Blackened (3): Seek & Destroy

by jtm1848

The Enterprise travels deeper into the Expanse.

– SEEK & DESTROY –

The rocky surface of the twilit planetoid resembled nothing more than a blue-gray forest of rock and ice spires, carved by a complex series of valleys and ridges, plateaus and plains, signaling the eons of upheaval from beneath. The light from the twin red dwarfs at the heart of the system shone faintly, reduced by distance to a speck of light no larger than Venus in the skies above Earth. The scarce rays from the suns, and the ambient starglow of the universe, cast lengthy shadows across the top of the planetoid's features, leaving the ravines cloaked in stifling darkness; a faint disk hung suspended in the sky, the dark side of a moon clinging in close orbit, spanning nearly a quarter of the sky, but all but hidden from visible light.

"Do you have the landing coordinates?" Captain Archer asked from one of the shuttlepod's twin jumpseats. He watched closely through the front viewscreen, but even in low approach, the gray surface refused to differentiate itself.

"Yes, sir," Ensign Travis Mayweather answered. He had taken a break from piloting the Enterpriseto guide the shuttle down to its rendezvous. "Navigational sensors are having far more success at charting the surface, sir. May I suggest using them instead?"

Only slightly chagrined by his anticipation, Archer sat back and flipped through the commands on his computer console, pulling up false-light imagery of the planetoid's surface. The view it sketched was a maze of ravines and gulleys, slicing across the landscape with abandon.

"There's not much in the way of impact craters down there," Malcolm muttered. As the other command-rank officer in the shuttle, Lieutenant Reed ranked the second jumpseat, and he used its monitors to pull up the same imagery. "Did Science have a chance to run a report?" he asked, more loudly, in curiosity.

"T'Pol gave me the preliminary findings," Archer answered, referring to his erstwhile science chief and first officer, who had remained behind in command of the starship. "It indicated an active system of cryo-volcanism." Found on icy planetoids in outer orbits, the geologic pattern relied on millennia-long heating of water ice sealed under a frozen methane crust; eventually, perhaps once in ten thousand years, the expansive pressure would force upwards in a geyser or volcano, sending a flow of lukewarm sludge across the planetoid's surface. The extensive scarring below indicated that this planetoid had existed, largely unchanged by external forces, for several billion years.

Malcolm shut off his monitor, preferring instead to watch in real-time as the planetoid slowly grew before them. "Did the freighter captain give you the name of our contact?" he asked, double-checking the mission parameters in his head.

"No name," Archer replied. His own voice was slightly distracted—like the tactical chief, the captain had shut off his monitor and was gazing forward again, watching over Mayweather's shoulder. "He just said the foreman of the north mine. He's supposed to be expecting us."

"How'd you like to be a miner in a setup like this?" the pilot asked rhetorically. While human technology had progressed far enough to allow for active mining of the Sol system's inner asteroid belt, the mining of Kuiper Belt objects was barely even on the drawing table.

"What made this captain so certain that there's a Xindi down there?" Malcolm asked. "For that matter, how do we know that we can trust the freighter captain? He didn't seem to be of the best character."

"He wasn't certain," Archer admitted. "He said he transported a Xindi there a couple months ago, but as for trusting him…it's not like we have a lot of leads right now, Malcolm."

"Slowing for descent," Travis announced suddenly, and the shuttle's occupants felt it slow subtly and angle upwards, gently leveling itself above the frozen surface.

"Did the freighter captain mention any defensive systems?" Malcolm asked, still struggling to make out the features below.

"No," Archer answered. "But he didn't sound concerned about it."

"Well, that makes me feel safe," Malcolm replied. "If it's all the same to you, Captain, I'll keep scanning the surface for anomalous power signatures."

"Go right ahead. Travis, do you have a landing ETA?"

"About three minutes, sir," the helmsman answered. "Permission to kill the interior lights?"

"Of course, Ensign," Archer replied, and a moment later, the internal illumination fell silent, leaving only the glow of the pilot's controls and Malcolm's security scans in the shuttle cabin.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the shuttle dropped lower over the planetoid's surface, Captain Archer began to make out the features below. He watched the growing moonscape with the uncontrollable eagerness of a spacer approaching a new planet; even the gravity of the Enterprise's mission in the Delphic Expanse had not entirely driven the childlike enthusiasm of an explorer from him. In his years in space, this was only the second rock-ice planetoid that he would set foot on; and the first, Neptune's captured-moon Triton, had the warmth and glow of the gaseous planet above it.

As the shuttle descended, the unrefined miasma of blue and gray slowly resolved before them, separating into streaks of minuscule light and darkness that represented the scarred characteristics of the frozen methane crust. Faint balloons of gas began to materialize, manifesting themselves not as visible clouds, but only as smudges on the terrain below; science scans had indicated a thin, patchy atmosphere of partially-sublimated nitrogen and carbon monoxide, and a momentary, shimmering reflection demonstrated the presence of crystals hanging suspended in the paper-thin troposphere.

Travis pulled the nose of the shuttle in a gentle, banking curve, easing it down between two ravine walls. As they lowered beneath the ridge crests, the jutting valley below grew visibly apparent; artificial equipment running along the center cast out a hollow, off-white glow that brought the ravine into muted relief, shining off the icy crust in a blue-gray gleam. Darker veins of rock were exposed beneath.

The landing party watched, spell-bound, as Travis set the shuttle down on an approximation of a landing pad. Archer was the first to shake off the wonder. "Suit up," he ordered roughly, snapping the other members of the party to attention. "Travis and Romero, you'll stay behind with the shuttle. Reed, Hayes, Kemper, you're with me." The latter two were members of the MACO contingent on board the Enterprise; Major Hayes was their commanding officer, and Private Kemper had considerable experience in alien terrains.

Even in the dark interior of the shuttle, the team suited up quickly, knowing their way around the harsh-weather gear by feel. First came the life-support gear; while the air outside was technically breathable, its cold temperature and high concentration of carbon monoxide dictated supplemental oxygen, which was fed into nasal tubes from a pony tank. Then came the heavy clothing—boots, gloves, leggings, and a parka, all made of super-insulating material designed to keep a body functioning solely from its own heat. Finally, a duraplastic mask was fastened over the face, a built-in vocador allowing verbal communication.

Archer led the team out into what could best be described as a frozen wasteland. Deep inside the ravine, heated by the radiant warmth of the mining installation, the air around them was hazy and thick; the only place on the planetoid where water existed as a liquid, Archer presumed. Through the watery haze, the powerful spotlights above became glowing orbs of weak light, casting an artificial pall over the ravine floor. He was surprised to note that the planetoid's surface gravity was nearly one-half of Earth norm; the spatial body was far too small—a diameter of slightly more than five thousand kilometers—for such an effect, indicating that the rocky core must be composed of very dense ores.

"We should have worn full EV gear," Malcolm commented as he looked around, checking the horizon for danger.

"Doctor Phlox said it was safe for short periods," Archer answered, mentally wondering the same thing.

"Safe?" Malcolm snorted. "You call this safe? Who knows what kinds of pollutants are in this haze!"

"Try not to breathe too deeply," Archer suggested. His visual survey complete, the captain stepped forward along the trodden path to the installation.

The installation had clearly seen better days. Conduits of metallic alloy crossed the ravine, connected by bulky housings. A maze of abandoned equipment and storage containers littered the way, in varying stages of rust and decay. Stretching above were towering skeletons of struts that disappeared in the blur; and scattered around, with no clear pattern, were exhaust chimneys belching contrails of gas.

Leading the four-man team, Archer stepped onto the platform at the end of the footpath. In front of him was a sheet-metal shed that seemed to tilt in the non-existent wind, ready to fall over with a firm push. Checking behind him—Malcolm was a step back, and the MACOs were on point—the captain gently eased the door inward and stepped through.

The rattle of un-oiled machinery was evident, even through his heavy gear, even though the equipment was not visible. Instead, in the unlit gloom, a rickety set of metal stairs descended before the humans towards a hole in the rock and ice.

Taking a chance, Archer slid back his duraplastic mask, leaving the oxygen tubes in place. The air inside was still dirty, but noticeably cleaner than that on the surface; there were obviously air purifiers at work somewhere in the mining labyrinth. As well, while the temperature was still at the lower end of human tolerance, it was tolerable, either due to the geothermic heat or the radiance of the machines.

Estimating the stairs to be the rough equivalent of two flights, Archer started his way down, only to be stopped midway by the sudden beam of two spotlights filling the cavern. Holding a hand up in protection, his heavily-trained instincts fell into Starfleet's procedures for any unknown situation—identify yourself. "I'm Captain Archer of the starship Enterprise," he proclaimed, trusting that the spotlights meant someone was there. "I'm here for a meeting with the mine foreman."

From behind the blinding light came some guttural sounds, followed by an oddly-muffled voice. "Follow us," the guard ordered, and the spotlights at last swung off the humans, illuminating the passageway to the caverns within.

...

"Archer." The foreman's voice was gritty, roughened by years spent breathing the harsh air of the mining compound. The air purifiers gave a valiant effort; but between the natural conditions above, the floating silicate matter of the mines, and the various industrial pollutants generated by the operation, the air took a toll on the sensitive respiratory systems of living beings.

"I'm Jonathan Archer," the captain acknowledged, stepping in front of the foreman's desk. He gestured to the dark-haired man beside him. "This is Lieutenant Reed." He didn't identify the two guards standing watch behind him, nor did he look back as the sheet-metal door clanged shut with the clatter of a lock being thrown.

The foreman didn't bother getting to his feet—these visitors were largely insignificant, and such exertion would only bring a rattle to his chest as his abused lungs struggled for another breath. Instead, he held a breathing mask up to his face, greedily sucking in the comforting mixture of air from the tank beneath his desk.

Finally, the foreman set the mask down and addressed the strangers. "I've been told that you might…be able to make it worth my while, if I were to arrange…" he clicked his four fingers together. "A certain introduction with one of my miners."

The two aliens glanced at each other, and the dark-haired one shuffled his feet. "Depends on what you mean by 'worth your while'," the one calling himself a captain answered.

His colleagues in other mines often wondered why the foreman wasted so much time listening to the requests of the various species that stumbled across his doorway. For the most part, these aliens came in, expecting something of him, and offering little in return; in the hard calculus of life, the only thing truly worth its weight was, well, life itself. But instead, they would offer petty trinkets, designed to fool the foreman with glitter.

But it amused the foreman to watch these puny strangers come and go, so convinced in the importance of their cause and the value of their barter. It amused him to hold control over their dreams, able to satisfy their desires or dash their hopes with a single word, withholding his decision as they squirmed about in frustration or ire. He was a purveyor of life, after all—and these aliens, in their incredible naiveté, would provide much enjoyment.

What could these newcomers have to barter with? "I've always had a fondness for precious metals," the foreman said, hacking a bit. Coughing intentionally, he spat a chunk of phlegm onto the floor. "I might be willing to accept some platinum, in exchange."

"I'm afraid we don't carry precious metals," the captain answered.

"Pity," the foreman replied, saying no more; it was the aliens' turn to make an offer, and they always came up with something.

"I'm sure there's something else we could offer you." The captain tried, but he seemed unable to come up with anything.

The foreman took a large breath from his mask. "I'm not in the habit of interrupting my mining operations, Archer." His voice sank into a displeased growl. Maybe this band of strangers wouldn't be worth much after all. "And my needs are few. I'm sure, if you tried, you could come up with…the barter."

Chagrined, the two aliens turned to each other, likely in the mistaken belief that their lowered voices would not travel in the thin air. "What about the antimatter relays?" the captain asked.

"Their linings are coated with a platinum-cobalt alloy," the second alien answered. "Trip could probably strip them down and separate the metals."

They always come up with something, the foreman thought, impressed with the adaptability of these two. Not all of his supplicants realized that they could cannibalize their ship for payment—and some simply weren't willing to. These aliens were…curious, the foreman thought. I wonder why this Xindi miner is so important to them.

The captain turned back to address him. "How much platinum are we talking about?"

The foreman paused, taking another large breath before answering. "Well, I'm a reasonable man," he replied magnanimously. "I'm sure you could part with, say, half a liter." The captain's face paled, but the alien didn't object—more proof, the foreman thought, that these people are new to the region. Half a liter of platinum for a person? It'll be the best deal I've made in months.

"I'd need to see this man, and scan him," the captain hedged, clearly trying to retain some control over the negotiations. "I need to confirm that he's Xindi."

The foreman grinned for the first time. "That won't be necessary," he replied with an appeasing voice, feeding out rope for the alien. He raised a hand and gestured to one of his aides, who withdrew a cloth-wrapped package from the storage closet. "We…anticipated your request for confirmation." The foreman hacked again, but he kept the false smile plastered on his face. "Give it to them," he commanded.

The aide handed the package to Archer, who unwrapped it hurriedly before freezing in place: it was a severed finger.

The foreman almost laughed—he felt the wave of humor—but coughed up more phlegm instead. "Will that satisfy your needs?" he asked, his face twisted in amusement.

"Why would you do this?" the captain asked, shocked confusion evident in his voice. The foreman could only shake his head; this alien may have known the technical movements of a good negotiation, but clearly did not understand them.

"This is a mining operation, Captain," the foreman answered. "Accidents…happen. It is not safe and secure, like a starship. I expect to see you back tomorrow with my platinum."

The strangers said nothing in response, and followed the guards back through the doorway, retreating to the harsh surface above.

...

As part of the Interspecies Medical Exchange, Doctor Phlox of the planet Denobula had spent several years practicing his craft on Earth prior to his voluntary enlistment on board the U.S.S. Enterprise. During those years, Phlox had became a bit of a terraphile—developing a strong attraction to all things native to the Terran homeworld, from the cuisine (East Asian was his favorite) to the clothing, the myriad cultures and the rich historic tapestries. In fact, the Terran people were quite anomalous in that respect, when compared to other spacefaring races: most races had a single, dominant culture, rather than the proliferating diversity that typified humanity.

As part of his experience on Earth, Phlox had taught himself one of the hardest human tricks for an alien to imitate: how to whistle in tune. He learned several classics of the genre, and as his eyes scrunched through the viewer of the medical scope, he was simultaneously rehearsing one of his favorites, trying to hit the right key for the high notes.

"How's it going, Doc?" The captain's voice startled Phlox from his tight focus in the viewer, and suddenly feeling the strain in his eyes, the doctor gratefully used the excuse to withdraw. Several joints in his back and shoulders cracked as he straightened up, reminding Phlox that he was overdue for his daily dose of relaxation (Denobulans, as a rule, do not sleep), and he rubbed his eyes, cleaning out the grit from the corners.

