When Malcolm had cried until he couldn't any more, he felt out of options. Trip stayed with him for a long time without speaking. He disentangled himself from Malcolm with his own eyes wet, then leant on the edge of the bed, then sat back in his chair, growing further away with the silence. Malcolm watched the ceiling, his eyes feeing numb. He knew that he ought to apologise for bringing up Trip's sister, but he couldn't find it in him to excuse himself – or to ask Trip to make another effort at forgiveness. He'd gone too far already, and he couldn't keep taking Trip with him.

Sleep came and took him without his permission, and when he woke up, Trip was gone – but whether there was a note of finality to that; whether he'd gone gone, or just gone to eat, sleep or work, Malcolm didn't know.

Phlox hoved into his line of sight, and asked how he was feeling.

"Bit better," Malcolm grunted, since Phlox wouldn't be appeased by the truth. He hadn't moved on the biobed since he'd woken, and felt like he'd landed there from a great fall, his limbs splayed and shattered.

"Glad to hear it," Phlox said. His cheery tone was like a series of hammer blows. He fiddled with the monitor. Malcolm rolled his eyes to watch him.

"I'd rather you remain here, just for the time being, until I'm certain the risk of seizure has passed," Phlox told him. "But there's no physical reason you have to stay in bed. You can get up, stretch your legs a bit, if you like."

Malcolm turned this option over. It seemed remote and unlikely. His thoughts strayed to Trip again, and dread twisted in his chest. He felt like he'd moulded some malevolent creature in his hands and released it, and now it was beyond his control. Trip had promised he wouldn't tell, but that had been before he'd known…

Maybe he had told the captain. Maybe he was telling him right now.

Malcolm sat up abruptly, and swung his legs off the bed. Phlox turned quickly, and caught him by the shoulders.

"Steady," he said. "Take it slowly."

"Oh God," Malcolm gasped. All the blood had left his face and limbs. "Um," he said, in warning, but Phlox was ready with a stainless steel bowl, and Malcolm was able to throw up quite neatly, considering. He had to cling unashamedly to the doctor after, his eyes clenched closed, sickbay rolling around him like a ship's deck in a storm.

"Better?" Phlox asked, after a short time. Malcolm opened his eyes and found that it was. Things still felt decidedly odd from this angle, but Phlox removed his hands and Malcolm stayed upright, perched quite normally on the edge of the bed.

"There," Phlox said, looking pleased, as though this were his own feat of balance. "Just give yourself a little time to re-adjust. There's no rush."

Malcolm nodded, mostly to make Phlox stop looking at him. The doctor moved off into the room, going about his business, tactfully not watching, but remaining close at hand.

Malcolm's hands still felt useless, heavy and blunt at the end of his arms, like they'd been bound in boxing gloves. He braced his wrists against the edge of the bed for traction, and lowered himself inch by inch, until his feet found the floor.

Once there, he took a few careful steps. Immediately, this was a problem. If he could move, if he could act, then he had to do something. What, he wasn't clear on, but he couldn't just drift around sickbay like a ghost, and then go back to bed, and be pawed at by Phlox again. He pressed his wrists together, suddenly aware of the absence of restraints there.

"Can I go back to my quarters?" he blurted. Since he wasn't safe in sickbay, where anyone might walk in.

"Not just yet," Phlox told him, with an automatic air. He was shaking what looked like worms into an aquarium, making the water boil in frenzy. "If you'd like to freshen up, you can use the shower in decon," he suggested, without looking up.

Malcolm's breath snagged in his throat.

Phlox caught him out the corner of his eye, and paused, worms poised. "Is everything okay?" he asked.

Malcolm had to fight the tendons in his neck to nod. "Yes," he said. "Yes. Everything's fine." A shower. How hard could showering be? He showered every day, normally. He was fastidious. He'd never drowned yet. He looked around himself. Tried to orientate himself towards decon. He seemed to be lost.

Phlox was suddenly beside him. Malcolm jumped at finding him there, and then moved quickly to cover for it, striking out in what turned out to be the right direction. Phlox kept pace with him to the door.

"Do you need help?" he asked. "It's alright if you do."

He reached to touch Malcolm's shoulder.

"Don't," Malcolm blurted, and ducked away. Phlox stopped with his hand short, but didn't withdraw it. Malcolm covered his mouth. Not his best impression of fine.

Phlox recomposed himself, and, when he spoke, his voice gave no hint he thought anything was wrong.

"Perhaps we're overdoing it a little. No rush, hmm? Why don't you come and sit down?"

This suggestion was so banal as to feel absurd, and Malcolm had to look away. Phlox clearly didn't understand who he was speaking to. Again, the compulsion seized him that he needed to be elsewhere; he had to stop it – stop something – or else he had to escape. He felt late, and his back prickled like things were going on behind it.

He took a step backwards, drawing his arms across himself.

"Can I go back to my quarters?" he asked again. He could think of nowhere else. He was still trapped on the ship, even if he left sickbay. He marked his route to the door with the corner of his eye, but carefully didn't look right at it.

"What's the matter?" Phlox asked gently, but he was watching Malcolm warily.

"Nothing," Malcolm said, forcing words out past his teeth. "Nothing is the matter. I just don't need to be here."

"I'm not sure I agree." Phlox took a small step closer, and started to raise his hands, palms open, but stopped abruptly when Malcolm shifted his stance and closed his fingers. Phlox surely couldn't imagine he was dangerous, Malcolm thought; he couldn't even make a proper fist.

"Please," he said, trying to sound as normal as he could. "I can come back later. I will, if you want me to. But I need to go."

He edged backwards as he spoke, and Phlox kept coming, into the distance between them, hands open and wide, right across Malcolm's escape route. Malcolm bumped into something behind him; spun to find he'd hit the edge of a work surface; spun back, arms raised, to find Phlox had stopped when he had, and he was striking at the air.

He was dangerous. It hit him in a rush, seeing Phlox before him. He'd nearly got the doctor killed before, when he'd been taken by the Klingons, and Malcolm had sabotaged their rescue mission. A few short months ago too. He couldn't even lean on the excuse of years, of being a different person now.

