Malcolm has shouted himself hoarse and tried everything but tap-dancing morse code, but the conversations carry on above him as though he's nothing more than a cricket protesting against a team of curious science officers. The captain talks as though he hopes the crisis will simply blow over, and Phlox chatters with the enthusiasm of a zoologist discovering a new species, but nobody listens. Hasn't Malcolm signaled enough that he deserves a say in what's going to happen?

But as always, the captain makes up his mind, and the doctor has his way. Malcolm is left in sickbay, subject to Phlox's examinations, without even a chance to explain what he saw before the transport happened. Something that Trip will never pick up on his scanners.

It's ironically typical. Ever since the Ilyrian vessel, Malcolm has fought a rising sense of militarism: follow orders, no questions asked. In the beginning days of the Enterprise, the captain surprised him with his open communication and willingness to bear the advice of any officer - even a Vulcan. It took time for Malcolm to trust that openness and dare raise his voice if something seemed amiss.

When Archer gave the order to steal the Ilyrian's warp coil - to leave them stranded, dead in the water - it became Malcolm's duty to cripple their ship. A blow so treacherous and beneath them that for a moment he couldn't distinguish the Enterprise from a guerrilla faction.

In the end, the Enterprise succeeded in her mission, and the crew returned to... relative normalcy... but the incident left a subtle shadow on Malcolm's trust. Barely tangible, it hovers still, tainting a moment and then brushing aside as though it was only a passing thought. An imprudent feeling of inadequacy.

Now, size-comparable to a blade of grass and unintelligible to any of the crew, Malcolm has never felt smaller. What being would take satisfaction in rendering such a curse? What gods of the universe would mock him among anyone else in the crew?

And how do I make you understand that? Malcolm silently beseeches the captain. Someone has sabotaged your crew - that's what you need to resolve, not some petty inconvenience that's befallen me. Whoever did this is bound to target someone else. What if it's you they take out next, or T'Pol, or Hoshi? Stop worrying over the minor details and really look at what's happened!

It's no transporter malfunction, this much Malcolm is certain of. The "shrinkage effect" certainly seems to apply to his scanner and his communicator, and both are now useless, intricate models of their life size counterparts. Had Malcolm followed suit, he probably would have been a shapeless blob of matter, just as Phlox described. No, the transformation itself was orchestrated flawlessly.

Colors have changed around him, dulling to wan shades of yellow, green and grey. He feels as though the crewmen are moving lazily around him, as if in a few lunges he could clear the examination table before Phlox could lash out to catch his fall. His appetite has changed as well. Mealtime always seemed to be a duty to perform (except at breakfast), but now he's ravenous, biting at his lip because that thick, gunky nutrient slop that Phlox measured out was hardly enough. Everything is too slow and too loud - booming voices, scraping tools, high pitched whistling from the lights and electronics - and each creature is accompanied by its own wavering aura and distinctive smells that are so strong he can almost taste them. Denobulan sweat, Malcolm decides, is ultimately the most revolting memory he'll ever associate with sickbay.

"See, you're calmer already," Phlox says cheerfully, his voice clapping over Malcolm like a fourteen-foot wave crushing a tiny boat. "Just keep taking deep, even breaths. Ah! Captain Archer is here with the Subcommander. I'm sure they'll want to speak with you."

Speak to him, yes. Reciprocating in kind is rather impossible at the moment. Having entertained his childish fit long enough, Malcolm rises to his feet and slings aside the blanket, straightening his uniform as he tries to salvage a shred of his former pride.

He's quite prepared for T'Pol's reaction when she enters the room, but it still irks him when the predictable eyebrow is raised. Yes, Starfleet now comes in miniature. Take a good, long look.

"The captain has informed me of your situation," T'Pol says coolly.

Malcolm considers that within a day he'll be craving her non-condescending tone, but for now he's only grateful that she was considerate enough to keep her voice down.

"Have you determined how he will survive on the ship?" T'Pol directs to Phlox.

"It's hard to say without any blood tests," Phlox says gravely. "He simply doesn't have enough flesh and muscle to accommodate a proper needle. Any skin tear or incision at this size will stretch into a vicious scar once he returns to normal. I'm programing the medscanner to isolate his glucose levels and allergens. Once it's completed, I'll have the accurate dosage requirements for his mass index. It should only take a couple of hours."

"And until then?" Archer interjects.

"Twenty-four hours, Captain," Phlox reminds him. "You can't rush a diagnostic scan. Why don't you two speak with Commander Tucker about habitat requirements? I assume you'll want him to be comfortable for the duration of this condition."

It's a polite emphasis of, Shoo now, and let me do my work. Casting T'Pol a bemused glance, Archer lingers to offer one more reassurance. "Hang in there, Malcolm. It's just for a few days."

As compared to an overnight problem, Malcolm scoffs. The timetable continues to stretch the longer they study the anomaly. He's anxious, but not surprised. Until we go back and find out who was behind all of this, we may as well be charting a sunrise.

