Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.

Warning: This is a dark story containing depictions of violence and major character death; please do not read it if these things offend or upset you.

OC Bernhard Muller borrowed by kind permission of Volley

Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!

"Crewman, you must respond."

That got through to him, at least. He raised his gaze from the deck plating.

He could feel the doctor sitting beside him. At least one person was on his side.

At least in a professional capacity.

On the few occasions when he'd caught sight of Sub-commander T'Pol's eyes up till now he'd thought they were velvety soft. Now they were boring into him like duranium drill bits. Her voice was even, expressionless.

The captain was sitting opposite him, on the Vulcan's right. His face was closed, remote.

On Archer's other side sat the Head of Engineering, Commander Tucker. Not 'Trip' now. Definitely not 'Trip' now.

There was no fourth chair.

He swallowed a sob.

Phlox stirred and stood up. "I wish to place it on the record that in my view this is an extremely ill-timed investigation," he said. "This man is not in a fit condition to face a court-martial or even be subjected to more than extremely limited questioning."

"Your opinion is noted, Doctor. Nevertheless, it is important that we establish at least the bare facts of what happened as soon as possible, while recollections are fresh. Other witnesses have given their testimony. If the crewman could give us at least some of his version of events, it would be illuminating."

Müller was sitting on his other side. He was Acting Head of Security now, would probably get the post full time when the furor died down. But he wouldn't have wanted it this way. Never. His arms were folded across his chest. His eyes were fixed on the wall opposite, his mouth tightly closed. He'd even started to acquire The Look. He was here because he had to be here, because it was a member of his staff on trial.

On trial. That was what it actually was, no matter how much Phlox protested. And Müller would rather have shoved him into a torpedo casing and shot him into space than so much as allow the sleeves of their uniforms to brush.

Commander Tucker was asking a question of the doctor. His voice was flat, inexpressive. He was speaking with such formal precision that he pronounced every one of his final consonants, which was weird. Today one noticed things like that.

"Ensign Sato is still under sedation, Commander." Phlox answered heavily. "I do not think it advisable for her to be questioned. Certainly not for some time yet."

Sato. She'd walked into the mess hall with that easy grace, and looked around for a friendly face. Travis had just been leaving and they'd exchanged some bantering words before she went to collect her tray. Naturally sociable by inclination, she'd glanced about for anyone else with whom to share a friendly word over lunch.

Someone else had been sitting at a table. Alone, as usual. Reading, as usual. Self-contained, as usual.

If only he hadn't looked up. If only he hadn't noticed her. If only that stiff mouth hadn't softened. If only the wary grey eyes hadn't lightened.

It wasn't fair.

Chef had prepared steak that day. The sauce could have done with a bit more pepper, to be really perfect though.

The cutlery had to be appropriate.

He supposed it was something, to have got past a guard that was legendary. Perhaps if Sato hadn't been smiling he wouldn't have managed it.

The silence afterwards had seemed to go on for hours. As the haft was torn from his hand by the reflex recoil that came just too late to save, the three of them had existed momentarily in their own perfect bubble of amazement, isolated utterly from the cheerful background noise of the mess hall.

Her scream had shattered it outwards. Anyone listening could have heard the soft 'pop!' as its outer surface, whorled with crimson, exploded. The red splashes set off more screams. Bodies dived in from all directions, converging on the fallen man who had toppled sideways, one hand clutching at the wooden handle that stood upright in his chest like an exclamation mark. Urgent voices shouted advice, reassurance, imprecations, questions, calls for help. Sato simply stood there as though she'd been carved out of snow, her eyes wide and fixed. Her tray had smashed to the floor, and her hot drink had splashed up her legs, but she hadn't even winced. Somebody was bellowing into the comm unit; an ensign from Hydroponics had fainted by the beverage dispenser, and lay on the floor in an untidy tangle like an abandoned marionette.

A number of people had seized him. Voices had hammered against his unreality. Furious, shocked faces mouthed at the far side of the glass. Somebody's fist came in fast and low, so that the surprising pain made him double up. Through the forest of legs he caught a glimpse of the grey eyes: still wide, but now the total astonishment in them had given way to pain and fear. The tight mouth was contorted with it.

Sato moved suddenly as though a statue had come to life. She dropped to her knees beside the fallen man, her fingers twining in his. He tried to smile up at her but it was a grotesque, blood-filled parody; red was soaking through his uniform, pooling under his body.

A rush through the packed bodies was Phlox's arrival. He put Sato aside gently but firmly, but she remained kneeling so she could go on holding the hand, still staring, a deer caught in headlights. She wiped the back of her mouth convulsively with her free hand, and red came off on her face, scarlet on snow.

Now all he could see was the doctor's back until the arms dragged him up again. "It was her fault," he said calmly. The door hissed open again and the captain entered at a dead run, followed a second later by Commander Tucker and then Travis, who must have seen them come down from the bridge. They dived down to where Phlox was working, but a minute later the captain straightened up again. The fear that had been imprinted on his face had become grief. Behind the glass Commander Tucker's voice rose in an almost animal howl.

Somebody handed Phlox a clean napkin. The proprieties had to be observed.

There were plenty of witnesses. Archer's eyes had taken on a murderous glare as they turned towards him. If there had been an airlock in the mess hall the brig might not have been the next port of call; the Expanse had changed Jonathan Archer, made him vicious. That's what rumor whispered around the corridors, anyhow.

Tucker stood up and caught Sato into his arms. They were both crying. As if it hadn't been her fault in the first place. What point was there in being sorry now?

Why?

What a dumb-ass question.

Archer himself hadn't been all that discreet during that rendezvous with Columbia. Captain Hernandez was an attractive woman, and she co-ranked him. There had been a few sniggers around the corridors. Porthos must have had his little wet nose put well and truly out of joint that night. After all the time the captain had had to keep his hands to himself the wonder had been that Captain Hernandez had been able to walk back to the shuttle bay in a straight line by the time she'd finally returned to her own ship.

But what if the object of your craving just looks straight through you? What then?

How long do you bear it, with the world crashing around you and your family fried to ashes and your crewmates dead because of some crazy bunch of aliens?

Until a smile?

He had stared at his reflection in the reinforced glass of the brig in bewilderment.

What do you mean, Captain?

'Why?'

The End.

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