Title: Incentive
Author: Xenutia
E-mail: sorted@witzend.fsbusiness.co.uk
Disclaimer: The usual disclaimer applies. I don't own this stuff except the aliens. The rest belongs to Paramount.
Rating: PG
Category: Friendship/Angst/some Humour
Codes: R/S
Parts: 1/?
Summary: Reed awakes from an accident to find himself held prisoner in a tank without windows or doors, and with no idea how he got there. As he slowly pieces together the events leading up to his capture, he is forced to re-evaluate a lot of things . . . including a certain comm officer . . .



FIVE

She had turned her head in the palm of his hand, inclining her chin, giving her mouth to him; and, compelled by the hands at his back, Malcolm took what she offered. Her lips were warm and soft in contrast to the rain that pried goose flesh from his arms and streamed down his back in a chill torrent.

They parted when lightning split the sky and the rain on his senseless skin hardened to a downpour. Hoshi was the first to break it; her fingers curled caressingly around his neck, the nails combing through the finer hairs at the base of his skull, and then, with deceptive gentleness, she laced them through the locks as she had in the grass, and urged his head up to look at her. He went with it, surprised by the strength in those delicate hands, and enthralled by the way her eyes darted from his attentive face to the darkening sky above them. His brow creased in an involuntary frown.

he pressed.

The rain. It's getting worse again.

Hoshi's other hand crept around his neck and overlaid the first, his head cradled helplessly in her palms, and he allowed the constraint in silence. He hated to be so physically restricted, unable to react quickly to danger—but something in the lack of self-consciousness behind her gesture made him submit to it. His whole body felt too sluggish, too blissfully heavy, to fight against even her. He swallowed, drawn to the way she watched the glide of his throat. Is it? he breathed. I hadn't noticed.

I noticed you hadn't noticed.

Malcolm sighed, and with great effort brought his hands up from her waist, laid them over hers where they rested . . . and then removed both his and hers from his neck. He resisted the urge that stole over him to lift her fingertips to his mouth and kiss them; he couldn't quite bring himself to believe, even with her eyes on him this way, that she would want to pursue this any further. It was an incident born of success, of elation, of a sort of drunkenness inspired by the beauty and openness of this planet. A pleasant memory to hold between them. Nothing more. He had dated his fair share of women, some far more forward than Hoshi, but none of them, not one, had progressed to something deeper than this brief clinch in the dark. A date here, a chance meeting there, it all amounted to the same; over time, through work and other obligations, they would meet less, speak less, and the relationship would die. Perhaps as they got to know him they didn't like what they saw, the initial charm worn thin and the reality too distant and obtuse to invest in.

Maybe he was inherently unlovable. He honestly didn't know anymore.

We should get back to the shuttlepod, he said curtly. This storm's in for the night. It might even get worse than this.

Hoshi nodded, reluctant to let him pull away. Malcolm made himself take a step back. she said, softly. We have two days off-duty when we get back to the ship. Remember?

Of course I remember, Ensign. After ten days on twenty-four hour duty the captain thought we might need the rest. I have to say I appreciate the consideration.

He saw Hoshi visibly flinch at the official address—but he wouldn't allow himself to feel guilty about it. He couldn't. He couldn't face her offering so much, only for it all to fall down like a house of cards in a breeze. We should be going, he continued, and silently he couldn't help but admire the austerity of his own voice, the near tranquil severance of . . . whatever it was they had shared. It did not come easily to him.

Hoshi recovered admirably, that delightful wrinkle of her nose he had grown to recognise surfacing again with conscious effort, and Malcolm bit back a smile that would surely betray him. She had amazed him, beguiled him, bewitched him, made him forget everything for a few, precious minutes. She had even salved his bruised ego at the dismal failure to aid these people in their installation of an EM barrier around the city. With a touch on his back and a look that ignored all else, she had made him feel worthwhile.

That was why he had to end this, now. She was too good to waste on him.

We could always beg some chestnuts from Chef, she offered, hopefully. We won't have an open fire, but . . . well. It's a start.

