Chapter Three

"I wish my visit was under different circumstances," Nathan Samuels said as he extended his right hand, greeting Jonathan Archer in the latter's ready room on board the Enterprise. It was, indeed, Samuels' first visit to humanity's first warp-5 starship, and he considered it an oversight on the part of his scheduling staff; he had been Earth's prime minister for the four years' previous, including during the Enterprise's original launch, but his familiarity with the starship had never traveled past staring in fascination at the schematics on his desktop computer.

An oversight, he reckoned, that I'm happy to correct.

"Welcome on board the Enterprise, Prime Minister," Archer replied formally, taking the proffered hand. Samuels' visit had been unannounced, even to the captain; otherwise, Archer would have met the prime minister in the shuttle bay with a full honor detachment. Perhaps that's why he didn't tell us, the captain realized, even as he reproached himself for the lack of a formal reception. "To what do we owe the privilege?"

"It's my privilege, Jonathan," Samuels replied easily. "My office received your doctor's report on the hair sample, and I wanted to check in personally to see how your crew was handling it." He leaned forward and smiled conspiratorially. "And I couldn't miss another opportunity to see your ship, after all. It is quite amazing."

"Thank you, Minister." Despite Samuels' apparent nonchalance, Archer felt the need to straighten his back when speaking to Earth's most powerful person. "Is there any more word on the inquiry into Susan Khouri?" he asked.

Samuels shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Jonathan," the minister replied. "Her whereabouts for the last couple years remain a mystery. But I'm very grateful that she waited until the conference was in recess to make her appearance."

Uncertain as to the minister's meaning, Archer furrowed both eyebrows. "Why is that?" he asked.

Samuels smiled gently. "The cameras were elsewhere," he answered. "The reporters were focused elsewhere. In fact, the intrusion hasn't even made it to the general news reports. Frankly, I'd like to keep it that way," he finished up.

Archer frowned. "But if we made an announcement, someone might come forward with information," the captain parried; the investigation, it seemed, had reached a dead end.

"An announcement of this nature could derail the conference," Samuels responded, his voice evidencing his regret. "I understand your desire, Jonathan, but releasing these details to the public would only increase the opposition of the Revanchists and their supporters. And trust me, they're making enough trouble as it is. We don't need them inflaming the public any more than they already are."

"What do you mean, Minister?" Archer queried with an air of slight confusion. "I'll admit, I haven't been paying much attention to the newsfeeds, but…"

"You haven't spent much time on Earth lately, Jonathan," Samuels answered. "After the Xindi attack, there was a dangerous increase in xenophobia, but you…were gone. Perhaps you were lucky to be in the Expanse. Things have gotten ugly."

"We did get a taste of it," Archer replied, remembering a particular incident involving Phlox and a couple drunken bores. "But I thought it was isolated."

Samuels' voice fell in sorrow. "It's more widespread than you think, Jonathan. Frankly—" the minister glanced around before continuing. "Many of my political colleagues have been all-to-eager to 'take up the cause' and encourage the fear, and worse still, they're losing control of their adherents. The Revanchists have always had puppet parties, but the most radical are no longer responding to their benefactors."

I don't like the sound of this, Archer reflected. "What can we do to help?" he asked.

Samuels let out a loose sigh. "Keep quiet about the child," the minister advised. "The news of a Vulcan-human hybrid would only inflame them, and give them more to rally against."

"Miscegenation has been accepted on Earth for centuries," Archer replied, frowning.

"But look at how long it took us to accept multi-racial unions. And now, a completely different species? The isolationists will have a field day, decrying it as a subversion of humanity."

"I can't believe we're talking about more than a small minority." Archer was disturbed, but unwilling to accept that Earth could have changed so much in response to a single attack.

"As I said, you've been away for a while. The Earth-first movement has been around since first contact with the Vulcans, and all of the changes that have taken place over the last century have made a lot of people uncomfortable. Hell, our world has changed more in the last hundred years than it did in the preceding ten thousand, and a reaction was inevitable. People are scared of change, Jonathan. The alien 'pollution' may just be a flashpoint, but it's a powerful one."

"Maybe I just have a little more faith in humanity than you do," Archer demurred.

"Can't afford to operate on faith," Samuels countered. "I may be an idealist, but I'm not an idiot. And there's far more at stake here than a couple trade agreements. You fought the Xindi, Jonathan. You know better than anyone that there are species out there threatening Earth's very survival. We don't have the luxury of going it alone; if we're going to make it, we need to cooperate with other species, and work together as allies. All I'm saying, Captain, is that it's fine to think optimistically—but we have to plan pragmatically. And we can no longer pretend that isolation breeds security."

Archer sighed. "All right," he said quietly, and shifted direction. "I was hoping you'd have some word on the investigation. My engineer and science officer are quite eager to get some answers."

"I'm sure they are, but I've heard nothing new." The two men fell into a short pause.

"There's got to be something we can do," Archer said finally, unwilling to give up.

"Starfleet investigators are more than capable of handling this," Samuels assured the captain. "I suggest we let them do their job. I'll personally notify you the moment I hear something, Jonathan." The two men stood up, their conversation finished. "I appreciate your cooperation, Captain." Samuels extended a hand for a final handshake, and with a nod, departed from the ready room.

