LUCID NIGHTMARES

You're sure about this, Malcolm?

It came a dozen times, a dozen different ways, each testing for a desired answer—and each, inevitably, drawing the opposite. You're sure about this, Malcolm? Each time the captain pressed the question, it was Reed's mouth that opened to reply—and somebody else's words that came out. Maybe it was still a part of him, the little bit that had given up being afraid of the storm and had sat at his window watching the lightning strike, but still it did not feel his own.

Three accompanied him to the lab; Sparek, T'Lau, and the captain. T'Pol excused herself with the intention of contacting the Enterprise and relaying their course changes to Commander Tucker, and Reed saw Archer breathe a sigh of relief; three Vulcans in one room was hardly the captain's idea of a party.

The storm beat against the shaded windows of the main laboratory they were escorted to, waves of rain surging against the building like a sea trying to claw its way inside. Reed shuddered, quietly. He could not help but think it was trying to pound its way in to him.

T'Lau showed him to a biobed at the center of the spartan lab, a reclining chair-like contraption with headrest and—he tried not to dwell on these—restraining straps. Reed climbed on, eyeing the straps pointedly. Captain Archer stood back to the head of the biobed, tense as a coil ready to spring. The two Vulcans took pains to ignore the captain, and despite their expressionless plaster cast faces gave an unmistakable air of wanting him gone.

Perhaps you would like to assist the subcommander, Captain? T'Lau suggested coldly, arranging a series of unfamiliar implements on a tray. We may be some time.

T'Pol can take care of herself, I'm sure. Thanks, but I'd rather be here.

T'Lau inclined his head politely—but, somehow, in a way that was anything but polite. As you wish, Captain. He's your crewman.

Archer replied crisply, a faceless sound from behind Reed's reclined head. Only his shadow, falling askew on the far wall, allowed Reed to see the rigid set of the captain's spine. He is.

It's all right, Captain, Reed reassured him. I'm a big boy now. Although I do feel oddly like I'm visiting the dentist. Should I say Aah?

Archer laughed, a gesture that made the two Vulcans visibly bristle. I'm sure this won't take long.

Sparek gave them both a look of obvious distaste, again without moving a single facial muscle. he said.

Lightning lanced the bruised sky outside, making Reed jump. Thunder answered with a grumbled threat. It's directly overhead, I'd say. Does it always storm so much around here?

It is part of our work, Sparek returned. Reed waited for more, but Sparek had set his mouth grimly, and no further explanation seemed forthcoming.

So, exactly what is this technique' you've been talking about? Archer said, with a buoyancy Reed felt sure was fake. I have to say I'd feel a lot better handing over one of my top officers if I knew what this involved.

T'Lau raised his black-haired head from the array of medical implements, hyposprays, and data padds regimentally aligned on the sterilized tray. We have been making an extensive study into nanotechnology.

Reed echoed, half-intrigued, half-apprehensive. Starfleet had, as far as he knew, made only limited investigations into such technology, and all entirely theoretical.

Submicroscopic robotic organisms, if calling largely inorganic machines organisms is not a gross contradiction. They are capable of repairing tissue damage, and you may find that scars and other minor imperfections clear during the nine days you carry the nanobots. However, their primary function is to carry encrypted data. They will react only minimally with you.

Archer noted, at once. What is it you Vulcans don't want us to see?

T'Lau conceded the question with a dip of his head. As we have already discussed and as, no doubt, your science officer will inform you, it is the decision of the Vulcan High Command with whom to share this information. Perhaps when the mission is complete an arrangement could be reached to apprise you of the situation.

Archer growled low in his throat, a sound only Reed was close enough to catch, and which mirrored his own reaction perfectly. He was less than thrilled, perhaps even uneasy, about becoming courier to an unknown message. It breached every security protocol in Starfleet—but the pull that had opened his mouth and used his vocal cords to relay answers he didn't want to give was stronger, a magnet drawing a helpless pin to it, and he bit down on the uncertainty beginning to creep in.

I warn you, he said, resting back on the biobed, eyes staring straight upwards into the bar lights glaring down on him through the swarthy storm-shadows that rippled on the white walls, if I wake up bald or my ears get pointy, you'll be the first to know about it.

Sparek approached the biobed with a hypospray half-raised to the bloated white light, stepping into the flare of lightning streaking past the tinted glass behind—and in an instant, one freeze-frame of darkness in a brightly-lit movie, Sparek was not Sparek, but a misty black hole cut in the room's very fiber, and there was the foaming, tangy smell of lemonade.

The hypospray pressed into his neck, and everything went black.

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One form melted to another, no less familiar, no less dispassionate, ageless, cryptic . . . cold. One blackness descended into another. The storm faded to a tranquil night whose still, radiant air held no trace of moisture. The mingled scent of ozone and bubbling citrus clarified to one; of apples, heavy with juice and slumbering rot on the tree, decaying on the ground, soaking the night with an intoxicating cider taste.