"Ah, Captain!" Phlox's Denobulan façade fractured into the familiar grin as his vision cleared. There was a running bet down in engineering as to whether the doctor's affability was an individual trait, or characteristic of his people. "You have to take a look at this—my findings have been most extraordinary!"

In front of him, Archer stifled the urge to chuckle—the doctor's enthusiasm was amazing, even after nearly thirteen weeks in the Delphic Expanse. "Just tell me if it's Xindi or not," he answered.

"Yes and no," Phlox replied, unperturbed by the ambiguity.

This time, Archer did let out a faint chuckle. "I need something a little more concrete, Doctor."

Phlox replied by waving the captain over to the medical scope. "You have to take a look at this, Captain!" he exclaimed excitedly.

With a hint of trepidation, Archer hunched over the scope, pressing his eyes against the viewer panel. Instinctively, his hands reached out for the controls on the side of the device, and he fiddled with them, adjusting them forwards and backwards, until the image came into blurry focus.

The captain looked at the image in momentary silence before admitting abject defeat. "I don't have a clue what I'm looking at," he confessed. "You'll have to explain this to me, Phlox."

"Of course, Captain," Phlox replied eagerly. He guided Archer back from the scope, and as the human straightened up, Phlox transferred the imagery to the wall monitor.

It still made no sense to Archer.

Phlox pointed to the image on the left; for the doctor, it displayed a mesmerizing array of scientific and medical data, condensed in an easy-to-read form pioneered by the Universe itself. "This is a genetic profile," Phlox explained, starting easy. "It's taken from the Xindi pilot found on Earth. Using the profile, I can abstract a physiological rendering of the subject. As you may recall, when I did so, I found that the pilot was essentially reptilian in origin." Archer nodded, recalling the doctor's earlier brief on the pilot.

Now, Phlox pointed to the image on the right. "This genetic profile comes from the alien finger you brought back from the mining facility," he said. "The two genetic profiles have considerable similarities, but they also have quantifiable differences."

Archer squinted at the display, trying to pinpoint the inconsistencies between the two samples. "So they're not the same species?" he asked.

"No, they're not," Phlox answered, "but that doesn't begin to answer your original question. You see, they're both still Xindi."

"I'm not following, Doc," the captain replied, frowning.

Phlox's hands moved in illustration of his words. "You see, Captain," he replied, "one of the fundamental constants of evolutionary biology is that all life that develops within a discrete biosphere shares certain, baseline genetic similarities—and no two separate biospheres ever develop exactly identical baselines. The differences may get subtle, but they're always there."

"And these two samples—" Archer waved at the monitor. "They have the same baselines?"

"Yes, Captain," Phlox answered, pleased that the captain was grasping the concept. "Because of that, I know that the two subjects both originated—evolutionarily speaking—on the same planet. Thus, both samples are, by definition, Xindi."

"But they're not the same species," Archer replied, following the logical chain to its next step.

"No," Phlox responded. "They're not even in the same class. The sample from the attack pilot—" he pointed again to the left image. "Is from the Xindi equivalent of a reptilian class."

Now, Phlox flipped the image, pulling up a physiological diagram. "This is the physiological rendering of the being who provided—the finger," he continued, pointing at the display. "Is from the rough equivalent of the Xindi mammalian class, likely in the primate order."

"So we're not talking about humans and Neanderthals," Archer stated in clarification.

"Not remotely," Phlox affirmed. "More like humans and crocodiles."

"So the implication is…" The captain stared at the display in vain. "The being in the mining camp is a trained ape?"

"That is one possibility," Phlox admitted. "If only one of these Xindi species is sentient, the odds would favor the reptilian—it's easier to train a non-sentient being to be a beast of work in a mining facility than it is to train one to pilot an attack probe. It's also possible that the Xindi-primate is semi-sentient." During their first year of exploration, the Enterprisehad in fact encountered a biosphere with a dominant, sentient species, and a submissive, semi-sentient species. "Of course, working strictly from our current data, it's also possible that the Xindi-primate is the intelligent species, and the Xindi-reptilian is the subservient one."

Recognizing the looming dilemma, the captain stared at the physiological display, as if he could calculate its intelligence from its appearance. "So how do we find out?" he asked finally. Philosophically, as ready as he was to attack the Xindi, they had to get the right species…and in the cold hard interests of the moment, if the Xindi-primate wasn't sentient, it wasn't worth losing half a liter of platinum.

Phlox sighed. "We can't calculate sentience from a genetic profile—at least, not yet. Medical science hasn't evolved to that point yet. We have to do it the old-fashioned way—cognitive tests and behavioral characteristics. Even then, it's never precise."

As the captain weighed the information, another thought struck him. "Is it possible for both species to be intelligent?"

"Ah." Phlox's eyes lit up in excitement. "That is the truly interesting possibility, Captain. It would mean that two sentient species evolved in the same biosphere, arising from two different biological families—as if, in addition to humanity, crocodiles had developed sentience."

Archer shuddered involuntarily. Earth's civil authorities had largely gotten a handle on crocodile attacks in the Nile River valley, but the caimans of the Amazon still claimed several victims every year. The beasts were already intelligent enough; if they had developed sentience…

"If both of these species are sentient, then the anthropological possibilities are endless." Noticing the captain's questioning glance, Phlox slid into his best professor mode. "You see, Captain, the parallel development of sentient species in a single biosphere is not, evolutionarily speaking, that unusual. What is unusual is that one species didn't kill off the other. It necessitates a certain level of cooperation between the species."

"So you think they're working together?" Archer asked, seeking clarification.

"If they are both sentient, then that's definitely one of the stronger possibilities," Phlox answered, unwilling to commit himself further. "But the bottom line, Captain, is that we can't definitively reduce the possibilities until we speak to the miner."

"Very well." Archer's mind was still piecing the puzzle together. He could see no way to avoid the risk; half a liter of platinum for a being who could be the local equivalent of a cart-puller. Then again, what did I tell Malcolm earlier about risk? "Unless there's anything else…"

"Well, yes, Captain," Phlox replied, unruffled. "Doesn't something about this strike you as being odd?"

Both of Archer's eyebrows shot up. "Doctor, nothing about this strikes me as being normal."

Phlox gestured to the monitor. "A simple blood sample would have sufficed," he explained. "Even some saliva…and yet, they cut off the miner's finger."

Archer's brow dropped into a furrow. "The foreman told me it was a mining accident."

Phlox almost laughed. "That's highly unlikely, Captain."

Archer sighed, his face running a gamut of expressions in seconds. "Just tell me what the problem is," he ordered softly.

"As you may know, I have a degree in forensic medicine." Phlox waited to receive confirmation, which came in the form of a nod; it was shipboard rumor that Phlox actually had a full dozen doctorate-level degrees. "This finger was removed deliberately. The tissue tears are too straight and clean—it would've taken a good eight or nine seconds to complete the severing that cleanly. If it was an accident, the victim would have yanked his hand away long before the process was complete."

"Which means—that something about this doesn't add up." Archer completed his own thought.

Phlox nodded in agreement. "When you go back down there, Captain, I'd suggest you be very careful," the doctor averred. His head turned as the sickbay doors whooshed open. "Commander Tucker! What can I do for you?"

Charles Emerson Tucker III—"Trip," as in "tripled"—entered the room, acknowledging his captain in surprise. "Sir."

"How's the platinum coming, Trip?" Archer asked. The next stop on his agenda had been Trip's haunt in main engineering.

The engineer looked a little haggard. His coveralls were covered in grim, and he was gripping his left wrist just below the joint. "We're going to end up stripping more than two hundred relays to get half a liter of liquefied platinum," he replied, "but we should have enough. You'll have it by late this afternoon."

Archer nodded. "How's it going to affect ship's operations?"

"Oh, we'll have to keep a closer eye on the anti-matter relays," Trip answered, grousing. "We can use the copper-based backups, but they'll have to replaced every couple weeks or so. The next time Starfleet sends us out, Captain—make sure we have some trading goods."

"When I go back down, I'll offer some shiny beads instead," Archer responded lightly. "Carry on." With a worried, backwards glance at the engineer, the captain left.

"Now, what can I do for you, Commander?" Phlox asked. He had already guessed the problem, but he prided himself on his bedside manner.

"I had a little accident, Doc," Trip said, grimacing. He held out his left wrist for the doctor. "I was reinstalling the deuterium injectors. I guess one of 'em had a little juice left in it."

Phlox took the proffered hand and diagnosed it at a glance. "Second degree burn," he noted. "Don't worry, I have just the thing for it. Why don't you have a seat?" Phlox gestured to an available biobed as he turned to get his supplies.

"I could've sworn the damned thing was depolarized," Trip continued. The pain had subsided—main engineering was equipped with first-aid equipment, including some powerful painkillers—but talking about the injury ironically kept his mind off the burning sensation. "I guess I'm getting a little punchy."

Phlox returned with his burn equipment. "When was the last time you slept?" he inquired, looking curiously into the engineer's face. Trip's sleeping patterns—and lack thereof—had been a continuing concern for the doctor ever since the first Xindi attack. Trip's kid sister had been killed in the assault; and to say that Trip was taking it badly…did not begin to summarize the situation.

"I got a full hour last night," Trip replied. His face contorted momentarily until he adjusted to the cold compress.

"I'm surprised the massage therapy isn't helping," Phlox commented, fishing for more information. "T'Pol told me that your treatments have been going well." He pressed the compress against the burned skin, pulling out the still-active particles of burning material with the simple physics of heat transfer.

Trip's face relaxed as the burning sensation faded away. "I haven't been back for a while," he admitted sheepishly.

"Really?" With the compress in place, Phlox turned to his mediscanner to analyze the cellular damage; it quickly informed him that enough skin was still intact to regenerate. No graft would be necessary. "Why is that?"

"Just haven't had a lot of time lately," Trip replied.

Sensing that there was more to it, Phlox pressed harder. "Are you certain that's the reason?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Trip's reply contained a low, but audible, growl.

"Vulcan massage therapy requires a certain degree of vulnerability," Phlox answered, ignoring the low threat. "I can understand that it might make you uncomfortable."

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable," Trip growled, louder this time. "I just can't afford to spend an hour every night in T'Pol's quarters. I have duties, Doctor. Why can't you just give me another one of those injections? They put me out like a light."

Phlox held the engineer's hand steady as he began to apply the regenerative cream. "Because they're not meant to be taken for extended periods, Commander," he replied firmly. "Artificial sedatives are not healthy for you. However…" Phlox amended his voice slightly. "I have another natural treatment that might be helpful."

Trip glared at the doctor with frustration. "All right, what have you got?"

"Aldebaran mud leeches."

"What?"

"Mud leeches," Phlox repeated. "You place one on your chest and one your abdomen an hour before going to bed. Their secretions act as a natural sedative."

Trip's face expressed his doubt.

"Oh," Phlox added, "just be careful to sleep on your back. If you roll over on them, they get angry."

"Maybe an hour a night with T'Pol isn't so bad," Trip replied, thoughtfully.

...

"Travis?" Captain Archer looked thoughtfully around the darkened command center, looking for the blotch against the artificial starscape that would indicate the presence of his navigator. Frowning, Archer looked around again; and stepping forward, he nearly stumbled over an object sitting in his path.

"Sorry, Captain," the young ensign replied. Mayweather started to scramble to his feet, but was halted by the captain's commanding hand. Instead, with a slight crack in his knees, Archer lowered himself to the deck as well.

"So what are you doing down here?" Archer asked, leaving it unclear as to whether he was referring to the command center in general, or the floor particularly.

Travis figured that the former was a more cautious bet. "Hutch can handle the helm as long as we're in standard orbit," he explained, referring to the second-shift helmsman. "I figured I'd use the time to assemble a navigation chart of the sector." The task was far more complicated than it may seem; in addition to the visible stellar bodies, a good navigator as to be aware of stellar currents, radiation flows, and pockets of silicate dust, along with dozens of other things. And in the Delphic Expanse, navigation was made exponentially harder by the seemingly-random nature of the gravimetric distortions.

"Ah," Archer answered noncommittally, looking up at the points of light. "So these blue patches—"

"Those are the disruptions, sir," Travis answered. The captain was more than impressed: Mayweather had assembled a sectors-wide map of the phenomena, including the relative strengths, and plotted the ideal travel conduits through each patch.

"I'm afraid I don't have much time, Travis," Archer said, sighing lightly. He would've been content to lie on the deck, floating through the starmaps, for the rest of the day; but the life of a starship captain was too busy for such pleasures. Particularly when a semi-sadistic mining foreman was withholding vital information.

"Oh, of course." Travis had left a summons for the captain, coding it 'at your convenience.' He hadn't been expecting such a quick response. "I talked with Chef at lunch, sir. He's getting worried about the crew: people are skipping meals. He figures that they're either too busy, or the stress of the mission is starting to get to them."

"Either way, it's a bad sign," Archer noted in agreement.

"Captain—" Travis licked his lips cautiously. "I've been noticing it, too; people are getting worn out, and morale's starting to sag. Do you think it's time to schedule some mandatory R and R?"

"It's better than having Phlox medicating everyone. What did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking that we could start movie night up again."

Archer smiled in the darkness; Travis' initiative was soaring today. "What movie?"

"A classic comedy. I know that Doctor Phlox is a big fan of the Three Stooges."

"Make it happen, Ensign. That's an order." As Archer stood to leave, his head swept through a simulated anomaly, triggering a realization. "We haven't surveyed these areas yet, have we? Where did you get the data?"

Travis scrambled to his feet. "As Hoshi's been decoding the Xindi computer core, she's been passing the navigational data along. It's helping us figure out where the other spatial anomalies are in the region."

"Of course. Keep up the good work, Ensign."

...

The foreman hacked up another mouthful of phlegm from his abused, solitary lung, and pulled his breathing mask up to his mouth, sucking in the half-clean air with abandon. To his knowledge—and he was far from being an exobiologist—his species was the only one cursed with a sole lung; most had two, and some lucky beings out there had three. There was a certain irony that he found himself master of a filthy planetoid…the air circulated into his lung, providing life-giving breath to his deteriorating body.

The new aliens had returned, sooner than promised, with the barter goods ready; they must be desperate, the foreman thought, or perhaps they believed they were being clever, claiming that it would take longer. If it was the latter, it was uniquely ineffective; the strangers had shown their hand by showing up early. For the first time, he seriously wondered what their interest in the Xindi was. This was far more than casual curiosity, but to his knowledge, the Xindi were a fairly insignificant race in the cursed Expanse.

The one calling himself a captain held out a cryo-thermos carefully. "You're aware that this stuff is volatile above thirty degrees Celsius," he said cautiously.

The foreman grunted. The temperature scale meant little to him, but it was an unnecessary warning. Charming, although, that the newcomers were concerned for his safety. "I'm familiar with the properties of liquid platinum," he replied. It came out as a harsh hiss; he was overdue for his daily lung-purging, and the airflow through his vocal tracts was severely impeded.

