IN THE DARK


The blight in his eyes paled, a lucid light weeping into his unconscious vision, then darkening again. As a boy he had not been overly fond of the dark; he was concerned, even as a child, with security, and darkness made him . . . vulnerable. It was not a fear of darkness, as it would appear to anybody on the outside; but it was a rational caution. A sense of self-preservation.

He was standing on a level surface, in a breezeless space, the secret, nasty reek of damp and decay fouling the air he breathed—if one could be said to breathe, in a dream. It was too humid, and fretfully tasteless. It was dead air; dead, and dirty. It was the smell and the heat, more than the darkness, which struck a chord in the back of his head as his other dreams had done, telling him which of his childhood memories this drew from.

This was his parents' cellar.

He had vivid recollections of this place, and none of them pleasant, none of them encouraged to surface in waking life. It had been an old cellar, older than the house it bolstered; always he had hesitated at the door, paralyzed as a child at having to snake his hand blindly around the doorjamb and fumble for the light switch, having to walk into the stuttering shadows, hearing the old wooden stairs groan under his weight. It had been so ancient, that cellar, that it relied still upon bulbs with a filament, the fixture newly-wired into the house's electrics, a gestalt between modern efficiency and tradition.

A little, Reed mused, like himself.

The first step down had always been the worst. That first step down into the dark, before he could reach the light switch tucked into the frame behind the door. Yes, a light switch. The cellar had been that old. He was standing on that first step now; the creak and grind under his feet had its own distinct tune, one he still found he could remember to its finest detail after all those years. He scratched a shaking hand up the wall to his left, hunting out the light switch he knew had to be there, but half-fearing that in this dream it would not be. That it had been removed by that presence in the dark, the man who always visited at night, the one who dragged up forgotten horrors like a trawler's net dredging the dirt on an ocean bed for hidden pearls. The Dark Man. Malcolm's fingertips stumbled over the cold whitewash on bare stone walls, panic creeping in as he clutched and felt, and found nothing.

Then he encountered the smooth plastic square, relief flooding him even as he denied he had ever been alarmed, and flicked it on.

The darkness stared back at him.

He flipped the switch again, hearing its dead click, seeing no light flare from the naked bulb. Dead. The bulb was

(dead Malcolm dead just like you it's)

dead.

Reed gulped back the lump in his throat, but it hurt to; there was no moisture there and it was like swallowing razor blades. So there was no light, either by an accident of his own fevered mind or the design of the Dark Man's diseased brain; but if this was true to his memory, there should be a flashlight three steps in, on the utility shelf his father had kept stocked for emergencies, and there were—should be—spare bulbs and candles there, too.

He ventured the second step down, hearing the groan of the splintered wood under his boots as his weight pressed into it. The staircase protested almost as loudly as his own urge to yell into that dark and demand an explanation. But he gritted his teeth, and kept the inclination to either panic or lose his temper, the only two instincts to try to stake a claim on him here, bitten firmly back. The water pipes in the ceiling gurgled as he took the next step, quickly. Those pipes seemed to speak to him, in watery voices like drowned men, voices that said no clear words but nevertheless danced on his fragile nerves. And that, at least, was true to his recollection, and encouraged him to expect that the shelf would be, too. This being, whatever it was, was forming locations from Reed's own history; it made sense to exploit the advantage that gave him. He groped his outstretched hand to the left, feeling blindly for the hard edge of the utility shelf he now knew would be there.

(was there, Malcolm, was there, but how do you know it's there now how do you know it hasn't been taken like the bulb has been taken)

He just did. As warped and twisted as these dreams were, mutilating his memories into shapes dark and unfamiliar, he had to have faith that the shelf, and the flashlight, would be there.

His fingers encountered the wood, and closed with trembly relief around a cold plastic cylinder resting there. A flashlight. He ran his thumb along it, finding the raised hump of the switch, and clicked it on sharply.

Dead. It, like the light over him, was dead. He wouldn't let it be dead.

He clawed open the back of the flashlight, knowing even before he felt inside that the power cell would be gone. At some point it, and probably the bulb, had been removed.

This is just a dream. Stop acting like it's rational, like it's a puzzle you can solve. It isn't.

But was it just a dream, a figment of his imagination, a tapestry woven of truth and exaggeration like any dream? Nothing in this darkness and this sickly cold felt random, extrapolated arbitrarily from the boxrooms of his mind; it felt constructed. Deliberate. Either way, they were his; but accidental or chosen, he still might have the advantage.

A puzzle, waiting to be solved. But he was still groping blindly for the missing pieces.

The pipes rattled above him, a ghost striking its fell voice from rusty metal, and Reed jumped, twisted this way and that, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck bristle with static. I would ask who's there, he called defiantly, bracing the blind flashlight in his hand as a makeshift weapon, but I already know. Come out.

