This is an old story from my Enterprise phase that never quite made it to the site. High time it was published.

I don't know why I NEEDED to make a mini-person fic back then... It just sort of inspired itself and turned into a yapping, persistent muse that wouldn't let go of the keyboard. Also, I love to channel Malcolm's "Inner Reed" (that part of him that you know just loves blowing things up), and I feel like I took him far too seriously in my other fics. Have some humor, friendship, whump and angst.

To keep the realism in the story, I actually did some research on the scientific vs. fictional potential for miniature people. While it's physically impossible to point-blank shrink a person's mass to the same detail (size of organs, blood pressure, etc) and expect them to survive, there's no reason tiny people can't be... adapted for survival, shall we say. (Once again, trying to make this as realistic as possible while just enjoying the frustration that Malcolm and the crew have to suffer through a slight inconvenience.)

Disclaimer: Neocolai does not own Star Trek: Enterprise or anything related to the series (except three action figures of Malcolm since I needed to repaint two of them to accompany his MACO and Desert uniform... Obsessed? Me? Nah!)

Timeline: Set after the Xindi Wars but before Season 4

The minute Captain Archer steps back and looks disconcertingly around the transporter, Trip knows that something's gone wrong.

"Where's Malcolm?" Archer inquiries instantly. "I gave you both of our coordinates."

"I had him locked in," Trip says, frowning as he reviews the data. They've had a few transporter glitches before, but nothing serious has ever happened. At least, no one's actually disappeared before. Malcolm's probably still tapping his foot on the planet's surface. "Scanning for him now..."

"I saw the particle stream," Archer insists. "He was right behind me."

"I'm not reading any interference..." Stepping back from the data screen, Trip glances around as though expecting the lieutenant to materialize. "He should be here."

"He should," Archer repeats, folding his arms. "Where is my tactical officer, Trip?"

"He's not on the surface," Ensign Almak reports.

"Scanners indicate he should be right... there..." Trip trails off, peering at the transporter pad.

"Here." Stepping back onto the platform, Archer waves his arms out. "What am I supposed to be looking at, Trip?" Paling, he prays that - despite the plausibility - his concern is only an irrational fear. "Trip, you didn't dematerialize him?"

Grey washes over Trip's face. "I know I checked the circuits an hour ago," he says feebly, striding to the platform. Scanner in hand, he treads across the platform, stopping short and wheeling around before he reaches the wall. "There's no residue matter. Scanner's showing his biosign ..."

Archer steps aside, avoiding the engineer's frantic pace, and glances at a flash of movement at his feet. His sidestep suddenly morphs into an awkward sort of tripping, skidding flail. Shoving Trip out of the way, he lunges for the edge of the platform and throws out his hands as his boots meet empty air.

They hit the ground in an inarticulate tangle of limbs, tumbling pell-mell in the most ludicrous display of evasive maneuvers that will not be recorded in the captain's log. Cringing as his boot smacks Trip's face, Archer rolls upright and scrambles to the transporter platform.

"Malcolm?"

Reeling backward from the force of his voice, the small figure claps his hands over his ears and shouts back. The faint baritone is indiscernible, but it's unmistakable. Measuring less than a foot high in a pint-sized jumpsuit, the Enterprise's tactical officer looks scandalized as he gestures to his diminutive form. Trapped between mirth, unbelief, and the sense of being caught in a bad dream, Archer huffs lightly and says, "I can't hear you."

Again Malcolm skitters back, covering his ears. More angry gestures follow. Waving his hands helplessly, Archer backs away.

"Get Phlox in here, stat!" he barks to Almak. He turns to address Trip, jabbing over his shoulder at the transporter station. "Start taking that thing apart. I want to know what went wrong and how to reverse this. Get to it."

Flummoxed, Trip tore his eyes away from the miniaturized lieutenant and scampered to follow his orders. "I don't know what could've..." he mumbled to himself as he pulled open the maintenance hatch. "Everything was running perfect last time I..."

Archer doesn't need to hear more. Crouching beside the transporter platform he lowers his voice and asks Malcolm, "Can you understand me?"

There's a short, irritable nod. Malcolm's arms are wrapped tightly around himself, as though the environmental controls have failed and the temperature's dropped ten degrees. He bounces on his heels a few times and mimes putting on a hat. Baffled, Archer runs a hand through his hair.

"A hat? You weren't wearing a hat on the transporter," he says. "I doubt we have one that fits."