"I'm sorry, Captain," Trip Tucker said quietly as he leaned forward in his chair. "I feel like he gave you the polite order to stand down." Archer had called the engineer and T'Pol to his ready room shortly after Samuels had left; and now, with his retelling of the encounter complete, the captain was offering up the room for the input of his valued crewmembers.

"I know, Trip," Archer replied with a slight grimace; he, too, was leaning inward and talking softly, as if the walls were listening to their conversation. "I feel the same way. Problem, is, I'm not sure what else I can do. Starfleet has locked down their investigation."

"Perhaps there is something you have not yet thought of?" T'Pol offered, fidgeting slightly in her chair. "I am reminded of an old human aphorism: where there is a will, there is a way."

"What are you suggesting, T'Pol?" Trip asked with air of delicate irritation. Harrumphing quietly, he sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "The captain's tried working with Starfleet, and that's gone nowhere."

T'Pol was unperturbed. "If we have ran into a proverbial dead end within Starfleet," she offered, addressing the captain directly, "then logic suggests we pursue a route outside of Starfleet."

Archer paused a moment before responding as he weighed the Vulcan's meaning. "I'm not sure what you're referring to, T'Pol," he answered finally, his face twisting into a quizzical expression. "What route outside of Starfleet?"

T'Pol hesitated before responding. "What about Commander Reed?" she offered up tentatively, recognizing that the suggestion was likely to engender a passionate response.

Archer answered with a sharp glare. "You've got to be joking, T'Pol," the captain replied, his tone making clear that he did not appreciate joke. "Malcolm betrayed you, me, Trip, this entire ship. And you want me to deputize him as our chosen investigator?" He rocked back in his chair, clearly irate. "And aside from the fact that I can't trust Malcolm, what makes you think he'll be able to do us any good?"

"Hang on, Captain," Trip said slowly, intervening before Archer could launch any further. "It's not half bad, when you think about it."

Archer's glare shifted to the engineer. "What do you mean?" he asked, his angry stare stabbing across the small room.

Trip let out a deep breath before continuing. "From what you said about Malcolm's—other career," he commented gingerly, "Malcolm has access to resources that we don't. Resources within Earth Intelligence, resources that—that are accustomed to working around the margins, in the dark areas." Picking up speed as he went, Trip leaned inward as his enthusiasm started to grow. "They oughta at least be able to lay their hands on some internal reports, check up on Starfleet's investigation."

Choking back a retort, Archer closed his eyes briefly and rubbed the lids vigorously. I can't believe what I'm hearing, he thought to himself, feeling the outrage within. They want me to trust Malcolm? After what he did? I'm not sure I can do that.

Trip waited for the captain to open his eyes. "Give us this shot, Captain," he said, his voice almost pleading. "Give us a chance to figure out what's going on."

Archer's gaze shifted to T'Pol, silently giving her a chance to speak.

"Do it for our daughter," T'Pol answered, her voice nearly inaudible. "For her."

Is that what this comes down to? Archer asked himself, still looking at the Vulcan woman. There is an innocent life out there, somewhere. Can I—can I swallow my hurt for the sake of that child?

Archer's expression didn't change as he tapped the comm control. "Archer to Sato," he called out, still weighing his options.

"Sato here," the youthful lieutenant answered.

Archer took a deep breath. "Hoshi…" I can do this, he told himself. "Hoshi, can you find me Lieutenant Commander Reed?"

"Yes, sir," Hoshi replied. "Just a moment, sir." Her exuberance shone through, indicating that she was already in on the scheme.

Trip broke into a fierce grin. "Thank you, Captain," he said, almost feverishly.

T'Pol's typically impassive face relaxed slightly.

Some things never change, Malcolm Reed thought wryly as he passed a darkened warehouse near the San Francisco piers. Those who work in the shadows are scared of the light. It was here—near here, at least—that he was to meet with his contact from the Organization; here, in the dark recesses of a district emptied out at this late-night hour, that he would meet up with his past.

And what a perfect meeting place it is, he noted, old instincts taking automatic stock of his surroundings. There was—somewhere—a blackened sky overhead, the starlight washed out by the soft pollution of tempered city light; but it was nearly invisible, cloaked behind a thick covering of low-lying fog that had rolled in from the docks, lit only periodically by faint streetlights that struggled to glow in the shroud. It was a perfect place for a secret rendezvous, the sort that had no official recognition.

Malcolm tensed slightly as a dark figure emerged before him, stepping slowly forward from the veil of watery mist. Firm of build and medium of age, barely discernable in the fog, the figure came to a halt a meter away; it was a man, bearing an almost senatorial distinction, wearing a familiar black suit.

"Malcolm, it's good to see you again," the man's voice drawled slowly.

Despite his familiarity with the hidden individual, Malcolm felt no more at ease. Indeed, he recognized the casual danger that this man represented, and felt himself all the more aware of his isolated surroundings. "I wish I could say the same," Malcolm answered tightly, tucking his own hands in the pockets of his overcoat. "The last time I saw you—"

"Bygones," Harris replied lightly. "You know how our business goes, Malcolm." He frowned as he withdrew his hand. "At least, you used to."