"Listen," he said, starting to slip sideways along the edge of the work surface. "Listen…" His hand trailed along the top, and he tried to close his fingers on something – sharp things, blunt things; he couldn't see what, since he couldn't take his eyes off Phlox, and he wasn't really sure what for, just that he needed something to put between them.

"Malcolm," Phlox said to him. This hit a dissonant note that almost checked him, since Phlox never used his first name, but then his clumsy hand fumbled, and objects went crashing; clattering metal, shattered glass.

Malcolm jumped half out his skin, and crammed his hands guiltily under his armpits.

"I'm sorry if I alarmed you," Phlox said. Malcolm fought the urge to laugh in his face. He'd run out of work surface, and found himself in a corner. He braced his back against the wall, raised his hands to Phlox again, then brought them to his face, then had to lower them, since that left his body exposed.

"Listen," he said, again. "I don't think I said, I don't think I ever said… that I was sorry. That time. I don't even know why – really. Force of habit. I thought they'd get the job done. That we would. And we did. But we could have got you killed…"

Phlox kept stepping through his words towards him, making reassuring sounds, one hand half behind his back. He'd lifted something from the work surface as he'd passed it, Malcolm was sure, and he kept his eyes fixed on the doctor's hidden hand while he babbled on across him.

"I… that's just what we're like, you know. Don't really think about that kind of thing. Little people. Consequences. I was so stupid… and then I couldn't even do the job right…"

"You don't need to worry about that now," Phlox was saying, but there was no recognition in his eyes. He didn't know what Malcolm meant.

Malcolm drew his fists to his chest. "Please," he said. "I'm sorry, I am, but I have to go…"

Phlox halted again, just out of range. He spread his hands again, not even trying to hide the hypospray he now held in one of them. "I would be remiss if I let you go in this condition," he said, softly. "Please, come and sit down. I won't touch you. You can let me know what's comfortable. Here, look –" He stepped back.

Malcolm bolted into the suddenly open space, but his muscles engaged a fraction too late, and Phlox moved to intercept him. Malcolm tried to duck around him, but his shoulder hit the wall, and jarred him so hard that his hands throbbed and his head spun.

Phlox still didn't grab him, though he was looming close enough now to cover all of Malcolm's exits.

"Lieutenant," he said, his voice firming. "Just imagine if I had to call security to keep you here. You'd be mortified later. I know you've been hurt, but not by me, and I'm not going to hurt you now. Surely we have a little trust between us... after all these years? Hmm?"

Being talked to like a child helped; it made him feel stupid, and his shame was the only thing strong enough to master his panic. Malcolm tucked himself up against the wall, and wrapped his arms around himself to hold himself down. There was a pressure in his head which kept on building. His teeth and his throat were clenched too hard to exhale; he had to force the air trapped in his lungs out through his nostrils. Just to help you calm down, he heard Phlox say, and felt the hypospray on his neck, and then all the air left him, and the room spun away. And after all that, it was okay, really. He hadn't wanted to be here anyway.

The last thing he knew was that Phlox caught him before he hit the floor.


Gerben Deiter, b. 2120, Den Helder, Archer read. He had to flick a button to translate the rest of the screen into English. It was all medical records: childhood vaccinations, recurring conjunctivitis, a distal radius fracture – but nothing that seemed remarkable, except that the records only ran to 2134, and then stopped. Archer raised his eyes to Phlox.

"This is the guy?" he said.

"The blood sample you gave me, yes." Phlox confirmed. He was standing in front of the desk in Archer's ready room. Archer glanced to the window to watch stars flick by, before asking;

"Do you notice anything interesting about him? Unusual?"

"Not particularly," Phlox said. "Except that you have his blood sample at all."

Archer's mouth twisted wryly.

"Gerben Deiter gets places he really shouldn't be," he said. "Why do the records stop?"

"Left Earth, I imagine."

"Oh." The explanation seemed mundane in comparison to Archer's imaginings: faked deaths, deletions, tampered records. He placed the PADD to one side.

"How's Lieutenant Reed?" he asked. The question felt oddly formal on his tongue.

"In some distress. Or he was. Currently, he's sedated."

Archer raised an eyebrow, and Phlox gave him a fuller account. Archer listened, feeling heavy and helpless and guilty before Phlox was done. "Did he tell you what the Niskaans did to him?"

"I've yet to find him in a fit state to be asked," Phlox said. "I'm not clear on precisely what triggered his behaviour today. He objected to being touched, but I had been touching him only moments before without an apparent problem." He paused. "I had just suggested he might like to shower. I noticed when I first examined him, he seemed a little water-aversive. But he was aversive to most things at that point."

An unpleasant possibility crawled over Archer's skin.

"You think they used water on him? Tried to drown him?"

"Forced immersion," Phlox said, and his clinical air felt too blunt. "It might explain some of his symptoms. His breathing difficulties, the infection on his chest."

Archer pressed his teeth together. He wanted to come eye to eye with Fiest again, wipe that arrogance from his face all over.

"Malcolm is aquaphobic," he told Phlox. It felt strange to say it out loud, disconnected from the man himself. Malcolm had never alluded to his phobia in Archer's presence again since his disclosure on the hull.

"Ah," Phlox said. "I wasn't aware of that. It isn't on his records." His tone was faintly accusing, as though this was an omission.

Archer's eyes went to the window again. It looked empty without Niskaa there, and the absence had an effect on the whole room, like a piece of furniture was missing.

"If he has an existing phobia," Phlox remarked, "his behaviour may not be meaningful in that regard. It may simply be that the trauma is making him more generally reactive."

"I hope so," Archer said. And then thought, what have we come to, when that's the best scenario here? He looked Phlox in the eye. "Will you call me when he wakes? I want to see him."

"Of course, Captain."

Archer looked back to his PADD, Deiter's records, a silent cue of dismissal – and then looked up again a moment later, when Phlox didn't move.

