§ 3 §

As soon as Archer triggered the doors open, Phlox turned from his monitor to glance his way.

"Thank you for coming, Captain."

"No problem, Doc," Archer said lightly as he approached his Medical Officer. But Phlox had already turned back to the screen on his desk, looking quite concentrated, and Archer's carefully controlled worry went up a notch. Already the fact that he had been summoned to hear about Malcolm's condition hadn't boded well.

Malcolm had gone on that mission because Harris had helped them during the Terra Prime incident; and at that time he – Archer – had been the one who had asked his Armoury Officer to get in contact with his former employer. The important thing, then, had been to stop that mad business and get Trip and T'Pol – as well as their baby – back safely: Malcolm's dislike of Harris had been of secondary importance.

The after-effects of those events had been felt on board for a long time afterwards, with Trip and T'Pol having to face the loss of a baby they hadn't even known had existed and the gradual breaking of their bond. And just when, finally, the worst had seemed well behind them, Malcolm had come to his ready room with the news that Harris had requested him for a mission.

No arguments had convinced Malcolm that he shouldn't feel indebted: the strict Lieutenant might as well have been Shran, and in the end Archer had yielded, persuaded by the line of reasoning that this was Malcolm's chance to break with Harris for good.

During the past three months the responsibility, however, had weighed on Archer, heavier with every day that passed without news of his officer. Worry had silently gnawed at him, the torment finally lifting only when the Shuttlepod bringing Reed back had been safely in the launchbay again.

Now, though, as he studied the pensive expression on Phlox's face, concern began to creep through him again.

"Anything wrong?" he willed himself to ask.

Phlox stood up. "I don't quite know myself, Captain," he said, in an intrigued voice which didn't reveal much.

Archer straightened his shoulders, uncounsciously preparing to shoulder a heavy burden. "What do you mean?"

"The Lieutenant certainly hasn't taken good care of himself during the past three months. He's in poor physical condition," Phlox said, frowning.

"Yes," Archer agreed hoarsely. "He looks rather worn-down." That had been the first thing he had noticed, when Reed had appeared in the launchbay, and his heart had clenched; but he had schooled his features not to show it.

"He needs to regain the weight he's lost and replenish his system."

Archer narrowed his eyes. "Are you trying to tell me he's not fit to go back on duty?" He hoped, for Malcolm's sake, that it wasn't the case. Nothing would annoy the man more than being forced to rest.

Phlox made a quick downward grimace with his mouth, head tilted to one side. "Not necessarily. As long as he doesn't exert himself too much too soon, physically, I see no reason why he shouldn't be able to carry out his normal duties."

"Good," Archer breathed out in relief. "I think we can get Malcolm to agree to that."

"However," Phlox hurried to add, raising his eyebrows, "That is not the reason why I have asked you to come all the way here, Captain."

The knot in Archer's stomach tightened again.

"I think you should know that there is evidence of injuries on the Lieutenant's body."

Phlox paused, and Archer felt a surge of impatience. Let the man tell him everything in one go, for heaven's sake.

"What injuries, Doctor?" he prompted darkly.

Turning to his monitor, Phlox brought up some images. "It appears Mister Reed suffered a hairline fracture of the skull, here," he said touching the screen, where a three-dimentional image of Malcolm's skull became visible. A red line behind the left ear showed the spot. "It wasn't serious, and it has healed perfectly," he added. "In addition I found evidence also of a couple of cracked ribs." The image changed. "Also healed."

Archer frowned. "I'm sure Malcolm's mission wasn't exactly a stroll in the park," he said. "In that kind of occupation – if we want to call it that – it seems to me a couple of cracked ribs are the least you can expect."

Even as he spoke he realised how callous the words sounded. It was his guilty conscience speaking. He wasn't sure, though, what Phlox was getting at. This sort of information was, strictly speaking, confidential. And the Denobulan wasn't one to break the doctor-patient confidentiality rule light-heartedly.

"That may well be," Phlox replied seriously. "What I find strange, however, is that the Lieutenant should seem to know nothing about it."

"What?" Archer grimaced. "Did you ask him?"

Shrugging, Phlox jerked his head back, chin down. "Naturally. When I enquired how he had suffered his injuries he looked at me with a frown of confusion; he was surprised about them. In the end he mumbled something vague like 'in the course of my mission'." Phlox turned from the screen and raised his very blue eyes on Archer. "He doesn't remember anything about them."

"That is strange," Archer commented under his breath.

"Yes, and I thought you should know."

