I'd Heard Everything Without Listening To You

Although he'd had a packed day, full of meetings and even an experiment in which he worked on improving an important device, when it came time to rest that night Malcolm Reed felt overwhelmed by memory, and tried to relieve it by stroking himself. But sought-for comfort did not come, and he was even more aggrieved at the unfairness of it all. (Alternate Expanse Series)

OOOOO

Malcolm Reed was not in his element when it came to either hosting or attending meetings – at least ones where he was expected to speak and not sound like (in his mind) an over-educated, under-experienced professor, who had spent too much time in the laboratory and not enough in the 'real world'.

If you could regard 'space' as qualifying as 'real world and his 'weaponry' as not just 'theoretical', as he did have real world experience using weaponry in the vacuum of space. Even with the rank of captain (soon to be promoted to admiral because of 'meritorious service' – much of which was classified and not available for customary examination), the head of the Weapons Laboratory of Starfleet, was not beyond getting in front of a group and having what amounted to a panic attack.

(He was fine if no one knew who he was. Had spent years perfecting the art of not being noticed. As a child and as a teen, the talent had been useful camouflage from his parents and at his school. Even at Starfleet Academy, this 'invisibility shield' worked until some noticed, and really the wrong sort of people paid attention. When he finally escaped, his personality was unfortunately 'set' and he would always be 'odd'. Except . . . except . . .)

That day's several meetings went as well as could be expected – he thought the financial end of things were not terribly interesting, though it was necessary that a tight rein be kept on expenditures, and unlike many in Starfleet who didn't care where the monies came from, or went to – he was finicky about wastage. (The oddest things would stick in his mind; once as a teenager, he expressed an opinion to an elderly gentleman he knew at a library, regarding what should be an 'up and coming product' – later the man told him that he had made a great deal of money on his recommendation. Did he have any more? This was terribly embarrassing to the young man, and he stammered, sounding to himself like a fool.)

Later that day he worked in the laboratory on an experiment, involving an improvement on his force field, so that even stronger particle weapons would not impact it adversely. Of course full strength testing had to take place in a remote location; it was at these times that he could be happiest, involved in the physics and mechanics of weaponry. The young researchers who worked with him – they were as likely to call him 'Doctor' or 'Professor' Reed as well as 'Captain'. Malcolm was known to be the last out of the facility, often chatting with the security guards, asking how they were doing . . .

At home, he would read the news of the day, or research papers until he could barely stay awake, because he wanted to be so tired that sleep would come quickly. When it didn't, he would lay in bed and memory . . . memory would hold him hostage.

'Hoshi, Hoshi,' the name was held in his heart, and no one could understand the fury, longing, or pain that he felt. Once, he told an interested party that he felt 'savage' – since most people didn't have the facility he had with words, they didn't understand . . . 'savage' meant 'wild', 'uncontrolled', and 'never to be tamed' – people remembered Hoshi if they did at all – as the brave young woman killed by the Xindi, who died rather than help them destroy Earth.

They seemed to think that he should be over her, to be past her death. What they didn't understand was the same mental strength that made it possible for him to preserve in the face of adversity, made it so difficult to forget, or perhaps more correctly accept her death. For when he loved, he loved unto death, beyond death, he hoped . . .

He laid in his uncomfortable bed, and stroked himself, thinking of her form, her gentle touch, warm embrace, laugh, and smile . . . how many more years of loneliness would he have to endure . . . release came, and it was not entirely pleasurable, but only a physical thing . . .

Lying in a daze, Malcolm at first missed the sound – a clearing of a throat – but once it registered in his mind, he flung himself out of bed and grabbed a sabre that was mounted mostly as an 'object d'art' above his bed. (He had been presented that deadly artifact during his service as second-in-command aboard the Enterprise – Trip and T'Pol having escaped to live permanently on Vulcan in 'communal bliss' or something like that . . . At that point his grief did have a practical purpose.)

Reed had always had more than adequate 'sense-memory' of where things should be in his flat – perhaps a little too adequate – he could 'sleep-walk' through the furnished rooms without incident, even performing complicated tasks. Not to mention finding his way through a darkened room, Starfleet finally understanding that in its residential areas, less street lighting meant better sleep for ground-based personnel. Reed however wanted to see who the hell was in his flat, and activated the lights in his sleeping area.

It was 'Daniels' resplendent in some kind of glittery black number that made the presumptive time-traveler look insubstantial , and a bit 'H.G. Wellsyan'.

