Disclaimer: the characters and universe of Star Trek do not belong to me. I am making no financial gain from this story.

Warnings: AU. Dark, bleak and depressing. There are no happy endings. Character death.

Spoilers: "Affliction" and "Divergence" (Season Four).

A/N: After watching "Divergence", I couldn't stop thinking about a 'what if' and its possible devastating consequences. The only way I could stop it ricocheting around my brain was to write this story.

Many thanks to my beta reader, Rusty Armour, for her encouragement, and for her perceptive and helpful comments.

If Archer hadn't discovered Harris' existence in "Divergence", what would have been Reed's future?

Waiting in the Rain

by

GallyGee

I stand in the shadows of an unfrequented alley, my hair damp in the incessant drizzle. Overflowing boxes and sacks for recycling are piled up against its high, mostly windowless, walls. I'm early, as I've been taught for operations such as this. It means you are aware of anyone concealing themselves in the vicinity after you've taken position. The pools of darkness expand as dusk lengthens into night.

I shift my weight a little, easing muscles now feeling the chill. I should've worn more suitable clothing, but it hadn't occurred to me when I was on the freighter. My gear has been left on it to deflect suspicions - another detail in my false trail. They shouldn't realise that it was I who betrayed them. More to add to the list of people I've deceived. Did it get easier? Perhaps. I had been more detached this time and had made it a point not to get to know my fellow rebels, just done the job for them. I suppose they assumed I was simply an unsociable weapons man, the sort who never makes friends.

That reminds me of what I have lost. My own choice -- and the wrong one. I could never win but surely I could lose. I've tried to put my losses to one side because it's too heartbreaking to think about them.

The sparsely distributed streetlights are coming on, late to respond to the early gloom brought by the overcast skies. My location remains shadowed, by design and not random chance. That is another thing I was taught -- consider changing conditions when selecting cover.

A trio of laughing people rush past, eager to escape the rain that falls more strongly now. I slouch back further to fuse with the dark of the wall. They don't see me. I am nothing. I am invisible. Their footfalls make a brittle tattoo of echoes, becoming fainter as they run on. I relax. They were what they seemed, I think.

Shrugging down further into my lightweight coat, I pull the collar high about my ears. Then I snake my right hand into the pocket to seek the hilt of my knife. It's still there, of course, but I need to reassure myself. Any kind of energy pistol would be instantly detected, and I've no doubt my proposed victim is as cautious as I am. He will be scanning, unsure of me. However, a blade can be deadly in an educated hand. And this knife is perfect for the job -- its long slim blade secreted within the hilt and ready to leap forth at the touch of a switch.

I have played it clever, have had to, to get this far -- to achieve this possibility of breaching his defences. I gritted my teeth and did what they wanted. I pretended gratitude, gratitude that all I suffered was a dishonourable discharge without formal trial. Of course, there could have been no other way, except possibly my eradication, but I don't think even they are that ruthless… or that stupid. I am sure they have many agents still in Starfleet, but I presented them with another valuable tool. What an opportunity: an officer unceremoniously thrown out of the service -- a legend already built for them to exploit. It certainly served me on my first assignment afterwards.

When Harris contacted me about it, I had been living… or, rather, existing… in a down-at-heel apartment well away from the Starfleet quarter. I suppose I could have afforded better, but I didn't deserve it. My only future lay with the Section. I was divorced from my immediate past and delving back further into something I had once, so naively, believed to be over. Enterprise was in orbit at the time -- I'd seen it on the newsfeeds -- but none of my former crewmates sought me out. I didn't blame them. I was outside the pale. A traitor. If our roles had been reversed…? Well, which of them would have done such a thing? None of them. But if they had, I would have searched out that person and quite possibly dispatched them, or at least made things unpleasant for them. But they are not like me. That would never occur to them.

Watching the dreary rain slant down in the lamplight, I recall the agonizing moment when I realised the true extent of my treachery. I learnt of it while I was confined pending court martial.

When the Captain had questioned me on Enterprise, I had remained firm and he never discovered who my principals were. I comforted myself that I hadn't revealed anything about the Section, one loyalty still adhered to, at least. I told him nothing. I knew of nothing to tell. I had no idea where Phlox was being held. Archer didn't believe me -- he never would again -- but it was true. After Enterprise's increasingly desperate search for Phlox had been abandoned, I was transferred ship-to-ship back to Earth.

While the case against me was prepared, I had time to think. There was nothing else to do, stuck in that cell. I came to terms with it all, resigned that my former life had irrevocably ended. I thought things would turn out okay, somehow, in the end. Then I had an unexpected visitor -- Captain Archer.

I observed him through the clear glass, seeing a hardness in his face. A relentless hatred directed at me. I could never make him understand something I couldn't make much sense of myself, even if I had been at liberty to say more. So, I sat silently, watching him.

He fixed me with a cold gaze and told me baldly, with no softening preamble, that Phlox was dead.

It was a hammer blow, shaking me to my core. I broke my silence. "Are you sure?" I croaked out, hoping for some doubt.

