As if we needed any more bloody mysteries in this business, the captain has now handed me another one.

Obeying orders, I point the phase-discriminator at the place where we discovered the EM signature, and there it is: a small metal object of unknown origin and function, attached to the hull.

It's octagonal and clearly manufactured, and if anyone had run their hands over the skin of the shuttle it would probably have been discoverable by feel; but the scheduled investigation back on Earth into the cause of the tragedy demanded that the craft be left exactly as it was (no putting mitts on the evidence, no matter what the EM signature said), and I'm probably contravening something fairly serious by removing it. Still, Captain Archer told me it would be there and how to find it, and I'm more than happy to pull it off the duranium hull – it takes some removing, I have to use a screwdriver to detach it and I'll probably hear something from Trip about scratching the paintwork – and carry it up to the Bridge, where the rest of the gang are waiting for me.

In the turbo-lift, I glare at the thing lying in my palm, now looking so completely innocuous. The discriminator presumably interfered with whatever mechanism it was that kept it cloaked, and now it's a vital piece of evidence, but I still haven't got a clue how the captain knew it was there. All I do know was that when he came onto the Bridge this morning, December had turned overnight to May.

Not that I'm arguing about that, given it was principally me who was getting the freezing treatment, but I certainly wasn't the only sufferer. We all thanked our lucky stars that T'Pol maintained her Vulcan composure, because she was the only one who could get away with telling him the truth, and he didn't always even take it from her. Witness what I got for finding the EM signature in the first place; I can just imagine how dismissive he was of anythingI'd found.

I stride to the Situation Room and drop the blasted thing thankfully into his palm. "It was just where we detected the EM signature. But I don't understand. It was completely invisible. How on Earth did you know that a phase-discriminator would expose it?"

He doesn't answer, and I don't know why not, but perhaps he's just too carried away by his eagerness to get the investigation going to bother with explanations. Handing it to T'Pol, he issues his orders. "If I'm not mistaken, you'll find this thing was designed to generate a plasma stream.

"Put a team together, Trip. I'll need two quantum beacons. They'll have to be positron-based and have an output of two hundred gigawatts apiece."

If I'm not much mistaken, Trip's as much at sea as I am. "Positron-based, sir?"

"Just get started. I'll bring you the specs in a few minutes." Still not explaining himself, he glances at Hoshi. "We're going to need our comm. frequencies on the fritz for a day or so. See to it."

Hoshi, clever girl, is more than able to arrange for that. "Aye, sir."

Back to me again. It's like a magician waved a magic wand; the palpable air of defeat and despair that's hung about him has simply vanished. I may not know what on earth has happened, but the feeling of his hand coming to rest on my shoulder as he orders me to put the Armoury on full alert induces an extraordinary duality of feeling. On one hand it makes me want to roll on my back like Porthos being forgiven for snaffling an illicit helping of cheese, but on the other, I feel the almost irresistible urge to knock it away and snarl Where was this when you didn't believe me?

Then – looking to where Travis is almost on tiptoe waiting for the order – he says we're turning the ship around and going back to the Paraagan colony, and what are we all waiting for?

Trip, bless his cotton socks, is still looking at him like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Sir?"

"It wasn't us, Trip." I'm still damned if I know what the reason behind it is, but the sound of vibrant confidence in the captain's voice fills me with the same, on a wash of vindicated (if oddly bitter) relief. "We didn't do it."

Only later will it occur to me exactly why that relief leaves such a bad taste in my mouth. Now that evidence has presumably been found that lays the blame elsewhere, 'we' didn't do it. But when 'we' thought 'we' did, 'We' (and this was emphatically the Royal We, as in The Captain) all blamed me. There was no 'we' then; it was all 'You'.

=/\=

But that sour reflection and everything it will bring into focus will have to be put in the queue for my attention; I still have more urgent things to deal with first. Much as I dislike mysteries, and the source of the captain's newfound certainty is definitely one, getting the answer to it seems likely to present me with more questions than I had to start with. Still, I walk with him as ordered, trying to absorb an explanation that – were it not for the fact that it resulted in my discovering something I certainly wouldn't have found by any other means – I would regard as an indicator that my CO had mislaid a significant number of his marbles and I should call in Phlox as a matter of urgency.

Daniels. Of course I know him. Never had much cause to think about him one way or the other, once I'd verified his credentials (though in light of these revelations, I'm starting to wonder if they were as fake as my own – a worrying thought). Always struck me as being bland and vaguely irritating, though I put it down to just one of the irrational impressions you get of someone; he did his job well enough as far as I know, though being the captain's steward is hardly a post that was liable to bring him onto my scanners to any significant degree, unless he one day arbitrarily decided to dump a bowl of hot pasta over the captain's head or something, which would admittedly have bumped him up the batting order fairly smartly.

Maybe my scanners need adjusting, if this is the kind of thing that's been going on under my nose.

"Why did Daniels leave it in his quarters?" I ask.

Captain Archer makes a wry face. "I don't recall him having much time to pack before he left."

I suppose that's fairly inarguable, but I'm already thinking ahead to what else might be contained within this 'device' whose existence has been revealed to the captain. "No. Well, if it is there and it contains what he said it does, it could be invaluable to Starfleet…"

He's already seen where I'm going with this and firmly switches the points in front of that train of thought. "I gave Daniels my word, Malcolm. We download the schematics for the Suliban Stealth Cruiser, nothing else."

I swallow my disappointment as I bend to the security lock on the door of Daniels' quarters and enter the code. "Pity. Assuming he's right and we manage to find the cruiser, what makes you think the Suliban won't come after us?"

"Just like those old Bible movies, Malcolm. It wasn't written."

Well. I'm more of a believer in writing things for yourself, but it's not my place to say so. I reserve judgement and merely watch warily as he opens a cupboard and takes out of it a case, which he lays on the desk before opening it in its turn. It contains a bulky device that's certainly nothing like anything I've ever seen of Starfleet design.

"So far, Daniels is batting a thousand."

Though I still haven't managed to develop an interest in sport to provide me with a legitimate avenue of conversation the next time I can't get out of having breakfast with the captain, I've gathered that this idiom is from baseball and more or less the equivalent of a batsman hitting the semi-mythical six sixes in a cricketing 'over'.

As he switches the thing on, it fills the cabin with a 3-D holographic projection. As he starts scrolling through it, it takes me a moment to even get a grasp of the amount of material it contains; and almost at once I see familiar shapes that fix my interest.

The discovery is of such immediate tactical significance that I can't help myself blurting out, "Wait a minute. Did you see that? They've got schematics on half a dozen different Klingon ships!"

I hate it when he puts on his 'Good doggy, sit' voice. "The Stealth Cruiser, Lieutenant. Nothing else."

Bollocking hell. Sadly I watch all that invaluable data disappear into the ether, where it's safe from any attempt I might make to retrieve it.

I don't know, though – now I know where it is and how to retrieve it… After all, I'm the Head of Security…

BAD boy. Sit. Stay. Leave it alone.

"There. There it is."

We have the scanner ready. It's the work of moments to download the relevant data, though what we're planning to do with it is yet another mystery the captain's keeping close to his chest.

Fortunately for my waning store of patience, he doesn't keep me waiting very long. As I seal up the room again, mentally adjuring myself to resist temptation, he gives me my orders.

Finally.

Now this is a language I understand!