Hoshi . . . His pretence caved at her quiet hopefulness, and he felt his voice slip back into its proper, acid propriety as the only defence he had left; but he was aware, even as he spoke, that he was pleading. Pleading with her to understand what he was trying so unskilfully to say. You know the rules. You know I can't . . .

she ended for him. I understand. After all . . . we wouldn't want to ruin your reputation, now would we? He watched helplessly as she turned her back on him, and strode out into the night alone.

Experience, and painful experience at that, had taught him never to follow a woman when the discussion was so clearly terminated. Not when they had turned their back on him so deliberately, so consciously, as Hoshi did now. Had the choice been his, he would have left her to cool down before attempting to make further contact. But this was an alien planet, and out there she would be alone, not only in a healing sense, but in a very literal one. There was no crew out there to step in and fill his shoes if he didn't follow.

Sometimes I wonder if you have any idea what you do to me, Ensign, he muttered, as her striding figure dwindled into the sheeting rain and cloud-shadows. But I can't help but think you do it on purpose.

He trotted after her, lifting his feet out of the mud a little higher than usual, feeling it suck at his boots with every step, and skirted around her to block her exit. She halted, planting her hands on her hips, the gesture pinning the already clinging fabric to her tiny waist and accentuating every sweeping curve.

My eyes are up here, she said, archly.

Malcolm obediently met them . . . but he flinched inwardly at the hurt he saw there.

Hoshi . . . he faltered. That's not what I meant, and you know it. She met him only with petulant silence, a reaction which could not help but remind him, oddly, of just how young she was. The realisation only twisted the knife a little deeper. Neither of us are thinking straight. It's been a long ten days and I, for one, don't know what I want. Why don't we just get back and work this out after we've had a decent meal and a good night's sleep? Things always make more sense in the morning.

Hoshi's head tilted on one side, but other than the steady blink of those huge dark eyes her face betrayed nothing that he could read. What could you possibly be confused about, Lieutenant? You said it yourself. Ensign—Lieutenant. I don't see that there's anything else to discuss.

Cold and soaked to the bone, mud gracing their feet to the ankle and their clothes damped darkly to them like shrink-wrap, the two ventured from the cluster of trees into the rising storm, Malcolm slipping ahead to lead the way. Hoshi, he was both pleased and ashamed to acknowledge, was now allowing herself to be led, turning her face up into the rain, to the clouds darkening the sky and blotting out the stars. Thunder roared in the low dome and Hoshi skidded to a halt, startled. Malcolm reached blindly backwards in the dark and squeezed her hand, warningly, telling her there was no time to waste. He hadn't been joking about catching pneumonia.

The hillside stretching away so dark and foreboding to their right inevitably fascinated Malcolm, a morbid captivation he supposed, and despite his urgency he slowed enough to glance occasionally at the white-hot boil of moonlit cloud along the horizon, noting its stormlit intensity, drinking in the acidic taste of ozone in the air. It was a beautiful storm, and that, he knew, meant it would be deadly. He had see all too many of them before tonight.

On one of his snatched glimpses, lightning ignited the sky in one bright bolt, a silent flash swift on the heels of the thunder's roar, and Malcolm lurched to a halt, staring dumbly at the horizon line, waiting for the light to come again. Waiting to see if what he thought he saw was real.

Hoshi tugged him on, uselessly. She was mad at him, he knew, for his hesitance after he had chided her for the same; but despite her initial resistance he pulled her close by the soaked band of her neckline, his lips finding her cold, damp ear in the dark, and whispered:

Did you see that?

No. What?

Malcolm slowly dropped to the ground, pulling her down with him, and was encouraged when she took his warning, and fell to the grass with no protest. He did not take his eyes from the dark horizon. he hissed. Up there. On the hill.

Hoshi's bright eyes swept their surroundings ceaselessly. Malcolm silently nodded his approval; his old wariness and alert defence had returned to his own weighted body as if they had never been away. How many? she asked.

I don't know. A lot. There were too many to count, and it was too fast to try.

Hoshi caught her breath sharply beside him, and for an instant Malcolm regretted being so abrupt—after all, she was still skittish, still frightened, in so many ways—but he didn't have the luxury of regret for long. She could handle herself. That there were untapped depths even Hoshi herself had not yet discovered, Malcolm was in no doubt.

Are you sure?' Hoshi asked, tightly.

Positive. They were lined up, Ensign. Lined up like an army.