"I've insulated the outer container," the captain continued. "It should keep everything pretty stable."

The concern is a little much, the foreman thought—he would have one of his guards check the container for a hidden detonator. It wouldn't be that hard to rig—all it would take was a breach of the insulation, and the shiny liquid would go up like a thermolytic bomb.

He reached out a hand to accept the package, but the captain pulled it back. "There's a little more than a half liter in here," the alien said in suggestive warning.

The foreman pulled his hand back. Now he was convinced that there was something more going on here; no one—absolutely no one—provided more payment than was requested. "What exactly do you want with our Xindi friend?" he asked, his curiosity and greed coming to the forefront. Perhaps he should raise the price higher… "He's not very attractive, especially after his…recent surgery," the foreman added blandly, letting an implied threat dangle in the air.

"I have something to discuss with him," the captain answered.

The foreman leaned forward, not content to let it rest at that. "And what might that be?"

The newcomer may have been naïve, but he was learning fast. "That's not part of the deal," the captain answered. "Now, I brought you what you asked for. Let me see the Xindi."

The foreman nodded almost imperceptibly; it may have been uninformative, but it was entertaining to watch a lesser negotiator make such rapid adjustments. Turning to his computer screen, he made a show of checking the data files. "His work group should be awake in about an hour's time," he said, pretending to read the information he had already committed to memory. If his suppositions about this alien held, the stranger would now resort to a physical threat of some sort.

The alien captain appeared to be dissatisfied, and leaned onto the foreman's desk in a puerile display of bravado. "It took six of my men half the day to extract this platinum," the stranger snarled. "I think you could wake him an hour early."

The foreman had to suppress the urge to laugh; did the stranger really believe that there were insufficient safety precautions in place? Armed newcomers were not allowed this deep into the mining complex without substantial protective measures in place—more than enough to neutralize the captain, his hovering nursemaid, and the two soldiers at his back.

Toying with his breather mask, the foreman was tempted to refuse, just to see how the stranger would respond. After a slow start, this one was rapidly becoming entertaining, and the foreman had various means at his disposal to prolong the exquisite impatience of the alien, but…

It made little sense to prolong this moment at the risk of losing the rest. "I shall have one of the guards awake your Xindi friend," the foreman proclaimed. With the wave of a hand, he ordered one of his hulking men to escort the strangers below.

...

Archer, Reed, Hayes, and Kemper followed the alien guard down into the heart of the planetoid, twisting their way through rock and ice-hewn tunnels, bordered by the montage of bluish water crystals and blackened veins of ore, lit by ubiquitous strips of luminescent tape. As they descended, Archer noted, the air warmed quickly; the solar heat trapped by the substrata was likely supplemented by radioactive decay in the planetoid's core. Not all forms of radioactive decay would harm their human bodies; but when they returned to the Enterprise, the landing party would undoubtedly be spending time in sickbay.

As the thin atmosphere warmed, it also thickened, providing a mixed blessing. It eased the taxation on the humans' heaving lungs, but the air content itself was unhealthy; the team continued to rely on the supplemental oxygen tubed into their noses, and the two MACOs wrapped their scarves over their lower faces in approximation of dust masks.

"So is trellium the only thing you mine here?" Archer asked their escort. He had to trot momentarily to catch up with the long-legged alien, and found himself sucking in air for his starved respiratory system.

"The only thing," the guard grunted, unwinded and non-talkative.

"I'm not familiar with it," Archer tried, catching a breath of oxygen. "What's it used for?"

The guard grunted unwillingly. He refused to look down at the shorter human dogging his footsteps, but finally spoke, as if the answer was being pried from his mouth. "Trellium-D—a refined form of the ore—is used for insulation," the guard growled. "If you pack it in the hull of a space vessel, it smoothes out the effects of the distortions."

Archer nearly tripped over his own feet in shock. Thirteen weeks into the Delphic Expanse, and the best his crew could come up with was to avoid the disruptions—but then again, the native species had been dealing with the gravimetric distortions for time unknown. After we talk to the miner, Archer decided, I need to talk to the foreman about trading for some trellium.

Rounding the final corner of the tunnel, they stepped into a broadened cavern that Archer could only guess was the camp canteen. The presence of several miners, sitting on rock stumps and sipping soup from a bowl, told him as much; although it looked more like a soup kitchen than a true mining canteen, what with the beaten, grubby attire of the workers, and the solitary vat of soup sitting at the forefront of the cavern.

The air warmed even quicker once they entered the canteen, and Archer surveyed the room at a glance, locating the dual-function heat lamps spread around the perimeter. And that, he noted, was the entirety of the room; otherwise, it was simply an empty hole in the middle of rock. Minimalist in the extreme. Usually, mining camps made at least some effort to add an aesthetic touch.

A scuffle emerged from another entrance tunnel, and another grubby miner emerged, coaxed along the way by two more hulking guards. As the other miners scattered, clearing a central path, the newcomer was thrown to the floor before Archer. Their escort held out his hand for the payment.

Archer's eyes focused not on the miner lying prostrate before them, but rather on the two guards who had dragged the man in. It was troubling, and he knew why: the number of guards they had seen was substantially higher than any other mining facility he had visited. Indeed, when he checked, three more armed guards patrolled the canteen.

Warily, Archer handed the cryo-thermos to their escort, who snatched it up quickly and promptly vanished.

The miner scrambled to his feet, backing away as if in fright. The captain could make out little; tattered clothing draped over a humanoid body, and a dirty scarf was wrapped around the being's face. "I'm Jonathan Archer," he said, calmly, slowly extending a hand in greeting.

The miner's eyes watched the hand carefully, as if expecting it to move suddenly and strike him. "Kessick," he answered, the voice muffled beneath the cloth. Slowly, he held up his own hand, revealing three cloth-wrapped fingers and one stub. "Do I have you to thank for this?"

This was not a good start, Archer realized. "The foreman said it was an accident," he replied gingerly. "We never meant for him to—take it."

"Of course not." The miner sounded miffed. "How did you expect him to verify who I am?"

"We expected a simple blood sample," Archer answered, holding his own hands up to placate the miner—and he quickly dropped them, realizing that it wasn't the best idea. "But on that note—you are a Xindi, right?"

"A seven-fingered Xindi!" Kessick's voice was a cross between a snort and a snuffle, petulance warring with desperation.

"And where's your homeworld?" Archer asked casually, trying to create the impression that he already knew and was testing the miner.

Kessick was far too suspicious. "What do you really want?" he asked, still cowering in front of the captain.

"Actually," Archer acknowledged, "what I really want is to know where your homeworld is. We have important business with your people."

Kessick cackled with glee. "And you don't know where to find them!" With a sudden, flourishing move, Kessick pulled the scarf from his head.

The miner was clearly not reptilian.

In fact, his features were close the humanoid norm; two eyes, a nose in the center, a mouth, and two ears; he had raised ridges that extended upward from his brow to his hairline, and cartilage bumps along his cheekbones. "Well," Kessick said, moving forward with a slight hiss, "if you want information, you'll have to make it worth it."

"What do you want?" Archer asked cautiously. He was still a little shocked to finally be standing face-to-face with a Xindi.

"If the information is worth taking my finger, than you can take the rest of me as well," Kessick replied, coming face-to-face with the captain.

Archer stifled the urge to sneeze; he didn't know if it was a natural affect of the Xindi, or merely the dust in the miner's rags, but sneezing in the man's face didn't seem like a good idea. "I'm not sure I understand," he admitted.

"If you want your information, you're going to have to help me escape from this place!" Kessick snarled angrily. He hunched close to the captain, shielding his voice with their bodies.

Archer exchanged a quick glance with Malcolm. "What do you mean, escape?"

Kessick stared at the human as if the captain was a fool. "Don't you understand? Do we look like volunteers? This is a slave camp!"

Archer realized that he was a fool. The extensive guard complement should have given it away.

The captain had no objections, in principle, to taking Kessick away; in the aftermath of the Final World War, the last vestiges of slavery had finally been abolished on Earth, and he considered himself to be duty-bound to free any slave he encountered on other worlds.

Looking at the ranks of guards, however, he had a practical objection.

"I'm sorry, we can't do that," Archer replied, cringing as he spoke. The words were like a dagger slicing into him. "But I am prepared to pay you. All I want is a simple set of coordinates."

A secondary blow of betrayal hit the captain—he had already paid the foreman, believing that the payment would secure the information. The foreman had effectively suckered him twice.

Kessick snorted. "The only payment that's worth anything is my freedom. If you can't provide me with that, stop wasting my time!"

Scarcely thinking, Archer grabbed the miner by his rags and threw Kessick to the floor. "I don't know what you're doing in this place, but I need those coordinates!" he barked. He knelt down into Kessick's face. "I'd free you if I could, but look around! But there is something you can do to help me!"

"Or what?" Kessick laughed. "Are you going to beat me, Captain?"

Without thought, Archer's right fist swung around, slamming into Kessick's face and knocked the miner's head into the rocky floor. "Yes, I will!" the captain snarled quickly, before two sets of beefy arms grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging him away.

Kessick stared up at the captain. No humiliation, no hatred, was left in the Xindi's eyes; instead, the miner communicated a silent plea. His own fury vanishing, Archer stopped struggling against the guards, and was buffeted by a wave of self-loathing.

Under the none-to-gentle guidance of the guards, the landing party was forcibly escorted from the canteen, back up the passages, back to the shuttlecraft waiting their return.

...

Captain Archer was yanked out of decon by the sirens of the Enterprise's tactical alert system, which beat the intercom summons by a hair. Still half-covered in slightly radioactive dust, he overruled Phlox's medical prerogatives, ran midway across E-deck, and caught the lift to the bridge.

"Report," he demanded as the lift doors opened, depositing him in the command headquarters of the ship. Commander T'Pol, her sensitive Vulcan hearing alerting her to the incoming lift, had already vacated the command chair and was on her way to the science console.

"There are three warships approaching at warp," she informed the captain as the two brushed shoulders, traveling in opposite directions.

"Can we identify them?" Archer sent the question over his shoulder.

T'Pol, moving swiftly, was already sliding into her duty station. "Their hull alloys match the mining towers on the surface," she answered. "It seems probable that they are somehow connected to the mine foreman, but I cannot confirm that at this time."

Archer shook his head, marveled that his first officer could communicate that much data that quickly in the middle of a tactical alert.

The lift doors opened again, this time depositing Lieutenant Reed and Ensign Mayweather on the bridge; Ensign Sato, the other member of the primary bridge crew, was already present, having stayed past the end of her regular shift. With a curt nod to Malcolm, Archer ordered him to kill the sirens.

"What's the ETA on those warships?" Archer asked next, assembling the tactical situation in his mind.

"Approximately ninety minutes," T'Pol replied.

"We have an audio message coming in from the mine foreman," Hoshi added, surprise crossing her soft features. With a nod from the captain, she put in on the speakers.

"Enterprise." The foreman's hoarse voice crackled with static. "I have noticed that you are still in orbit. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave; we have three cargo ships approaching, and on a planetoid of this size…orbital space is at a premium. I'm sure you understand."

Cargo ships? Archer mouthed the words at T'Pol, who confirmed that the captain had heard correctly.

"We've detected your cargo ships," Archer snapped. His frustration boiled upwards; the foreman had been playing him since the first moment, and the thought of planting a photonic torpedo in the center of the mining compound held a certain allure. "They're heavily armed."

"Refined trellium-D is a highly valued substance," the foreman replied blithely. "And I'm certain you've noticed that this is not one of the friendlier regions of space."

Archer's hands balled into fists. "You're holding those miners as slave laborers!"

The foreman chuckled audibly. "And what possible concern of yours is that? I supplied you with what you came for—now it's time for you to leave."

"We're not leaving until you free those workers!" Archer bellowed, looking up at the hidden mic pickups in the ceiling of the bridge. "I have a duty to stand against slavery!"

"Feeling a little guilty, are you?" the foreman answered, mockingly. "Yes, Captain, I heard about your encounter with our…Xindi friend. You'll be pleased to know that he'll be released from the infirmary tomorrow…provided, of course, that there are no unexpected setbacks in his…recovery."

Archer gripped the railing circling the well of the bridge, trying to anchor his fury. The jab had hit hard, physically sucking the air from him. "We're not leaving!" he repeated, shouting upwards.

The foreman sounded amused. "What information could your friend have that could possibly…be worth such bluster?"

In his anger, the words slipped out. "We need the location of the Xindi homeworld!" Archer snarled.

"Is that all?" The foreman's voice was flippant. "And it was worth half a liter of platinum to you? Why didn't you just ask?"

Warring between shock and apprehension, Archer glanced over at Hoshi, who mouthed the words of confirmation. Incoming data transmission. A set of coordinates.

"Now leave, Captain." The comm channel closed before Archer could respond. The bridge crew seemed to experience a collective sigh of relief as the grating voice disappeared.

"First things first," Archer said quietly, the wear of the day hitting him suddenly. "How do those coordinates look?"

"As far as I can tell, they're valid," Travis answered. "They're located several light-years away. Call it…six or seven days' travel, depending on how strong the anomalies are along the route." He turned in his chair, awaiting orders to depart.

Archer draped both arms over the railing, letting the bar support some of his weight. His head sagged downwards as the adrenaline drained from him. "Here's what we'll do," he said tiredly. "Lieutenant Reed, I want you to come up with a plan to rescue those slaves. Have it in place in—thirty minutes. Get Major Hayes to help you." The captain slowly peeled himself off the railing. "I'll be in sickbay, if you need me."

...

The holographic technology in the command center had been appropriated from displaying starcharts to show a 3-D schematic of the planetoid. And it looks no better from orbit, Malcolm decided. While the overhead view was far prettier, obscuring the brutal detail of the surface, the thin, visible lines of brown and blue were identifiable to a veteran spacer, announcing the hidden dangers on the rock-and-ice hunk.

Major Hayes, commanding officer of the Military Assault Command Operations (MACO) contingent assigned to the Enterprise, manipulated the controls, zooming in on the mining complex. The data gathered by the shuttlecraft sensors, while patchy in spots, fleshed out a mostly-complete tactical schematic of the compound, showing the conduits, sheds, exhaust vents, and a scattering of towers.

"The only safe landing spot is the landing pad itself," Hayes noted, pointing to the offset piece of artificially-flat ground. His finger waved through the immaterial hologram; Earth's scientists speculated that one day they would be able to create holograms with material substance, but Hayes privately thought that it was a pipe dream. "We didn't detect any weapons embankments, but they'll know we're coming. They'll have time to scramble the guards, with heavy weaponry."