There was a whisper of wind that did not belong to this place, lifting the rotted stench into a fragrant breeze of soda with lime, sharp and clean in his dream-lungs. Then it was gone, and the damp reek returned.

I don't know about you, Reed yelled again, caught undecided between fear and frustration, but I grew out of hide-and-seek about the same time I left nursery school.

There was a pause. Far away, he heard a pipe dripping into the hard stone floor in a steady beat. Then, like a murmur through grass, came the voice he had heard too often already in his dreams:

She blames herself, you know.

Reed was too perplexed by the words to feel much relief, even, at being answered. She . . ? His mind groped, then stumbled by chance, or maybe just by the residue of events outside, upon the name the Dark Man had neglected to provide. Or purposefully left out. Hoshi? What on earth for?

Why . . . for killing you, of course.

The first time the emotive, magnetic voice he had grown morbidly fascinated with had come from his left, away down at the foot of the staircase he stood on; the second time, it came from much, much closer. Reed retreated those three steps he had so tentatively taken, hand groping backwards for the light switch, flipping it again, angrily. He flicked it back and forth, a second time, a third time, the empty plastic sound striking what felt like new nails in his coffin. There was no response.

It won't work, Malcolm, the Dark Man soothed. You're dead. The lights have all gone out for you.

Close by him this time, very close; he could feel the Dark Man's breath, could smell it, but when he swung the flashlight in a wide arc around him, he encountered nothing but air. Then make them come back on! he challenged. You're the one that's been doing this to me, aren't you? Those nanobots . . . they have nothing to do with it.

The Dark Man sighed, as if wearied by a pestering child who could not, or would not, understand. They have everything to do with it, he breathed.

Then fix it. Whatever's wrong with me, you can fix it, I know you can. Reed laughed, bitterly, closing his eyes against the blackness that obscured even the Dark Man's shrouded black form. That is . . . if there's even anything wrong with me at all. This might be nothing more than some elaborate trap.

If I chose, I could repair the damage. The energy beam she fired on you was set to kill. The alien cells in your bloodstream—mine—absorbed that energy. Neutralized it, if you will, and dampened its effect. You suffered no damage beyond my ability to heal.

Now I know you're lying. Hoshi would never fire without checking that her phase pistol was set to stun. I've taught her better than that. But a nagging doubt persisted, despite the adamant retort; she had been in no state to know what she was doing. Was it possible she had made a mistake? A horrible, to some unforgivable, mistake?

You don't believe me, the Dark Man's tuneless, steely voice continued. It was not a question. You think this is a dream.

Isn't it?

You think I'm responsible for the dark. That I've somehow stolen the lights, that I'm lying to you. How do you even know the lights are at fault, Malcolm? How do you know I haven't blinded you? I control your mind in your dreams . . . remember?

Reed swallowed, gulping down the greasy knot in his throat, sucking tasteless air into his protesting lungs. His knees were beginning to feel weak, and his posture was failing—but despite the dream-dark of his own mind, despite the fact there was nobody here to see him waver, Reed kept his head held high. I suppose I don't know, he said, but just because you control the dreams I have it doesn't mean you control me.

The Dark Man exhaled in something which may have been an entirely humorless laugh. he said, everything I do here, I can also do in the real world. If I want to, I can make the lights come back. Or I can make it blacker. Tread wisely, Malcolm Reed.

Suspicions were forming in Reed's naturally paranoid mind, suspicions which he would rather not entertain, but which would not leave him no matter how much he pushed them away. Suspicions about this man—this alien—and his questionable motives. What would make you want to? he asked. What would I have to do? What would I have to do to earn that? Sell my soul? It was only barely a joke.

I named the price before there was a favor to sell. You know what I ask.

You mean delay the Enterprise? Stop it reaching Titrinus on time? I know that, but . . . why? You're going to have to explain yourself, sir, before I can be persuaded to lift a finger for you. Price or no price.

That sigh again, humoring an impertinent child who refused to accept the truth of what he heard. As you wish, the Dark Man murmured.

There, like a pinprick in a velvet curtain, a tiny point of light appeared. Its pallid glow, as he watched, began to spread like cold fingers reaching for its prey.

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Hoshi squeezed the hand in hers tightly, a part of her warning her to let up, not to crush his tepid fingers, and the larger part not caring. There was warmth in those fingers, in the calloused skin; warmth, and life. The fresh tang in the air, nestling on her tongue and in her nose, was the smell of a second chance, and she knew that she would never again be able to drink a glass of lemonade without thinking, in some small way, of this.

She did not take her eyes from Reed's new-shaven face as Trip set down the razor and tested for a pulse as the captain had done; she daren't look away, for fear she may miss some defining movement that would confirm what her eyes were seeing.