Flinging out his arms in denial, Malcolm claps his elbows close again and rubs his arms briskly. Finally, the gesture makes sense.

"Are you cold?" Archer guesses. The temperature in the room hasn't changed. Perhaps the transporter affected more than Malcolm's height.

Another curt, unhappy nod follows his query. Relieved that there's been some form of successful communication, Archer braces his hands on his knees and stands up.

"I'll have Phlox bring a blanket... or something," he awkwardly amends. "We could cut off a corner of a hanky or..."

Sniggering behind the transporter station tells him that at least someone is amused by the predicament. Archer shoots a glare at Trip's crouched form. Even Malcolm's irritation is evident from the way his right foot stamps.

"We'll get you something," Archer promises him. "This is only temporary, okay? Phlox will have a look at you, and we'll get the transporter to reverse the... problem."

He doesn't know how else to describe it, and Trip's chortling is getting to be a bit much. Casting another glare at the engineer, Archer stoops down to keep a better eye on his... small lieutenant.

"He ain't much taller than a reed, is he?" Trip says amicably, wisely keeping his head down.

"Just do your job!" Archer snaps. He looks down at his shivering tactical officer and sighs. "Soon as the doctor get here, we'll figure everything out," he promises. "This isn't permanent."

It'd better not be.

"Frankly, I've never seen anything like it," Phlox says as he exchanges the medscanner for a magnifier and examines Malcolm's birdlike hands. "He's fully functional, albeit the transformation has given his system quite the shock. His body temperature is still fluctuating, but I suspect it will stabilize around ninety-eight degrees. Weight is... a little less than twenty grams, respiratory rate of one hundred and eleven per minute - of course, he is emotionally distressed at the moment - try to take even, calm breaths, Lieutenant - and pulse rate of four hundred and eighty beats."

"Per minute," Archer states, aghast. "Isn't that a little techy...tachy..."

"Tachycardic?" Phlox supplies. "Perhaps, but we're not necessarily looking at humanoid measurements, are we? I would compare his current physiology to a small rodent; in order to maintain his diminutive form, his body is compelled to function at a remarkable speed and take in large quantities of nutrients."

"Then what's going on with him?" Archer wonders, watching in concern as Malcolm lowers his head into his hands, shaking in the scrap of blue cloth that Phlox cut out for a pseudo blanket.

"Here, take this," Phlox says briskly, handing Archer a measuring syringe. "Measure .05 milliliter into that vial cap. I've sanitized it; it should be passable as a drinking utensil for the time being. Will you give that to the lieutenant and tell him to drink it immediately, please? His metabolic rate is much higher than a normal human's and he's about to go into hypoglycemic shock."

"What is it?" Archer asks, hesitating with his thumb on the plunger.

"Basically, it's hummingbird nectar," Phlox says, shrugging. "He'll need something more substantial, obviously, but given that several of his major organs have evolved to suit his new form, I'm not sure what he can handle yet. There could be any number of allergies that didn't make an appearance before. I don't want to risk anything that might impair his immune system."

"This can't be just a transporter malfunction," Archer insists as he scrapes a drop of the clear fluid into the tiny metal cap. "Starfleet informed us about previous disasters in the early models, but nothing was as complex as this. You're talking as if he's practically a new species!"

"Practically, yes," Phlox agrees. "Everything but his basic DNA has adjusted to his smaller mass. His hearing is sharper, his pupils are larger, his heart rate and oxygen levels have increased, his bones are nearly hollow, and his metabolism is equivalent to a Tarkanian field mouse. In short, he's the first successfully miniaturized human being that has ever survived the shrinking process."

"Survived?" Archer repeats in dismay.

"Captain," Phlox says candidly, "You're aware that your internal organs and bone density are genetically singular for your species. If one were to simply shrink down your body's mass index, why, your hearing and sight would be absolutely useless and you might freeze to death within minutes! You would practically be a blob of matter on the transporter pad."

Malcolm gags on the hummingbird solution, spluttering into his sleeve until the coughing fit is under control.

"Which is why Lieutenant Reed's ability to function is a scientific impossibly," Phlox emphasizes, squinting through the magnifier to be sure that the lieutenant had survived his choking episode. "I have no idea what to test for or how to treat him should something happen."

Casting a dire eye at Archer, he warns in a low voice, "Until we know more, Captain, might I suggest you keep him well out of trouble? I doubt I'll be able to help much if someone steps on him or flushes him down the waste extraction system."