Archer felt his mouth go dry. "Have you assessed his mental condition?" he asked, belatedly realising it was a stupid question – if Phlox was willing to let Malcolm back on duty he must have.

"Yes," the Doctor indeed replied. "He seems to be fine."

"Could the head injury he suffered have anything to do with his amnesia?" Another obvious question; the consciencious physician would have considered that too.

"It could." There was a beat of silence. "On the other hand, the Lieutenant could have subconsciously wiped out memories that weren't pleasant," Phlox eventually suggested, with a very direct look that spoke plenty. "It is not unknown to happen. Or…"

"Or they could have been wiped for him," Archer finished grimly. He pursed his lips. Guilt, regret, worry and anger, most of it self-directed, warred in his chest. "And you still recommend that he should go back on duty?" he croaked out.

"I do, Captain. It will be good for him. Though I also recommend that we keep an eye on him."

Archer nodded. "Thank you, Doctor." As he left sickbay, he knew that a very heavy weight had suddenly dropped back on his shoulders.

Malcolm startled awake, prey to a choking feeling of anxiousness. He was cold. Darkness surrounded him and he didn't know where he was. Eyes vainly opened wide to try and scan the nothingness around him, he wrapped his arms around himself, forcefully tearing his attention away from his thumping heart and focussing it on his surroundings. It was then that he became aware of a much more reassuring sound: the low rumble of a warp engine. Memory was kind enough to shine briefly through the fogs of his brain, and he knew with instant relief that he was back on Enterprise.

Raising a hand to press two fingers over his eyes, Malcolm lay still, waiting for his pulse to slow down. He was trembling slightly, and it wasn't only out of cold. What a fool; no, worse, a coward. With a sudden surge of irritation he snapped out of his immobility and reached for the light. It was too bright, brutally hurting his eyes and making him blink before he ordered its glow lower. His quarters finally took form and reassuringly embraced him. Looking around, he winced at the sight of the clothing on the floor – fatigue was no excuse for sloppiness. Then, throwing his blanket aside, he sat up.

Talking of sloppiness: why had he been sleeping on a bed that was still made, covered just by a blanket? No wonder he was cold. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Trip. He had been talking to Trip. He must have fallen asleep and his friend must have covered him.

Malcolm sighed, darting a glance at the clock as he stood up. Barely past ten-hundred. Bloody wonderful: like saying he had just fallen asleep. He shuffled to the bathroom and leaned on the sink, staring into the circled grey eyes of the man in the mirror, silently questioning him.

What happened to you?

The general feeling of anxiousness that had woken him still lingered. It was something he was not unused to but never particularly enjoyed. He knew whose child it was: the unknown; that blank which, like a mist – or a thick, view-blocking hedge – stopped him from seeing clear. One of the things his father had taught him – one of the few things for which he was grateful to the old man – was to use knowledge as a weapon against fear; it was a lesson he had learnt well. But now this weapon had been snatched out of his hand. For much as he tried, he could remember nothing about a fractured skull or cracked ribs. And fear had him in its grip.

His hand went automatically to the side of his head. He could feel nothing. Could it be true? Had he not dreamt of it perhaps? No, the image of Phlox, scanner in hand, eyes boring into him, was too detailed to be a dream.

How have you suffered your injuries? the Doctor had asked him, covering his professional concern in a light voice. Malcolm had looked at him with a question mark on his face, so big that even a blind man would have seen it. As far as he was concerned, he hadn't suffered any bloody injuries. He was back in one piece.

Trip's voice echoed in his mind. So you kept your promise, you came back safe and sound…

His hesitant reply – 'I suppose so' – had raised the Engineer's suspicions, he was sure of it.

Malcolm jerked his eyes away from the wary ones staring back at him and opened the tap. He put his hands under the flow, watching the water slide over his wrists as he turned them up, relishing the coolness. He stayed like that for a long moment, willing to find the lost memories even though, surely, they couldn't be pleasant ones.

It wasn't normal for a man to forget breaking his head, or getting his ribs cracked. But why hadn't Phlox enquired further? Malcolm was quite sure the Denobulan hadn't been satisfied with his muttered reply. Of course not; who would? I got injured in the course of the mission - You don't say. And yet the Doctor was letting him return to duty.

Anxiousness rose and expanded, choking him again, and Malcolm lowered his face, splashing cold water on it.

He'd be fine. He was back. Safe and sound. What mattered now, how he had suffered those injuries? He was once again the Armoury and Security Officer of this ship. And his career as a black operative was definitely over.

TBC