Glancing around Harris, Malcolm tried to peer into the darkness. "I must admit," Malcolm said, "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Ah." Understanding the gist of the comment, Harris nodded along. "You weren't expecting the Director himself to come to your little summons."

"This isn't about me, or even about you," Malcolm answered with a pointed glare. "Susan Khouri—"

"Not so fast, Malcolm," Harris interrupted with a raised hand. "First, we need to establish an understanding."

Malcolm's brow furrowed as he weighed the words. "About what?" he asked at last, uncertain just where his one-time mentor was leading.

"That by speaking to us," Harris replied, gesturing broadly with his hands, "you're back in the game. Simple as that."

Malcolm finally cracked into a smile. "Fat chance of that," he answered quickly. "I thought I made it clear to you: I'm not a part of your little organization anymore."

"Malcolm, Malcolm," the director said with a twisted frown, "then what are you doing here? You reached out to us, remember?"

"I reached out at the orders of the captain," Malcolm answered tersely. "My captain."

"It's too bad that loyalty doesn't extend both ways," Harris replied immediately, his words harsh and pointed. "On the other hand, there's still a place for you in our 'little organization', as you put it. But I'd advise making up your mind—I won't wait for you forever, you know."

"I have made up my mind," Malcolm said with a scowl. "I want no part of your section."

Harris laughed lightly. "Despite what you say, my friend, your actions indicate otherwise. You keep coming back to us, after all. Perhaps you're finding that this work is a part of you?"

"Susan Khouri," Malcolm stated flatly. "Tell me about her."

Harris let loose a sigh. "Very well, Malcolm," he replied, "I see you haven't changed much. A single purpose, and all that." He nodded slowly as he continued. "Susan Khouri was more than just an emotionally-troubled nurse. She was a member of an underground isolationist movement called 'Terra Prime'."

"I've heard of them," Malcolm answered soberly. "They want to stop all contact with alien species. But why them? There's a dozen other groups with the same goal."

"Terra Prime is a little more secretive than the others," Harris responded. "Like the others, they believe that alien influences are corrupting humanity. But we've had a hard time cracking into them."

"I remember that they made a lot of noise back when the Enterprise was launched," Malcolm added, dredging up background memories from four years' previous. He shuddered slightly as a cold breeze hit him. "But I thought they faded away."

"They resurfaced," Harris countered. "They had a resurgence following the Xindi attack."

"So if Khouri was a member," Malcolm went on, trying to assemble the unseen puzzle, "who killed her? And why?"

"We believe Terra Prime did," Harris answered, his tone somewhat wry. "We think Khouri was trying to leave the movement."

Malcolm found himself shaking his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered quietly.

Harris glanced both directions, as if he had heard a noise. "Her defection may have had something to do with the child."

"Yes," Malcolm replied slowly, shifting his overcoat up to better cover the back of his neck; the longer they stood outside, the more chilled he was getting. "I was getting to that."

"The child belongs to two of your old crewmates," Harris responded dryly. "I imagine that you can tell me something about that?"

Beneath the heavy jacket, Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. "They don't know anything about it," he answered frostily.

Harris' face split into a crooked smile. "That doesn't seem very likely, does it?"

"I believe them," Malcolm retorted with a pointed glare.

"Of course you do," Harris observed lightly. "We know that Terra Prime has the child, and that they're planning something. Something big."

"You just don't know what?" Malcolm pressed, hoping for any indication.

"We suspect it has something to do with the child," Harris retorted. "If you find the child, we might just find the other answers."

"What do you mean, if I find the child?" Malcolm responded. Shivering slightly, he found himself hoping that the conversation would end soon.

Harris smiled again. "As hard as it is for you to see this, Malcolm, we're working the same side," the director replied. "Groups like Terra Prime are an unacceptable risk to Earth's security. Their brand of isolationism and xenophobia undermine our ability to protect Earth; it simply fuels more enemies for us. Find the child, Malcolm, and we'll be in touch."

Unbidden, he turned and disappeared back into the fog, leaving Malcolm standing alone in the darkness.

The dominant color on the Moon, it seems, is gray: seas of gray, plains of gray, mountains and craters that bear only nuanced shades of gray; for the neutral monochromes of ashen dust and graveled regolith extended as far across the horizon as the eye could see in an unbroken montage of unchanging desolation. Largely untouched by human hands, this remote wasteland appeared much as it had for the preceding four billion years, a vast, undulating body of frozen gray.

Here and there, across the rocky wilderness, drab domes and geometric constructs dwarfed by the Moon's expanses clung to the jagged surface, providing delicate respite from the airless skies beyond; the most visible features of the tunnels dug and crosscut in the hardened bedrock underlying the atmospheric huts, these buildings represented little modicums of life on the lifeless badlands of the alien world.

Tucked deep inside one particular impact crater, spaced relatively evenly in the great central plain formed by the ancient collision, was just such a collection of structures; making no effort and attaining no grade for aesthetic pleasantry, it was a rudimentary cluster of cylindrical and tube-shaped structures, the greatest of which resembled a giant donut resting in the rock. Crossed over by a motley grouping of ore chutes and atmospheric ducts, the whole facility blended in to the hues of the all-encompassing grayness; once brightly metallic, the sheeting used to assemble the skeletal system had long since faded into the homogenous background of the Moon.