Gagging on Phlox's solution, Malcolm gives Archer a look of utter distress. He can't blame the lieutenant; nothing is more humiliating than to the threat of drowning in the toilet.

"I'll make the crew aware of the situation..." Archer mumbles, and his tactical officer's mortification is complete.

"Just keep him up here for the time being," Phlox advises. "Within twenty-four hours, I should have a full analysis of his digestive system and blood components - provided I can draw any blood without draining him. By then, I'm sure Commander Tucker will have resolved the problems with the transporter. Pity... I would like to study the anomaly a bit longer."

"Keep in mind that this is Malcolm, not an extraterrestrial slug," Archer cautions, giving a minute shake of his head to reassure Malcolm that he is not going to be subjected to the doctor's obsession with learning every nuance of a new species. "Just find out what you need to keep him alive and in one piece. I don't want to keep him cooped up in sickbay any longer than necessary."

Pragmatically, Phlox considers, "I'm not sure where else to put him. His vocal chords won't carry to our ears, so we're limited on communication. We can't let him out in the hall; he can't even reach the door panel."

"We'll figure out something," Archer insists. "Maybe there's a spare habitat handy... we could put him in my quarters. If that's preferable," he amends, looking to Malcolm for confirmation. A fervent nod proves his assumption that anything seems better to the lieutenant than sticking around for Phlox's nighttime routine.

"I'm sure I can find a terrarium to suit his needs," Phlox considered. "Yes, Lieutenant, I understand it's not a concept that you're comfortable with. This is merely a temporary solution. You can hardly navigate your quarters when the bunk is ten times your height, after all. It won't be a cage, I assure you. I'll tip the habitarium sideways and you can come and go as you please. There's even a light switch that you can toggle on your own."

Covering his eyes, Archer wills the Denobulan to stop prattling. He gives Malcolm his most sympathetic look and vows, "One night. If this lasts longer than twenty-four hours, I'll have Trip rig you a real set of quarters."

Hardly reassured, Malcolm hunches sullenly into his patch of blanket. A communications device is going to be a necessity if this alteration lasts, Archer decides. There must be a way to amplify his voice. One communicator, one personal quarters, and one reversal on a malfunctioning transporter. Trip will just have to put his other projects aside.

"He'll still have to stay here for twenty-four hours," Phlox says. "I need a full assessment of his anatomy or there's no telling what might affect his system. For example, no injections for bromelain. Don't look at me that way, Lieutenant. I simply cannot take a chance without ascertaining the proper dosage, and I don't have any experience measuring units for humanoids smaller than a Pyrithian bat. It will take some time for me to estimate the proper treatments for your allergies."

"That's going to be a problem, isn't it?" Archer realizes. "He's allergic to ... what? Pollen? Something else?"

"Dust mites, oak pollen, tropical grasses, and plant enzymes," Phlox rattles off. "Most of which are contained thanks to the environmental control, but he'll have to stay away from the away teams if this condition lasts. Nothing is life threatening, I assure you, but better to avoid any further discomfort at this point. Also, might I suggest the lieutenant avoid certain tropical fruits until he can receive his proper injections," Phlox adds, pointedly addressing Malcolm. The responding glower is ... relatively mild, given that its bearer is scarcely as tall as a communicator.

"Any ideas on how to reverse this?" Archer asks, slowly pacing around the table. He knows that there is no simple "fixit" for something of this magnitude, but there's always a thread of optimism propelling him towards the impossible.

"I'm a doctor, not an engineer," Phlox denounces immediately. "The human body is nothing like a warp coil. Nothing happens overnight."

Which is exactly what neither officer wants to hear at this point. Gruffly folding his arms, Archer leans against the table and gathers his frayed temper. He needs to respond in a rational matter, as if there is a routine protocol established in the happenstance of shrunken officers. The crew must be informed. Safety measures will have to be taken. They can't just stow Malcolm away in his quarters indefinitely. He's part of the crew still. There must be a way he can ... fit in.

"Keep me posted, Phlox," Archer orders. "Twenty-four hours, Malcolm. If Trip hasn't figured out the problem by then, we'll arrange suitable quarters for you - temporarily," he emphasizes. Because this won't be permanent. A few days; maybe a week at most. He won't lose his tactical officer to something as trivial as a contracted molecules.

"Archer to T'Pol," he curtly hails through the wall com. "Meet me in my ready room."

In this ludicrous and nonsensical crisis, he could use a bit of Vulcan logic.