"Captain," Phlox began, hesitantly. "Lieutenant Reed felt the need to apologise to me for something. He spoke of an occasion when – he says – he could have got me killed."

Archer's stomach took a turn. He carefully kept his expression neutral, and waited for Phlox to frame the rest of the question.

"I'm not sure what he meant," Phlox continued. "Perhaps he's just confused. But I wondered if you might?"

Archer pursed his lips. Phlox, for all his neutral fishing, must have some clue about what Malcolm was alluding to, or he wouldn't ask. He wondered how best to respond – and then caught himself at it. He'd become so used to framing things with silence. You're playing Harris's game again, he told himself. He gestured for Phlox to sit.

"I bet you could guess if you thought," Archer told him. "Ship gossip being what it is."

"When I was held at Qu'vat Colony, of course," Phlox said. "I heard the rumours. Lieutenant Reed was thrown in the brig, something about sabotage."

"You never asked for an explanation," Archer said. "You would have had a right to."

"Since Lieutenant Reed had returned to duty before my release, I assumed it had all been resolved."

Archer felt a pang at that. He started talking, and gave Phlox a pared down version of the story, explaining Qu'vat, and then Malcolm's indication that the Section were involved on Niskaa. He did not, with a slight touch of guilt, refer to White River Square, but said that evidence suggested Malcolm had lied to the courts; that when Archer had seen him alone in prison, Malcolm had refused to explain.

"Ah," Phlox said when he was finished. Archer looked at the streaks of light in the window. "Ah," Phlox said again.

"You see now why he's suspended. Why he still has to stand trial," Archer said, suddenly finding he very much wanted someone to agree with this decision.

"I suppose so," Phlox said, which didn't sound quite as certain as Archer had hoped.

"It's not just that he lied," Archer insisted. "He made a liar of me too. I was so adamant to Gruun, to Rasak, that he had to be innocent. If they'd found out the truth, how would I have looked to them? How would Starfleet have looked?"

Phlox turned this over. "I'm not sure he really had a choice in this instance, Captain," he said, hesitantly. Archer shot him a look, but opposition only seemed to put Phlox on surer footing. "Even if you'd known from the start about this… Section? You still would have had to proceed as though you didn't know. What would have been the alternative?"

"The truth?" Archer suggested, knowing how he sounded to his own ears, but he hated the thought of being knowingly forced to protect Harris.

"If you'll allow me to offer an outsider's perspective, I doubt the Niskaans would perceive any difference between the actions of Starfleet and the Section. They would have seen you all as the enemy then. And Lieutenant Reed would have been assumed guilty just by association."

"I'm not so sure he isn't," Archer said.

"Well," Phlox said, with a small gesture Archer knew to be a Denobulan shrug. "I don't know the answer to that, Captain. But perhaps you should give him the opportunity to account for himself – in full cogence – before you make your mind up."

Archer raised an eyebrow. "You're defending him?" he said. Phlox was making sense, he knew, but trust and betrayal had little to do with plain logic. "You know, he really might have got you killed that time."

"Captain, you knew that too – and you opted to keep him on board, and in his position, knowing his history of subterfuge. I'm simply honouring your decision," Phlox said. He'd recovered his unflappable air, as though he found no room for doubt in his reasoning.

"You're very trusting," Archer said. "In my decisions. And my honour." He snorted lightly. "What if I said I might have made a mistake? Then would you have a problem?"

"Don't imagine I'm dismissing what he did, Captain. I confess, I'm quite taken aback," Phlox said, though he didn't look it. "And I don't quite understand why he did it. I'd like to ask him about it, sometime – when he's much better. But right now, I'm his doctor, and he's my patient, and the only problem we have is that he is unwell."

Of course. Archer stared at the blank surface of his desk. Phlox had his medical ethics to fall back on, just as Trip could view Malcolm as his friend first and foremost. It was easier for both of them to overlook this tangle. Neither of them was going to have to be the one to cut through it.

"Call me when he wakes up," Archer said to Phlox again, and looked back to his PADD. This time, Phlox took the cue to leave, and Archer sat, scrolling through Gerben Deiter's unremarkable childhood, and up to the wall of silence in his teenage years.


It was mid-afternoon ship time when Archer was called into sickbay. He'd spent the intervening hours chasing Gerben Deiter through shipping and settlement manifests, and what turned out to be a lengthy and colourful criminal record, but he'd yet to find the key that would connect him to Harris. His eyes felt numb from staring at screens.

Phlox met him at the door and read him a few house rules about how Archer mustn't agitate Malcolm, and how he mustn't stay long. Archer took all this in, and nodded to appease him, but it only added to his perception that this situation was starting to get a little crowded. Trip and Phlox's defences would mean nothing if Malcolm wouldn't answer for himself, when the time came.

Malcolm was sitting up in bed behind his curtain, looking tired, his face tight. When he saw Archer, he went very still, as though he'd been caught guilty in the middle of something.

"Captain," he said. His voice was careful, but not altogether steady. Phlox had followed Archer to the bed side, and Malcolm's eyes flickered; he was trying to watch both of them.

"Malcolm," Archer said, finding that for all he'd rehearsed this in his head, he still wasn't ready. "How are you feeling?"

This didn't seem to be the question Malcolm was expecting.

"Uh. Better, sir. Thank you," he said. He didn't look a lot better, beyond being conscious. Archer caught Phlox's eye and made a silent request for some privacy. Phlox checked the monitor and reinforced his earlier warnings to Archer with a look before moving away.

Malcolm, Archer saw, had tracked the exchange between them. Archer pulled up a chair, and sat beside him. Malcolm's eyes dropped to his hands, which were folded in his lap. He looked nothing like the stranger Archer had built him up to be.

"I'm sorry it took so long to get you out of there," Archer said, suddenly realising this needed saying.

"I know you did your best, sir," Malcolm said. Archer was reminded of their first prison visit; how Malcolm's words had been right, but his manner hadn't.

"I don't know about my best," he said softly, unsure for a second if he'd come to accuse or confess.

