Golly, engineering is a mess. Split conduits, splattered fuel, ruptured coils… it'll take days just to patch up the Enterprise enough for her to limp to the nearest supply post, now that the planet has barred them entrance. Davis figures they'll be lucky to make it to impulse speed inside of a week. Commander Tucker was already short with everyone, scrambling to maintain the most critical systems without any reserve power, but now his normal patience has been shattered thanks to the absence of a certain shrimpified lieutenant. (Not that he would even think such a term in Lieutenant Reed's presence.)

"Check every vent and hatch," Tucker barks to Crewman Rhodes, sweeping past Davis and Eddie without so much as a glance. "And watch your feet - he left his earmuffs in the captain's room and the 'Reed Alert' won't function without them. Dang it, Eddie, I don't even know what room he's hiding in!"

Sighing, Davis turns back to the fizzing wires and waves for Eddie's attention. "Leave it. The captain won't like it if the whole crew takes off on a mouse hunt."

"I don't think it's right to say that about Lieutenant Reed," Eddie says uncertainly, retrieving a hydrospanner before crouching at Davis's side.

"Not to his face, Eddie. Not to his face." Davis respects the armory officer - who wouldn't admire the man who boldly follows the captain into any danger - but his awe of the lieutenant's authority has vaguely diminished since making a dollie house that his four-year-old daughter would squeal over. It puts a man in the position of civilian: someone to pay heed to and shelter, but not necessarily the one to mete out orders. He sure hopes that they fix this short-fry problem soon. Crewmen expect to look up to their fellow officers, after all.

"Hey, Davis," Eddie calls, pointing his torch at the relay panel above his head. "Take a look at this."

Caught up in the mess of wires that had melted together during the firefight, Davis pauses long enough to cast the panel a cursory glance. "What about it, Ed?"

"Well, isn't this the box Taylor punched before Commander Tucker sent him to his room?"

"That's what I heard." That'll be fodder for the engineering grapevine for a few days. You learned in academy that you never take out your frustrations on the equipment. One disconnected wire or a cracked sensor relay might take out the bridge communications, or even knock out life support on another deck.

"I think he still had a wrench or something in his hand when he hit it, Davis. You might want to check this out."

Reluctantly Davis abandons the wire bramble and peers at Eddie's discovery. There's a neat little hole stabbed into the plating. The sharp edges are battened down at the base, indicating that the vandalizer knew he'd caught his tool in the plating and had to jiggle it around to get it out. Someone obviously tried to avoid a maintenance report.

"I think Taylor has some explaining to do," Eddie comments. "Alert systems, transmissions, backup relays… a lot goes through this section. You think maybe this is the 'saboteur' problem the captain's been talking about?"

"Not if it affected the whole deck." Communications could've been disrupted on one or two decks, and a couple relays might have short-circuited, but it certainly wouldn't cause a system-wide blackout. Opening the panel, Davis takes a look inside and whistles.

"Found the problem?" Eddie asks, crowding to look over his shoulder.

"Naw, but he's sure gonna get chewed out by the captain when he sees this," Davis says, pointing to four dangling wires.

"Shoot, how'd we miss that?" Eddie exclaims. "Surprised we had comm at all. No wonder Sickbay had to send a team to check the status."

"Someone's gonna get busted back to crewman," Davis agrees. "Get me that hyperspanner." What a mess. Between the melted ports and the shredded couplings all over engineering, they'll be repairing the damage for weeks. Assessing the broken wires, he huffs in disbelief.

"What'd you find?" Eddie wonders, handing over the tool.

"Ever think we picked up something else from that planet?" Davis poses. He jabs the hyperspanner at the severed blue wires as he explains, "Remember when Lieutenant Reed was fussing around down here? There's our alert system. Couples right into that tactical jargon he's been yakking about."

"You mean the one that saved the ship," Eddie hints dryly. "Twice."

"Yeah, well no circuit is gonna jump a broken wire," Davis insists. "Shields and weapons should've been manual, automated systems should've been offline, and there shouldn't have been any alarm. So how the heck did we get a tactical alert in the middle of a blackout?"

Eddie shrugs. "Same reason we lost power in the first place? Maybe Loki had something to do with it."

Rolling his eyes, Davis drawls, "I'm not gonna start weighing the fate of the ship on a planet's mythical deity. Until we find out what hijacked the systems, we're calling this one a spatial anomaly."