He watches T'Pol and Archer leave sickbay, free to carry out their duties to their utmost capacity, and he suddenly feels quite alone in his predicament. It's 0300 hours. In less than an hour he would be readying himself for the day, already contemplating the repairs needed to the weapons alignment, and the training required for some of the younger security officers. There were a few systems that needed adjustments and he had been working on a new away team protocol that guaranteed at least one medical officer in case of a sudden injury. (They had run into enough of those on foreign planets.)

Now, he is the one being left behind, restricted to sickbay - not because of some injury or illness - but because he's practically a large insect scuttling around the ship. What use is a tactical officer who could be crushed by one of his own photon torpedoes?

This can't go on forever, Captain, Malcolm admits dismally. You'll have to find a way around the curse soon… or find someone to replace me.


At 0500 Hoshi glides into sickbay. Malcolm braces himself for the cooing adoration which females shower upon infants, small animals, and - dreadful as it is to accept - bantam Reeds. To her credit, Hoshi battens down a smile and doesn't utter a single endearment. Awkwardly she steps forward and fiddles with a handful of beige fabric.

"The captain… told me what happened," Hoshi says uncertainly. "I know this isn't supposed to last very long, but… I thought you might like something more comfortable to sleep on."

Sheepishly she lays out a rectangle of foam, with honest-to-goodness hemmed sheets and a small comforter. There's a small pillow that looks fairly plush and not at all bulky. Huffing lightly, Malcolm realizes she must have been up for a couple of hours. Every piece of fabric has been professionally hand-stitched.

"Sorry, I'm not trying to treat you like a doll or anything," Hoshi says, suddenly flustered. "I just thought… if you don't need them, that's fine. I just wanted to help. I mean…."

Rescuing the poor girl from her embarrassment, Malcolm grabs the vial cap and starts tapping it against the table. The faint, tinny rhythm grabs Hoshi's attention, just as he hoped.

T….H….A….N….K.…Y...O...U…..

Flushing, Hoshi claps her hands in front of her face. "You really like them?"

Relieved, Malcolm nods enthusiastically. Finally, someone can understand him.

"I can make you a couple of uniforms, if you like," Hoshi offers, her confidence in full bloom. "I mean, I don't know how long this will last, but if you need extra clothes I can sew them for you. I'd just need your measurements."

That is something too far below his dignity to consider just yet. Intent on distracting her from the topic, Malcolm intently taps out a new request.

S….P….E….A….K….C….A….P….


Reliable as ever, Hoshi comprehends him before he can finish the second word. "Captain Archer? You want him here right now?"

Oh, it's wonderful to be understood. Malcolm leans back and nods, confident that with the linguist's assistance, Archer will have no trouble deciphering his report. Hoshi beams.

"Give me a few minutes," she requests. "I think he's in the transporter room."

She's gone with a flick of her ponytail, lighting on a challenge with the enthusiasm that has won the allegiance of many a foreign delegate. Malcolm settles in to wait, pulling the pleasantly warm and unadorned blanket around his shoulders, and makes a face when Phlox steals his vial cap.

"You wouldn't be cold if you weren't so low on nutrients," Phlox reminds him, measuring more purple glop into the makeshift cup. "Drink up, Lieutenant. Soon enough I'll have a solid formula prepared for your… erm… delicate system."

Since no one can hear him gripe, he gives a full, uncensored review of Phlox's bloody concoctions. "What's the problem with resequenced protein?" he challenges. "It's safe for the rest of the crew. Am I supposed to be grateful for some tasteless form of hardtack that you doctors consider nutritional support? You can't expect me to live off of that forever!"

"I knew you'd like the idea," Phlox says blithely, clearly misinterpreting Malcolm's blathering as some sort of eager anticipation. "I can even synthesize a chocolate or vanilla flavor, if you like."

Malcolm buries his face in his hands.


"Light… sentient being… transformation….transporter beam..." Hoshi carefully translates. "I think he's saying this happened while he was still on the planet."

"Before we transported?" Archer says, his brow furrowed in confusion. "He was full size when the beam caught us. Is he saying that someone did this? Mid-transport?"

Hoshi tilts her head, concentrating on the faint clinks. "Surface… Something about a funny hat. It's definitely a person he's describing."

"There wasn't anyone in the area," Archer reasons.

"Our scanners did not indicate any life forms," T'Pol elaborates, "However, some sentient life forms have been known to evade technological detection."

"And this is one of them," Archer guesses. He sighs and paces around the biobed, scratching the back of his head. Nine hours of restlessly searching for answers is beginning to tell. "Go back to the planet. We'll send down a search team. Maybe we can find this being and convince him - her - it - to reverse the transformation."

"Malcolm seems to be objecting," T'Pol indicates, nodding her head towards the tactical officer, who was frantically shaking his head.