"You!" exclaimed Malcolm, not feeling the least bit restrained by the niceties of proper behavior. "Tell me, why the fuck I shouldn't gut you where you stand!" (He also didn't care that he'd never been able to use that phrasing without it sounding 'affected' – but he had been disturbed whilst trying to relax, and caught at a particular 'low' point and vulnerable.)

Reed heard the same irritating voice he remembered, saying, "Well for one thing you'd ruin the carpets, Captain Reed; I do believe this one is a favorite . . ."

"I'd make the sacrifice! Why are you here? Is life not interesting enough during your own 'time'?" This outburst of Malcolm Reed's was not unexpected; the duty-driven, composed persona that the Brit cultivated had remained one of the facets of his personality that had been well-known through time, but it was only a limited glimpse of a complex human being . . . the man could be when 'pushed', very passionate.

"Well, since you've asked . . . I'm looking for a particular iteration of your 'lovely' self." The image of the time-traveler flickered, and then solidified. "I may have come to the right Reed."

This declaration by 'Daniels' was met by sardonic laughter on Reed's part; "Oh this is 'choice'! So it's not just me that you are bothering, but every 'Malcolm Reed' you can get your disturbed mind around. Sod off, you voyeur!" The former Section 31 agent's eyes tightened just a little, and he continued. "I've run into your type before, 'Agent Daniels' . . . tell me, is time traveling now the purview of Section 31, or maybe its successor? This is just the kind of crap that they would find 'fascinating', don't you think?"

This deduction on Reed's part apparently made the image of Daniels flicker, just a bit. Or maybe it was a coincidence . . . (Or both actually – Daniels had been a bit worried that one of the Reeds might guess.) "I've been trying to find a 'solitary' Malcolm Reed' – you'd be surprised at the number of you that are 'with someone' . . . Tucker, Archer, Sato, T'Pol, even a very old Harris . . ." Daniels flinched a bit at that memory . . . that 'Malcolm Reed' tried to shoot first . . . "And of course, some 'solitaries' were in 'unsuitable conditions'." (As in 'under confined status' – impressive number of those . . .)

"Maybe we're just adaptable buggers . . ." Reed was just a little bit curious as to why this fool 'came knocking on his doorstep'. He didn't lower the blade, but rather adjusted the grip on the handle, so the weapon could be held longer. Time travel was morally questionable at the very least.

"You didn't have a reputation for being the most altruistic, so I thought a little reward might be in order for your 'service', especially since it is part of the 'package', as it were . . ." Daniels said the last with a smirk.

Daniels couldn't see how much of a smug bastard he really was, and Reed despised his existence. Archer (and by extension the entire crew) had been compromised ethically by this 'time travel' business, and it was a near thing, not contaminating the past, or the future. It seemed like this version of Daniels really didn't have the most complete information about 'Malcolm Reed' either, so what was his 'game'. Reed spoke up, "So cut to the chase. Why are you here?"

"Why to change the past, of course! You don't think that I just came by to say 'hi', did you?" exclaimed the irritating git – he really was getting on Malcolm's nerves.

This was truly a Faustian 'bargain', and Reed was wondering if stories about Lucifer tempting souls might be of 'time or multiverse travelers' – "So were you able to talk to other 'Malcolm Reeds', and what did they say?"

"Actually you're the first Malcolm Reed that I've come across that isn't encumbered by something," stated Daniels, who flickered again just a bit. "For some reason, you are 'in demand' as it were."

Reed narrowed his eyes, and regarded the creature in front of him; experienced wariness made him skeptical and he circled to the right where the desk (and cluttered test bench) was situated, filled with some of his equipment. 'Theoretical equipment', as in modifications of his 'force field' – or rather a very distant descendant of Maxwell's slit experiment – it would not 'do' him any good if Daniels could slither around and not be held to one location ('loci').

Reed pushed two buttons together, and twisted a knob – Daniels gasped, and a slight wisp of smoke seemed to originate from the area that he was occupying. "Not fair!" Daniels managed to stutter. "I have an offer-" And he vanished in a smudge of smoke . . .

"Be gone, demon!" said a weary Malcolm Reed. He may not have had a great deal of faith in goodness, but he could spot 'the beast sloughing toward Bethlehem' . . .

OOOOO

A.N. with apologies to Yeats. And I know I have other stories to work on . . .