"Suit yourself!" Eddie retorts, grinning. "I'm still waiting for the Rainbow Bridge to open up on E Deck."

"Hilarious, Ensign. Get over here and lend me a hand. Boy, Captain's gonna be mad when he sees this."

"You know, there was this one crewman on board the station where I did my training," Eddie says. "One of those mouth-offs you usually see clocked over the nearest bar table? Well, he had a spout with the ship's tactical commander one day and he….."

Davis glances back as the ensign trails off. White faced, his eyes distant with a numb sort of horror, Eddie swallows twice before stammering, "D-Davis. Davis, you… you'd better…."

Baffled, Davis follows the crewman's indicating finger, and squints at an indistinguishable, charcoaled lump. It almost looks like a rat was caught chewing the wires. "What the…."

"Davis," Eddie lashes, grabbing his arm. "Where's Lieutenant Reed been this whole time? You don't think he climbed… he wouldn't have…."

Suddenly the misaligned limbs look like tiny arms and legs. The crusted fabric could be a uniform. The smudged bits of rubber….

Oh, Captain. Davis' heart drops as he gently presses a finger against the limp form. There's no way that corpse is capable of resuscitation. How'm I gonna tell ya about this?

"We should…." Eddie swallows, looking sick. "We should tell Commander Tucker."

"No!" Rummaging in his pocket, Davis yanks out a handkerchief, fluffing it out reverently before laying it over the lieutenant's tiny body. Grimacing, he tucks it in gently and scoops it up. "I'll report to the captain myself."

He can't let Commander Tucker see this. For an instant the staunch tactical officer vanishes from his mind, replaced by the Englander whom Tucker fondly referred to in many regales of his escapades. A man who was both leader and follower, capable of handling this ship when required. A man who swallowed his pride and generously accepted the shoddy craftsmanship of an old, reconstructed crate refitted by a few enthusiastic engineers. A man trusted by the captain; loyal to his crew; devoted to his work.

Tucker doesn't need to see him like this.

"Tell the commander…." Trailing off, Davis swallows and says firmly. "Give me ten minutes, Ed. By then the captain will know that - "

A chaffed hand suddenly seizes his wrist, gently upturning his hand. Davis squeezes his eyes shut as the small burden slides into Commander Tucker's palm.

"What happened to him?" Tucker asks in a barely controlled whisper. His hand trembles, and he moves as though to lift the white folds, before forcing down his hand.

"I don't know, Sir," Davis answers softly. "There was a shortage in one of the control systems…. I don't know how he got in there."

"Malcolm, you fool," Tucker murmurs, tucking his fingers in gently. "What have you done?"

A tremor wracks his shoulders, as though the soul screams in denial, whilst the evidence denies fabrication. Yet before Davis' eyes he gathers his resolve, swallowing his pain, his face barred and his shoulders braced with the necessity of a wretched deed. With rigid steps he strides to the comm base and deliberately jabs the sequence.

"Tucker to bridge." His voice falters, barely, before he wrangles it under control. "Tell the captain I'll see him in his ready room."

Without pausing for a reply he shuts down the comm, jarring steps carrying him to the doors. Eddie shakes his head. "How do you suppose he does it?" he wonders. "The man just picks up and moves on… almost like he doesn't feel anything."

Wordlessly Davis rus a hand over the damaged control box. His face twists and he slams the hatch shut, smashing his fist into the ruptured metal. Shoving past Eddie, he tosses his gloves aside and marches to the turbolift.

He's got a perfectly scaled habitat to dispose of before it breaks a few more hearts. It's got to be cleaned out - every trace that reminds the crew of their fond affections for the lieutenant's vulnerability, short as the stint may have lasted. Every teacup, linen, and tiny uniform needs to be packed away. Davis can't leave that job to the captain; not when they're already carting men to sickbay. Not when he'll be organizing the lieutenant's personal things to ship back home. He doesn't need one more burden to signify his armory officer's last, frail days.

Eddie means well, but he has no idea what's going in Commander Tucker's head. Sometimes it doesn't do a man any good to show how much he feels inside.