"Yes," Archer replied, with stony contempt. He looked deep into my being, into my vocal eyes that always say too much, but I couldn't drag them away from his. I felt as if the surroundings were spinning away, leaving us centred in a whirling maelstrom, and had to grab the sides of my chair to steady myself.

Then came the worst.

Archer said, "He was on Qu'Vat colony when it was destroyed by the Klingons."

I'd heard of that place. That was a genetics research facility according to Starfleet Intelligence. It made sense. Phlox was renowned as a genetics expert. Where else would he have been taken? It was so obvious. Why hadn't I seen it before?

I gasped -- a small sad breath of despair. Unwittingly, it seemed I had held the knowledge to save him, all along.

Archer saw that I knew. His face twisted in loathing and grew dark, holding a fury I never thought he possessed. I tried to tell him I hadn't known then, and that only now was it clear to me. My protest died on my lips. He had seen my reaction, he thought I had always known, and he would never believe otherwise. And what right had I to demand that he believe me ever again?

Devastated, I hung my head, finally breaking that all-too-clear connection. When I looked up, he had gone.

My studied indifference to my fate fled. I had a purpose. I was made avenger -- the 'Angel of Death' at last, gladly embracing what once had appalled me.

Harris was old at the secret game, cunning and paranoid. I put myself in his place and decided that I had to wait to be certain. There would be no second chance.

On my first assignment after my ignoble departure from Starfleet, I met him in some anonymous street. I carried no weapon. I listened to the brief overview -- I was to infiltrate a gang smuggling aid to an idealistic bunch having ideas of seceding their world from Earth, and taking their valuable resources with it. I was to appear taken with their cause. My weapons expertise and manner of leaving Starfleet were my passport in. He handed over the data chip. I took it, forcing myself to look keen to serve, to do my best. Our meeting over, he said, "I hope we will have a long association," and he signalled, bringing several operatives from their hiding places. I had been right. I knew he must have dealt with disaffected agents before -- it stood to reason. Any move I could have made against him then would have been stopped before it began.

But now, with my second assignment successfully completed, he should be less cautious, more willing to believe that the Section is all I have and that my loyalty goes to him alone.

The rain drips down my face and along my nose. Another trickle has found its way down the nape of my neck. My palm is firm around the knife's hilt. I know exactly where to place the blade. No matter how swift any medical response, it will be too late for him. As for me… I don't expect to survive. They will hunt me down, eventually.

It won't be long now. Soon he will arrive.

I wonder if Archer will ever find out about what is to happen here, but dismiss that fantasy. Of course not. Or its significance -- if by some miracle he does learn of it. Another passer-by strides purposefully past on the other side of the alley. I blink away the rain. It is fitting that this is a gloomy night -- most appropriate for a black deed. The water is starting to collect in puddles and gurgles along gutters in a soft song that reminds me of a better time.

He's here! His unmistakable square form moves to the designated place. I cast a quick glance around for any others but still see no one. I slip across, a dark creature hugging the dark places and keeping my senses on full alert.

"Good work," he says. "We have them all." He gives a thin, short laugh. "We're grilling them as to your whereabouts, quite intensively. That should preserve your cover."

I show my teeth at him, as if joining in with that complicity. "What now?" I say, noting a tenseness in his body. It appears he still doesn't trust me, but then, who will ever again? I hope my obvious questions will cause him to relax and lower his guard. There can be only one attempt and it has to be right first time. I grasp the knife in my pocket, ready for the strike.

"Lie low. This data chip gives details of a safe house." He holds it out to me, inadvertently putting himself in a posture that reduces my chance of success. No matter. I can wait a few seconds more. I unfold my fingers from the hilt and reach for the data chip. Unexpectedly, he grabs my forearm, bringing a rushing remembrance of Archer's disillusionment. He says harshly, "A shame, because you are meant for this life."

I don't understand, but then there is a thump against my side. An overwhelming bright pain slices and twists through my ribs. I realise he knows. Somehow. His expression is of sadness and resignation. "Goodbye," he says, releasing my arm and stepping back as I clutch at my side.

Pain cascades through me, brimming over, uncontainable. I feel ice-cold, colder than any living being should be. There's a rasping noise -- it must be me. I can't breathe. Fighting panic, I snatch at a thought and stark reality slams in. This is the end. There is no more. No future.

It won't end like this! It can't! My dying strength is enough. It has to be! Forcing my bloody hand from the wound, I seize my knife, cursing the slickness of my fingers. The blade shoots out like a live thing. I crash into him and deliver the blow. All of my bodyweight is behind it. It is precise, driven by desperation and determination. I am better than he is. I know where to strike. "For Phlox," I say through the bubbling in my throat, though I'm not sure the words actually escape from me.

My lethal blade stabs unerringly home, into the heart. With a quiet gasp, he staggers and falls to his knees -- already a dead man -- while I stand over him. I shall outlive him… just. At the edge of my darkening vision, I see another figure appear, but there is no need for him to hasten my departure.

I go to hell with a smile on my lips and the rain on my face.

END