Set in Season 1, about one week after Shuttlepod One.

Grateful thanks to: IchthusFish for suggesting a title; Gabi2305 for catching all my plot blunders; and RoaringMice for her usual great beta job

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Malcolm walked into his room and went straight to the window; and if his heart hadn't been so heavy, he would have laughed. Because, after he had officially turned away from his family's past, just minutes before, now his subconscious was making him turn his back, physically, on his personal past: his desk, his books, his childhood memories; all that had belonged to him and was, in some way, part of his old self. All that was behind him. Before him was a glass pane, and the endless sky.

The sky was clear and cloudless, but only because a chilly wind had swept all the clouds away, heralding the arrival of the colder season. Malcolm pushed away the temptation to make a ridiculous parallel with his current situation, and let his gaze get lost in that infinitude, willing his mind to reach to the darkness beyond it; the vastness that one day he would explore.

He felt hollow.

He shouldn't feel this empty; he should be excited and full of positive energy. A new life was beginning; a door was being closed on a period of his life that hadn't quite been happy. He had finally made up his mind; indeed, he had proven to himself and others that he had a mind of his own, and that he was capable of taking his life into his own hands.

But this decision, important as it was, had not been painless, and the transition wasn't going to be smooth. Malcolm lowered his gaze to the familiar view: the street, the houses; the trees that had marked the cycles of nature. What would be outside his window, in his new life?

He had wanted this moment so badly; and now he felt as if someone had torn his innards out of him, leaving him an empty shell. The irony of it all was that he couldn't blame it on anyone but himself. In rejecting his roots, breaking with the past, he had ripped out his identity. Yes, it must be so. He had stepped past the line of no return and now stood in no man's land: no longer part of this home, not yet part of another, any other.

A figure rounded a corner of the house and slowly walked to the front lawn, arms hugging her shoulders, hopefully only to keep out the chill. As if knowing he'd be there, the woman stopped and turned, and looked up.

Malcolm met his mother's eyes and swallowed against a painful knot in his throat. They looked at each other for a long moment. There had often been silent communication between them. Indeed Mary Reed had taught her children as much with her silences as with her words. Malcolm watched her turn and walk away, bent under the weight that had unexpectedly been placed on her.

Heaving a steadying breath, he too turned, to his task, to the empty suitcase which lay open on his bed. It would be easy enough to fill it; perhaps, eventually, the empty space inside him would also get filled.

Right now, though, he felt hollow, and more alone than he ever had before in his life.

"Archer to Lieutenant Reed."

Malcolm's eyes flashed open to darkness and silence.

"Archer to Reed."

Throwing his covers aside, he jumped out of bed and stumbled to the comm.

"Reed here," he croaked out, voice hoarse with sleep. He fingered the lights on and squinted at the time: o-four-twenty-seven.

"You're needed on the Bridge, Lieutenant," Archer's terse voice came back.

"On my way, Sir."

Malcolm cut off the communication and rubbed two fingers over his eyes, feeling slightly displaced. Hadn't he just turned away from his window, back at…

October 10th. Today was October 10th, and even if he hadn't been conscious of it, his subconscious had bloody well thought of reminding him. Well, after he had nearly frozen to death in that Shuttlepod – not yet a week, was it? – perhaps his subconscious was even shaking a finger at him for choosing a life among the stars.

With a smirk, Malcolm grabbed the uniform that lay neatly folded on his chair and quickly made himself presentable. Then he left his quarters and hurried to the turbo-lift.

As he exited onto the Bridge, Malcolm's eyes were immediately drawn to the small ship on the viewscreen, hanging in space at an odd angle, and flashes of his own recent predicament went, unbidden, through his mind. Archer, standing beside the Captain's chair, looked his way for a moment that was a bit too long for comfort, before turning once more to the view. Aware that his face had probably shown too much, Malcolm hurried self-consciously to his post, which was already being vacated by the Gamma shift's tactical person.

"Hoshi?" Archer enquired.

Slipping into his chair, Malcolm glanced across the Bridge, at the Communications Officer. Hoshi was wearing her hair in a rather dishevelled ponytail; she too had, obviously, been summoned to the Bridge rather abruptly.

"Nothing, Sir," the Linguist replied, pressing on her ear piece.

"I am not reading any biosigns," T'Pol informed them.

Even the Subcommander showed signs of having been roused before the alarm clock: her face was slightly puffy. But Malcolm could not dwell on that oddity, for Archer was speaking again, and to him.

"Lieutenant?" he prompted, just as Trip Tucker burst out of the lift.

The Engineer took a look at the screen and lost his momentum. "What's up, Capt'n?" he asked. His uniform, slightly unzipped, revealed that in his hurry he had foregone the regulation black undergarment.

"Ship, dead in space," Archer said tersely. Approaching the railing in front of the tactical station, he leaned on it. "Malcolm?" he quietly urged again.

Malcolm studied the readings at his disposal. "It's a small vessel, minimum armaments, Sir. No match for Enterprise." Crossing his arms on his chest, he lifted his gaze to the Captain. "There is evidence of scorching on the hull," he said, with a frown. "It appears she was fired upon."

"Do we know what species?" Trip wondered, as he made his way to his post.

"Lorillian," T'Pol provided, matter-of-factly. "Life support has failed. Oxygen levels are low."

Trip gave the Vulcan Officer an odd glance. "Aren't they the ones who can breathe methyloxide?"

"Not after the age of four, Commander." Raising slightly ironic eyebrows, T'Pol added, "I believe it is safe to assume that the people on that vessel are older than four."

Malcolm cleared his throat. "I'm reading an inside temperature of two degrees Celsius," he said darkly. He felt Trip fret beside him, and didn't need to meet his eye to know what he was thinking. They both knew what it felt like to be in a freezing ship.

Archer crossed to the left of the Bridge. "Hoshi? Nothing?"

The Communication Officer silently shook her head.

"In light of what Lieutenant Reed has told us, if there are persons on board they may not be in a condition to answer our hails, Captain," T'Pol reasoned.

Her impassive voice made Malcolm smirk inwardly. Vulcans might bury their emotions deep, but on this Bridge the feelings of at least two men – the Armoury Officer and Chief Engineer – were quite near the surface.

"It wouldn't fit in our launchbay, would it?" Archer wondered, turning once again to the viewscreen.

Mayweather shook his head. "Almost, but not quite, Captain."

Pursing his lips in thought, the Captain paused for a moment. "Hoshi, programme a couple of UTs," he then instructed. He turned to Malcolm, green eyes boring into him. "Lieutenant, I'd like you and Doctor Phlox to get over there," he said, not making it quite an order, more like a request.

Malcolm tensed, hating the hesitance in the Captain's voice; as if he were a frail object about to break, damn it. He felt the eyes of all the Bridge crew on himself. "Aye, Sir," he said firmly, with a sharp nod; and started slipping out of his chair.

"How about me, Capt'n?"

Trip had stood up abruptly, and in his voice Malcolm had heard an unspoken question – is there a specific reason why you're leaving me behind?

"What about you, Commander?" Archer asked, turning steady green eyes on his Chief Engineer.

"They'll need someone to assess the damage," Trip said, shrugging lightly. And since Archer was taking his time to react to that, he added, jerking his head to the side, "Or even just to open the hatch. If you leave it to Malcolm, he'll likely blast it open."

Archer twisted his mouth in a lopsided smirk that looked suspiciously like a repressed smile. "All right, Commander," he yielded. "Hoshi, make that three UTs."

TBC

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