By the time the Alpha shift returned to duty the next morning, the majority of the fighting around Bai appeared to be over. Other cities, some larger or differently designed, were presenting more of a problem, but it was easy to guess that given the nature of the conflict, it hadn't always been a case of an invading enemy having to force ingress into held territory; assuming that men shared living quarters with the women, it would probably have been more of a case of a coordinated coup in many areas. Bai, perhaps, had been a special case.

Given that it seemed to have been the center of government, it was probably a safe assumption that men would have had very restricted access to it. For that reason, probably, it had required forcible reduction. The resistance had been valiant and was still not completely over, but it hadn't been a case of hand-to-hand fighting in the streets. Where there was opposition, the artillery had been called in. Waves of warplanes had arrowed in, delivering precision strikes. The attackers apparently didn't care if the city was reduced to rubble thereby, or how many innocent civilians had to suffer. The army sent against it swallowed the city piece by piece, slowly and efficiently and patiently, like a giant anaconda.

Sunrise saw a cessation in the bombardment. Maybe there was nobody left to fight, or maybe everyone had just paused to draw breath before the next round. A thick haze of smoke hung over the city, but the thermal imagery of the ship's scanners saw fires still burning. The roads that had been so clean and beautifully laid out were now choked with debris, the houses that had been so elegant were charred and pocked with shell holes and shrapnel – those few of them left with four walls still standing. Whole streets had simply been flattened.

Captain Jonathan Archer, reviewing the situation with his senior officers, was conscious of a corrosive sense of failure as he gazed at what could be seen of the city that twenty-four hours ago had been so beautiful. He couldn't rid himself of the feeling that there should have been something he could have done to stop this from happening. It was somewhat consoling when T'Pol said flatly that she doubted whether the entire diplomatic resources of Starfleet and the High Command combined could have prevailed in talking sense into two sides so determined on fighting, but maybe her Vulcan logic was rubbing off on him.

It was all just so utterly senseless. To him, at least. Doubtless the Merixa saw things differently – those who were still alive, at least. The pendulum had swung, and they had to accept it. One day it would swing in the opposite direction, and the killing would start again.

The Armory's Gamma shift head had stayed on duty to take her boss's part in the briefing. She was cool and collected, fire battened down hard under ice. She answered all questions fully and competently, just as Malcolm would have done, and appeared to feel no curiosity as to why she was suddenly standing in for him. No doubt she had a thousand questions, and would sooner or later require answers, but for the present she was biding her time. The captain was heartily glad of it. He had enough questions of his own without having to field more from Em.

"You've got the department covered for the time being, Ensign," he said as she moved to depart – his tone more one of confirmation than questioning.

"Sí, Patrón. – Yes, Captain," she corrected herself. Ordinarily the captain accepted her use of the vernacular as just one of her quirks, but he gave her points for knowing when to toe the line. He noted the quick glance she gave him as she left the situation room. There was not quite a demand in it, but there was certainly appeal.

Just another in the queue of people wanting answers he didn't have.

He had Hoshi broadcast another call from the ship, hailing anyone who might be interested; asking if there was any help they could render.

No answer.

He retired to his ready room, conscious that his temper was already fraying. If it hadn't been for the thought of all the innocent casualties down there, he'd have been tempted to just order Travis to break orbit and leave the Merixa to enjoy their little bloodbath for as long as they wanted. And besides, something had happened down there that had very nearly resulted in an extremely serious incident involving his tactical officer. He wanted answers, and if he wasn't going to get any from Malcolm, he was damn well going to get them from somebody else.

After reading the latest reports from Starfleet and sending some of his own, mostly with regard to the situation on Javna – though omitting certain details until he had a lot more of them to send, because the last thing he needed right now was some Starfleet bureaucrat barging in on a subspace channel demanding to know what the hell was going on – he commed Phlox. Surely he'd waited long enough now? As far as the doc's report had said, Malcolm hadn't been injured. Sure, being stunned by a phase pistol shot at close range wouldn't have been pleasant, but it was specifically designed to do relatively little damage. He ought to be over it by now. The initial shock and anger at a senior officer's incredible behavior had given way to bewilderment and concern, which was rapidly becoming submerged by plain worry.

