"Could you see the 'pod wreckage on the latest scans?" The captain asked, even as he arrived in junction F56-R. His almost frantic tension was so obvious to several of T'Pol's senses that she was momentarily to overwhelmed to speak. The air he brought with him reeked tinnishly of adrenaline, and the pounding of his heart valves had taken on the mushy timbre which she had noted on several recent occasions of severe stress. She had been meaning to, and had unaccountably neglected, to mention this to Phlox.

"Yes Captain. The force of the impact was mitigated by the approach angle which Ensign Boschmann was able to assume before the emergency beam out. The 'pod should be recoverable and amenable to repair. Has the ensign recovered consciousness?"

The captain shook his head. "Not yet. Harper seems cautiously optimistic though, and she's yet to break out her skull saw, so that's got to be a good sign."

"And the child?"

"Requires treatment, but more or less healthy. Did you get more seismic readings?"

T'Pol nodded "This round of seismic activity has diminished, however the area is unstable. It is difficult to predict when another round might begin. As such, the away team may require access to a evacuation accouterments, and with no shuttle on the surface, they've no way to seek assistance from Enterprise. Captain, I seek your permission to take Shuttlepod One to Epsilon Legato."

"Denied, T'Pol," he said gently.

"Captain, I strongly urge you to reconsider. They..."

Captain Archer held up his hands. "I'm sending the 'pod. I'm reluctant while we don't know why the first one crashed, but I've just talked to Hess and she's just as agitated about using the transporter in anything but the direst emergency. But, it's going to be Travis, not you. You aren't medically cleared."

Something, some...

ragefearlongingfrustrationlossportendingneedsomethingiswrong

...thing too big to name tightened every muscle in T'Pol's body.

"With respect, Captain, my condition is merely one of pain. Pain which may be conquered by a sufficiently disciplined mind. Dr Phlox has erred by taking precautionary measures unnecessary for a Vulcan patient. You know me well enough to be certain that I would not risk the safety of...of the away team, were I not capable of the task."

"T'Pol, it will be Travis," Archer replied firmly. "We don't know why Boschmann lost control, and he's our best pilot."

"Then I should accompany Ensign Mayweather..."

"Lieutenant Mayweather."

"...Lieutenant Mayweather to the surface. Only I can..."

"T'Pol, just a few months ago I nearly lost you to the recovery of an abandoned medical kit. I'm not going to..."

"You MUST let me go!" The shock of T'Pol's shout was only deepened by the silence that followed it.

Resuming, Archer's voice was low. "...The decision is made. You will have to take up your away mission status with Phlox at a later time." He punctuated it with a rare, reproving 'Commander' and an abrupt exit from the junction.

Alone and unobserved, T'Pol permitted herself to sink to the floor.

It had taken a full three quarters of Travis's currently available discipline to not follow Hoshi out of Sickbay. He wanted more than anything to be sure she was okay. He counted the seconds until he could plausibly follow under the guise of himself seeking the unfortunate Crewman Baird.

"What was that with you and Hoshi just now?" Alice asked suddenly, as though reading his thoughts.

More creepily still, the child, recently deposited on a biobed, turned his head as if also interested in the answer.

Unsettled, Travis was fully prepared to tell a certain ginger harridan to mind her own business when his gaze snagged on Fabrecia and, unplanned, a different truth tumbled out.

"I slept with Hoshi..."

Alice raised an eyebrow

"...And I'd appreciate it if you don't tell Fabrecia. She deserves to hear it from me."

"Are you being serious?" Alice asked, incredulously. "Of course I'm not going to tell Fabrecia. Why the hell would I even want to do that?"

"You're her friend, aren't you?" Travis snapped crossly, hands folded across his chest.

"Her friend? Sure. Yours too, actually, for my part. But, I dinnae want a piece of this sgudal. Couldn't tell, even if I wanted to, actually..."

"Why not?"

"Sit down, Lieutenant."

"What the fuck are you...?"

"SIT."

Glaring, Travis did so.

Once he had, Alice did too, lowering her voice, with a quick glance at the child resting on the biobed, and Travis's jilted girlfriend. "Let me ask you this, Travis. Last month or so... have you been bothered by thoughts about what happened with Wendall? Troubled by any strong images?"

"Alice," Travis growled a warning.

"Ever feel like it's happening again? Having dreams about it? Trouble sleeping? Jumpy? Angry? Short with people?"

"Alice..."

"Feel pressure in your chest when something random reminds you? Avoiding using knives in the mess hall?"

"SHUT UP."

Alice didn't so much as blink. "Travis, you have been avoiding this diagnosis with ingenuity and zeal for quite a few months now, but..."

"Hoshi is NOT a symptom," Travis hissed, voice hoarse. "I've been in love with her for years."

"Aye, right? But I guess what I'm asking is, had you been 'in love with her for years' before yesterday?"

Rage drove Travis to his feet, but then cooled almost immediately into something more caustic. "Yes, it's been years. You aren't the only person capable of nursing a crush."

Alice sighed, standing up more slowly. "And what are we talking about now?"

"You made a birthday card."

Alice rolled her eyes. "Again with the bleeding birthday card! I've got a friend who's a cultural anthropologist. I'm going to pitch him this deep space obsession with birthday card provenience as a research paper, because it is quite the phenomenon! I apologise for interfering, Lieutenant. Handle your affairs as you see fit."

After administrating a meaningful look, Alice wandered over to a cluster of tanks and cages and began peering through them, leaving Travis standing somewhat awkwardly alone. "I'm sorry," he said suddenly, unsure why.

Alice answered without looking up from her search. "You don't owe me any apologies Travis. Unless we're all apologising for snark, now. And if we are, I'll never get done with apologising to people."