And it's beautiful, John Frederick Paxton reflected as he stared out of his office window, located in the central donut of the facility. It was days like this—no, moments like this—when he could stand still, uninterrupted, soaking in the subtle tinctures and hues, that he found serenity; it was there, somewhere between the granites and the heathers, the great open majesty of the Moon beckoning to him.

For he was an austere man on an austere world, and he liked it that way; even his appearance reflected his stoic nature. Tall, lean, and angular, his face bore the unmistakable ravages of someone who had lived a harsh life, aging before his time, and his hairline sloped back in a strong widow's peak. His finely-tailored suit gave him a veneer of refinement, but his expression was frozen in a permanent scowl, his pale blue eyes glaring outward, and when he spoke, it was with a dry ring of displeasure.

But the peace cannot last, he thought sourly as he ran a hand over his face, taking a moment to excise a deep breath beneath his palm. For standing behind him, uncomfortably at attention, was a reminder of his great curses and cares in life; a reminder of his calling and obligation, the duty that came with being a man who saw things to which others so willingly blinded themselves, the burden that came with revealing the truth to the ignorant masses.

"You recruited her," he stated flatly, not turning to face the man standing behind him.

"I needed her expertise," Mercer answered, his voice nearly tripping over its own hesitation; Paxton swore he could hear the doctor fidget with unease. "I thought Khouri was reliable."

Paxton snorted once. "Obviously, you were wrong." His voice did not shift its tenor, remaining flat and direct, but the ire was clear and warning.

Mercer paused for a moment before replying, as if seeking an answer that would placate the leader of their cause. "If she'd told them anything truly damaging," he said, hedging his comments as he spoke, "I'm sure we'd know it by now." It was a simple reassurance, and his voice firmed up as he spoke; for his comment was accurate. Paxton had a large number of sympathizers placed within every strata of the United Earth government, including some even embedded with the Starfleeters who were at the root of Earth's current problems. Every iota of Earth's investigation into Khouri's unfortunate death had crossed Paxton's desk.

According to all of Paxton's sources, Khouri had said nothing to incriminate Terra Prime, but he was little inclined to let Mercer off the hook for his sloppiness.

Paxton twisted his neck around before speaking. "We can't be sure what she told them," he retorted, still refusing to turn about and properly address the shorter man. "Besides, I'm more concerned with why she turned away from us." It was an implicit acknowledgment that Mercer, perhaps, had not been so sloppy in trusting Susan Khouri; her defection had come as a surprise to everyone, not just the doctor.

Mercer coughed once before answering. "I think she, ah, might have become attached to the patient," he replied carefully, not wanting to anger Paxton further. It was just a theory, a suspicion on Mercer's part, but he felt compelled to offer up a reason for the woman's betrayal. "She spent a great deal of time caring for it." Khouri had been, after all, the patient's primary nurse and regular caregiver, and it was a plausible explanation.

Paxton snorted again, as if disregarding Mercer's offer. "And what about you?" he asked, tilting his chin slightly backward and to the left. "You've spent as much time with that child as she did.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Mercer stood up straighter. "I feel no differently about it than any other patient I've treated," he offered.

At that, Paxton slowly turned about until he was staring directly at his subordinate, his gaze pinning the doctor in place. "This isn't any other patient," Paxton snapped angrily, as if Mercer was failing to understand a basic reality. "You should feel differently about it!"

Running a hand through his thinning hair, Paxton paused briefly before continuing. "It's an abomination, a perversion of nature!" Mercer took a small step backward, nearly wilting under the force of Paxton's ire. "And when the time comes," Paxton went on, working his way up to a strong pique, "it will be treated as such!" His eyes pierced their way into Mercer's gaze. "Can you do that?"

The doctor lifted his chin high. "I can do that," he stated, his strength wobbling slightly. "I will do that."

Sighing deeply, Paxton looked back over his shoulder, lifting his eyes up to the rim of the crater beyond; over it, Earth hung, suspended, against the black backdrop of the stellar sky, its brilliant greens and blues standing in stark contrast to the veritable sea of grayness that formed the surface of the Moon. In galactic terms, the two heavenly bodies were nearly one, but looking across the expanse, Paxton couldn't help but feel the gulf that separated them. It took a special person, a hard person, to handle the harsh isolation and lonesomeness of living on the Moon.

"I'm going to miss this place," Paxton mused. "The simplicity of it—there's no middle ground, no prevaricating, no worry about offending people. A man here is free to express his beliefs and stand up for his principles, instead of being emasculated on the altar of correctness." He smiled to himself, let out a deep breath, and turned back to Mercer. "Send in Greaves on your way out."

Grateful to be finished, the doctor nodded eagerly. "Of course," he answered. Turning about, he keyed the simple metal doors open, and disappeared into the corridor beyond.

Paxton mentally counted the brief seconds; he knew that his next visitor would've been right around the corner, waiting for a summons to enter. His knowledge was rewarded when, three seconds later, a man taller than Paxton and heavily muscled entered the doorway. Wearing a pair of camouflage-green work coveralls, Greaves bore a clean-shaven head and the miner's stubble of a beard.