"Travis is an excellent pilot," Malcolm countered, shifting the hologram to display a cross-section of the razor-thin atmosphere. "The planetoid has a heavy magnetic field, and it's causing intense ionization. If we let him choose his insertion path, I think he can cover the descent."

"And have the second pilot follow his tracks?" Hayes asked.

Malcolm confirmed. "It'll be some delicate piloting," he added, "but I've served with Travis for some time now. He's up to it."

"All right," Hayes said, accepting Reed's judgment on the matter.

During their discussion, the mission parameters had changed slightly from the captain's original orders: both Reed and Hayes noted early on that, if they sent down sufficient people to free any of the slaves, there wouldn't be enough room in the shuttlecraft for a rapid extraction. Thus, by necessity, the plan advanced to seizing control of the mining facility; a noticeably harder task, but they were counting on the rioting skills of the prisoners to occupy the bulk of the guards.

"How far away are the warships?" Hayes asked. His head was half-buried in the holographic planetoid.

"About an hour," Malcolm answered, pulling the information from a data console. "Do you say our plan is ready?"

"As ready as it's going to be," the major replied. "There's only so much we can do in half an hour."

"They're armed to the teeth down there, but it is doable," Malcolm added. With a press of the control panel, the hologram disappeared. "Major, are you certain that you don't want any of my security personnel in the assault teams?"

"It is ultimately your decision," Hayes acknowledged slowly. "But this is what my people are here for: we're ground-pounders, pure and simple. We're not trained to handle shipboard functions. All things considered, it's better to send in my teams, and preserve yours as long as possible." It was a polite recognition that the MACOs were more expendable.

Malcolm nodded. "Point taken, Major. Assemble your teams and have them report to the launch bay; I'll be with the captain."

...

Finally satisfied with his handiwork, Phlox hit the release, triggering open the iris hatchway at the foot of the imaging chamber. From within, a biobed emerged on mechanical tracks, carrying with it the now-healed body of Captain Archer. The last round of radiation treatment had been a success; the physician was ready to declare the captain fit for duty.

Of course, that didn't stop Phlox from being cautious. He scurried around to the captain's side. "Slowly," he urged, as he helped Archer sit up, and the captain did as told. Undoubtedly, there was transient weariness still; it would take the body time to recover.

"I'm feeling better, Phlox," Archer said quietly. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, thus allowing himself to sit more comfortably. Despite the captain's assurance, he seemed in no hurry to jump to his feet.

The sickbay doors hissed open, catching the doctor's momentary attention; his mental diagnostics identified the newcomers as Lieutenant Reed and Commander T'Pol, and neither seemed to be injured. Thus satisfied, Phlox's mind shifted back to his patient.

"We have an assault plan ready," Malcolm was saying as he crossed the room. He handed a data padd to the captain. "We're awaiting your final order on it."

"Have you reviewed it, T'Pol?" Archer asked. Phlox noted that the captain was leaning on his first officer for command judgment—unsurprising, given the circumstances.

"Yes, Captain," T'Pol replied. "I give it a 15.72% chance of success, but I am also confident that this is the best we can do without suitable time to prepare."

Archer bit his lower lip, rapidly turning it white. "Those aren't good odds," he admitted. "What about friendly casualties?"

"Unavoidable, sir," Malcolm answered. His hands were clasped behind him in a classic 'at-ease' posture. "Both among our assault teams, and the prisoners themselves."

"Captain." There was no hesitation in T'Pol's tone. "Perhaps we should consider forgoing this rescue."

Archer looked up at the Vulcan with surprise. "These are sentient beings, held as slaves," he remarked. "We have a duty to save them."

"We also have a duty to our larger mission," T'Pol countered. "Even if this rescue is successful, it will cost us an irreplaceable resource: our crew. And this rescue does nothing to advance our mission against the Xindi."

"Yeah, but—" Archer's hands gestured in confusion. "They're being held as slaves, T'Pol. How can we leave them to that fate?"

"Captain, I think the commander has a point here," Malcolm said carefully. He raised his hands in preemptive defense. "I understand your point, sir, and normally, I'd be right behind you on it; you know that." Archer nodded. "But, sir," Malcolm continued, "it'll be a running firefight just to get from the landing pad to the mining complex—and once inside, those tunnels are like a rat's nest. The MACOs are good, but even they can't come away without losing anyone."

Archer's eyes glared at the tactical chief. "Are you saying that our lives are more important than those slaves?"

"Yes, sir." It was T'Pol who answered, and she had to ward off the captain's evil glance. "Contrary to rumor, Vulcans are not in the habit of quantifying life, Captain," she said in counter of the unspoken accusation. "But in this instance, the value of our crew is not intrinsic…it must be weighed according to the lives on Earth. There are potentially billions of lives at stake here."

As far as Phlox was concerned, the discussion had taken an ugly turn, and it was time for someone to speak in favor of morality. "Wait a second here," he objected loudly, inserting himself into the conversation. "You can't seriously be suggesting that we condemn those poor beings to spending the rest of their lives at slaves? When we have the ability to free them?"

"Yes, Doctor," Malcolm replied, visibly perturbed. "As Major Hayes recently reminded me, the MACOs are here for combat—against the Xindi. We need every soldier possible alive and on his feet for when we catch up with those bastards. Our numbers are small enough as it is." Malcolm shrugged unhappily. "We can't risk losing anyone when it isn't absolutely necessary."

"Isn't necessary?" Phlox's rarely-seen anger flared up vehemently. "These are sentient beings, Lieutenant, and we have an obligation to them! We can't turn our backs and run away, just because it might get dangerous!"

"No one said that we're going to run away," Archer intervened, his voice still tired.

T'Pol's face flickered in confusion. "Then what are you suggesting, Captain?"

"Let's try a bluff," Archer decided, rolling his head on his neck. "Maybe we can bluff the foreman into releasing some of the prisoners."

"With all due respect, sir," Malcolm muttered, "the foreman seems to be getting the better of us. What makes you think that we can successfully pull one on him?"

"Captain," T'Pol added, "the incontrovertible fact is that we have what we need: the coordinates of the Vulcan homeworld. Our duty is plain, regardless of our emotions. There are maybe a hundred slaves down there, and billions of people back on Earth. The needs of the many must outweigh the needs of the few."

"That's insanity!" Phlox barked angrily. "Those people need our help!"

"So do the people back on Earth, Doctor!" Malcolm shot back heatedly. "And there's a helluva lot more of them!"

"I know that this sort of moral relativism has plagued your planet's past, Lieutenant," Phlox retorted. "But I thought humans had finally moved past that!"

"Just what the hell are you accusing me of, Doctor?" Malcolm's eyes burned as he stepped towards Phlox.

"This sort of emotional display is distracting us from the central issue," T'Pol insisted, but her words were unheeded.

"I'm not accusing you of anything, Lieutenant," Phlox responded irately. "I'm simply reminding you of your values! And they are not to be discarded, just because it's inconvenient!"

"There are billions of lives at issue, Phlox!" Malcolm roared back. "You call that 'inconvenient'?"

Phlox turned to the captain in beseechment. "What were your words to me, Captain?" he asked furiously. "That it's not just a matter of survival; it's about what we survive as? Do you really want to survive as a race who abandons others just because the going gets tough?"

A wave of drowsiness swept over the captain. "We'll try the bluff," he said tiredly, hoping to end the discussion.

Phlox wasn't satisfied. "And what if the foreman doesn't fall for it?" he demanded.

Archer raised his head to look the doctor in the eye. "We'll cross that bridge, if we get there," he answered.

...

The foreman re-opened the audio channel with a sense of anticipation. The intransigence of these aliens had been unexpected; but he wasn't concerned. Newcomers inevitably bowed to the reality of the Expanse, and he knew that these strangers would be no different. In the meantime…it was entertaining.

"This is Archer." The alien captain's voice was muffled by the ionic distortions.

"Captain Archer." The foreman held his comm pick-up close to his face; it eased the need for gasping air, and the rattling in his voice added a certain unnatural affect to communications. "I couldn't help but notice that you're still in orbit," he said, hissing slightly.

"We're not leaving until those slaves are free!" the alien demanded. What could have been a menacing tone was diluted beyond salvage by the weak channel.

"So, you are feeling guilty," the foreman hissed. A fleck of silicate spit lodged in the microphone. "You hope to atone for killing poor Kessick, do you?"

The alien was silent for a moment. The foreman pictured the captain's exquisite agony; Archer was weighing the words, vacillating between intense guilt and doubt. "I don't believe he's dead," the captain finally replied, but his words were not strong.

"Do you remember how his head hit the rock?" the foreman answered, delighting in the pain. "Do you remember the pool of blood that formed underneath? Or did you even bother to check?" It was the best sort of story: impossible to verify either way, certain to cause an excruciating, twisting sense of self-doubt and reprobation, the sort that could not be shaken.

The silence became lengthy before the alien finally answered. "My motivations are irrelevant," the captain stated. "What matters is that you are holding those workers as slaves."

"And what exactly do you intend to do about it?" The foreman had to turn his head momentarily, gasping for a deep breath of purified air.

"If necessary, we will attack you," Archer answered, his voice finally firming up.

"I'm sure you will," the foreman offered. "My cargo ships arrive in an hour. If you are still in orbit, they will destroy you." Your move now…

The alien captain followed obediently. "We will have control of your facility long before then."

"With what?" The foreman let his lip lift in a soft snarl. "The two shuttlecraft which are oh-so-carefully trying to sneak down to the surface?" He sat back, enjoying the hiss of silence; he could picture the captain, frantically checking their controls, trying to figure out if the foreman had simply made a lucky guess.

Let's tip a hand, see how Archer responds. "Or did you assume that our sensors were no better than your own?" the foreman suggested. A sadistic growl curled around his words. "Could you really be that foolish?"

"Our plan doesn't rely on surprise," the alien captain answered moments later. It was clear, even over the crackling channel, that Archer's confidence was wavering.

The foreman decided to put the poor alien out of his misery. "Listen to me carefully, Captain," he hissed. "If your assault team tries to enter our tunnels, we will chew them up…Before you leave orbit, I will allow one of your shuttlecraft to land…we put a crate of refined trellium ore on the landing pad for you…as a parting gift." Nothing like a final, low blow, the foreman thought.

The alien captain severed the channel.

...

"What do we do now, Captain?" Malcolm asked softly.

Archer was pacing across the bridge, with a slight spring in his step. Phlox had given him an energy booster. His mind was wide awake, but his body was a little twitchy. "T'Pol?" the captain asked, and then specified: "Have they really detected our shuttlecraft?"

"There is no way for us to be certain, Captain," T'Pol answered. She alone of the bridge crew showed no sign of twisting agony. Whether she was not experiencing any, or was simply masking it, was anyone's guess. "But it is plausible."

Archer bounced several times on the balls of his feet as he impatiently flittered around the bridge. "Tactical, Malcolm?" he asked finally. "Can we still pull off the attack?"

"Without that bit of surprise?" Malcolm shook his head. He didn't even need to run figures; the door was firmly shut before them. "Not a chance, sir. At least, not before those warships get here."

Ensign Sato turned in the helm chair. "Sir? Do you think Kessick really is dead?" Hoshi asked, inquiring about the Xindi miner who had precipitated the whole affair.

"It is irrelevant," T'Pol replied instead.

Archer sent a dirty glare at the Vulcan. "It's very relevant," he snapped. "It's relevant to me, if I killed him or not."

"Captain," Malcolm added quietly, "it may matter to your conscience, but it's not relevant to the mission."

Archer bounded back to the tactical console. "Can you give me anything?" he demanded irately.

Lieutenant Reed shook his head. "No, sir," he answered unwillingly. "That foreman has us boxed in."

The energy booster snapped. Jonathan Archer felt the fatigued weight crash down on him, and he let his face fall into his hands. The decision was his and his alone, he knew.

The worst part was that it wasn't even a hard decision to make.

"Recall shuttlepod two," he told Malcolm, looking back up at the tactical chief. "Instruct shuttlepod one to land and collect that crate."

"Sir—" Malcolm said hesitantly. Giving in was bad enough; accepting the ore…it was like rubbing salt in an open wound.

"You heard me, Malcolm," Archer replied. His weariness threatened to overwhelm him. "When both shuttlepods have returned…"

"Heading, sir?" Hutchinson asked from the helm, recognizing the unspoken order to leave.

"To the Xindi coordinates," Archer answered. "Best speed. I have some ordered bed rest; T'Pol, you have the bridge." Without waiting for acknowledgement, Jonathan Archer entered the lift, a heavy air hanging about him, and the doors hissed shut behind him.

...

The soft glow of candlelight emanated within T'Pol's quarters, sending dancing shadows of twisting, flickering contrails up and down the bulkhead walls. They radiated a delicate, clean aroma that played on the olfactory nerves, stimulating the restful neurochemicals that would lay the body at ease. Across the deck plating, T'Pol stretched out supple mats, which absorbed the soft light from above and held a soothing warmness of their own. If a person let their eyelids fall heavy, and allow the sensations to sweep over, one would find themself transported to a cave beneath the heights of Mount Selaya, back on mother Vulcan.

"Thanks for seeing me so late," Trip offered, stepping in tentatively. By ship's time, it was nearly 0400; the events of the previous day had stretched into the early morning hours, and only now was the primary crew finally going off-duty.

"Not at all," T'Pol answered serenely. She waved the commander inside, but he stopped midway, holding out a lidded bowl.

"I, ah, wanted to thank you properly," he stammered bashfully. He took the lid off, revealing several pieces of fruit. "Georgia peaches; they're the best. I picked up a crate when we were back on Earth. Chef's been keeping them in stasis for me, so they're as fresh as the day they were picked."

"Thank you," T'Pol replied properly, and she moved as if to set the fruit aside.

"Aren't you going to try one?" Trip asked encouragingly.

T'Pol demurred. "I don't usually eat this late."

Trip was on the spot. "And I don't usually visit a girl's quarters this late." He grinned crookedly. "Come on. One bite?"

Recognizing the futility of her objections, T'Pol gave in and hesitantly brought the peach up to her mouth. Slightly suspicious, she bit into it, and was surprised by the tender juiciness; on her desert homeworld, everything was dried. "You know," she said, her mouth full with a second bite, "this doesn't make up for the sessions you've cancelled."

"Maybe you haven't noticed," Trip replied, a little irately, "but I've been kinda busy lately. It's not like I didn't want to come back…"

T'Pol's raised eyebrow cut him short.

"All right," he admitted sheepishly. "I know I could've tried harder. So, should I just…" he gestured around the room, waiting for instructions.

"Lay down on the floor," T'Pol told him.

Trip stretched out on his abdomen. The candlelight made him languid, but seconds later, his body tensed up in shock. "Your hands are ice cold!"

T'Pol's response was to press harder. "Take long, deep breaths," she advised as she pressed in on the neural release points.