"You have shitty personal boundaries, you know that?"

Alice tipped a cage forward to look behind it. "Travis, I don't think I even know what 'personal boundaries' are."

"Of course you don't," Travis replied tiredly. "But I do. Because I was raised on a cargo ship with only a handful of people whereas you were...what? Raised by wolves on a moor?"

"Well, you're half right..." Alice replied, now pawing through a cupboard.

"I mean, you do realise that I have had your guitar since April? I borrowed it without asking you, and you haven't asked for it back once, and... what the hell are you looking for anyway?"

"Lyssarian Desert Larva," she answered without looking up. "Sort of pearly white? Looks a bit like a slimy skein of yarn?"

Yet another set of unpleasant memories spumed in Travis's decidedly unquiet mind. "We don't have one. Don't you read the medical records?" he replied sharply.

"Manifest says we do have one" Alice mused, undeterred. "And it's exactly the sort of thing Phlox would be bound to have somewhere. And yes... of course I read the medical records. And virtually all printed words in my general vicinity. If the breakfast cereal came in packets, I would read the cereal packets. If I ate cereal, that is, and..."

Travis swallowed "What do you want it for?"

"I'm not going to sic it on you, if that's what you're worried about," Alice answered, then caught his eye. "I've had some test results come through, and the kid here... well...I don't think this thing is what we thought it was."

"Tell me."

Half-way through the explanation, Captain Archer commed to order Travis to the launch bay.

"Actually sir," Travis swalloed. "I think you might need to hear this first."

"Don't know where Boschmann's got to," Trip muttered unhappily as Malcolm raided the tools the engineer had brought with him.

"Take the others and wait outside, regardless," Malcolm suggested, firmly. "Thin air is a damned sight better than exploding air." What Malcolm was actually thinking, as he regarded Trip's increasingly tight expression, was that dealing with one unexploded bomb at a time was quite enough.

Still, Trip lingered. As he cautiously drilled through the floor, Malcolm was pondering a line between assertiveness and insubordination when Trip, apparently finishing whatever argument he was having with himself, straightened abruptly shepherded the others out of the room. There was a final look, as he left, which Malcolm could not quite read. Be careful, certainly, but something else as well. Malcolm forced it from his mind. Either there would be time to figure it out later, or whatever was beyond 'be careful' didn't matter.

Alone, the portable lamp rested on the floor, Malcolm found himself glad the eerily quiet child couldn't see. The shadows were long and strange, and would not be encouraging to a small child. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark and he could now easily make out the small figure, including the protruding arm bone, ringed with clotted blue blood.

"That must hurt," Malcolm murmured, and then almost doubled over from a sudden nova of pain exploding in his mind. It was gone a second later, and gasping for air, Malcolm heard a strained whimper, and looked over at the child, huddled and somehow radiating apology.

"That's alright," he said gently. "Don't worry about it. Only. do please try not to do it again. At least, not without some sort of warning. This is delicate work I'm doing here and it would be best if..." Unsure if any of this was translating telepathically, he trailed off.

The hole he had drilled was well placed, and it was the work of only a few minutes to position and aim the electro-laser. The instrument in question was a relatively weak but superbly precise member of its class, capable of blocking and taking over the transmission between transducer and detonator, in tiny increasing increments, within a range of variation dwarfed by that produced by a child scramblings.

"I hope Starfleet will buy Trip a new laser," he quipped absently. "I doubt he still has the receipt."

His answer was a brief mewling squeak, and then a giant, almost cartoonishly bubbled question mark formed in his head.

Malcolm was not quite able to suppress a short peal of laughter. "You really shouldn't listen to half of what I say, let alone what I think. It's all nonsense."

Nonsense. A memory. His father shouting the word like a clap of thunder.

His laughter withered.

"It's going to be alright," he said aloud.

Another mewling squeak followed and Malcolm lifted his hands clear of the laser in anticipation. His head filled with a shuffle of images of Madeline, happy ones, and also of the other Aenar boy, he who was safely on Enterprise.

"You'll be together again," Malcolm said, adding to his increasing list of fast and loose promises.

Another squeak, and this time an image of Trip appeared in Malcolm's head, saying "Can YOU do that?"

Malcolm floundered for an answer. When he settled on one - "I won't leave you."- he refused to examine it too closely.

Another squeak. Another memory. This time it was of a window, Malcolm wasn't sure from where, flung open wide.

A request.

One Malcolm met with extreme reluctance, and profoundly unsure why he was doing it at all.

Setting everything down, he completely opened his mind and...

...it was long ago, before days had names, and he was in agony. Pain was overwhelming all sensory input and Fear was clawing up Pain's back pushing it into the grey below. From amid the scramble, the panic, a few particulars rose and fell, a few technicalities. His arm twisted behind his back, a snapping, someone screaming. Pressure. Blows raining down and...

...it was September 4th, 2155 and he was struggling for breath in a dark room next to a child and an unexploded bomb.

"That never happened," he wheezed. Had it? He had had a broken arm as a child. He'd found a picture once at his aunts of himself, very young, his arm in a thin zephyr-splint cast. Unable to remember, he'd asked. That...whatever it was... didn't match the story told at all. "That wasn't me. Was that you?"

The child mewled softly, but all that followed was an image of the two of them together, now, in the room.

Malcolm sucked in more breaths, but the disorientation, the sickly grey sinking feeling in his head grew worse not better. When he noticed drops of blood appearing on the floor beneath his face, he was only capable of a very dull alarm. "I think I had better lie down for a minute," he said softly, already doing so, already resting his head on the somehow pleasant cool of the floor.

There was no answer at all.