Reed blinked, his eyes focusing slowly on the distant pinpoints of light in the purple velvet overhead. After so much bright light, so featureless and austere, the dimness was pleasant, but difficult to adjust to. This did not feel like a dream; he was lucid, aware, holding every memory of waking life unbroken and unsullied. But this was not a conscious memory, either. Memory could build one environment in the mind but the body would be aware still of its physical place and surroundings, but here, the grass beneath his feet felt real, the breeze blowing waves of fragrant apple fumes against his face felt real. It was real. As he underwent the Vulcan anesthetic, he had not slept, but had been transported to this; a dream painted by a forgotten memory. As the details of his surroundings became clearer, the memory took shape, drawn to the surface . . . as the memory of that storm so many years ago had resurfaced, only earlier tonight.

He was not far from that other memory here, both chronologically and logistically speaking. It was the park not far from his childhood home, his old bedroom window visible to the eye if he turned his head, and although he could not remember how much time had passed between, he was certain he had still been very much a child. But the memory, as yet, was incomplete. He remembered this place, this sky, remembered standing here as a boy and gazing up at the distant stars . . . but he did not remember what happened next.

Perhaps this lucid dreaming of forgotten times was one of the side effects the Vulcans had warned him about. Reed supposed he could accept the effect as it was, seeing no harm in it . . . but still he wondered, somewhat sickly, what other lost gems his mind may throw up in sleep.

Relax, Malcolm, just relax. Nothing lasts forever, he muttered to himself. Not even nightmares.

It seemed he was here for the duration of the procedure, however long that may prove to be. They had said it may be quite a while, and despite the captain's thoughtful optimism Reed believed them. He hopped up on the low wall, eyes turned appreciatively to the minefield of far-off lights above, and waited.

Ribbons of memories flashed past him as he sat there, ribbons like quicksilver winding thin, intangible streams he could almost reach out and grasp—but not. The recollection of more, of what had driven the six-year-old Malcolm outside on this fine night and what had happened here after was there, but beyond his reach, just yet. He swung his feet, as the child version of himself would have done, and waited.

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In the lab, Archer watched fretfully as his armory officer's eyes moved rapidly behind his eyelids, almost manic in their speed.

Is that normal? Archer asked, indicating the unconscious Reed.

There will be side effects, Sparek informed him again, tonelessly. In fact, there are some possible effects which we would like to discuss with you, while he is unconscious. It would have been . . . unbefitting . . . for him to be aware of these. In some cases, Captain, some rare cases, the nanobots can cause hallucinations.

Archer repeated, crisply.

T'Lau nodded. His perception of reality may become very different from yours. This should pass, if it even occurs. As we have said, this has not been fully tested on humans.

Archer huffed impatiently, and let them do their job.

But he wasn't happy about it.

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What's a young lad like you doing out here at this time of night?

Malcolm turned to the voice behind him with the barest hint of a smile touching his lips. He recognized the words as they were spoken—no more, no less, but this line, at least, was returning to him. Whether the rest would follow, he wouldn't like to say.

He was hardly surprised, almost indulgent, when he saw the tall figure in its long, dark coat, motionlessly watching him with eyes too shadowed in his hood to see even a glint of them.

Young lad like you. Although, to Malcolm's eyes, he still had the mind and body of a fully grown adult, he was apparently playing the part of his younger self, and his reply was the reply he had given as a child. He opened his mouth to reply, hardly expecting to find anything worth saying—but words from all those years ago flooded out.

he said.

Then why come out here?

I'm a big boy now. I can take care of myself.

The man, if man he even was, took a seat on the wall, a little way from Malcolm. You like the stars, don't you?

Malcolm drew breath painfully, feeling it pull in his ribs like a grappler. When he spoke, his voice shook against his will. Then he remembered; his voice had shaken, back then. His breathing had been pained, drawn, strung from too deep in his chest.

He had been crying.

Yes, sir, he sniffed, softly. Everything looks so much simpler up there.

You sound like a world-weary octogenarian. What makes life here so difficult?

Malcolm shrugged, miserably. As this twisted play-act went on and he repeated words from long ago, he found himself remembering, reliving, each tiny piece. Mum took me to a doctor for my allergies. I've got to stay away from dust mites, and . . . and oak pollen — he smiled ruefully — but Dad . . . he says a real man doesn't let a little thing like allergies stop him. He thinks I'm soft. Maybe he's right.

The man edged a little closer, his coat dragging across the rough top of the wall as he moved, and that frothing scent crept slowly into Malcolm's nose again, blotting out the dense cider. One day, the man whispered, humans will travel to the stars. There will be ships, exploring space like man once explored the ocean . . .

The ocean? Malcolm interrupted. Dad wants me to join the Navy when I leave school. Will people really travel out of the solar system at twice the speed of light, like Henry Archer says?

The man nodded. Think about it, Malcolm. There's plenty of room in deep space for people like you.

How did you know my . . .

But the man, even as Malcolm spoke, was gone, leaving only that swish of silk and the lingering, heady after-scent of soda.

. . . name? he ended, in a whisper.