Like

Malcolm nodded. We're too far from the shuttlepod, he replied. But the lake's only just over that ridge. It would provide cover. If we stay low, we should be able to make it.

There's no way, Hoshi murmured. Her strengthless, terrified jitter was lost in the pounding rain and the rising, howling wind. There's no way they didn't see us, Lieutenant. We're surrounded.

he bit, and shook his head again. In this time his gaze never moved, waiting for the lightning. No, not yet, they haven't seen us.

The lightning he waited for came; in the flat clap of searing white light, the ranks of figures stood silent and steadfast against the deepening, clouded blue of the turbulent night sky. Malcolm lost no time; the instant the landscape had darkened, he hauled Hoshi to her feet, and they ran.

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He had not looked back, but he looked back now—looked back on the events that had, unknown to him at the time, worked a quite remarkable change. Before today he might have handled the choice he was called upon to make only minutes after that first flash of lightning quite differently. Instead all he could do was replay that bitterly compelling incitement from the cell that would, before the hour was out, steal all his motivation away.

0:49:00. Eleven minutes. It would be tight and it would be thoughtless, all higher brain functions locked away where they could not interfere, where his conscience could be silenced. It would be the shortest deadline he had ever worked to.

But it would be enough.

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Malcolm bundled Hoshi unceremoniously over the brink of the lake's southern bank, taking no pains to be gentle with her this time. The rain had churned the dry summer dust into a mudslide, and she slipped as the uprooted rim crumbled away, fell hard on her thigh, and skidded into the water. The splash barely carried against the weather's violent throes.

Malcolm peered over the bank's edge, one eye on Hoshi and her precarious descent, the other drawn to the flat pewter shine of the water, opaque in this light, diamonds of rain kicking up from its leaden surface in cold mimicry of the stars they had watched together, only earlier tonight. Hoshi's bright eyes looked back up at him with quiet urgency, but he barely saw her. All he saw was the water, silent and dark with shadows like an open grave.

she stammered, at last. The name and the touch of her hand on his ankle startled him out of the trance, and he cast one final, sweeping glance from the depths below to the silvered rise of land above. Those figures were there, somewhere. Watching. With that in mind he slid, clumsily skidding on his heels and thigh with none of his customary grace, down the bank to her, and into the lake's chill embrace.

Hoshi's teeth were chattering once more, her face a pale smudge in the dark. The undercut bank to which Malcolm had guided them blotted out all but the palest starlight; the blinding moon had long since been lost in cloud.

A nervous laugh bubbled up in his throat, but he locked out all but the barest breath of it, expelling only a slight rush of air. I can't believe it, he murmured—at least, it sounded little above a murmur, but in reality it was closer to a shout. All that trouble to warm you up, and now your teeth are chattering again. He refrained from letting himself dwell too much on what that backsliding may entail, to set it right again. All that stood between them and pneumonia was each other, out here, and he resisted the powerful urge to cuddle her to him, and smooth the cold from her body with his palms.

He had been told, on more occasions than he could remember, that he was good with his hands.

Hoshi's gaze was unmoving, flickering over his face and leaving an imagined sensation of moth wings on the skin where her eyes alighted. Malcolm tore himself away from her and turned to survey the bank's brink, his ears strained against the downpour. It might be his imagination as that shiver in his cheekbones and his lips and the tips of his ears had been his imagination, but he thought the rain was lessening.

Can you hear anything?' he demanded, softly. Hoshi shook her head. she began; but then she stiffened, and her hand shot out to grasp his arm tightly. Yes. Boots. On the rock over our heads.

Malcolm listened, and now, slow and ponderous and heavy enough to send tremors through the crumbling bank to them, he could make out the march of militant footsteps. Only one set, one soldier—but one was enough.

His mind was made up in an instant. he hissed, urgently, and now it was he whose hands shot blindly out, clasping her shoulders, all semblance of tenderness gone. His fingers, to him, felt like steel pincers ploughing mercilessly into her soft flesh. On three. Take a deep breath. Get as much air as you can.

Her stare sliced right through him, totally comprehending. Aren't you afraid?' she asked, quite placidly.

We don't have a choice, he breathed. On three. One—two—three.