Malcolm snuck him a look, then fidgeted a bit into the silence.

"Sir," he said, suddenly. "I'm not sure what happened. Trip told me, but… he said, some alien destroyed the fountain in Chibnia. He said, they said that Eska knew him…"

Archer's heart dropped.

"So you know about that?" he said. Malcolm swallowed what he'd been about to say, and looked taken aback.

"I didn't know. I don't know. But it's just…" he paused, seeming to want Archer to fill in the gaps for him, but Archer wouldn't help him. "It's just you said you talked to Harris, and –"

"And there wasn't any other alien, was there?" Archer cut in. "That Eska was looking for that night? You knew that already."

Malcolm's eyes searched Archer's face, and then shifted away. "Yes, sir," he said, quietly.

"Because he was looking for you," Archer said.

Malcolm was still for a beat, then seemed to judge it safe to nod.

"Did you kill him?" Archer asked. He kept the question low, knowing Phlox would descend if he overheard.

Malcolm's face flickered into a frown. For a moment he looked almost indignant. "No, sir," he said. "He tried to kill me."

There was suggestion in his voice that he'd been over this before, and Archer felt a tug of resentment.

"How am I supposed to know when you're lying and when you're not?" he said – quiet, to pull the punch, but Malcolm still shrank a little. Archer exhaled through his nose.

"So what happened?" he asked. "How did you know Eska? Some Section job?"

Another beat of silence, before Malcolm nodded again. Archer wasn't sure he liked these pauses; he could see Malcolm's cogs turning, like he was looking for room to avoid the question, or lie.

"What was the job?" he pushed, determined to give him no room, if that was what he was after.

"Sir," Malcolm said. He shifted on the bed, as though something unpleasant was crawling towards him. "It was years ago. And it was a mistake. I didn't mean… I mean, I didn't know that he would be there. I wasn't trying to keep things from you." He paused, looking stricken, but it drew out into silence. Archer released his frustration in a sigh.

"Goddammit, Malcolm," he said, softly. Malcolm shot him a look as though he'd yelled. "I don't want excuses," Archer told him. He was tired of chasing doubt, and Harris's half-truths. He just wanted to know where he stood.

"No, sir," Malcolm said. His mouth seemed to taste bad.

"I made a deal with Gruun to get you out," Archer told him, since they couldn't start to fix this mess with things unsaid. "I promised you'd be tried in a Starfleet court." He watched Malcolm closely. "Now, given the way they treated you, we have grounds to tell them to stick it. But I'm not sure that's the right thing to do. The more I dig into this – the more it starts to look like the Niskaans might have had a point. About Starfleet. About me. About you."

Malcolm's eyes darted to his, fast, and then back down to his hands, and locked there.

"Are you talking to me here or not?" Archer asked him, more gently. "I can't tell."

"I'm sorry, sir," Malcolm said, without moving.

"I keep hearing that. I'm not sure it's enough. What are you sorry for? Sorry I can't tell, or sorry you can't tell me?"

Malcolm shook his head briefly, but his eyes were unfocussed; the action seemed unconnected with anything in the room.

"Sorry for what you've done?" Archer hoped to sting Malcolm into defending himself, but the answering silence made his stomach twist. He sat back, and changed tack to contain his frustration.

"Advocate Rasak," he said. "Did you like him?"

"I… I suppose so, sir."

"I did. In the end. He loses a lot against people like Fiest, and he could have lost everything helping us, but he still did it. And all on a lie." The thought of Rasak ever finding out how he'd been used made Archer feel cold with guilt all over.

"I didn't…" Malcolm began, and then stopped. "I didn't know," he finished lamely, but that wasn't what he'd gone to say. I didn't ask you to, maybe.

"I get the feeling Harris plays a lot of people that way," Archer said. "Gets them to betray themselves without even realising they're doing it. I think he did that to me. Maybe he did that to you, too."

Malcolm breathed hard through his nose. Archer waited again, wishing he could root for him, but Malcolm wasn't giving him anything to get behind.

"I think it's about time Harris got some dirt on him for a change," Archer told him. "I want this to come out in court. I've got some evidence Starfleet can't ignore." He paused. Malcolm had thrown him a doubtful look, so fast he almost didn't catch it.

"Do you think they'll send you to prison?" he asked, remembering Harris's threats.

"I don't know, sir." Malcolm's voice stayed bland, but his pose tightened.

"I don't know either," Archer said, frankly. "And I don't want to hand them a scapegoat for Harris's crimes. But since I don't know what you've done – I don't know if they can, or if they will. Or even if you deserve it."

"Captain," Phlox spoke firmly behind him. Archer raised a hand to him without looking round; wait a minute. Malcolm was staring straight ahead, but his cogs were still turning. Archer found he couldn't bear to slam the door on him. Malcolm was still deferent to him, and looked physically sick with misery. There must be something they could salvage between them.

On impulse, he leant forward.

"If you won't say what happened," he said, "tell me this. You tell me honestly, and I'll take your word for it. Tell me you don't deserve to be tried."

Malcolm looked up then, but at Phlox, though whether he saw the doctor as an ally, or as a new threat walked into his field of vision, Archer couldn't say.

"Captain," Phlox said again, quieter, but firmer.

"Don't look at him," Archer said quickly to Malcolm. "Look at me. Tell me."

Malcolm managed to look without meeting Archer's eye.

"No, sir," he said, with his throat full of gravel. He swallowed it down.

"No what? You don't deserve it?" Archer felt his heart rise. He was ready to honour his promise; trade trust for trust, the one thing Harris could never do.

But Malcolm shook his head.

"No, sir," he said, flatly. "I can't tell you that I don't deserve to be tried."

"Captain," Phlox said, a third time, his tone suggesting he wouldn't repeat it again. Archer swung to him.

"You going to tell me now he doesn't know what he's saying?" he demanded. "He knows."

"That's not my concern," Phlox said, levelly. "It's time to leave."

Malcolm's eyes had returned to his hands.