"You sure this is safe?" Trip asked quickly, feeling a tinge of buyer's remorse. "I mean, has anyone ever tried it on a human before?"

"Not to my knowledge," T'Pol replied. "But the risk of paralysis is normal. Now breath."

It took a second for Trip to realize that he hadn't been forgiven for missing so many sessions—not quite yet, anyway. And then his thoughts disappeared under the rush of relaxation and the intoxicating feeling of his muscles beginning to unclench.

...

Whether it was late night or early morning made little difference to Hoshi as she splashed a basin-full of water on her face. The warm liquid triggered a yawn; or maybe it was the fatigue…she had been on duty for nearly twenty-four hours, snatching momentary breaks here and there, and by the captain's orders, she had the next two days off.

Truth be known, she'd probably return sometime the following afternoon; Hoshi was not good at relaxing while she had work to do. But she'd worry about that tomorrow; for now, she was ready to collapse in her bunk…

Hoshi frowned and looked around from her bathroom mirror.

Hoshi.

It was a whispered sound, which seemed to come from all around her. She started to move, but stopped, choosing to ignore it. Probably just a symptom of her exhaustion. She turned her focus back to the mirror, and wiped her hands dry from the water. Perhaps she would take the full day off. She had some reading to catch up on…she had vowed to become the first human to understand Old High Vulcan, and Commander T'Pol had provided several grammatical texts from the Vulcan Embassy back on Earth.

Hoshi.

Ok, she definitely heard it this time. Heard it? Felt it? Regardless, it was something. Setting down the hand towel, she rounded the corner into her low-lit quarters.

She scanned the small room quickly; there was little room in it to hide, and the soft, blue lighting around the window port cast sufficient glow to illuminate her living space. Everything was in order; even the tight corners of her bunk were in place, undisturbed by the chaotic universe.

Do you understand me?

She jumped. It came from behind her—and she spun around, peering back into her bathroom, but finding nothing.

I think you do.

Two years ago, Hoshi had been perpetually nervous, uncomfortable in space, scared that every asteroid hid a boogeyman and every dark matter cloud hid a demon. Now, she knew better; it allowed her to keep her calm as she struggled to figure out what was happening.

Can you see me?

Hoshi's head darted around, and there—standing by the window port, tucked in the small dimness of the corner—was a distinct humanoid shape. Cloaked in the recessed shadows, she could make out nothing more, but there was something there.

Hello, Hoshi.

Her eyes left the chimera, turning to the intercom panel as she punched the button. "Ensign Sato to security!"

"Reed here." There was a slight scuffling sound that indicated the lieutenant was scrambling to reach the controls. "Hoshi? Is everything all right?"

Hoshi's gaze went back to the corner, but the shadow person was gone. She blinked twice, then rubbed her eyelids; nothing was there.

"Sorry, Lieutenant," she replied at last. "False alarm." She closed the comm channel. It must've been a figment of her sleep-deprived mind. And if not, well, it was gone anyway.

...

"Good morning, Captain!" Phlox's cheerful voice did, paradoxically, seem to cheer up Jonathan Archer, despite the early hour of the morning; or maybe it was the recognition that the Xindi homeworld might be only a couple days away…regardless, Phlox was glad to see the smile on Archer's fatigue-lined face. "Sorry if I woke you, Captain," he said, waving his arms in welcome.

Archer was glad to see that sickbay was lightly staffed and unoccupied by patients; following the roughness of the prior day, it was astonishing to realize that there were no major injuries. At least, none among the crew; the captain had no idea if Kessick was still alive, and if so, what condition the Xindi-primate was in. "Porthos woke me up an hour ago," the captain replied guardedly. He wasn't mad at the dog; in fact, it had been quite relaxing to curl up in his bunk, giving the happy pup a lengthy ear scratch. However, he was reserving judgment on whether the doctor's summons was worth reporting to duty early for. "And I had to get moving for my shift anyway."

Phlox tsked. "You of all people should know the importance of rest, Captain," the Denobulan said, moving briskly about sickbay. "I know you've authorized time off for the rest of the senior staff; why not yourself?"

Archer chuckled lightly. "Is that an order, Doctor?"

"Consider it…friendly advice," Phlox replied, glad to share the moment with Archer. "But you must make sure to have tomorrow night off—Chef is showing a medley of Three Stooges clips for movie night. Nyuk, nyuk!"

Archer let out a full laugh; the doctor's imitation of Curly was deadly accurate, and it was welcome relief after dealing with the duplicitous mine foreman. "What did you want to see me for?"

"Ah, you have to see this!" Phlox replied earnestly. He pulled up a diagram on the overhead monitor. The captain recognized the standard humanoid medical profile, but little beyond that. "Ensign Sato sent me some medical data from the Xindi computer core a couple days ago. It took some time to analyze, but look at this! It's another species of Xindi!"

"Wait." Archer's mind struggled to fit the information into place. "A third species? Is this one sentient too?"

Phlox shrugged energetically. "Normally, I'd say no—the odds are just too incredible. But if the Xindi managed to coexist with two types, why not a third? And the medical data certainly suggests that some members of this species were on board the ship."

"So—if one was reptilian in origin, and the other was primate, then this one…?"

"It appears to be another variation of primate. It's physiometric data suggests an arboreal descent, rather than a true hominid descent."

"Like a monkey," Archer guessed, filling in the biological taxonomy.

"Exactly, Captain." While still distinct from the Xindi-primates, a Xindi-arboreal would be far more closely related to the primate branch then the reptilians were. Like kissing cousins, Archer realized. The biological genealogy of the Xindi must be fascinatingly complex.

"Doctor," Archer said curiously, "have you ever heard of three sentient species evolving together like this?"

"No, Captain," Phlox averred quickly. "As I mentioned the other day, even two defies most anthropological theories…three?" He shook his head. "It's shame that they're our enemies. We might be able to learn a thing or two from them."

...

"Captain," T'Pol greeted Archer politely as he entered the command center. It was around the corner from sickbay, and T'Pol's hail was next on his list: at this rate, Archer told himself wryly, I might make it to the bridge around the end of my scheduled shift. Of course, for the senior staff, the notion of a 'scheduled' shift was gradually meaning less and less as they flew deeper into the Delphic Expanse—witness T'Pol's presence, on her gifted day off.

"What is it, Commander?" Archer asked. Working with a Vulcan had its benefits: he could release some of the edginess he was feeling without offending her, and did so.

"I have been reviewing the navigational data from the Xindi computer core with Ensign Mayweather," T'Pol explained. "I've been able to reconstruct the ship's course for the two months previous to its encounter with the Osaarian raiders."

"Any chance that one of its destinations had a big flag labeled 'home'?" Archer asked wryly.

"While the odds of such an event, sans an actual flag, are relatively strong, I did not find such a record," T'Pol admitted. "However, I was intrigued by their records pertaining to a system temporarily designated Delphi Beta Xi."

The science officer pulled the star system's data up on the main viewscreen, revealing a main sequence F-class star. Seven primary planets rotated at varying intervals, surrounded by a thinner-than-average Kuiper Belt of rocky asteroids and planetoids.

T'Pol zeroed in on the fourth planet. The navigational logs provided little geological or meteorological data, only indicating that it was inhabitable. "The Xindi vessel departed this planet approximately thirty-two days before encountering the Osaarians," T'Pol explained.

"Does it say what they were doing there?" Archer asked. His curiosity fought exasperation at the slowly-building report.

"Yes," T'Pol answered. "There appears to be an alien bazaar on the planet's surface. The Xindi vessel stopped to purchase refined trellium ore."

The words caught Archer's breath; if the Enterprisecould do the same, and purchase enough ore to insulate the starship, they would no longer have to circumnavigate around every gravimetric anomaly… "How much time would this add to our trip?" he asked cautiously, unsure if he wanted the answer.

"It depends on how successful we are," T'Pol replied. She zoomed out the viewscreen to show the local region of space; between the various stellar bodies and star systems were patches of blue, symbolizing the distortions. The Enterprise's projected route snaked around these disturbances, easily doubling its flight path in the process. "If we can procure sufficient refined ore, we should actually cut our trip by nearly a day and a half."

"And if we can't…"

T'Pol tilted her head. "The system itself is less than a parsec off our current course. If we limit our time on the surface, it should add no more than a half day."

"Send the coordinates to the helm," Archer decided instantly. "Have Travis take us there as quickly as possible."

...

Malcolm ran the sensor logs a second time, but the same results blinked again on his console. "Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "What time did you say it was?"

"Around 0400," Hoshi answered hopefully. She leaned over the tactical chief's shoulder, hoping to dissect the readings and discover something profound…or, at least, something varying from the norm. It was more from eagerness and anxiety than true hope; the sensor schematics were not her area of expertise.

Malcolm shook his head again. "I ran every scan in the book, Hoshi," he replied doubtfully. He cocked his head to better address the ensign hovering behind him. "There's no sign of anything abnormal around 0400. I even ran a sensor diagnostic, but the equipment is functioning fine."

"Maybe it was something that the sensors aren't set up to detect," Hoshi suggested, grasping for ideas. In a wearied fit of blasé the night before, she had forgotten about the strange experience and promptly crashed; however, in the morning hours of the following day, she hadn't been able to shake the eerie feeling. When Lieutenant Reed stopped by Hoshi's quarters to check on her, she had taken up his offer to run a detailed check of the sensor logs. Now…now she felt pressured to verify her claims; she had worked hard to overcome her reputation for jumpiness, and didn't want to reopen those days.

"If that's the case, then we're not going to figure it out here," Malcolm responded with the painfully obvious. "Hoshi—we've all been under a considerable amount of strain. Is it possible—?"

"That I'm imagining things?" Hoshi retorted, more harshly than she would have liked. Reed was trying to be helpful, even if it came out as patronizing.

"We're all on edge," Malcolm replied, looking back at the ensign. "It's not uncommon to see something out of the corner of your eye."

Hoshi burned in slow annoyance. "I'm not paranoid, Lieutenant."

"I'm not suggesting you are, Ensign." Malcolm's precise tones clicked a little sharper to remind Hoshi of bridge decorum. "Seeing things isn't uncommon. Just the other night I thought I heard clicking sounds in my quarters." It would be decades still before humans verified the existence of an alien species called the Reticulans—responsible for 95% of the clicking sounds, alien abductions, and crashed saucers in Earth's pre-warp history.

"What I saw wasn't a shadow," Hoshi bristled.

"All right, Ensign, I'll keep my eyes open," Malcolm replied, nodding in agreement. "There are several scans the sensors don't do automatically—I'll adjust them for continuous surveillance." From the corner of his own eye, Malcolm noticed the form of Captain Archer slipping into his ready room. "If you'll excuse me, Ensign?"

Hoshi took a step back, and as Malcolm arose, he grasped her arm in a friendly manner. "Listen, Hoshi, why don't you have Phlox check you out? I know, I know." He warded off the objection immediately. "But if Phlox can verify that you're not just seeing things, then I'll know that it's a problem in our sensors somewhere—and then I can justify putting several technicians to work on it. Until then…" he shrugged helplessly. "I need something more to go on."

"Of course, Lieutenant," Hoshi replied, a little hollowly.

With a firm pat on her shoulder, Malcolm departed and trotted across the bridge, chasing the captain into his ready room. Reed caught Archer in the process of swinging his feet up on his desk.

"Malcolm!" Archer exclaimed, slightly surprised by the unannounced entry. "Didn't I give you the day off?"

"With all due respect, Captain," Malcolm countered, "didn't Phlox give you the day off?"

Archer pantomimed an exaggerated look of fear. "I won't tell if you don't, Lieutenant. Now, what has you in such a rush?"

"Well, sir—" Reed fidgeted a little; it went against his considerable training to second-guess a superior officer. "When we changed course, I noticed that it could delay our arrival at the Xindi homeworld. Are you sure that's wise?"

Archer dropped his feet back to the deck plates. "It could also speed up our arrival, Malcolm." He pushed himself forward to plant his elbows on the desk. "Here's the thing, Malcolm: even if that does turn out to be the Xindi homeworld, it doesn't necessarily mean that our mission will be over. There's a good chance that they've hidden the weapon elsewhere…and if we're going to succeed in the Expanse, we need the trellium. On the odds…" Archer shrugged. "It's worth risking the delay."

"Of course, sir," Malcolm acknowledged. "I apologize for my abruptness."

Archer smiled. "Don't worry about it. In fact, I'm going to be counting on you when we reach that bazaar."

...

"I don't know what to do, Commander," Hoshi finished, having retold the trim Vulcan sitting across the mess hall table. Uncertain of what to do, Hoshi had eventually decided to turn to T'Pol—for the ensuing reason.

"If we presume, in arguendo, that your experience was not simply a consequence of fatigue, then Lieutenant Reed's suggestion would be the logical course of action," T'Pol replied. Only a Vulcan would be able to suspend doubt and argue within the given parameters. "As an investigative matter, it would be beneficial to conclusively preclude a mental abnormality—and if the effect was caused by some sort of neuroactive transmission, the doctor may be able to detect residual patterns in your neurological system."

Hoshi smiled, feeling noticeably better. "Thanks, Commander," she said warmly. Hoshi followed the sudden dart of T'Pol's eyes to the doorway, registering the entrance of Commander Tucker and one of his engineers, Lieutenant Kelby.

As Kelby broke left towards the beverage dispenser, Trip stayed in the doorway, surveying the room quickly. "Hey, T'Pol!" he said loudly, his voice carrying across the muted conversation of midmorning coffee breaks. "You have plans for tonight?"

T'Pol straightened in her chair, as though summoning the strength to project her own voice across the room. "Not at the moment."

"You and me, then, mess hall at nineteen hundred hours," Trip replied with his trademarked, crooked grin.

T'Pol cocked an eyebrow. "Movie night?"

"You got it! Gotta go!" Trip turned and left the room.

Hoshi looked at T'Pol with amazement. "Did he just ask you out on a date?"

...

"There's some mild vaso-dilation in your pre-frontal cortex," Phlox pronounced "That would account for your headaches. Other than that, you're in perfect health." He smiled broadly, expecting the news to ease Hoshi's anxiety.

She wasn't as convinced. "Are there any more tests that you can run?" Hoshi asked, doubtfully. She had spent the bulk of her day off in sickbay, running through test after test, hoping to find something to explain her weird vision the night before; all things considered, she would've preferred to have Phlox find something. A clean bill of health meant…was she going space-crazy?

"What do you expect me to find?" Phlox asked curiously, helping Hoshi sit up on the biobed.

"Just…something," Hoshi replied with a strong note of frustration. "It wasn't just last night, okay? The last few days I've had the strangest feeling that I'm being watched. I've heard whispering down corridors, in my quarters. Isn't it possible that I've been exposed to something that's making me hallucinate?"