Stepping forward, Greaves allowed the doors to clank shut behind him before speaking. "I gave the men your message," he told Paxton. The corners of Greaves' mouth tipped upward, showing his eagerness for the next phase of their mission. "We'll be ready at a moment's notice." With that, the large man stood loosely, awaiting further direction.

Competency, Paxton thought to himself, is a beautiful thing. "Tell them that I appreciate their hard work," he instructed Greaves, content that his approval would be passed along precisely. "There is one other matter, however." Pulling out the chair to his desk, Paxton took a seat and looked up. "We have a loose end that needs to be tied up."

"Of course," Greaves replied.

Paxton smiled lightly. "Put together a group of your best people—no more than you and three others. Have them meet me at the…third junction in, say, one hour."

Nathan Samuels was resisting the urge to plant his face in the palm of his hand.

Ever the trained diplomat, a veteran of many disputes both on Earth and among its neighbors, Samuels did know a thing or two about dealing with aggravation; his personal favorite technique, and the simplest in his repertoire, was to pause for a deep breath and gather his thoughts as he sought a new road, a new direction, to help the bickering parties see eye-to-eye.

But the daily grind of the Babel Conference was taking a toll on even his own emotional keel, wearing on him under the force of the constant throbbing of an intense, mind-numbing headache. Maybe I should call a recess, he mused, the only clear thought that he could focus on; but it was of little avail, for the conference was already in recess, had been so for half an hour of polite mingling and quiet consultation when the ambassador from Tellar Prime had pulled the Prime Minister aside.

His momentary pause exhausted, Samuels faced the unpleasant reality of returning to the point at hand, the same point that had thwarted his morning's efforts. "The Andorians are pushing for a comprehensive embargo against the Orions," he repeated, with the measured tones of an accomplished diplomat. "They claim the Orions have been attacking their freighters." It was a sticking point for the Andorian representatives—and, Samuels recognized, a fair one. If these planets were to be allies, then they should support one another in the face of such belligerence.

The ambassador's response was foreseeable, as it had been his response the entire morning. "We have traded with the Orions for centuries," Grav replied forcefully, the words taking on the slightest echo as they translated through his breathing mask. "We would know of these attacks, if they were real." He flung one hand in the air, apparently disregarding the entire Andorian claim with a single gesture. "The Andorians are lying to you," he went on. The shorter alien had squared himself up against the tall human. "But then, the Andorians have never had much respect for the truth."

Face, meet palm, Samuels thought tiredly as he plunged in once again, hoping that this off-the-record effort might finally be enough to bring the feuding parties into line. "You have to appreciate their point of view," he replied, choosing his words with extreme care; it would do no good to choose sides in this particular distraction of a dispute. "I'm not saying it's the truth, Ambassador," he added, raising a hand to forestall the obvious retort. "But they are quite adamant about this."

The ambassador's snort erupted with a squawk. "Don't you see, Prime Minister?" he answered angrily. Tightening one hand into a fist, the ambassador brought it up firmly into his chest. "The Andorians are manipulating these talks to gain an economic advantage over Tellar. They are trying to deprive us of valuable commerce."

His options dwindling, Samuels offered a tight-lipped smile. "I'm sure it's difficult for you to trust the Andorian representatives," he began, hoping that the appropriate words would come to him as he spoke.

Grav made certain that Samuels would not have the chance. "Tellar will never agree to any trade sanctions that will only weaken us," he responded with a huff. His final word spoken, the ambassador turned about as if to leave.

Only to be brought short by the suddenly-materializing body of Jonathan Archer.

"Ambassador, it's good to see you again," the captain remarked, a broad smile plastered across his face. "You know, we should have a talk about basic economics sometime."

The ambassador's look of bepuzzlement was priceless.

"You see," Archer continued, leaning in as if to impart great wisdom, "the proposed trade sanctions against the Orions will only boost Tellar's economy, if you play it right, Ambassador."

"I'm not entirely sure that I see your point, Captain," the ambassador replied, finally finding his voice. He glanced back at Samuels, as if hoping to catch the same sense of question on the human's face.

Samuels, too, had a broad smile plastered on.

Archer raised a hand to chest-level and closed his fist. "If we all—all of us, Ambassador—stand together on the sanctions, the Orions won't have any choice but to comply, and cease attacking the Andorians; and when they do, you can continue trading with them, just like you always have. But—" to emphasize the point, Archer unclenched his hand. "In the process, you'll strengthen your trade relations with Andor. You see, you'll be getting the best of both."

Grav eyed Archer's hand warily. "The Orions have been a reliable trading partner for centuries," he rejoined cautiously, uncertain of just how to interpret the human's gesture. "The Andorians have never been reliable partners in—well, in anything."

Backing away slightly, the captain ran his hand over his chin. "Why don't you talk to your government," he offered, straightening his back. "Tell them about my view on economics."

"I do need to contact my government," the ambassador answered, his gaze shifting back to Samuels. "About all of today's developments." With that, the alien representative nodded once, excused himself, and departed across the room.

Samuels took in a slow breath and, just as slowly, let it back out, but the thudding in his head continued unabated.

"How are the negotiations going, Prime Minister?" Archer asked in a low voice, his eyes still following the disappearing ambassador.