On his mark and before the word had fully left his mouth, both opened their lungs and drank in as much of the acidic air as they could hold before plunging down into the black water. Malcolm's heart jerked painfully in his chest as the cold wetness rushed up over him, his head completely submerged, the lightless depths a flurry of icy currents on his face and tugging at his body. Something brushed against him and he wrenched himself furiously away, twisting his sodden uniform into tangle as he thrashed. A gentle, but impatient, hand wound around his waist, and an arm circled his back, urging him forward. Malcolm's struggles quieted and he allowed himself to lean into Hoshi, feeling her there, treading water with him in a clumsy embrace.

She was an expert in communication, and her talent did not desert her now. Without her speaking, without his seeing, her message came through to him loud and clear.

I won't let you drown.

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Malcolm closed his eyes, as much to fence away the glare of this cell's merciless light and the inimitable march of those numbers as to capture, for one precious moment, the feel of Hoshi's arms around him in mutual comfort. An anchor, a security then and an incentive now.

(I won't let you drown)

Neither will I, he said, to a memory. I won't let you die, Hoshi.

He took a shuddering breath that hastened the oxygen in and out of his lungs, as if his body rebelled against air provided by these monsters. It tasted . . . cold. Unreal. Then he opened his eyes, focused on the monitor, and began to punch the keys. Her face overlaid the screen, blurring sunspots that had yet to fade.

0:50:00.

He could do it.

He could do it—so long as he never allowed himself to think about what he did, ever again.

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They exploded from below the lake's surface together, a tangle of wet clothes and goose fleshed limbs that clung together like limpets to a rock, and both breathed in deep lungfuls of the rain-soaked air gratefully. The soldier, as far as Malcolm could see or hear with water trailing down his face and with his ears swollen deaf, was gone.

He gasped raggedly, and smeared the drops from his eyes with his knuckles. Hoshi was treading water patiently beside him, her breathing steadying more easily than his, her arms still threaded loosely around his waist. It was with the same grim reluctance that he removed her comforting hands from him once more, but mourning the loss far more deeply. The enveloping sensation of cold black water was still too near; it had glided soft and gentle jaws around him like a liquid shroud.

Hoshi merely tipped her head in an oddly formal nod to him, and flashed a small, wavering smile that seemed oddly rigid on her face. It was all he could do to see her in the dark, but that smile had been plain, so they said, as the nose on her face. They were a team, and she trusted him to protect her and would herself protect him; but there was still much to be forgiven.

Instead of nodding back smartly as he might have done in less personal circumstances, Malcolm smiled gently. He let it remain only a moment before turning and kicking the one or two strokes back to the bank. Hoshi followed him, and both reclaimed their hold on the slick, rocky surface.

Hear anything? he demanded, softly.

No. Do you think . . . do you think they've gone?

Malcolm hooked both elbows over an outcropping of rock, and levered himself up to peer over the bank. I wouldn't count on it, he muttered gruffly. But I don't see anything.

It was at that moment, on a cue that could not have been achieved more accurately had it been choreographed in a play, that he did see; there was that one lonely figure, massive, armoured, pacing in measured strides across a patch of grass surely no more than twenty metres away. It was too dark and the rain came down too hard to see a face, an insignia, markings of any kind, and Malcolm had no way of placing the type of life form that studied the ground around it so religiously. He only knew he had never seen their kind before; the soldier marching a furrow in the turf must be at least eight feet tall, his limbs elongated and faintly bowed, giving an illusion of frailty and gauntness where there was none. Malcolm knew it would be a mistake to assume as much by this being's appearance and instead tried to judge his weight, his movements, the slumberous speed with which he walked .

The soldier stooped quite suddenly, and retrieved an item from the ground that was too small and distant for Malcolm to see at first. Then he recognised the object for what it was, and he felt the wall of calm he had so carefully constructed, the wall that had been considerably weathered by his immersion in the lake, implode as if his internal pressure could no longer match the force of the outer. Even the faint recognition that Hoshi may eventually forgive him for pushing her away like that did nothing to warm him.

It was a piece of charred firewood.