"It's definitely possible," Phlox allowed cautiously. "But there's no medical evidence that I can detect. And Lieutenant Reed still can't find any mind-altering substances on board, or any unexplained transmissions."

"So basically, this is all in my head," Hoshi replied despondently.

"It appears to be," Phlox answered carefully. "But there are some…measures we can take to help with that."

"Great." Hoshi's wry voice indicated that it was anything but.

"I suppose you believe you're dealing badly with stress," Phlox offered.

"It's not a good sign when you start seeing things that aren't there."

"Well, medically, that's a matter of opinion," Phlox said. "On Denobula, for instance, when a person under stress hallucinates, it's considered healthy—a harmless way for the subconscious to release nervous energy. I've always envied those who had that facility; I tend to keep too much bottled up inside." For a moment, he gazed wistfully at the ceiling.

"And maybe I'm just turning into a space case," Hoshi countered. "I seem to do as well in space as a walrus does in the sky."

"Ensign, everyone suffers from stress, especially on a mission like this." Phlox glanced around and lowered his voice, conspiratorially. "Trust me, you're not the first patient I've had with stress-related symptoms. You're not even the worst."

Hoshi smiled wanly.

"The key is learning how to release it," Phlox continued. "If you like, we can do a stress profile for you. It'll show…how many hours of rest you need, what the best forms of relaxation are, that sort of thing."

"Thanks, Phlox." Hoshi hopped down from the biobed. "I'll stop by tomorrow. But I need a break from sickbay today."

"I'll look for you tomorrow, then," Phlox replied, grinning widely. But as Hoshi disappeared out the doors, he couldn't help but feel worried.

...

The flickers of the black-and-white movie leapt through the mess hall, bringing to life adventures of centuries past. To the doctor's chagrin, Chef had ultimately decided to show a classic Hope and Crosby flick; but now, Phlox sat spellbound, shuffling popcorn into his mouth.

"Something tells me we haven't seen the last of the detective in the bow tie," Phlox whispered, leaning towards Trip. The engineer sat to the doctor's immediate right.

"No, he died in the house fire," Trip replied, equally sotto voce. Without looking down, he swiped a handful of kernels from the doctor.

"Ah, did he?" Phlox raised a finger in the air. "The autopsy was inconclusive; we don't know for certain who it was. I wouldn't be surprised if the body belonged to the delivery man with the strange limp." His finger wiggled in the air. "You never did see him leave the house."

Malcolm leaned forward from behind. "What about the gardener?" he hissed. "He was there too."

"Too tall," Phlox hissed back, almost chortling. "Even the primitive forensics of the time would have determined that."

"I suppose that's what I get for making a suggestion to a forensic pathologist," Malcolm muttered in jest. "But you have to admit: the gardener was acting suspiciously."

"You think the gardener set the fire?" Trip retorted. "And then got caught in it?"

"Never underestimate the stupidity of the criminal element, Commander," Malcolm responded.

"Yeah, but—that would kill the plot of the movie!" Trip whispered loudly.

It earned him a glare from T'Pol, who sat to his other side, primly munching on a plate of celery sticks. "Perhaps we should watch, and find out," she admonished the others.

"T'Pol, I know you're new to the whole movie thing, so I'll explain this one more time," Trip hissed, turning his attention around. "The point of a good mystery is to solve it before it ends. Using logic. You of all people should appreciate that."

"Then use logic more quietly," T'Pol retorted.

Malcolm let out a low whisper. "Ouch, Commander," he hissed. "She got you there."

Tucker sent a dirty glare back at Reed.

"Stop by sickbay, and I'll give you a little ointment for that burn," Phlox added cheerfully. "Wait, I can prove that the detective wasn't the fire victim: if he was, then who will solve the case?"

"I'm not sure that's a logical proof, Doctor," T'Pol replied, getting drawn in by the challenge to her logic.

"So, where was the butler during the fire?" Trip waded back in to the fray.

"Um, Commander?" Malcolm responded cautiously. "There is no butler."

"Ah, that's what they want you to think," Phlox countered gleefully.

The movie paused suddenly and the lights flashed on under the tinkling hail of the intercom. The captain's voice cut short the groans. "Senior staff to the bridge," Archer called out, his voice carrying throughout the ship. "Dr. Phlox to the bridge as well. Repeat, senior staff and Doctor Phlox to the bridge."

"Back to work, folks," Trip commented laconically as he stood up, looking around at the junior officers and noncoms. "Don't anyone tell me how it ends, okay?"

...

As the relative rookie to bridge emergencies—he normally reported to sickbay—Dr. Phlox brought up the tail end of the chain of senior officers, allowing T'Pol, Tucker, and Reed to exit the lift before him. They did so with precision born of practice, trotting across the bridge to their respective posts; for his part, Phlox announced his presence to the captain and then hung in the background, trying to stay out of the way.

"I'm picking up an automated distress call, sir," Hoshi reported from communications. Her quick breathing indicated to Phlox that Hoshi had just dashed to the bridge as well; she likely had arrived one lift-ride before him. "It's Vulcan," she added, banishing any note of surprise from her voice.

"Hail them," Archer ordered. Unusual for the captain during an emergency, he was seated in the command chair; Phlox solved the mystery a moment later when he noticed the captain putting on a boot. Evidently, the captain had been yanked from off-duty status as well.

"Nothing, sir." Hoshi's brow furrowed deeply as she concentrated on her earpiece. "All I'm getting is an automatic distress beacon."

"Location?" Archer asked, jumping to his feet. The question went back to T'Pol.

"Bearing zero-one-six-mark-twelve, distance three million kilometers." T'Pol betrayed her surprise by checking the readings again. "Confirmed, distance is three million kilometers. The signal is coming from inside the Beta Xi system's outer belt."

"That could explain why we didn't detect the signal any sooner," Malcolm added from tactical. "The beacon seems to be degrading from prolonged use, and there's a variety of magnetic ores in those rocks that could be blocking the signal."

Archer licked his lips, running down the crisis management list in his head. "Can you ID them, T'Pol?"

"The transponder frequency matches the Seleya, Captain. They entered the Expanse nine months ago, and were promptly reported lost."

"Keep hailing them, Hoshi," Archer ordered. "Set a course, Travis, pilot's discretion. Can we get a visual on-screen?"

Before them, the image of the Delphi Beta Xi star system disappeared, and was replaced with what was unmistakably an asteroid belt.

But far from a normal one, Archer realized. The asteroids themselves were shiny and metallic, indicating both an unusual degree of metalloid contents and regular concussive forces; as he watched, the asteroids slammed into each other with intervals spaced in scarce seconds. The erratic collisions seemed to pick up speed at the giant rocks ricocheted off each other, causing a constant halo of fractured silicate and a dizzying twirl of rock.

"The asteroids are moving in a chaotic fashion," T'Pol reported moments later. "Their paths are unpredictable and unusually violent. There seems to be no loss of kinetic energy." Over lengthy periods of time, as kinetic energy bled out in each collision, the tendency of an asteroid belt was to slow down and stabilize; this one seemed to be doing the opposite. "I would theorize that a spatial anomaly is acting on the asteroid belt."

"Where's the Vulcan ship?" Archer asked, keeping his eyes on the screen.

"Approximately two thousand kilometers dead ahead," T'Pol replied. The viewscreen shifted to focus on the specified coordinates, but all they gained was a view of a rock blocking the Seleya from sight.

"I can guess why they were interested in this field," Trip added, manning the bridge's little-used engineering post. "Those asteroids are loaded with trellium ore. I bet they were trying to mine some."

"With that chaotic activity, I'm surprised they took the chance," Malcolm countered. "Vulcans never seemed that foolhardy to me."

It was a good point, and it was the second incongruity—no, third, Archer realized. He wasn't satisfied with their explanation for the low-powered nature of the distress beacon; and even at low power, someone else should've picked it up long before now. This is an inhabited system. Why is the Seleya still in there? Archer asked himself. Something about this wasn't right, and Starfleet encouraged its captains to trust their instincts.

"Bring us in as close as you can, Travis," Archer said finally. "T'Pol, Phlox—can you get any bioreadings from the Seleya?"

"None, Captain," T'Pol replied. "But that could be due to the interference. We'll have to get closer to verify."

"Any other ships? Any sign that this is a trap?"

"No, sir," Malcolm answered. His tone indicated that he was suspicious as well.

In the end, a distress call dictated a response. "Travis," Archer asked, leaning over the helmsman's shoulder, "can you thread a shuttlepod in there?"

Travis nodded confidently. "We might scratch up the paint a little, but I can get in there."

"Very well." Archer looked around the bridge. "Malcolm, Phlox, T'Pol, Travis, report to the launch bay. Pull two MACOs." The captain would've preferred to accompany them, but it made more sense to send along security personnel; and, since it was a Vulcan ship, T'Pol was a logical choice. I gotta stop using that word, Archer thought.

The boarding party promptly disappeared into the lift, and the backup personnel emerged from the secondary controls in the tunnel ringing the bridge; Rahimi at tactical, Hutchinson to the helm, and Sorenson at science. "Keep a close eye on the shuttlepod," Archer ordered the newcomers. "And watch out for anything." Something about this is very wrong.

...

Great pieces of starship design often arise unintentionally. One of the quirks of the Enterprise NX-01 was the proximity of the launch bay and sickbay—both compartments were located on E-deck, just a mad dash apart. It was extremely fortuitous since, by another quirk, medical stretchers could not fit in the lifts.

"Make way! Make way!" Archer barked frantically as he pushed the stretcher down the corridor, sending several crewmen leaping out of the path. Phlox, riding high on the crash bar and still wearing his EV suit, was moving at a frenetic pace, strapping T'Pol's arms down as she fought maniacally against the restraints. Across from him, a medic was doing the same with her legs, and another medic was riding the front of the stretcher, trying to lash a neural suppressor over T'Pol's forehead.

"She's coming to!" Archer shouted, watching as the maddened Vulcan fought harder, nearly tossing the front medic from the cart. Her head jolted up and crashed back down, again, and again, bashing her skull against the soft pillows set in place beneath her. Her body twisted to the left and to the right with insane fury, pulling against the restraining straps, and Phlox had to loosen one in fear that T'Pol would further damage her shoulder joint.

"Let me go!" T'Pol screamed with deranged violence as she fought against the restraints. Her face contorted in berserk rage. "Let me go!"

Archer rounded the corner, using old-fashioned slalom skills to make the quick turn, and as T'Pol continued her demented battle, a short dash brought the stretcher into sickbay.

The entire medical staff was on alert, awaiting her arrival, and Phlox's skills as a medical field marshal leapt into action. "Transfer her to the primary bed!" he barked, hopping off the stretcher. A medic promptly appeared at the doctor's side, helping Phlox with the EV garment. "Prep ten cc's hydrocordrazine! Get out the restraining belts!"

As a crew of five medics tried to grab hold of T'Pol's flailing, violent limbs to move her to the diagnostic bed, she continued to fight back with demonic raving and convulsive spasms of fury. As she twisted in their grasp, the medics nearly dropped her, and T'Pol's hands found purchase around the neck of one of her tormentors. "I'll kill you!" she screamed with unhinged fright. "I'll kill you!"

"We're not going to hurt you!" Archer tried to sound reassuring as he helped catch the drooping body, but his words came out panicked. "You're going to be okay!"

"You lie! You lie!" T'Pol screamed in lunatic craze. Her arm swung around, nearly knocking the captain senseless. "Get away from me!"

Together, the team hefted their patient onto the diagnostic bed, and four of them leapt on, using their full body weight to hold down her frenzied limbs as two others began fastening the straps over her delirious body. She screamed with rabid howls as the straps were gradually tightened.

"The damage is more severe than I expected!" Phlox shouted, scurrying over to his patient. The readied hypospray was slapped into his palm.

"Can you reverse it?" Archer called out, sliding around to T'Pol's head for the hurried consultation.

"I'm not certain!" Phlox answered. As he tried to plant the hypospray against T'Pol's neck, she fought frantically, struggling to evade the medicine. "I need to stabilize her first!"

"He's trying to kill me!" T'Pol screamed fiendishly. "You killed the others! Murderers! Get away!" Without command, Archer grabbed T'Pol's head, using all his strength to hold in it place momentarily; as the crazed Vulcan fought against the vice press, Phlox finally landed his blow, injecting the hyrdocordrazine into her artery.

T'Pol's eyes grew woozy, and her ravings dwindled off into silence. Her body gave a few last jerky moves before settling down into slumber.

"Let's get her into the chamber!" Phlox ordered, and after securing the last strap, two of the medics pushed T'Pol into the diagnostic machine.

...

As the medical staff worked frantically to save T'Pol's life—and her sanity—Archer stepped out of their way, withdrawing to the corridor outside where Trip and Malcolm awaited.

"What happened over there?" Archer asked with disbelief. He had never seen anything remotely like that before—a Vulcan, gone stark raving mad?

"It was—it was like a nightmare, Cap'n," Trip replied, shuddering a bit. "I've seen some zombie flicks in my day, but they had nothing on that."

"Most of the Vulcan crew was still alive," Malcolm added. He, too, was still visibly perturbed by the experience. "But it's like they had all gone…psychotic. As soon as we boarded, they started attacking us; I'm surprised we got out as well as we did."

"They just kept coming, too." Trip's face was white. "Whatever emotional adrenaline they had shooting through their bodies, it made them almost impervious to phase rifle blasts. You'd shoot one, and it would stagger a bit—" he pantomimed the motion. "And then it would keep coming at you."

...

Phlox emerged from sickbay hours later to find the three senior officers still waiting in the corridor.

"How'd it go?" Archer asked cautiously.

The doctor wiped his hands on his surgical smock and sighed heavily. "You got her out in time, Captain. The neurological damage was severe but repairable."

Trip crowded a little closer. "How soon until she'll be out of the woods?"

The Terran idiom didn't phase Phlox. "Several days," he answered, feeling unusually weary. "Her synaptic pathways are mending nicely, but it will be a few days before she fully regains her mental control."

"All of this from a bloody, run-of-the-mill rescue mission," Malcolm muttered angrily.

"It doesn't make any sense," Trip added. "We weren't over there for long. How did she deteriorate so quickly?"

"For that matter…" Archer rubbed his face, trying to wake himself up. "What was it?"

"It's the trellium ore, Captain," Phlox answered. "I found a potent neurotoxin in T'Pol's nervous system, which matches a decay signature from the ore."

"Are we in any danger?" Malcolm asked, alarmed.

"No, Lieutenant." Phlox shook his head in emphasis. "The toxin operates on a specific receptor that humans don't have—at least, not in sufficient abundance."

Malcolm caught the qualifier quickly. "Wait—what about Hoshi?"