When Archer looks back on that moment, he realizes he was blinded by denial. He should have picked up on the absence of something in Trip's voice. The lack of fluctuation. The missing drawl of 'Malcolm's been a little troublemaker again and - come on - it's funny, Captain, and you know it.' He should have known, from Trip's measured, inflexible tone, that he should be anticipating the worst.

As it it, he doesn't even glance at Trip as he launches into his reiteration of the Illyrian attack. "I don't think the tactical alert problem was Malcolm's fault this time. I … ran into someone, you might say, right before the…."

He turns around and fixes his attention on the square of white linen in Trip's hand, and his smile vanishes. Relief plummets into a nauseating sense of finality. "No…."

"Captain."

Now he hears it; the desperate control of a man trying to hold himself together. Rushing forward, Archer holds out his hands. "Give him to me."

The bundle is so light. So fragile, and still. "Don't," Trip warns as he brushes a finger over the corner. "You don't want to see him like this."

Finality crashes over him. Staggering, Archer finds his chair. "Where was he?" he whispers.

"Engineering," Trip says, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Ensign Davis found him in one of the control panels."

"One of the…." Malcolm would never have disobeyed a direct order. Even when knew it was absolutely necessary, he would have put the captain's orders first. Numb, Archer leans back, trying to imagine the lieutenant's reasoning. You gave me your word that I wouldn't find you like this. "What was he doing down there?"

"There were some broken wires," Trip says, his voice husking as he is forced to relive the moment of discovery. "Tactical alert runs through that panel. He may have been trying…."

Archer flinches, fully aware now that it isn't Malcolm's body curled under the handkerchief. He's holding a burned, unsalvageable corpse. Scrambling to avoid the thought, he blurts out, "That doesn't make sense. All of engineering was compromised. Why would he….?"

Gently Tucker proposes, "Nothing else was broken, Sir." Upon Archer's nonplussed expression, he clarified, "We could've manually activated the shields and weapons on our own. Something kept the whole of engineering out of whack until the tactical alert started up. It's the only explanation."

"Why?" Archer refutes. "Who would hinge an entire ship on a single alert system? How would Malcolm even know that was the problem?"

Uncomfortably Tucker shuffles his feet. "Crewman Dillard saw someone in engineering," he says softly. "Right about the time the lights went back on. He said he like one of your future friends. He vanished before he could get a good look."

"Vanished?" Archer repeats.

Jerkily Tucker nods. He sighs, the weight of tragedy crushing his bright spirit. "Dillard says he was standing right beside the alert relay panel. If he knew the ship was going down without tactical…."

No. That answer's not good enough. Any one of the engineers could have fixed the problem instantly. A child with a pair of pliers could have reconnected a broken wire. "Then why would he tell Malcolm instead of one of the engineers?"

"I don't know, Sir." Hopelessness is crumbling his commander's strength. He needs to be in engineering; hammering at some stubborn, malfunctioning system; organizing his men; fixing something that's within his capacity to repair. He needs a few hours to himself before it sinks home that he's lost a close friend.

Releasing a slow breath, Archer nods at Trip. "Go take another look at the systems," he says softly. "Davis can help you. Get to the bottom of this and then report back to me."

"Yessir." Stiffly Trip turns around, his shoulders already losing their strict bearing. For an instant he pauses to lower his head, brushing his fingers over his eyes. Then he sets his jaw and strides onto the bridge, letting the doors close behind him. The picture is a broken mimicry of the proud commander Archer knows.

Such a loss that has brought him so low. Tenderly, Archer takes a corner of the handkerchief between two fingers and pulls it back. Bile rises in his throat, and he wishes he had remained ignorant. There's little left but a mess of red and black flesh, wrapped in charred blue. Electrocution is sometimes the easiest way to go, he's been told. The brain is seized and consciousness is obliterated before the nerves can fully comprehend pain. For Malcolm's sake, he hopes it's true. Reverently Archer lowers the cloth and leans back, closing his eyes.

Why? Why this inexplicable mystery? Why this way? Why did the universe choose Malcolm to suffer a needless, indignant state of existence, before tearing him away before they could find a cure?

Glaring at the ceiling, Archer speaks his mind. "You've made your point. Why Malcolm? Why not execute judgment on me?"

"From what I've observed of humanity, it's difficult to retain a memorable lesson when consciousness ceases to exists." Lounged against the far wall, decked in a Starfleet captain's jumpsuit, the judge shrugs. "There's no point in saying 'I told you so' when you're not around to hear it."