Eyes locked immovably on the alien soldier, following every twitch as if it were a personal threat, Malcolm walked his hand slowly to the right hip pocket of his uniform, reaching for the solid, cold comfort of the phase pistol he had charged and holstered there. The weapons had not been fully tested for water resistance since the laboratory preliminaries, but he had faith that it would still fire. Faith, not in some blind, unknowable force of luck, but in his own designs, his own profession, his own abilities. A clean stun should be enough to take the alien down, even given his monstrous size, and with this scout removed they could attempt to break cover and run for the shuttlepod. The ranks upon ranks of these aliens, though still a vivid memory, were only a distant threat.

Just one shot, if he played his cards right. One shot right between the shoulder blades, a short blast and no more. It should be easy. Malcolm slipped his fingers into his pocket . . . and there he froze.

His phase pistol had vanished. There was nothing in its place but empty air.

The soldier pitched the stick roughly away, and snatched a shrouded, unidentifiable weapon from his angular harness, from its shape a plasma rifle of some kind. Malcolm watched, captivated by this soldier as if watching a traffic accident not meant for his eyes; and that was when the creature suddenly turned, and looked straight at him.

He ducked, breathing hard as those weighted, deliberate footsteps approached once more, pensively pausing at every two or three. Malcolm seized the moment given him and scrambled the metre or so down the bank to where Hoshi's pale face and stricken wide eyes looked fearfully up at him.

Down, down! he hissed, clawing at Hoshi's shoulders as he landed in the water. She blinked at this vicious command, opened her mouth to speak, and closed it again; but she obeyed him, instantly. Her hands stole out and found his as they plunged down into the deep waters, and as it rushed into his ears and his world became that dark vacuum of silence and shadow for a second time, the sound of those footsteps was severed, and he heard nothing more but his own thumping heart.

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Malcolm cleaved to Hoshi in their watery hideaway, his arms wrapped around her as hers wound around him—focusing all of his intent, all his will, on the feel of her, on the promise she gave. He resisted the urge, however strongly it came, to hold her any tighter than this, dared not allow himself the luxury despite his fear. He would rather release her entirely than risk dragging her down with him; but also, on a no less personal note but one far less excusable, he dared not allow himself to enjoy having her so close.

He pulled away from her as they surfaced again, disentangling himself from her wet clothes and comforting limbs and the long, sleek hair that had somehow laced itself around his neck. It was only now he noticed, quite without much care for it one way or another, that the rain had stopped.

Hoshi's eyes were a lambent glow in the dark, skating over his face in searchlight sweeps. The face they peered from remained composed, set . . . but expectant.

What was that all about?' she demanded.

He was still there. He found our fire. Malcolm palmed his plastered hair from his forehead, and shook his head dry briskly; any excuse, anything, if it meant he did not have to look at her.

I thought you said there wasn't a life sign bigger than a bug for miles.

There wasn't. I don't know where they came from. Still Malcolm refused to look at her. Her hands were suddenly in his hair again, with a strength that had clearly been suppressed the last time, and her interlaced fingers cupped his neck and forced his head up, urgently.

Malcolm . . . what aren't you telling me?

He shied back from the look she gave him, unable to assimilate what he saw there; frustration, annoyance . . . hope. Trust. She wanted him, maybe even needed him, to get them out of the situation he had placed them in. And what was worse . . . she believed that he could do it. Implicitly.

Malcolm had never felt so helpless in his life.

Hoshi sighed, and dragged one of her loosed hands across her nose with a sniff. So . . . what? Lieutenant, you're supposed to be the tactical officer; what do we do? She bit her lip, then, the first and only sign of fear she had given . . . and like the click of a phase pistol as the power cell was loaded, Malcolm knew that he could get her out of this. Safe, unharmed.

But alone.

He knows there's somebody here, Malcolm murmured, more to himself than to Hoshi, though ostensibly for her benefit. He found what was left of our fire. Possibly our footprints, although in this weather I doubt they'd last. And . . . and I think he saw me, just now when I looked over the edge. He won't leave until he has what he came for, not now.

The water rippled as Hoshi kicked her legs lazily to buoy herself up, shattering their reflected images into planetary rings. How do you know that?

Malcolm blinked. "Because that's what I would do.

So . . . so what are you saying? That we're good as stuck here playing hide-and-seek?