"I don't think it's related," Phlox replied. "I'll double-check her tomorrow."

The captain hadn't yet heard that Ensign Sato was experiencing any medical difficulties, but he let it pass for later. "What about the crew of the Selaya?" he asked quietly.

"There's nothing we can do for them," Phlox answered despondently. "They've been exposed for far too long—the neurological damage is irreversible."

Archer accepted the grim diagnosis with gritty aplomb. "Malcolm, report to the bridge. Target the Selaya with the photonic torpedoes, and destroy it."

"But, sir," Malcolm countered in consternation, "the Vulcans are still alive; and there's a hundred and forty of them!"

"We can't allow anyone else to fall into that trap," Archer replied. The air of resignation hung around him like a cloak.

"Look at it this way, Lieutenant," Phlox added gently. "The medical damage is so severe that there is nothing left of their minds. They've already died; their bodies just haven't caught on yet."

"Very well, sir," Malcolm acknowledged. The tactical chief turned and disappeared down the corridor.

"Trip, can you go down to the cargo bay and put that trellium ore in the biohazard locker?"

"Aye, sir." Trip disappeared as well.

"Can I talk to her?" Archer asked the doctor, glancing through the glass doorway.

Phlox glanced inside as well. "For a few minutes," he decided, and led the way into sickbay.

By both Terran and Vulcan standards, T'Pol was a petite woman. Archer felt a little stupid as he realized how much smaller she looked, still tucked under the restraints of the biobed: he normally tried to avoid such clichés, but it was too true. She looked tiny, lying there helplessly. He walked up slowly, and gently put a hand on her shoulder.

T'Pol woke up with a start.

"It's all right," the captain whispered comfortingly. "You're on the Enterprise. You're safe."

T'Pol's eyes darted back and forth. When she didn't say anything, Archer went on. "Phlox was able to help you," he said. "You're going to be okay."

"The Seleya?" T'Pol whispered, her first thoughts going to the crew they had attempted to rescue.

"It…was destroyed," Archer answered. He would save the detail for later.

"The crew was beyond help," Phlox added, stepping up to the other side of the bed. "Their fate was sealed long before we arrived."

"And the trellium in the asteroids—can we recover any of it?"

Archer sighed. "It turns out…it was the trellium that poisoned the Vulcan crew and you."

"What about the rest of the Enterprisecrew?" T'Pol asked in sudden alarm.

"It only affects Vulcans."

"Then you must leave me on the next habitable planet," T'Pol stated flatly.

"What?" the captain responded, a bit confused.

"It is essential that you protect this ship," T'Pol answered, looking up at him. "And thus I should not remain on board."

"I'm not going to do that," Archer answered, a little flabbergasted.

"You can't allow your concern for a single crewman to affect your mission," T'Pol replied. "If you don't use the trellium to insulate the Enterprise, the entire crew could die."

"We'll find a way through this, T'Pol, without leaving anyone behind." Archer smiled lightly. "I can't save humanity if I don't hold on to what makes me human, after all."

"That is—illogical," T'Pol answered, and she promptly fell asleep.

...

Hoshi.

Startled, Ensign Sato glanced behind here, but saw nothing. The research laboratory was empty, devoid of any other beings. Frowning, Hoshi shook off the sensation and returned her focus to her data padd.

Hoshi.

Okay, she definitely heard it this time: either it was real, or she was imagining it, but she did hear something. But there was still no one else in the room with her.

A dozen computer screens flickered simultaneously, tracts of linguistical data disappearing. A solitary planet—the same solitary planet—appeared on every screen. If I'm imagining that, Hoshi thought, it's a pretty precise hallucination.

Hoshi, the voice whispered again. That's where I'm waiting for you.

Despite her panicked instincts, Hoshi stared curiously at the displayed planet, as if pulled in by an inexplicable force. It was relatively mundane; gray and tan indicated a common, rocky surface, with white bands of clouds indicating a class-M atmosphere.

That's where I'm waiting for you.

Hoshi snapped from her reverie and, turning quickly, hit the comm panel. "Sato to Lieutenant Reed!" she called out. "I need help in lab B-7!"

Hoshi.

It sounded…more real, this time, and as Hoshi's eyes darted around, she saw the shadowy figure standing in the recesses of the room. "Who are you?" she demanded, her instincts yelling at her to flee.

Don't be frightened.

Around her, the viewscreens flickered again; the alien planet disappeared, replaced with a dozen images of Hoshi, as seen from the shadow's perspective. Uncomfortably, Hoshi's eyes flitted between the screens, seeing her own frightened face repeated time and time again.

Hoshi.

"How did you get on board?" she demanded, her voice wavering. "Why are you doing this to me?"

I'm nowhere near your ship.

Hoshi stepped back slowly as the shadow advanced, gliding across the deck plates like an immaterial wisp. Her fingers unconsciously formed a cross, trying to ward off the demonic spirit confronting her. "What do you want?" she asked, backing away across the room.

You're searching for something. I can help.

Hoshi broke and ran, weaving through the research lab and out the doors, into the corridor, where she came to a stunned stop. "I'm no longer on the ship," she whispered frantically. She was in a strange corridor, made of light-colored stone, with antique, iron balustrade light fittings high on the walls; as she spun around, looking for an escape, she couldn't help but notice the luxurious rugs lining the stone floor.

A sense of panic enveloped Hoshi, causing her to look behind. There, her mind identified; the shadow was present, watching her, and Hoshi sprinted down the hallway, seeking an escape from this mental nightmare. She charged into a set of double doors, throwing them open with her meager body weight.

And suddenly, she was standing on a slim balcony, looking over a cliff face stretching kilometers below and a kilometer above. Light snow floated downward in the chilled air, casting a white glow about the twilight mountain range that surrounded her.

A hand fell on her shoulder. Hoshi.

She spun around, her hand balling into a fist, but it was Lieutenant Reed.

"You all right, Hoshi?" Malcolm asked.

...

"I'm not picking up anything out the ordinary," Phlox affirmed, checking the readings from the imaging chamber's primary monitor. The motorized diagnostic bed slid out on its tracks, bringing Hoshi Sato back from the grip of the medical machinery.

Malcolm scooted around to take Hoshi's hand. "We still haven't found any ships nearby or any uninvited guests on board," he told her, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm not imagining it, Lieutenant," Hoshi retorted dryly. She pushed herself to a sitting position.

Malcolm looked at the doctor carefully before responding. "You have to admit that it's a possibility, Hoshi," he replied, doing his best to ease the weight of the words.

"With respect, Lieutenant," Hoshi snapped back, "I know that my mind can be overactive sometimes, but that is not what's happening. It's real." Her pique of anger deteriorated into frustration. "I can't explain it—something about the way it feels. But I know it's real!"

"All right, Ensign," Malcolm agreed with a nod. "I'll have a team keep you under immediate observation until we find this—intruder. Just give a holler if you need them, okay?" Hoshi signaled her agreement. "I'm overdue for the bridge, but I'll pass along a doctor's note for you." The last was accompanied by a friendly grin as Malcolm turned and left.

With just the two of them left—well, Commander T'Pol's here as well, Hoshi thought, but the Vulcan commander had surrendered her dignity and was snoring loudly—the young officer turned to Phlox. "I'm not imagining it, am I?" she whispered, seeking comfort. "Tell me I'm not going crazy."

The Denobulan gave a trademarked, wide smile. "You know as well as I do that 'crazy' isn't even a medical condition," he replied reassuringly. "Don't worry, Hoshi, we'll get to the bottom of this. However—I would like to keep you in sickbay until the test results come back. If you have another encounter, I'd like to be able to act quickly," Phlox added hastily.

Hoshi showed no interest in leaving the safe confines of sickbay. "How long will it be?"

Phlox had the data ready. "I ordered a full neurological model of your brain, which takes time to compile; it'll be three or four hours. In the meantime," he continued, smiling, "how'd you like to help with feeding time?"

Hoshi hopped off the bed. "I'd love to, Doc." Feeding the doctor's menagerie was one of her favorite activities on board the ship.

"Be my guest," Phlox replied. "The Vulcan root-leaf is in that container."

As the physician busied himself about sickbay, Hoshi picked up a container of fish food—of one alien variety or another—and tapped it into an aquarium. "It's strange," she said reflectively, her nerves unrelaxed. "When the alien communicates with me…it's almost like he's inside my head." Her eyes glazed slightly as she thought. "Looking at things through my eyes. Talking to him is like talking to myself." She set the food down and sighed. "Does that make any sense, Doctor?"

"Of course, Ensign." Phlox's muffled voice trailed back to his office.

Hoshi.

Ensign Sato screamed loudly, hoping to summon the doctor and the security team.

It is just the two of us for now, Hoshi.

"What—do—you—want?" Hoshi asked firmly, gritting her teeth. Her eyes swung quickly around sickbay, trying to find a source for the voice, but found nothing.

You are remarkably perceptive. I've been with you for several days, studying your mind, sharing your experiences.

"Why me?" she growled, determined to stand firm.

My telepathy only works in rare instances. It takes the right mind to process it. You alone of your crew have the ability.

"What do you want?" Hoshi repeated, her resolve strengthening.

Sickbay disappeared around her, and Hoshi found herself in a conservatory, surrounded by many forms of alien shrubbery. Intellectually, she didn't know if it was a mental illusion, or if she had really been transported away; the sweet, thick sense of humid air, the aromas of a hundred plants, the low hum of insects flitting about—it all seemed real.

I'm only a dozen light-years away. This is my home.

The shadow had reappeared before her, but it stayed in place, neither advancing nor retreating. Its immobility seemed to reassure the ensign.

I'd like for you to come visit me.

"I don't think that's possible," Hoshi retorted. "We're on a rather urgent mission."

I know. And I can help you. I can tell you about…the Xindi.

...

Captain's Log, August 3, 2153. We arrived at the planet designated Delphi Beta Xi IV during the early morning of ship's operations. I elected to postpone the landing party a couple hours, to give my senior staff a chance to rest. Commander Tucker, Lieutenant Reed, and a security contingent will be departing for the surface momentarily.

Dr. Phlox has requested that I stay aboard, due to an unspecified medical issue with a member of the crew.

...

According to the estimates of the Vulcan Science Directorate, true water worlds were scarce in the cosmos. While there were plenty of planets that had water, those, like the Terran homeworld, possessed a rocky crust that underlay the oceans and seas; others, like the frozen gas giants, contained icy cores, but little liquid.

A true water world, like the one below, was rarely found. Packed around the fiery, molten lava of the planet's mantle was nothing but water; no layer of rock intervened between the two. No continents soared upwards; no tectonic plates extended below. Instead, the planet transitioned directly into kilometer after kilometer of water, reaching up to the surface of the great ocean that spanned the globe.

Beneath the cerulean waters of the horizon, the ocean plunged deeply through the twilight zone extending some thousand meters beneath the surface; beneath that lay the penetrating depths of the midnight zone, the water dark blue and black, choking off visible light in the depths of the watery realm.

Plummeting nearly two dozen kilometers deep, this Neptunian realm only survived because of the unusually-active convection cycle of the molten mantle. The heat from below warred with the intense pressure of the watery zenith, allowing the nether regions to thrive, and fueling the great currents of warmth and nutrients that flowed between the zones of the great ocean. In this matter, the planet sustained itself, providing life-giving conditions throughout Poseidon's crowning achievement.

From above, the affect of the darkened underworld was to cast the entire planet as a dark blue; as the shuttlepod spiraled down to the floating port, the dark coloring intensified until they leveled out, scarcely a hundred meters above the water's surface. Resembling an interlinked system of wharves and docks, the artificial port seemed out of place as the metal alloys reflected the radiance of the white, F-class star.

"I gotta admit," Trip murmured, looking out the viewscreen, "it looks nothing the Caribbean."

"Maybe the Marianas," Malcolm observed.

"Underneath an Antarctic ice shelf," Major Hayes opined. His comparison garnered mutters of agreement.

The facility's central marketplace occupied a self-contained network of tunnels and bays, closed off from the biting sea spray outside. Large, circular windows along the hull showed the oceanscape, and Trip couldn't help but note that the horizon was virtually invisible; the blue waters merged into the blue skies seamlessly, and only the presence of clouds announced that one realm had shifted to the other.

The marketplace itself looked remarkably like any ordinary bazaar from a hundred different worlds. Shops lined each side of the central corridor, and dozens of stalls lay in unorganized fashion. No decorative theme emerged; bright, garrulous colors contrasted with mute tones, as the fashions of a dozen worlds clashed for pre-eminence.

Malcolm made a stutter-step around a heavy bag of…who knows what, he thought, and a second later he twisted to duck around an overhanging strand of wire supporting brightly-colored cloth. He was beginning to regret taking point; the most obvious danger in the marketplace was a freak accident with a spray of toxic perfume. Not quite what I'm trained for, he thought miserably, stepping aside as a foul-smelling alien passed quite closely.

"The chemist said his shop was on barge twelve," Malcolm mentioned, directing the comment back to Commander Tucker.

"I was hoping for some street signs," Trip replied. The engineer's eyes were still wide with amazement as he took in the bizarre sights. "Phlox would have a field day here."

"I'm afraid we'll have to save the souvenir hunting for another time." Malcolm dodged a draped animal carcass as he answered. It looked somewhat like a Terran pig—if pigs had wings, he noted with ironic amusement.

The purveyor of the winged pig stepped forward to greet the newcomers. "I don't recognize your species," the alien noted. "You must be newcomers. Welcome!"

"Thank you," Malcolm replied curtly.

"We're looking for barge twelve," Trip added. "A chemist named B'Rat Ud." He had spent half the shuttle flight learning to pronounce the name, and was proud to get it right.

"Of course," the alien answered. "But it would be a shame if I let you leave without introducing you to the local wildlife."

Malcolm held up his hands. "That's not necessary."

"Zentho marmots make wonderful pets," the alien continued undeterred. He opened a wire-mesh cage and withdrew a small rodent. "And the flesh is quite succulent when prepared properly."

Phlox would REALLY enjoy this, Trip thought. "No, we're not interested," he added firmly. "We're just looking for directions to barge twelve."

The alien scowled and returned the rodent to the cage. "Barge twelve is that way," he said, pointing. "Tier two."

...

Doctor Phlox, Captain Archer, and Ensign Sato sat clustered in the physician's office. Hoshi had sat by quietly as Phlox described the case history to the captain, and now she smiled in silent relief as the doctor verified what she had suspected all along.

"She wasn't hallucinating," Phlox stated. "Something out there has been attempting to communicate with her."

"I'm sure there was never any doubt," Archer replied, smiling at Hoshi. "What did you come up with, Doc?"

Phlox pulled up an image of Hoshi's neurological pathways. "I found traces of unusual activity in her thalamus," he explained, zeroing in on the center of the brain. "In a human, the thalamus processes sensory input: taste, smell, sound, sight, and touch, and then forwards the data to the appropriate parts of the brain.