Archer got to his feet, feeling like he wouldn't be surprised to find the ground had gone. He reached for some last thing to say; some parting shot, maybe, or some vital phrase that might just leave the door cracked open.

"If you would," Phlox insisted.

Archer left without finding his words.


It was two days before Phlox admitted defeat and released Malcolm from sickbay.

At least, Malcolm counted it as a defeat, even if Phlox wouldn't look at it in those terms. He'd been waging a quiet war against all the doctor's excuses to hold him, pushing himself to appear well, carefully performing the correct degree of improvement as the days went past.

The motive for his battle plan was simple and animal: he wanted out of captivity. The Niskaans had given him no freedom; Phlox gave him just enough to have room to struggle, which was worse in its own way, made him want to kick and scream. The perpetual obligation to account for his own behaviour was exhausting. At least Fiest hadn't needed him to explain why he'd hit him in the nose.

Trip wasn't fooled.

"Don't bullshit me," he'd say to Malcolm, in the middle of conversations. "You're not yourself."

Malcolm couldn't really argue with him. It wasn't even that he agreed, but since he'd made that stab about Trip's sister, he'd factored Trip into his guilt, and as such he struggled to assert himself against him.

"I wasn't sure you'd come back," Malcolm had confided to him, after.

"I wasn't either," Trip said, frankly. "But not coming would have been sure. I figured I'd keep my options open."

Archer, on the other hand, had not been back. Often, Malcolm stopped himself, fitfully, feverishly on the brink of asking for him. He slept badly in sickbay, always on a knife edge over who was coming and going. He felt like release had condemned him. And he couldn't fight the captain's judgement; he'd conned Archer into standing up for him, when all along Fiest had been right. He'd been a part of the terror on that planet, and that his part had been only peripheral just made it worse. Who was he to decide what Niskaan lives were worth? Fiest's low, mocking voice kept ringing in his mind; "So why?" he taunted. "Are you just a bad man?" Malcolm hadn't thought that he was, but maybe this was just what bad men were.

He was not officially confined to quarters, but he helpfully removed the necessity by confining himself. It did help at first, to be able to switch the lights off, and have his own space, but, although Phlox had told Malcolm the stimulants were out of his system, the sensation that his blood was running too fast had not gone with them. Niskaa fell further behind them with every light year they travelled, but the distance was threatening to snap him.

He soon began to feel crowded in his quarters too, since Phlox intruded regularly on house calls, and Trip's insistence on not being shut out became almost aggressive. He seemed to have misgivings about Malcolm's release, or was perhaps a little peeved that Phlox didn't accept his assessment of bullshit as carrying much medical clout, and he made sure Malcolm knew he had the key code to his door.

Trip often came and talked at him about nothing – random anecdotes, ship gossip – but Malcolm more and more had trouble concentrating, his thoughts forever slipping off down Niskaan streets. Trip would try to catch his attention with questions sometimes – just casual stuff, about himself, where he grew up, his school, his family, if he missed it, but information had to be hauled out of Malcolm on fish hooks. When Trip asked about his own sister, it felt like a trap.

"Why do you want to know?" Malcolm had demanded crossly, to cover his embarrassment at the length of his own hesitation.

"Just trying to get to know you," Trip shrugged. After four years, that stung.

Panic kept its finger on his pulse, too. A terminal badness had settled on his chest. Once, Malcolm was lying on his bunk, not listening to Trip, who was lounging in his chair, when he found he couldn't breathe. It came on so suddenly and severely he couldn't even communicate it, but just lay there with his lungs empty and his throat disengaged until Trip noticed.

Trip broke off speaking, crossed the room to him in a stride, and grabbed his shoulders. Malcolm ducked out from under his hands, rolled off the bed and fetched up panting on the floor, waving his hand in rejection when he saw Trip was going for the comm.

"There's nothing wrong with me," Malcolm snapped when he was able. "Even Phlox says so."

"What Phlox actually says is that physical symptoms are no less real for having a psychological cause," Trip said. He wore a faint line down the middle of his forehead, as he often did in Malcolm's company these days.

Malcolm grimaced at him. Semantics. He'd been idiot enough to mention the tightness in his chest to Phlox, and had gone cold with mortification when the doctor had gently explained to him that there wasn't an obstruction there. He felt like could have dealt with the physical panic much better if it didn't keep embarrassing him in front of people.

"Speaking of," Trip said, when Malcolm had picked himself up again. "He's going to ask you. If you'd rather talk to someone on Earth, over a comm link. You know, instead of him."

Malcolm nodded, to show willing, but his insides had knotted. It was beyond him what Phlox – or anyone – hoped to gain, always asking how he felt. He was still alive, after all, with his limbs intact, and his loved ones unburied. He'd inherited the terror in his dreams; he'd never lived with it. Besides, there seemed little point in cultivating good mental health when he had nowhere to take it.

"I told him," Trip added, with a slightly false note of jocularity, "You could break any shrink before they'd break you."

"Damn right," Malcolm said, trying to summon some spirit – then he crawled back into bed. Trip looked pained.

Sometimes, when Trip stopped by, he'd be quiet himself. And sometimes, Trip would talk to him about Lizzie. And Elizabeth. Malcolm put his hands to his face and listened, helplessly at first. He'd wondered at Trip's motive, if he was trying to prove some point, or felt that Malcolm owed him a captive audience, but in the end, it didn't matter. These became the conversations Malcolm dealt with best. His interest was real, and he wasn't being cornered by questions.

Sometimes, they even had moments where they both felt quite normal, but then Malcolm would remember, his thoughts crowding back in hard enough to make him dizzy. He just wanted it to stop, to be beyond the reach of harm, and expectations that he couldn't meet. Malcolm knew a Starfleet court was never going to play straight with a Section agent, but he supposed it would be better than nothing.


The shower was a problem. Phlox had tried to broach it with him several times, but Malcolm told him he was being ridiculous, and that there was no problem. Phlox didn't buy this, but Malcolm pretended that he thought he did, for peace and quiet, and Phlox bought into this pretence – albeit with a slightly patronising air that Malcolm then had to pretend not to notice. In some respects, this little twist of deceit was a comfort. It confirmed what Malcolm thought of himself. He was a liar. One who washed standing up at the sink.