He shook his head, firmly. They only know there's somebody here, Hoshi. I doubt our voices would have carried over the rain. That soldier has no way of knowing there are two people down here. Funny. He huffed quietly, without a trace of humour in what would otherwise have appeared to be a laugh. Here was I, convinced you wouldn't be needing security on this planet. Looks like I was wrong.

You wouldn't have been, she whispered back. If I hadn't asked you to land today. I had no right to do that.

And I had no right to agree, Ensign. But I did, and for better or worse we're here now. So let's just stop placing blame and face the facts. He pushed away from her and returned his attention to the bank, leaving Hoshi unanswered and unconsulted. That creature was up there, somewhere.

The simple hush that descended over the lake was broken, very gently as if in mocking parody of their shattered day trip, by only two things; the caressing lap of the stilled water against the undercut rock, and the measured labour of Hoshi's lungs as they worked. Malcolm could not hear his own because, as he gathered his wits, he realised he wasn't breathing at all.

Mathematics had never been his field of study, but there was a degree of calculation to any task involving weaponry, involving tactical manoeuvres, statistics and projected losses. This cold equation was simply a matter of logical arithmetic, and those numbers Malcolm understood all too perfectly.

he ventured, mutedly, one ear turned unconsciously towards her as he watched the pinnacle of the bank's black slope. There was an answering plash of water as she came closer to him to hear better, and Malcolm gratefully lowered his harsh whisper to an undertone. Did you ever take basic tactical training at the Academy?

I don't think so. I did self-defence, but that's about it.

Indeed. Listen; first-year Academy training in any tactical or weapons fields teaches the classic decoy manoeuvre. You're familiar with it?

He caught a movement from the corner of his eye, and pivoted to see her shake her head apologetically. I know the word, though, sir, she offered. I don't need tactical training to know what that means.

He could hardly have missed her many layers of meaning had it been only half so vivid as it was. There was a quiver to her voice, an apprehension that she knew where the discussion would lead; but the bared steel of her direct eyes on him accused, opaquely enough, perhaps, but unmistakably. He had used more than one decoy tactic already tonight, and it had not gone unnoticed.

he continued, deliberately. It's a simple enough equation, after all. That soldier is aware there's somebody down here; but it's unlikely he's given much thought to how many. I've worked with men like this, and he knows a single captive will earn him quite a few merit badges from his commanding officer. One or two makes little difference if that C.O. hasn't specifically expected that two be found. If we don't show soon, that soldier is going to come down here looking for us. On the other hand if one of us is located up there it's unlikely he'd think to look for a second down here. Malcolm took a deep, faltering breath, knowing this was where her protests would begin. The staid intractability of his own voice barely sounded his, sounded steady and assured . . . but this was Hoshi. She would see through that disguise as if it were made of glass.

She said nothing. Her face, cool and coldly grey in the dense web of shadow, seemed cast in marble. The only movement, all but eclipsed in the dark, was an errant twitch of her top lip, threatening a nervous smile.

Did you know that in Klingon the words for decoy' and suicide' have the same root? she murmured, at last—and there was her protest, unspoken but not unmade.

Finally Malcolm turned completely to face her, abandoning his careful lookout, the water swelling darkly around his waist. She was shivering again, her arms wrapped tightly around her upper body, her hands tucked into her sleeves and clasped firmly under her arms.

Share body heat? he ventured, with an anxious half-smile.

He had closed the space between them before she could resist, weaving his arms around her shoulders, drawing her in. She went, her crossed arms pinned between her chest and his; and although Malcolm regretted the absence of those small hands on his back, he was grateful. At least this way, clearly dominant and making some show of being control, he could imagine that he knew what he was doing.

Nonsense, by the way, he said, dismissively. Suicide is about as dishonourable as a Klingon can get. He felt her laugh breathlessly into the nape of his neck, the slight outrush chilling as it struck his damp skin, and smiled to himself bitterly. It was only the second time he had held her, had held any woman, this way, and a part of him almost knew, in a way that was near precognitive, that it would also be the last. He squeezed her gently before he even knew what he did. I appreciate the effort, he conceded. Trust me, Hoshi, it's an old trick. The oldest. The odds of a decoy sustaining any serious injury is fairly remote. About one in three, to be exact.