"They're going well," Samuels replied automatically, but his smile was beginning to droop. "Grueling, actually. But I suppose you know that already—you've had more face-to-face experience with many of these races than I have."

Looking upward at Samuels, Archer gestured to a small alcove along the side of the room. "Just a few months ago I had Tellarites and Andorians on the Enterprise, at the same time," he remarked as he led the way. He kept his voice low; this was a private conversation, his comments for the minister's ears only. "The only thing I could get them to agree on was Romulan equals bad."

The quip brought a faint chuckle from the minister. "These races have been adversaries for hundreds of years," he replied, ducking his head slightly as they stepped into the alcove. "And now, in the blink of an eye, we're trying to turn them into the closest of friends."

"It doesn't help when the only basis for friendship seems to be a common enemy," Archer stated, confirming the quiet truth. "And we can't even tell them what a Romulan looks like. Some enemy."

"You didn't come here just to push around the Tellarite ambassador," Samuels commented, shifting the conversation along its path. Outside of formal appearances, the Enterprise captain had been a virtual no-show in the conference chambers; his sudden showing today suggested that something else was at work. "What can I do for you, Jonathan?"

Archer nodded. "I want everything on the Khouri investigation," he answered, confirming the minister's suspicions.

Samuels harrumphed once. "Why come to me?" he responded with a tinge of ire; the Khouri investigation was several ranks down in the government's hierarchy. Sure, he could order the overseers to order the supervisors to order the investigators to turn over a copy of the file, but just as surely there was a better route for the good captain to pursue…

"Because everyone else turned me down," Archer stated.

Samuels folded his arms across his chest. "I'm sure, if they turned you down, that they had good reason," he replied, hoping to close the matter quickly.

Archer wasn't backing down so easily. "Susan Khouri was a member of Terra Prime."

Samuels' eyebrows shot up. "I'm familiar with them," he answered. "If she was a member, then it's extremely troubling."

"Not as troubling as something else we learned," Archer added quietly. "You were once a member."

At that, Samuels let out a faint laugh. "Congratulations, Captain," he replied. "You've discovered something that by political opponents knew decades ago." He glanced around the room, but no one was visibly listening to the secretive conversation. "I've never sought to hide my past, Captain. I was very young when I joined Terra Prime, and I was still very young when I left them."

"You were eighteen," Archer pointed out. "Old enough to be accountable."

"Didn't you make any questionable choices when you were that age, Captain?" the minister responded. "It was a stupid mistake. My father had just died in a freighter accident, and I blamed the pilot, who happened to be Denobulan. Terra Prime welcomed me in, validified my resentments, gave me someone to blame for all the woes in my life. They were quite hypnotic, but I eventually woke up.

"My political career has been built on the platform of opposing xenophobia and racial hatred. We all have our demons, Captain, but I've exorcised mine."

Archer smiled. "Actually, Prime Minister, I don't care what you did when you were young. 'Any good politician was a radical in their youth,'" he quoted. "But I do need your help."

"Very well, Jonathan," Samuels replied with a slight, accepting nod. "You'll have your case file within the hour."

Wrapped up in contemplation, Travis' mind duly registered the chime of his door, announcing that someone was waiting for him outside; and with a low sigh and a deep breath, he stood up slowly, in no hurry to rush the moment. He knew who it was, after all; she had messaged him earlier, announcing her intention to stop by and visit, and his thoughts about her presence were at best conflicted.

Travis paused to stretch his back before he pressed the doorpad, triggering the hatchway to open.

Gannet's eyes opened slightly as she appeared in the doorway. "I can't decide if I like you better in uniform or not," she said, referring to Mayweather's casual attire. Her voice was light and bordering on coy, as if she were offering up a double entendre.

"I, ah—" Travis' voice stumbled a bit as Gannet maneuvered her way around him, ducking into his small quarters. "What are you doing here?" he added forcefully, regaining his composure as he turned about to face her. The doorway hissed shut behind him.

Gannet was wearing her trademark camera headset; a small green light indicated that the recording function was on and running as she looked up at the taller navigator. "I've been assigned to do a story on the Enterprise," she explained excitedly, her eyes lit up and a large smile splitting her face. She glanced around slowly, taking in a shot of Travis' quarters. "Amazing—they can build a ship that goes faster than light, but they can't give you a decent-sized room."

"Actually, it's—" Travis shook his head, opting not to explain that on most Starfleet ships, crew shared quarters of this size. "What did you say? You're doing a story on us?"

Gannet nodded enthusiastically. "It's told from the perspective of the crew," she replied as she bounced around the room, taking in the view from different angles. Every few seconds, though, she turned her attention back to Travis. "It'll cover the missions, the perils, life in space, great things like that," she added, waving one hand in exclamation. Her self-guided tour of his room complete, the journalist finally came to a halt in front of Travis. "So, shall we start with a walk about the ship?"

In his best impersonation of T'Pol, Travis raised a solitary, skeptical eyebrow. "You want me to give you a tour of the Enterprise?"

"Well, yes," Gannet replied, her excitement wavering in the face of Mayweather's clear reluctance. "It'll be fun, Travis." She backed up slightly.