The doctor answered the hail immediately. Yes, he said, Lieutenant Reed was awake.

"Why didn't you call me when he woke up?" asked Jon, trying not to sound irritable.

"Because I have been trying to keep him relaxed so that I don't have to sedate him again. Unfortunately, it appears I may have little choice." There was the sound of a crash in the background. "Come down by all means if you wish, Captain, but I recommend you treat him with caution."

'Treat him with caution'? What the heck was going on down there?

Well, he wasn't going to find out by sitting here in his Ready Room listening to anonymous sound effects over a comm link. He surged out of his chair and strode onto the Bridge. "T'Pol, you have the Bridge. I'm going down to Sickbay." And, not waiting for a response, he walked rapidly to the turbo-lift.

When he entered Sickbay, passing the guard waiting patiently outside the door, Phlox was standing alone.

"Where is he?" demanded the captain.

"He's in the shower, Captain. And I would suggest that–"

Jon, however, was past taking advice. He just wanted to know what had happened, so he could start putting together appropriate responses. Ordinarily, of course, he'd have respected Malcolm's privacy just as he would any of his crew, but right now Brit sensibilities were rather a long way down on his list of things to worry about.

He slammed the heel of his hand on to the door control into the bathroom.

Malcolm was inside, standing under the shower in his briefs. He didn't appear to be making any attempt to wash himself. He was just scoring his chest and stomach with his nails, over and over again. The water was running down his face, but he didn't seem to notice it, just stared blankly at the wall in front of him.

"Lieutenant!" It was as close as the captain had ever gotten to bellowing at one of his crew. It was purely instinctive, done to try to jerk the other man out of that terrible trance-like state.

The Brit didn't even blink. His fingers, crooked into claws, went on raking across his body. Fortunately he kept his fingernails short, so they did little damage, but the skin was already crisscrossed with weals.

This had to be stopped. Without even pausing to think, Jon plunged under the shower, grabbed his officer by the shoulders, hauled him around to face him and slammed him bodily back against the wall. "Malcolm!" he hissed, thrusting his face so close that their noses almost touched. "Tell me what happened down there!"

Slowly the blank gaze shortened. The dilated pupils contracted. Drops of water stood on the surprisingly long dark eyelashes like rain. For a moment, an expression of puzzled worry crossed the tactical officer's features, as though he were trying to remember something he'd forgotten. Then he slowly but firmly brought his joined hands up in front of him, broke Jon's hold on him with the outsides of his forearms, turned away and slid down the wall. As soon as he hit the floor, he curled up into a ball again.

"No!" The captain followed him down, trying to stop him, trying to reach him. "Malcolm, you've got to talk to me! I'm trying to help you, goddamn it!"

Reed's fingernails were now raking his scalp. He was rocking in as if in physical pain. "Guilty," he whispered almost inaudibly. "My fault..."

"Captain!" Phlox's hands were gripping Jon's upper arms so hard they hurt. "You will not help him this way. Please, come away and leave him alone."

"I can't!"

"Jonathan." It was probably the first time the Denobulan had ever addressed him by his given name, and even now he wondered at the kindness in it, as well as the firmness. "Mister Reed is on the edge of nervous collapse. I know you mean well, but for now, trust me. He is better off where he is."

Slowly the captain released his hold. Malcolm didn't even seem to notice, just huddled there, still rocking, but now silent.

He allowed Phlox to pull him from the shower room. Both of them were fully dressed and now soaked from head to foot. "You've got to do something for him, Doc," he said at last.

"At present, Captain, I am allowing him to do something that seems – for whatever reason – to be immensely important to him. He will not do himself any serious damage, and it may do him some good. Rest assured that I am monitoring him continuously. I am confident he will emerge when he's ready, and when he does, he may feel able to talk." The Denobulan looked at him with gentle understanding. "I'll call you the moment I have anything to report."

All reviews received with gratitude, and many thanks to everyone who has already left one!