I know when you're lying, she returned, her voice unjudging and placid and muffled against his shoulder. It was the sound of a woman who wanted to believe she was safe. Your cheek twitches. It's involuntary.

Swallowing back the confession in his throat, Malcolm let go of her and took a step back, his feet slipping on the rocky bed. As before, Hoshi's eyes followed him where he wandered. I'll remember to work on that.

Malcolm, surely you don't think . . .

He only stared her down, perfectly impassive, resisting every motion she made towards breaking his control. He did think. In fact, it was worse than that.

He knew.

It's our best chance, Hoshi, he said, very softly. Give me a moment to get his attention and then run for the shuttlepod and call for an emergency beam-out the second Enterprise is in range. Just keep going straight to two o' clock and you should find your way. If I'm still in range of the transporter, then . . . well, then nothing's been lost.

Hoshi was now the one that swallowed, quite brutally shifting the lump in her throat. He found himself watching the movement, returning the favour, lacking the courage to raise his eyes any higher. My eyes are up here, she had said. It wasn't as simple as that.

What if you're not in range? she put to him, even, and unsettlingly distant. What if we can't get a lock on you or . . . or you've already been beamed somewhere else?

Malcolm at last took his eyes away completely, unable to bear the faint hope he saw there, the desperate insistence for a promise he couldn't give. He couldn't tell her the real concern, though he knew she was neither so blind nor so innocent to fail to see it for herself; although he said captive, to placate her, to fool her, to fool himself, he knew the word was only one option of the two that lay before him if he went ahead with this.

There may not be any human biosigns left for the Enterprise to find by the time they started looking for him.

If you can't lock onto me . . . then I'll just have to escape some other way. I do have some experience in these matters, you know. He smiled ruefully, drawing a weary imitation from her. Be back at the landing site in twelve hours. I'll be there.

Silence. Your cheek's twitching again, she said.

There was that hush again; only this time, to Malcolm's ears, his own breathing overrode all else. It doesn't change anything, Hoshi. We could stay down here, and hide for as long as you think you can hold your breath, and maybe Enterprise will send somebody to come looking for us. They might even think to use the transporter themselves. But that alien up there isn't going to stand and wait for us to come out forever. He'll come after us, and once he's seen you, it will be too late for plan B, in fact too late for anything. We have to do something now.

She pressed her finger to his still murmuring lips, quieting him before he could intercept her. Shaking, he took her hand gently away as he had so many times tonight. he begged, and with that word every effort he had made to belittle this plan, to underplay its danger and brass out his fear, collapsed on a breath. It wasn't working, and would never work, on someone so inherently cautious as Hoshi. Don't make this any harder for me. I'll be all right so long as I don't . . . so long as I stay focused. This is my responsibility, all of it. I should never have allowed this landing party, and I should never have suggested that fire. This whole day was a mistake, my mistake. I won't let you pay for my mistakes.

This time, Hoshi apparently thought better of touching him. Though Malcolm had encouraged that restraint, he regretted, quite suddenly, that it should have caught on so soon. Do you think I don't know why you're doing this, Malcolm? This isn't Lieutenant Reed speaking; I know you haven't hesitated in the past to jump in and take the flack for any one of us . . . but this isn't about duty. Is it?

Of course not, he conceded, reluctantly. I'm not a total lemming.

Those eyes were on him again, lancing through his, prying his thoughts from his head as a knife would lever apart loose bricks. He had always imagined himself a little like the Great Pyramid in that respect, with no chink wide enough to insert even the thinnest blade between the stones; but he had never allowed for the complete lack of artifice that was Hoshi Sato. Then why?' she pressed, tenderly. I've seen you watching me, Malcolm. When you didn't think I'd notice, when my back was turned. Lieutenant Reed would never have landed here today; but Malcolm might. If he wanted to make me happy. And the fire; I even think Malcolm would have taken that swim if I'd pressed him. So the fact is that today didn't feel like a mistake' to me. So I have to wonder . . . which one is making this decision?

Now, as she looked at him, there were tears lying dormant and ready to fall in her eyes. Malcolm reached out a numb hand at last, and cupped her neck in his palm as she had done so many times for him, only today. Are you angry with me, for . . . for taking advantage? After all, I did take every opportunity to get you alone. Weren't you nervous? Or mad as a Klingon with a headache at me for having the nerve?