One day, Malcolm woke to find himself bored, restless at confinement, and wanting to pace like a panther. He didn't quite trust himself in these moods. There was nothing he could do; he couldn't lie on his bunk, he couldn't read, and he couldn't call for help, since he couldn't name his problem, and besides didn't trust himself to be around people – or people to be around him.

The bathroom was the only place he had to go. He stared at himself in the mirror, like a stranger, seeing blood, and had to fight to escape his own gaze. Fiest was on his mind again, a presence in the small room with him. The pressure on his chest was building; compulsion was crawling on his skin, and then the shower caught his eye and held it. The worst part, Malcolm thought, was that Fiest hadn't even been the one who had done this to him, not really. If he hadn't been such a miserable coward already, it wouldn't have mattered.

He couldn't look away then, or let himself walk out of the room unpunished. He stripped himself with gritted teeth, and stepped into the shower, his skin feeling tight. For half a split second, it was like a revelation; it was going to be alright, but then he pressed the button, and the water hit him like a slap. Malcolm jumped backwards out of the stream, hit the cubicle wall, and found he was trapped. He went for the door, but it stuck, so he punched it, and punched it again, water beating his back, and when it flew open, he bolted.

He stopped back in his bedroom, and stood, sucking air, and dripping water on the carpet. The shower was still running behind him, filling the bathroom up with steam. The button was inside the cubicle. He'd have to go back in there, and reach through the water to turn it back off, and the pit in his stomach told him this simply wasn't an option.

He was stuck. He pulled his clothes back on with performed calmness, to give himself time to think. The fabric clung to him, wet.

And then the door chimed.

Malcolm froze, and held stock still, as though movement might attract whoever it was in.

The door chimed again.

They wouldn't go away, he reasoned. Whoever it was. The captain had clearance, Trip knew his key code, and Phlox had a medical override, and they all already thought he wasn't being normal. If he didn't answer, they'd consider it grounds for invasion.

And then what? They'd find him standing in the middle of the room, hiccupping in horror because he couldn't face a running tap. I'm sorry, sir, but I can't turn my shower off. I'm going to have to move out. All the blood that had left his body when he'd bolted now rushed back to his face.

The door chimed again.

He had to act quickly. Like throwing himself over the table to break Fiest's nose; he'd only been able to do it because he hadn't let himself think. The door chimed again, and the sound was like a starting pistol. Malcolm leapt off his heels, threw himself at the bathroom, dived back into the shower, and slammed the button. The water slowed to a trickle, and steam rolled around him. He was soaked to the skin.

Normal, Malcolm thought to himself. At a loss, he picked up a towel and dabbed futilely at his wet clothes. The shower hadn't shut off properly; it was still dripping furiously, but he'd exhausted his nerve. He walked quickly back into the bedroom. His quarters felt suddenly small.

The door flew rudely open, and Trip burst in, looking ready to tackle anything. He did a double-take on finding Malcolm standing in front of him. Malcolm rolled his eyes, wordless, trying to express exactly how he felt about people who barged into other people's quarters uninvited.

Trip relaxed his stance, raised an eyebrow, and enquired, "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm having a shower," Malcolm told him. It suddenly occurred to him that if he'd communicated this fact when the door had first sounded, Trip might have left him alone.

"In your clothes?"

Malcolm looked down at himself. He was dripping. His towel was hanging loose in his hands.

"I'm having a bit of a problem," he confided.

"Obviously," Trip said. He stepped past Malcolm into the steam-filled bathroom, rolled up his sleeve, and silenced the trickling shower.

"Thanks," Malcolm said, into the now soundless room. "I couldn't actually get in there."

Trip leaned on the door frame and looked him up and down, visibly struggling for words.

Malcolm rubbed his towel over his face to hide it. "It's not a big deal," he told Trip. "I just don't like the water."

Trip put his head on one side. "But you haven't always had this problem," he pointed out.

"I have," Malcolm said, feeling contrary.

"Really? You've spent the last four years freaking out in the shower every day? Gotta say, you've hidden it well."

"People used to respect my privacy," Malcolm said. "I can't believe you just barged in here. I could have been undressed."

"Well, then I would have regretted it." Trip offered him a crooked smile.

Malcolm shook his head. He felt outside himself, like somebody else was having this conversation. He spread his towel carefully on the bed and sat down on it.

Trip seemed to be finding the texture of the door frame interesting. He ran his finger down it.

"Malcolm," he said. "Will you just tell me what's wrong?" His tone was careful, and a little pleading, and Malcolm wondered what he expected in return. Hysterics, maybe. He felt like his will to fight had emptied down the drain.

"I don't like the water," he said, again. "Fiest worked that out."

It was surprisingly easy to say, after all that. Malcolm leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes under Trip's gaze.

"That bastard," Trip said. He sounded so angry Malcolm opened his eyes again in mild surprise. He looked at Trip with interest.

"I was lying to him," he pointed out, reasonably. "It's his job to catch people like me. Did you know his daughter died?"

Trip frowned like this hurt him. "Don't make excuses for him," he said. "Malcolm, you've got goddamn Stockholm Syndrome or something."

Malcolm considered remarking that actually, that was about the only thing that Phlox hadn't told him he'd got, but that didn't seem to be Trip's real point. Trip scratched his jaw and looked at him speculatively. He came and sat beside Malcolm on the bed, turning up the corner of the towel to find a dry patch.

"You haven't really been freaking out in the shower every day for four years, have you?" he asked.

"No," Malcolm said, heavily. "I can shower. It's pathetic." He snorted. "This whole business is pathetic. It's only water, for crying out loud."

"One time," Trip said, "Lizzie hid an earwig in my lunchbox, and I opened it up in the cafeteria, and I screamed so damn loud…"

Malcolm smiled a little, in spite of himself. "You've told me that before," he said. He held his fingers up in front of his face and flexed them. His fist hurt from punching the door, and his palms stung.

