the High Command," he ground out, his voice strained. It was clear that T'Pol had found some way to inform him of the couple's previous encounter with him.

Malcolm nods towards the older man, while V'Las says dryly, "We've met."

The Brit finds it odd that Soval wasn't in attendance. The casualty reports indicated that Admiral Forrest had taken the brunt of the impact, sacrificing his life for him. Perhaps he was still too injured to attend to official business. It was clear that without this ally, the tension in the room had been elevated exponentially.

"Stel's team has named the Andorians as possible suspects, but after hearing the alternatives, it now appears unlikely that one of their own has committed the crime," the Captain filled him in on what had been said in his absence.

He nodded, knowing full well of the animosity that existed between the Vulcans and the Andorians. However, their motives seemed questionable at best given the fact that humans had long since established themselves as a neutral third party in the century long dispute.

"Our other suspects are Syrrannites," the gentleman named Kuvak explained.

Malcolm, who had already begun to pace the perimeter of the room, stopped in his tracks. Crossing the room in two strides, he opted to sit down before he fell down. Under the table, T'Pol gripped his hand hard.

Feigning ignorance, he replied evenly, "I've never heard of that species."

"I find that hard to believe, considering you've taken one of our women as your wife," Stel fired back, and he winced. "They are not a separate species, but a sect of dissidents that are eager to express their opposition to government. Their leader, Syrran, has seemingly abandoned his vow of pacifism and led his people against their own."

The young man passed a PADD across the table, and Malcolm soon discovered that it was a list of known Syrrannites. All were unfamiliar to him, save for two.

"His second in command, a woman named T'Pau, is of great interest to us. She comes from a respectable family, and would have no trouble blending in among the crowd at the Embassy," V'Las continued, his unblinking gaze fixed on him as he gauged his reaction.

By God, how he wished he didn't recognize that name. But now that he had, there was no denying it. A letter addressed to his mother-in-law from the woman in question was in his quarters now, hidden underneath a pile of necessaries. A twitch of the upper lip was all V'Las needed to confirm his knowledge of her.

"Until shortly before the blast, we had several confessed Syrrannites in custody," Stel reached across the table and pulled up an all too familiar face.

"Lady T'Les and several others escaped their holding cells at the Ministry of Security Headquarters in the aftermath of the explosion," Kuvak concluded.

It seemed as if his breath had caught in his throat. A squeeze of the hand from T'Pol was the only thing to remind Malcolm to inhale. Fighting to keep his voice steady, he asked, "I assure you that neither of us know anything about this."

He would go on to swear to his dying day that Administrator V'Las broke stoicism and smirked at that moment. As if he knew that he would say that, he dropped his final, calculated blow.

"Administrator Havek was also killed in the explosion. It seems that the epicenter of the explosion was situated underneath the table he was assigned to. Am I to understand that this is the father of your former betrothed, T'Pol?"

She set her jaw, her eyes suddenly flashing with devastation. "That is correct."

The trio of Vulcans exchanged pointed glances, standing in unison. V'Las suddenly towered over the couple, taking steps to accentuate the height difference by leaning across the table and stating in no uncertain terms, "If you know anything about the bombings, or had any involvement therein, I suggest that you—"

Archer interrupted him, clearly not willing to entertain any threats against his officers. "Seeing that there is only speculation tying the Syrrannites to the blast, we'd like to conduct our own investigation."

Kuvak nods, conceding his point. "The embassy is on Earth soil. I doubt that will be a problem, Captain."

"Will he be leading the expedition?" Stel asked pointedly, indicating Malcolm.

Jonathan appears doubtful in his decision, but only for a moment. He rises up to eye level with Stel, responding, "Of course he will."

The Vulcans had only been out the door for a few seconds when Malcolm began to express his indignance. "Sir, how could they make such blatant accusations? They outright suggested that I may have something to do with the deaths of forty some odd people! And for what? The life of the man who stood in the way of my marriage? I'm sure that there are countless people that could confirm that I was here and not on the surface at the time of the bombing! Hell, even if I was in league with those people they spoke about, how would I have gotten in contact with them if—"

The target of his outburst grimaced. "Did you know that T'Les was a Syrrannite?"

He wanted to say no and deny having any knowledge of the fact. But it was T'Pol that spoke first. "We did," she confirmed.

He covered his head in his hands, turning to approach the porthole. Just outside the window, Enterprise maintained a steady orbit around the desolate world. Leaning against the sill, he offered an ultimatum. "Lieutenant, take Travis and go to the blast zone. The more we talk about this, the more it looks like we're going to need a miracle."

-0-

The United Earth Embassy had been built in the style of an ancient ziggurat in the shade of many government buildings in the center of Shi'Kahr. As he and Travis made their way through the rubble, he couldn't help but imagine what the structure had looked like before the debacle.

They had just reached the junction between the lobby and interior of the building when their PADDs picked up a weak power signature coming from underneath some beams. Malcolm was too absorbed in his surroundings, selfishly attempting to memorize every detail of what he saw should he need it later. He didn't pay much mind to the wayward Ensign until he heard his rank being called from somewhere down the hall.

He froze when he saw what had diverted Mayweather's attention. Mounted to the side of a panel on the wall was a bomb of very indicative design.

The device had been planned under extenuating circumstances, when it had been a distinct possibility that Enterprise would have to wage war on the Xindi without assistance. In the dark days of the mission, Malcolm had hunkered down in his office and drew out the schematics for one of the most powerful explosives he could possibly design.

Three vials of incendiary fluid lay on either side of the circular control panel. Were they actually filled with the active ingredient, he knew that the entire assembly would glow a luminescent green.

He had never anticipated putting it to use, meaning it to be more of an exercise of his wits to distract him from the possibility of everything he had ever known dying back home. As Malcolm tucked the plans away in his personal files, he imagined the harm it might bring to those who would deserve its devastation. And he had smiled.

Now that he was faced with a horrifying facsimile of a weapon forged from his own creativity, he couldn't help but murmur its chosen name. "Bostanai."

"What did you say?" Travis whispered, his voice shaky with dread.

"Don't move, Ensign. The slightest vibration might set it off," he advised, rummaging in his pocket for his communicator. Pressing the necessary buttons, he notified whoever was on the other end that they had come across a live bomb.

Once Hoshi confirmed that she had an emergency transporter lock on them should things suddenly head south, he inched forward. He was fairly sure what he was dealing with here, but he had to be certain. "I'm going to attempt to scan it."

"Attempt?" The helmsman questioned, his arms struggling to hold up the heavy weight.

He doesn't reply, because the view screen on his scanner confirms his worst fears. There was Vulcan and human DNA on the controls, and he was a dead man.

Subconsciously, he presses the button that would boost the scan's resolution. Just as he suspected, the lights at the top of the prototype began to flash red.

"Enterprise, mark!" Malcolm cries, disappearing into the matter stream as the bomb detonates and takes down the remainder of the wing with it.

(to be continued)