She laughed, painfully. I'm angry with you for being such a melodramatic jerk, she breathed. So the question remains—why do you have to do this at all? And why you? I'm every bit as expendable as you are.

You're not, Hoshi. There are any number of people onboard that can do my job, but there's none come close to you. It makes sense this way.

There was a mutinous silence. I wasn't talking about our jobs. Tell me the real reason, Malcolm, or I'll scream. Then your plan won't mean a thing.

Malcolm tightened his hold and pulled her closer, bringing his mouth to her ear until his lips tickled her lobe as he spoke. He whispered the answer and felt her twist her fingers, briefly, in his uniform; and without a further word, without looking back, Malcolm climbed the bank, and stepped into the unknown.

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His fingers halted on the keys at that phantom touch of her ear against his lips, a ghost that passed like a breeze and was gone. He had been a jerk, for want of a better word. He had given her signals only to withdraw them again, had frozen her out in cowardly self-defence. But at least, with that brief last whisper, he had not left her without an apology, without righting the greatest mistake he had made that day.

The memory of all that came after was hazy, at best; he remembered surrendering to that silent silhouette against the waxing moonlight, remembered being dragged by his hair out onto the hillside. He remembered that impenetrable wall of black armoured bodies, and being bundled into a hulking metallic hover vehicle that towered above him like a man-made monolith. Once, he thought, he might have broken away and tried to escape; the only real recollection he had of that encounter was the sharp crack of a rifle butt across his face and the agonising smash of his knuckles as he lashed out against a helmeted head, knocking the soldier to the ground. Malcolm was sure he must have fallen soon after under that same rifle butt, the first blow enough to stun his wits out of his head and blot out the rest. Beaten into submission—for a time, at least.

Still there was blackness where the rest should be. Although the majority of the day's events had risen from a lifeless trickle until they crowded in on him, pushing from all sides, he remembered nothing of the journey here at all. Maybe they had drugged him, to prevent him from attempting escape again. Whatever the case—until the fractured images of waking in that vehicle's blazing debris, the dream he had been visited by even here, there was nothing.

Hoshi. There was Hoshi.

Yes, there had been Hoshi, stark in the sea of lost minutes, lost hours. There had been that curdling scream, heard from a distance as he lay trapped in the wreckage.

Despite it all, he couldn't help now but smile, inwardly. He had heard that scream only once before, but the squeal she sometimes gave; with that, he was well acquainted. Early on in this ten-day mission they had been exploring a marketplace, a pleasing dichotomy of rustic scents and sounds and sights in crystal contrast to the sleek modern beauty of the buildings round about. Technology and nature blended so seamlessly, so effortlessly, on this planet. They had been passing by a community garden where a sprinkler system rotated endless spirals of moisture over the cultivated lawns, and atypically he had succumbed to an almost frightful urge; he had reached out a hand as they passed, and tilted one of the sprinklers straight at Hoshi. She had responded in kind, soaking them both in the crossfire. And a little girl nearby, one Hoshi had had occasion to meet before that day, had witnessed their playful cussing and asked Hoshi if he was her boyfriend. At least, that was what Hoshi had said the girl asked . . .

Malcolm looked back at the blueprints on-screen, tracing the fine lines of the aerial view with his fingertips, the smile gone from his face. This city suburb, this target, looked so much like the downtown streets they had strolled through that day—so much like the market, the gardens, the bunker where most of his failed experiments to stabilise their prototype EM barrier had taken place and come to nothing.

That was it. That was why these aliens wanted this target, this largely civilian target it now seemed, destroyed—they wanted to rob the city of its one greatest budding defence, a fully-encompassing, stable electromagnetic barrier. Why was not for him to know, it appeared, a feud perhaps too old to be explained. Most feuds were.

What on earth did he think he was doing? This was a civilian population, people he had met, people he had known . . .

. . . but Hoshi . . . Hoshi was someone he might have loved.

I'm sorry, Hoshi, he murmured, to himself, to her memory, he didn't know.

He stared, unseeing, as the counter that had tormented him for the past hour flickered from 0:59:59 to 0:01:00; and then his hands slid, lifelessly, from the console.

He left them in his lap where they fell.