"Can I ask you something?" Trip asked, watching.

"Can I say no?" Malcolm gave back, without fire. Trip was always trying to fix things. Malcolm wished he'd learn when to decently quit.

"No," Trip said. "I've been reading up about this Niskaan situation. Thinking about it. You think Eska was really sorry about the people he killed?"

This was a less threatening question than Malcolm had expected.

"He agreed to keep the ceasefire," he said, cautiously. "It was a condition of his release."

"Yeah, but was he sorry? I mean, the Separatists signed the ceasefire in return for representation in government, right? So they got what they fought for. He might have seen it as a victory. Like it justified everything he'd done."

Malcolm thought his way through this. It could easily be true, but it didn't feel like it mattered much.

"Think they were wrong to release him?" Trip asked, when he said nothing.

"No," Malcolm said. "I don't think so. If it was the only way to make peace, perhaps it was worth it."

Trip nodded. "So how come you'll cut Fiest a break, and you'll cut Eska a break, but you won't cut yourself one?"

"I'm not cutting anyone a break," Malcolm said, needled. Annoyed with himself for not seeing this coming. "It's just… it's their own business. Their situation is complicated."

"And yours isn't?"

"Oh, drop it," Malcolm said, and closed his eyes again. There was no point. He was done. Harris had used him all up, and he'd been living this long, awkward lie ever since.

He felt Trip shift his weight on the bed beside him.

"Malcolm, listen. About this trial… Malcolm, will you listen?"

"I am listening," Malcolm said, but the word trial was like a switch in his brain.

"Malcolm, if you won't defend yourself, you're not going to give them much choice."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow without opening his eyes. Trip misunderstood. There was no choice. The trial would be theatre, nothing more. He wished they could dispense with it altogether.

"It makes no difference," he told Trip out loud. Compared to his time on Niskaa, a Starfleet prison would practically be nice.

Trip exhaled his impatience, and shifted on the bed again.

"Let's practise," he said, raising his voice to reach through Malcolm's thoughts. "Come on, tell me again. You, highly disreputable character that you are, are posing as an arms dealer on some trading outpost, right?"

Malcolm ignored him.

"And you're waiting to make a deal with the Flying Dutchman."

"Heldhaftig," Malcolm corrected, with his eyes still closed.

"Right. And this Niskaan approaches you, wanting to buy. And he wants to check your merchandise, so you can't give him duds. It's a tense situation, he's edgy, you're edgy, right? You've got a lot riding on this, and you don't want to blow it. Right?"

"Right."

"And," Trip was warming to his story, "You're scared he'll smell a rat if you won't deal, but if you hesitate, he'll smell one too, and there's a lot of people around gonna notice. Right?"

"Yeah." Malcolm opened his eyes again. "Place was full of smugglers, fencers, thieves. Suspicious people with suspicious minds. Everybody's watching each other." He looked at Trip sideways. "All Eska had to do was look at me funny, and the whole place would have known about it. My reputation would have been in shreds. And I might have been too, if I couldn't get out quick-smart."

"And meanwhile, the Dutchman would have flown." Trip raised his eyebrows, and Malcolm nodded. In the middle of it all, he'd consoled himself with the duds he'd been selling. The blasts that wouldn't go off, the people who wouldn't die. Because of him. The thought made him want to pinch himself now.

"So, if you had to do it again, what would you do?" Trip asked. "Would you tell Eska to shove his pery-oxy-acetone up his ass, even if he did spook the boomers?"

"I don't know," Malcolm said. He'd been careless, really, risking exposure with every dud sale. Harris hadn't liked it. He'd told Malcolm to keep his nose out of other people's business, and his eyes on the prize.

"What if," Trip persisted, "you'd told Eska to stick it, then the boomers killed again? Because you blew your chance to catch them?"

"I don't know." Exactly what Malcolm had asked himself, with Eska stood in front of him, demanding to scan his products. A big guy, with a carrying voice, and piercing, pale eyes. He shook his head, feeling bruised by Trip's persistence. "It all happened so fast," he said. "I wanted more time to decide. I've had six years now, and I still haven't decided."

"Look," Trip said, and Malcolm wanted to slump, because everyone was telling him to look lately, but no one else saw. "I think you should cut the captain a break," Trip said. "If you won't cut yourself one. Might be he understands more about making that kind of decision than you think he does. You're not giving him a chance right now."

Malcolm shook his head again, feeling a rise of frustration. Archer made hard decisions, it was true, but it was his job to – his honest job. And he wasn't like Malcolm. His starting point was different. Archer led from solid ground, while Malcolm undermined himself. This was just going to keep on happening to him, one way or another.

Trip had gone quiet, letting him process, but the silence quickly became more than Malcolm could bear.

"Come on then, if you're so smart," he challenged. "What would you have done?"

"I wouldn't have been there in the first place," Trip said.

Malcolm's heart hit the floor, because this was the sheer truth of it. He shouldn't have been there either. Harris was the one he should have told to stick it, years before.

Trip caught his look. "I mean, my job doesn't require me to make that kind of decision, and I'm damn grateful for it," he said. "I probably would've told Eska, hang on a minute, I gotta ask my colleague, and then called you."

Malcolm shifted, as though he were sitting on ants. "Don't think I haven't told myself any of this," he said. "I know I might have screwed up either way. But it doesn't make me feel better. I feel like I shouldn't feel better. It isn't fair on the ones who died. I feel like, if I carry on, I'm going to leave them behind."

Trip scratched his head. "Yeah," he said.

"Sorry," Malcolm said, after a pause.

"No problem," Trip said, a little absently. They were silent for a moment more.

"You do have to draw a line somewhere," Trip said, eventually. "It's the worst, but it doesn't mean you've forgotten. Look at the Niskaans. They'd destroy each other, if they hadn't broken that cycle. It's another hard choice, but… I think letting yourself break is the easy way, sometimes. And the people you're trying to remember, they deserve more than that."