Lunging to his feet, Archer bears down on the being who crippled his ship. "Is this your idea of justice?" he retorts, halting just shy of the judge's polished boots. "A starship crew is loyal to their captain's orders. Malcolm cooperated against his will - you didn't have to execute him for my crimes!"

"I figured he'd get the message across," the judge says dryly. "I could've used any member of your crew: your chief engineer, that dull Vulcan…. I'd have garnered the same response as if I had suffocated an Osmodian eel. Your armory officer, however - why, you've grown a bit fond since that little heart-to-heart on the ship's hull, haven't you? I suppose I could have been just as well off miniaturizing your beagle. They both seem to share the same characteristics; doggedly loyal, pattering up to your beck and call, begging to retain their position in your good favor, blindly following orders without heed to the morals of Starfleet - and might I add, tearing off into mischief on a striking fancy? Your lieutenant doesn't seem happy unless he's charging a few explosives. Fancy that he met his end in such a gruesome manner."

"You don't get to say anything about him," Archer growls, drawing himself up to loom over the mythical being. "You don't have the right to assess his character! You know nothing about him - what he means to this crew, to the people back on Earth…."

"Careful, Mon Capitan," the judge interrupts, glancing down to indicate the handkerchief in Archer's hand. "You'll squash him."

Anxiously relaxing his grip, Archer hastens to the desk and sets Malcolm down, bracing his hands on either side of the white bundle. "What's your point?" he asks haggardly. "You wanted me to repent for stealing the Illyrian warp coil? Well, you have it! What else do you want? My commission? You think that matters to me more than my crew?"

"If I wanted to sabotage your position as captain, I'd have let the Illyrians bring their sordid story back to Earth." At Archer's startled glance, the judge clarifies, "They're home, three years ahead of schedule - no thanks to your grateful assistance. There is no war party hovering around this planet; I merely conjured an empty vessel to remind you of past transgressions. I could have used any number of species to rend your ship apart, but that isn't the point."

The judge swoops forward, meeting Archer eye to eye, toe to toe. "I've already explained the cruciality of the success of Enterprise's maiden voyage. Without her captain, this ship will never form the beginnings of an intergalactic federation. Unbelievable as it may be, the universe can't afford to dispose of you."

"And that makes Malcolm disposable?" Archer snaps.

"More like a gloomy, stunted dog who influences the captain's emotional instincts," the judge admits with an off-hand shrug. "I tried to warn you on the planet, but you still can't seem to listen, can you? Even your tactical officer was paying attention, while you were busy fussing over landing coordinates." Folding his arms, the judge says guiltlessly, "Given your habit of disregarding sound advice, I figured it would take a severe loss to make you see things in the light of an Illyrian sun. Thirty-two men and women aboard that ship would never have seen home if not for my intervention. The galaxy you know would have been eclipsed in a haze of torpedoes and torn steel, and you couldn't even look up from your captain's chair until your armory officer was brought to you in a handkerchief." Tutting, the judge comments snidely, "I expected more from humanity's soft, gullible nature."

Archer's fists tremble as he presses them against the desk. "You couldn't have told me any other way?" he hisses. Thirty-two souls on his hands - of course he would have listened! He had hoped they would still reach home untroubled, but his conscience required him to put Earth first. Before the lives of another species.

Before the lives of your crew? Is this his punishment - knowing forever that his decision resulted in the death of a fellow officer. A death that might have been needless, if he had found another way to contact the Xindi? Was it truly an irrational course? Could we have found another means to contact Degra? Could we have arranged any other means to find repairs?

Did I lose my sense of humanity that day?

"Now you're starting to see things through the eyes of the continuum," the judge says calmly. He strolls to the edge of Archer's vision and raises his hand, fingers poised to snap. "Try not to forget this… wee lesson. We may not be so forgiving next time."

A click of sound precedes a flash of blinding light, followed instantaneously by the ingracious tumble of a body against Archer's desk. Whirling, Archer pulls back a hand to defend himself, and nearly trips over himself in disbelief as Malcolm blinks up at him, five-foot-seven-inches of rumpled dignity, slumped against the desk with a handkerchief slung over his his head.

Bewildered, Malcolm stares at his full-sized hands in awe, then looks with alarm at his captain's white-washed, desolate features. "Did I miss something?