"However—" Phlox pulled up a wave chart of Hoshi's thalamus. "You'll see that her mind has been subjected to a sixth form of sensory input. The neurological carrier waves aren't a precise match, but they appear to be telepathic in origin. It's my opinion that a telepathic alien has been using its abilities to plant those images directly into Hoshi's mind."

"Why Hoshi?" Archer's eyes narrowed. "And why is it affecting only Hoshi?"

Phlox shrugged. "It's possible that the carrier wave is tightly focused on Ensign Sato alone; it's also possible that the rest of the crew is also being hit with the signal, but their brains are unable to process it and the signal is being discarded."

"But why would Hoshi's brain be the only one that could process it?" Archer asked. He gave the ensign another reassuring smile.

"Statistically speaking, about one in a hundred thousand humans have low-grade telepathic abilities. Very low-grade," Phlox emphasized. "At present, neuroscientists believe that it's connected with unusual development in the primary somatic sensory cortex, which Hoshi exhibits. The effect is slight enough that it requires a skilled telepathic projector on the other end."

"Just my luck," Hoshi commented wryly. "I always knew I was 'gifted,' but this?"

Archer gave a supportive chuckle. "Is there any way to block it, Doctor?"

Phlox shook his head. "Without knowing the biochemistry of the projector, it would be extraordinarily difficult to isolate the telepathic carrier wave, much less calibrate a specific dampening field. The only real solution is to stay out of range."

"I'm not sure we really want to do that, sir," Hoshi countered. "If he can help us with the Xindi, I think it's worth it. I can deal with the occasional visions, Captain," she added, smiling feebly.

Archer looked at Hoshi askance. "But he didn't actually tell you anything, did he?"

"No, sir," Hoshi confirmed. "He claims that he's saving it for my visit."

"He could have given you something as a show of good faith," Archer groused. "Something to prove that he has useful information."

"For what it's worth, sir," Hoshi offered, "I do think he wants to help. He was horrified that seven million of us were killed."

The captain turned back to Phlox. "Is Hoshi in any physical danger?"

"It's hard to tell, Captain," the physician answered. "There are just too many unknowns. If we get closer to the projector—" he grimaced. "The effect could increase, and cause a neurological cascade."

Archer sighed, wondering if he could find it in himself to order Hoshi to chance such a collapse. "Hoshi, why don't you grab Travis, head down to the command center, and try to find that planet," he ordered. "Let's try to verify the alien's claims before we make a decision on this."

...

The chemist's shop was closed for the day when the Starfleet crew arrived; it took Trip's banging on the door to summon the attention of the still-present shopkeeper.

"I'm closed," B'Rad Ud snarled through the divider.

"We have an appointment," Trip retorted, though they had no such thing.

"You'll have to come back later."

"I was told you could sell us a formula to synthesize trellium-D."

The chemist fell silent, and Trip heard the muted sounds of several crashes as B'Rat Ud opened the door. "Ah, you are very discriminating customers!" the chemist exclaimed, standing in the doorway. "How are you today?"

"A little pressed for time," Trip replied irately. It wasn't just his irritation at dealing with the chemist—whatever race B'Rat Ud came from, they evidently had potent sweat glands. The smell was akin to a roomful of unwashed gym socks.

"Of course," the chemist replied solicitously. He waved them into the room. Trip and Malcolm followed, but Hayes and McKenzie took up posts by the door. "Trellium-A is extremely common, easy to synthesize," B'Rat Ud continued. "But trellium-D is far more difficult. If you don't get the recipe precise…poof!" He illustrated with two of his four hands.

Trip glanced around as the bewildering array of bottles, test tubes, and assorted paraphernalia. "And expensive, I suppose."

"I would be a fool to give it away for free, wouldn't I?" The chemist smiled sourly. "But I'm confident we can arrive at a fair price. Now," he said, bustling about the small room, "I'd like to learn a little about you. You're not native to the Expanse; what brings you here?"

"We're on a diplomatic mission." Trip exchanged a tight look with Malcolm. "With a race called the Xindi."

"Ah, yes, the Xindi. Which species?"

"We're not exactly sure," Malcolm hedged.

B'Rat Ud looked at the newcomers carefully. "Have you even met any?"

"A couple," Trip replied guardedly. "And they sure didn't look much alike."

"Of course not," the chemist answered. "There are five subspecies, after all."

"Five?" Trip exclaimed in surprise before he could silence himself.

"Yes," B'Rat Ud confirmed. "They are quite an aggressive and belligerent peoples, constantly fighting among themselves for dominance. Praise be the Furies, they have finally learned to get along. They credit some supernatural beings that they call 'the Guardians'." The chemist snorted. "Or some other flim-flam nonsense. Personally, I think they finally realized that they were killing themselves off."

Malcolm's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "How do you know so much about them?"

B'Rat Ud waved three hands in the air. "Xindi civil wars rarely stay Xindi civil wars, my new friends. Their discord affects the entire Expanse."

"And how much is this information going to cost us?" Malcolm asked warily.

B'Rat Ud smiled, revealing brown-stained fangs. "I'll consider it a tip for a valued business partner."

"About that." Trip cleared his throat. "I have a list of supplies and equipment we'd be willing to barter—"

"Nonsense, friends." The chemist smiled again. "There is only one currency that I'm interested in."

...

"So what's the problem?" Archer asked. Unable to sit still, he had started pacing about his ready room. Step, step, turn. Step, step, turn.

"It's not a problem, really," Trip began. "It's more of a…"

"A conflict of sorts, Captain," Malcolm added.

Archer looked at his two hemming officers with confusion. "Out with it, gentlemen."

So they told him what the price was.

"You're right, that is a problem," Archer murmured. "But before I reject it entirely, what exactly is he offering in exchange?"

"Three liters of processed, synthetic trellium-D, plus the chemical recipe and notes to manufacture our own," Trip answered. "He gave me a brief look at it; it seemed to be on the up-and-up."

"I did ask him about the neurological affects of the synthetic variety," Malcolm added. "He hadn't heard—claimed he hadn't heard—of trellium affecting anyone like it did…the Vulcans. But he did say that the substance is slightly different at the atomic level."

"So Phlox would have to take a look at it." Archer understood the point. "We'd be taking the chance of buying a material that we can't use."

"On the other hand," Trip countered, "if it doesn't harm T'Pol, we could really use it. Sir," he appended quickly. "My engineering crews are no closer to solving our antideuterium problem, but if the synthetic trellium works anywhere near as well as advertised—we could fly right through the heart of an anomaly at warp speed."

"The benefits to our mission are nearly incalculable, Captain," Malcolm added. "If we don't find a way of dealing with those anomalies, I think it's fair to say that our mission is lost." He left unsaid the incredible cost of failure.

Archer turned to stare out his viewport. It faced away from the system's sun; fitting, Archer thought, that I'm staring out into blackness. His decision didn't bother him so much; what truly bothered him…was that the decision was so easy.

"We'll make the deal," he decided. "But I'll go down to make the exchange."

...

"I believe you have something for us?" Archer stated, addressing the chemist bluntly. The captain had little desire to make this particular transaction—and he wanted to make it as quickly as possible.

It had taken several hours to provide the trade goods. Phlox, who never would have agreed, had to be lured out of sickbay; then, Trip snuck in to use the pharmacological synthesizer, finally wiping the memory buffers to remove any trace. If the doctor checked closely, he would notice that the storage pods were missing a substantial amount of raw material; but Trip had rigged the device to make it appear as though the material had leaked out. Logically, Phlox would then call Trip to repair the leak…and the cycle would preserve its secret.

"Yes, it's ready for your use," B'Rat Ud confirmed. "I reviewed the engineering specifications you provided; you appear to have the necessary equipment to produce liquid trellium-D."

"Liquid?" Malcolm's head shot around in alarm. "I thought it came in solid form!"

The chemist waved two hands in apology. "I'm sure the misunderstanding is my fault. Synthesized trellium only comes in a liquid state. However, it's just as effective as the natural ore—and easier to work with, for that matter."

"Then all we need is the recipe," Archer pressed, trying to get this bad dream over with.

"There is one more thing," the chemist added, ignoring three scowls. "Be sure to follow the protocols precisely."

"Or?" Trip prodded.

"In its liquid form, trellium-D is extremely unstable," B'Rat Ud explained. The chemist held out the container case and data padd, and after a moment of hesitation, Archer exchanged them for the case he was holding.

B'Rat Ud clicked open the container, verifying the ten glass vials it contained.

"It's extremely potent," Archer noted, ignoring the twisting dagger in his stomach. "And extremely lucrative. On our planet, wars were fought over it. Great empires were destroyed."

"Be careful!" Trip exclaimed as the chemist placed a small amount of the sticky brown resin under his nose.

The alien sneezed violently, but there was the unmistakable look of satisfaction in his eyes. "If you are interested in any of my other wares…" B'Rat Ud offered, waving a generous hand.

"No," Archer replied harshly. "We have everything we need."

...

Captain's Log, August 5, 2153. After several days' of travel, we are in approach to system Delphi Beta Omicron, which was designated by the mine foreman as being the home system of the Xindi. We have not yet encountered any Xindi vessels—or any signs of life.

...

The yellow sun glowed brightly in the center of the viewscreen. Even at a distance, it was several times larger than the background stars. Its radiant light even brightened the bridge, which was darkened for the dogwatch.

"Sir, we're approaching the coordinates," Travis announced. To a person, the senior staff had exercised their prerogative to take their duty posts during their off-hours; even Phlox and Commander Tucker had reported to the bridge. The physician's eagerness was exuberant; Trip, on the other hand, was wary and cautious, as if afraid of jinxing their success.

"Tactical alert," Archer ordered. He got up from his chair. "Stand by weapons. Any indications that we're being scanned?"

The red alert lights flashed on behind Malcolm, giving him a faint red halo. "No, sir," he answered, mystified by the sensor readings. "No vessels, no signs of technology, nothing."

Archer frowned, not liking the signs. Had the mining foreman used the opportunity to toy with them? He turned to T'Pol, who was still technically off-duty. "How many inhabited planets?"

"I'm not detecting any planets," T'Pol reported a moment later. Her weakened control allowed her surprise to show through. "Inhabited or otherwise."

"The sonuvabitch lied to us," Archer growled. It shouldn't have been a surprise; the miner hadn't missed a single chance to screw with them, but still…a string of curse words filled his head.

"Sir, there might be something there," Travis announced suddenly. "I'm reading a debris field."

"A ship?" Archer asked.

"It's a lot bigger than that." Travis let out a slow whistle of appreciation as he put the debris field on the main viewer.

Stretched out from the yellow sun was a massive disc of debris, glittering white and gray in the starlight. It closely resembled a proto-planetary disc, accreting slowly around the gravity well of the home star. Archer's eyes squinted as he peered closely at the viewer, trying to make out the individual features.

"Its outer diameter is nearly half a billion kilometers," T'Pol reported. That would place the outer edge slightly further out than the orbit of Mars. "The readings are not consistent with a planetary disc."

There goes that theory, Archer reflected. Asteroid belt? "Move us in closer, Travis," he ordered.

Within minutes, the great starship slid into the debris field, coming to a relative stop amidst the floating rock.

"Captain." T'Pol alone was not watching the main viewscreen. "I believe this was once a planetary system. The distribution of heavy minerals within the asteroids is consistent with the remnants of a fractured planet."

"Just one?" Archer's voice trailed over his shoulder.

"Or several," T'Pol acknowledged. "With time, I can determine the original formation of the planetary system."

"We're traveling through a planetary graveyard," Travis whispered in awe.

T'Pol added to her report. "Judging by the field dispersion, the primary event occurred approximately one hundred and twenty years ago."

"Captain, I'm picking up traces of a civilization!" Trip remarked in surprise. Seated at the engineering console, he had a set of secondary sensors slaved to his console. "I'm picking up traces of refined metals and alloys. Some of them match the hull of the Xindi probe."

"The chemist mentioned a history of Xindi civil war," Malcolm remarked. "Is it possible that they managed to destroy their own homeworld?"

"No wonder the bastard was so willing to give us the coordinates!" Archer snarled angrily. Despite his anger, although, he knew they had little choice but to try the location.

"This doesn't make any sense, Captain." Trip's face was wrought with confusion. "The Xindi are planning to annihilate Earth because they think we're going to destroy their world in four hundred years—but how is that possible, if their world has already been destroyed?"

The unspoken implication—that the Future Guy had also misled them—was almost too troubling to consider. Was their entire mission a fraud?

"Perhaps not," T'Pol replied momentarily. "The probe that attacked Earth had to have been built somewhere; and we know that the Xindi race still exists. It is possible that they have colonized a new homeworld."

"But if it's not here—" Archer groaned internally. Would they have to start over, from scratch? The Enterprisehad already spent almost fourteen weeks in the Expanse—for all he knew, the second weapon had already been launched. They didn't have time to start over. Our mission is futile, Archer realized.

"Set a course, Travis," the captain ordered, suddenly weary. He felt no interest in hanging around this reminder of their failure.

"What direction, sir?"

"Deeper into the Expanse, Travis, deeper into the Expanse. Take us out at warp four."

...

As the starship leapt into superluminal speeds, Captain Archer had already left the bridge. He stood in his ready room, the lights darkened to nothingness, watching the streaking light of stars flying by outside his viewport.

He couldn't avoid the sense of chagrin that tore him up internally. In the last five days, he had abandoned a camp of slaves—after striking and possibly killing one—and made business deals with their slaver; he had nearly lost T'Pol to a neurological cascade, in what should have been an ordinary rescue mission; he was considering exposing Hoshi to even more telepathic danger, the potential threat of which he could not hope to understand; he had gone behind the doctor's back to hide his shame from Phlox's reprobation; and he had become an opium trafficker.

And all for what? He had no good answer for the question, no hope left to draw on. He was mentally and emotionally drained, his reserves battered down by day after day of compromise and tension. And that bastard slaver was still besting him, even from light-years away. He was tired, damnit, tired of carrying the weight of Earth without relief.

And the worst part was, it had been a fairly ordinary week. With all due respect to Billy Pilgrim: And so it goes.

Archer turned back to his desk, and reached into a closed cubby beneath it. He felt around and grasped the container within. He had brought it along in hopes of success; to share a drink to their victory over the Xindi and the preservation of Earth. But he knew, now, that such hopes were futile.

He twisted the cap off the bottle, and poured two fingers into the accompanying shot glass. He raised it in the air, in silent toast to the Delphic Expanse; in silent toast to the incredible hubris that had convinced him he could succeed where so many had failed. He welcomed the bracing shock of the liquid, and the warm embrace of forgetfulness.