Malcolm pressed his fingertips together, flexing his hands until his scars ached to the bone.

"I wish sometimes," he said, "that I'd done something really bad. Despicable. On purpose, I mean. Like Eska. And that everyone would blame me for it. And then I just wouldn't care."

Trip smiled at him. He stood and stretched, his tendons cracking, and put his hand on Malcolm's shoulder, ostensibly to keep himself upright.

"As a hint," he said, "I'd find you more convincing as a cold hearted criminal mastermind if you'd learned to take your clothes off in the shower."


Archer did not invite Malcolm to sit until he'd stated his business.

He looked better rested and better scrubbed than when Archer had last seen him, though his eyes were still shadowed, and he'd lost weight he could ill afford to. It was incongruous having him in his ready room out of uniform, like he'd gotten lost on his way somewhere else.

He was Archer's second unexpected caller in as many hours.

The first had been Premier Gruun, thwarting all Archer's hopes that he'd never have to hear from the man again in his life. Gruun's words, when he'd flashed up on the screen, had been as courteous and well-placed as they'd ever been, but his eyes had been thin with mistrust.

Had they misplaced one of their crew, he'd enquired, coldly. They'd picked up a human on Niskaa.

Archer's blood had turned to ice. There was no one it could be except Deiter. He'd been starting to build some sense of the man through his records, and his first thought was, why the hell couldn't you get off the planet sooner? His second thought was directed at Harris: careful, eh? For a moment, Archer almost felt vindicated, triumphant at the news. He'd been right that Harris had only been lucky. But he couldn't give any of that back to Gruun.

"It's no one of mine, Premier," he'd said, hating that this felt like a lie, even though it wasn't one. "Who do they say they are?"

"They are not saying much," Gruun said with distaste, "Since we picked them up out of the river. In a small town called Lassaar, downstream of Chibnia."

"Oh," Archer had said, feeling wrong-footed, and a little sick.

"The body is in their morgue. We'd appreciate it if you'd remove it. And I would appreciate it if you would make some investigation into how this person came to be illegally on our planet." Gruun's tone hadn't suggested he thought this was at all likely. Archer had been tempted to fire back an enquiry as to how Gruun's investigation into Lieutenant Reed's mistreatment was going, but his moral high ground had been feeling a little shaky under foot.

As he'd stepped onto the bridge to order a course change, Archer wondered what the Premier had guessed. If he'd decided to start listening to Fiest, their deception might be up, since it wouldn't take much to connect the dots and link Deiter back to the explosion in White River Square.

Archer considered the possibility that this might be a trap; if Gruun would meet him with guns when he landed, or try to arrest him. But he thought Gruun's look of disdain had been telling, and his insistence he didn't want to see Archer himself on his arrival. Gruun wanted his hands washed of this, Archer thought, and the evidence that he might have been made a fool of removed.

And now Malcolm was here. Looking himself again; contrite, but determined, the thin shadow of the knife wound still on his cheek.

"I wanted to apologise," he said. Archer watched him, his expression unchanging, not ready to let his guard down. Malcolm wavered a little in the face of this, but pushed on. "I wasn't trying to protect Harris," he said. "It's not about what's classified. I was just… ashamed of myself."

Archer waited to see if relief would wash over him. This was everything he'd wanted to hear, after all, but it seemed to have gone stale with the waiting. All he could think was that it proved Harris uncomfortably right again. Harris had known Malcolm well enough to predict his behaviour, and he'd used that against them both. Archer found himself searching again for what Harris had found in the man that he hadn't.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on now?" Archer asked him, unable to hide an acerbic note. Malcolm nodded, with a touch of misery. Archer indicated he could sit.

"I am sorry," Malcolm said again, as he did so. His throat sounded tight. "I'll testify against him in court. I'll say whatever you want me to."

With Harris on his mind, Malcolm's obedience stung Archer almost as much as his silence had.

"I don't want you to say whatever I want you to," Archer told him. "That's not how we work. I want you to tell the truth."

Malcolm shuffled in his seat, and looked shifty. "Yes, sir. I mean, I will, sir."

"We're on our way back to Earth now," Archer told him, deciding not to mention their detour for now. He'd related the details of his deal with Gruun to Starfleet Command, and the date for Malcolm's hearing had been set. Archer, who'd been expecting some discussion at least, could only hope this was a good sign; that whatever Harris said, someone in Starfleet was showing an interest in the truth, or a willingness to listen.

Malcolm nodded, obviously feeling the implications. He was silent, and looked slightly sick, seemingly waiting for a cue to start talking.

Archer was still holding the PADD he'd been reading when Malcolm entered. He put it to one side now, and felt a stab of annoyance that he knew was uncharitable – but this had always been his least favourite trait in his armoury officer; the way he acted like some kid in the principal's office, taught that he shouldn't talk back. It made Archer wonder how Malcolm saw him – and made him paranoid that he'd been misreading him, or missing things. Like whether the trust between them had always been imagined on his part, or if they'd lost it somewhere along the way, and he should have noticed when.

"Explain," he ordered.

Malcolm's eyes flicked to the PADD as it clattered down, then past it, with polite incuriosity. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he suddenly frowned, and froze. Something had snagged his attention.

Archer, watching Malcolm's face, pushed the PADD towards him with his fingertips, giving him permission to see. Malcolm was suddenly full of suspicion. He picked it up, then put it down abruptly, and faced Archer, fierce mistrust in his eyes.

"You knew," he accused. "You already knew." There was a note of disbelief there too.

"What did I know?" Archer challenged him, thinking this is more like it. He knew what to do with being yelled at. But Malcolm was staring at his face, and then just as suddenly as he'd flared up, he backed down again.

"About Deiter," he said, but he sounded less sure.

"Gerben Deiter?" Archer said, his heart rising. "Sounds like you might know better than me. Who is he?"

Malcolm wore uncertainty like a scar. He picked up the PADD again, but he didn't look at it; it was just something to do with his hands.

"He's a boomer," Malcolm said. "Or he was one. He used to have a ship called Heldhaftig."