"I've got some work to do," Travis responded brusquely. "You'll have to find someone else to give you your tour."

"You're not on duty," Gannet shot back.

"Gannet!" Travis' voice piqued with ire as he slammed his palm against the doorpad, triggering the hatchway back open.

"Okay, okay," Gannet sank back into the room as she pushed a button on her headset; the green light flickered off, signifying that the miniature camera was now dead. "So, maybe…" her voice trailed off slightly as she thought about her admissions. "Maybe I wasn't assigned to this story, Travis. Maybe I suggested the idea to my editor, offered to do it myself."

Travis stepped inward, allowing the doorway to hiss shut as he stared at the would-be journalist. "Does your editor know how you feel about space exploration?" he shot out accusingly. "That it's the 'last vestige' of colonial impulse? Nothing more than a disguised attempt to bring 'civilization' to the mass of stars?" He was working himself up into a fit of anger as he recalled the various things that Gannet had once said about his chosen career. "What was your favorite again? Oh, yes—'We come in peace, bearing guns!'"

Gannet let out a deep breath and rolled her eyes. "I only said those things to keep you from signing onto this mission," she rejoined. "I notice it didn't work."

Travis, too, let out a deep sigh. "Find another story to do," he answered. "You have access to the talks in San Francisco. Do a story on them, or something else. Just not on the Enterprise."

"It's too late," Gannet replied gingerly. "It's due a week from today."

Travis let loose with another stare before speaking. "Then you're going to have to find another source for your information," he responded. He shook his head slowly. "I'm not playing these games with you."

Gannet glared right back. "Why are you avoiding me, Travis?" she asked, her voice starting to grow shrill. "You've been like this ever since the Enterprise returned to Earth. I just want the chance to talk with you!"

"And you can't even ask me straight?" Travis responded irately. "You try every trick and trap in the book, but Gannet—listen, can you give me one reason why I shouldn't avoid you?" He paused briefly to run a hand across his head. "Can you give me one reason why I should accept you back into my life? Didn't I make it clear to you that we were finished?"

"We both called it off," Gannet replied softly, her voice wavering. "It was a mutual decision."

Travis glanced down at the deck plating before meeting Gannet in her eyes. "And I haven't changed my mind," he answered, clearly tired by the conversation. "It looks like you have."

Gannet, too, was forced to look away for a moment. "I haven't decided yet," she responded slowly. "You've been gone a long time, Travis—and I have missed you."

"I think that's the first honest thing you've said," Travis answered unforgivingly.

Gannet looked back up at the navigator, a flicker of light growing in her eyes. "So reward me by giving me that tour."

Hurtling around the planet Earth at nearly thirty thousand kilometers per hour, the crew of the Enterprise saw the sun appear to rise and set sixteen times during a standard twenty-four hour day. Like the space orbiters of old, however, the vessel maintained a regular twenty-four watch, with the ship's "day" and "night" tied to local time in San Francisco. During the night watch, the shipboard lights were dimmed to simulate evening, and only a skeleton crew stood duty. A skeleton crew, that is, and Dr. Phlox, whose Denobulan physiology only required sleep once a year.

In sickbay, the lights were lowered to match the subdued lighting of the corridors, and Phlox was by himself, tending to his work, when Commander Tucker entered the room. "Do you have a moment?" Trip asked, hesitantly.

"Of course, Commander," Phlox responded with a friendly smile. "What can I do for you?"

Trip leaned on a biobed, collecting his thoughts. "This baby," he said, gesturing with his hands, "can you tell if it's a boy or a girl?"

"It's a girl," the doctor answered.

"A girl." Trip sounded wistful, as though envisioning his child. "Is it okay? I mean, it's part human and part Vulcan. Is it…healthy?"

"Vulcan and human physiology are not all that dissimilar," Phlox said, hoisting himself up on a neighboring bed. "From the evidence I have, the genes seem to be cooperating. There's no reason to believe she's anything but perfectly happy," the physician added reassuringly.

"That's good to hear," Trip answered, still lost in his vision.

"You'll also be interested to hear that she has your eyes," Phlox added affably, "and T'Pol's ears."

Trip chuckled softly. "I still can't believe it," he said. "I'm a father."

"I'm in something of a quandary about it myself, especially since T'Pol's never been pregnant," Phlox added wryly. "The medicine doesn't quite add up."

"She could have gotten pregnant, and not told me about it," Trip suggested, not really believing it himself.

"And she had the embryo removed, also without your knowledge?" Phlox answered. "And without leaving any medical sign? I believe you know the answer to that theory, Commander."

"Yeah, I guess I do," Trip responded ruefully. While he didn't believe that T'Pol would lie to him about having a child, at least it offered a concrete explanation.

"We'll get to the bottom of this soon enough, Commander. There is an explanation for this, and we'll find it." Phlox halted momentarily, then went on, speaking softly. "Until then, I suggest you keep any such—theories—to yourself. Commander T'Pol is under enough stress without having you questioning her veracity."

"That's good advice," Trip answered. "You know, my father always wanted a granddaughter. He bugged my sister about it constantly."

Phlox chuckled. "It seems he got his wish."