"Why? What seems to be the problem?" Archer lowers his voice, stooping to peer at his tiny officer.

Malcolm makes a deliberate cancellation gesture and taps out, Danger…. Strike…. Again…..

"You think the same thing could happen to someone else," Archer dictates after listening for a moment. "Why would someone shrink an exploration team? What would be the point? We didn't even see anyone down there."

T'Pol steps forward and interjects, ""There was, as you described, 'a flourishing paradise of birds and beasts, the like of which Earth has never seen.' Perhaps the caretaker of these animals considered you to be an intruder and a threat."

"So he put a curse on my armory officer," Archer snaps. "He didn't even bother asking why we were there?"

"Perhaps it is wiser for the ship to remain in orbit above the planet," T'Pol cautions. "If there is a sentient life form below, and the technology to alter a human being, eventually we will make contact."

"How long is Malcolm expected to wait for that?" Archer challenged. "We could be looking at weeks. Phlox, you promised me twenty-four hours. I can't leave him in this state!"

There's a thin plonk as Malcolm slaps the cap against the table, demanding their focus. Deliberately he claps out his opinion, pausing to ensure that Hoshi comprehends each word. Better….Wait… No...More….Losses ….

"Lieutenant Reed has made a valid point," T'Pol agrees. "Beaming onto a likely hostile planet will risk more officers, which we cannot afford to lose. Better to delay a few weeks than to jeopardize the crew."

"I won't leave him in this state for weeks," Archer argues, cutting off Malcolm's interceding wave. "Is this any state to live in? He can't even use a comlink to speak with us!"

"Malcolm's life is not in danger," T'Pol firmly reasons. "It is an inconvenience, nothing more. The circumstances will not improve if other crew members are subjected to the same transformation."

"It's easy for us to say that," Archer retorts. "Look around you, T'Pol. The beds, the counter surfaces, the door panel - he can't access any of that! You and I leave this room, and we can return to our posts as though none of this happen. Where does that leave him? Confined to his quarters day after day, for months?"

"You're letting your personal feelings get in the - "

"T'Pol, I don't want to hear anything more about my feelings," Archer says, briskly cutting her off. "This is about Malcolm. I won't leave my first officer cooped up in a cage just because he's the size of a hamster."

"Habitat, Captain," Phlox speaks up. "It's not the same. And he won't be restricted to his quarters. As long as he's careful, and the crewmembers are made aware of his presence, I think he could have fair run of the ship."

Aghast, Archer flings his hands out. "Is there no one backing me on this? Malcolm, don't say anything. You don't have to sacrifice yourself because it's acceptable for the mission."

"This is not about the mission," T'Pol says, raising her voice a notch in the Vulcan impression of agitation. "This is about the safety of the Enterprise. We will find a solution, and we will restore the lieutenant to his former state, but we must consider the wellbeing of all of the crew."

"It's tricky enough creating a health and wellness plan for one metamorphosed crewmember, let alone ten or fifteen more," Phlox adds dryly, glancing up from his medscanner.

"As you have emphasized, the situation is only temporary," T'Pol concludes. "Even Lieutenant Reed has agreed that this is a better solution. If you are taking his well being and opinion into consideration, perhaps you should listen to him."

"Of course I'm listening," Archer says, leaning back with a sigh. "I just don't think it's fair to him."

"Your view of fairness is an assumption that everyone is equal," T'Pol says. "In this case, we are not. The lieutenant is physically incapable of fulfilling his duties. It is no different than if we were accommodating an injured crew member. His place on the Enterprise has not changed, but we must move forward without his assistance."

Muttering a curse, Archer slams his palm against the table. He cringes apologetically when Malcolm jumps. "There has to be … some way he can keep up. No one wants to feel useless day after day."

He's summed up Malcolm's fears exactly, but T'Pol quietly states the truth. "Captain, you're asking the impossible."

"Then make it possible," Archer snaps, striding for the door. "Get Trip on that voice magnifier. I want a full list of Malcolm's duties before we reach orbit."

The door swishes behind him, almost as much a dismissal as his curt command. Hoshi and T'Pol exchange a hapless look. The only action that will result from summarizing Malcolm's responsibilities will be the election of another armory officer until he can return to his post. The captain is grasping for wisps of control, but soon enough he will be forced to accept that he cannot sacrifice the routine of the entire ship for one man.

Crossing his legs, Malcolm rubs the scuffed toe of one boot, contemplating with dismay that even a tin of polish is beyond his capacity to open. T'Pol is right; he's of no use to the Enterprise or her crew. Better to stave it out than to force this condition on anyone else, but it's going to be a long few weeks… and that's if they even make contact with the being who cursed him. The thought of living this way for years brings a swell of panic upon him, and he tucks his head down until it passes. A nudge at his leg tells him that Phlox is pressing more of that ghastly purple goo upon him.

He can't live this way forever.