"It's funny, although—I always envisioned her as being the one having kids. The whole marriage and family thing—I never saw that for myself. But now she's gone, and I'm the one with a kid that I've never even seen."

"I have five children of my own," the doctor offered. "Trust me, you're going to enjoy every moment of it."

"Yeah," Trip said with a smile. "Now we just have to find her."

A hundred years earlier, in the final phase of the Third World War, the human race found itself shattered in disrepair. Cities burned to skeletal ashes, cloaked with the eternal smog of nuclear weapons, and the countryside ravaged by biopoisons and starving refugees, mass migration swept the globe as desperate people sought nothing more than a meal and a place to sleep.

In the despair, the War took its final turn, with the rise of the demagogues, preaching a return to the promised lands of the past. Humanity needs to purge itself, they preached; throw out the evil, cleanse society of the impure. The human race was under attack from non-believers within, and only by the absolute enforcement of purity could it be salvaged. Of these preachers, the worst—and most notorious—was a man known simply as Colonel Green.

On Paxton's viewing monitor, Colonel Green stood at the front of a massive hall, grandiose in scale. He was flanked on either side by towering pillars shaped in the ancient symbol of the fasces, a cylindrical bundle of rods with an axe blade protruding from one side, with an eagle swooping majestically between them.

"In the shadow of this incalculable devastation, we find ourselves facing a colossal challenge," Green spoke steadily. He was a young man, with closely-trimmed black hair. "There's an entire world to rebuild." Paxton looked up as Greaves stepped thru the hatchway. "Not only our cities and homes, but mankind itself! Now is not the time for timidity and second-guessing. We cannot afford to doubt ourselves."

Setting down his coffee, Paxton looked up at the tall African man; he nodded a curt greeting, the move carefully calculated to hide a slight trembling that had worked its way through his veins. Unwilling to let his deputy see the tremors, unwilling to allow even his most loyal followers to see his weakness, Paxton closed his eyes momentarily and tightened his muscles, reasserting control over his treacherous body. "The Final World War was winding down," he observed, reopening his eyes and addressing Greaves, even as looked directly at the monitor. "The Oslo cease-fire was barely three years old.

"Unless we act, firmly and decisively, we will pass on the scars of our afflicted to future generations," Green continued, admonishing his adherents in the dusty hall and those listening on viewers across the globe. "We will impoverish our children with the legacy of weakness and failure."

"Colonel Green," Greaves observed, identifying the speaker with a smile.

"Colonel Green," Paxton confirmed. "One of many men that history has misunderstood." His voice was gravelly, its dryness expressing solemnity.

"For our children—for our grandchildren—for the revival of a strong and powerful human race, we must cleanse our society," Green continued, his voice beginning to rise in fervent resonance. "Only then can we stand together, united as a people and united in purpose, to lead humanity back to greatness!"

Abruptly, Paxton leaned over and switched off the recording. "Before my father died and left me this facility, I was studying to be a historian," he commented; reclining slowly, as if deliberate, he again tried to hide the quiver passing through his body. "Until I had a very verbal confrontation with a certain professorwho claimed that Green was nothing more than a genocidal madman."

Greaves grinned broadly. "Sounds like we had the same professor," he offered in response, recalling the so-called teachers who had tried to indoctrinate him, who had tried to cast disparagement on humanity's greatest visionaries. It had, he knew, been for naught; in the face of such dark proselytizing, he had studied more thoroughly for himself, and found that he was not alone in looking back on the greatness promised by men such as Colonel Green.

"Green euthanized hundreds of thousands who were afflicted with radiation damage," Paxton went on, speaking with forcefulness and conviction. "Their millions of descendants would've endured horrible disease and misery, yet history—history never says anything about that suffering, the pain and torment that Green prevented."

"Guess it all depends on who writes the history," Greaves observed.

"Makes me wonder if I'll be remembered with any more accuracy," Paxton reflected.

Greaves answered quickly. "I don't think you're going to be misunderstood."

"Really?" Paxton responded with a quick flick of his eyebrows. "Sometimes, I'm not certain I understand myself."

"We have done what we have to do," Greaves answered firmly. "For the good of humanity, to make us strong again."

"I'm sure Green told himself the same thing," Paxton retorted drolly. Beneath his desk, his foot danced, trying to let out the flutter coursing through him.

"He was right, and so are we," Greaves affirmed. "What is a little blood compared to the greatness of the future?"

Paxton gifted his lieutenant a smile. "Josiah," he mused, "you are a wise man."

Greaves smiled, pleased to receive the approval; and he held out a data card, as if remembering why he had come to Paxton's office. "Medical report on the patient," he clarified, handing the card across the desk. "Her symptoms are gone. She's a hundred percent."

"That's wonderful. Wonderful. Thank you." With that, Greaves nodded in understanding; and pivoting on one foot, he turned and departed, the door closing behind him.

Paxton waited only a moment, and bending over to the lowermost desk drawer, he input a code into the locked security panel. Pulling the drawer open, he withdrew a hypospray from within, and held it in front of him; a powerful shudder rippled through him, and he let it swell, no longer concerned with hiding the evidence. As it passed, as he regained control over his body, Paxton raised the hypospray to his neck and injected the contents into his vein; and he collapsed back into his chair, waiting for the relief to come.