Is he . . ? She gulped, cleared her throat, and tried again. I mean, is there . . ?

Is there a pulse? Trip was speaking softly, muted by awe and the sheer gravity of what he was witnessing; but his eyes were bright with sparks, excited and feverish. I think so. It's faint, and I'm no medic, but I'm pretty sure it's there. A grin smothered his paleness, lighting every detail of his face with boyish optimism. I think I'd better go give the cap'n the good news, don't you, Ensign?

Hoshi smiled a slight, private smile to herself as Trip sauntered from the room, hasty and making a failed pretense as being otherwise. She could tell this was one piece of news he would relish delivering. As would she, she thought, staring down intently; mapping the hard lines now softened in sleep. The frown, like this, was vanished from him; he looked younger, at peace.

As would she.

she whispered, not knowing and not caring if he heard her. Malcolm, I don't expect you to answer me or anything, okay, but . . . I'm sorry I shot you. I didn't know any of this would happen. She half-breathed, half-laughed the words, caught between hope and horror, unable, entirely, to accept the warm blood beneath equally warm skin as anything more than her imagination. Talk to me, Malcolm. After all, that's my job, isn't it? To listen.

And she imagined, or perhaps she truly felt, his hand grow warmer in reply.

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There was a warmth pressing against Reed's dream-hand; a warmth without weight, without texture, a warmth he could feel but could not grasp. A phantom echo of the real world, piercing his unconscious one. Reed let his heavy eyes slip closed, dreaming within a dream, and watched the translucent patterns of sickbay imprinted on the internal darkness, a projection of light without light. They were pale, a merest shimmer of white-blue corpse-light illuminating nothing they touched—and when he opened his eyes to the blackness outside, they remained, existing on both levels of his mind. He didn't understand how he saw what he saw, but he was seeing the outside world through closed eyes.

he whispered, but no sound would come, not even here. It nestled on his tongue and died there, unspoken.

She can't hear you, that voice teased. You want to go back, don't you? You want to be able to tell her she did what she had to do, what you would have done.

That's not true, Reed forced, mustering what indignation he had left to him. Every instinct and every emotion felt sapped dry. I would have checked my phase pistol before I shot anyone.

A hum of tempered laughter sounded close at his shoulder, infusing those fizzy fumes into the air Reed breathed. Keep watching. There's more. Are you sure you need convincing? What could there possibly be to prevent you?

There's you. I don't like mysteries when they're aimed at me. You don't want these nanobots delivered—fine. You want me to keep the ship away from the rendezvous at Titrinus. Again, fine. But you're going to have to tell me why.

And if you don't like my responses? Are you going to refuse my offer? Going to let your friends live with the mistakes they made, with your death? I can wipe the blood from their hands . . . as can you. All you have to do is give the word.

Reed could feel sweat crawling along his brow, down his back, freezing on his cheeks in the sunless cold. Everything in his entire body—his residual dream-body—was clamoring to give his word and agree, whatever the reasons for this oblique request. To accept the gift with which this being tempted him with fleeting glimpses, the images a faded whisper of their true selves. His life back. It sounded so cold when he put those three words together, so stark, so stupidly melodramatic—but it was in no way exaggerated. If he said yes, if he took an assignment with no idea of the consequences, no idea if it was the right side or the wrong, then he would get his life back. He could always change his mind, always use this as a means to an end and later investigate in the safety of the Enterprise; he could always turn back on the agreement.

No. He couldn't. He had to let his yes' mean yes'. Whatever Reeds were, Navy men or Starfleet men, they were honorable.

Shame most of them were such emotional cripples into the bargain.

A single word, all he had to say. But the fragment of pessimism that had shaped his life and his career since he was a child held it back, against his baser instincts. He had lived by that fragment, by his wits, for too long now to ignore it at the very last. This being had asked him, opaquely, if he was sure he hadn't been blinded; that the lights were really out. How could he be sure, in like manner, that he was really dead? The Dark Man may be holding him here in a limbo between life and death merely to force just such a promise as this from him. This whole situation he bargained to free himself from may have been a trap set for him all along. Or this may all be in his own mind.

There was no way to tell.

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Hoshi found herself alone as Commander Tucker fetched the captain, alone with the responsibility to see that he didn't slip back into that deceptive coma again during those endless minutes. She tried counting to fifty in every language she knew—an exercise which, in normal circumstances, could take her hours—but within the first handful of each her mind wandered back to Reed's face, reminded of how dead he still looked in many ways. She wanted to call Doctor Phlox, but that would mean leaving him unattended, and she knew that Trip would bring the doctor back with him without her interference. Her interference had done far too much damage already tonight.

Aside from the revival in his hand, faint at best, and the pulse Trip reported to have found, there was little sign of life. She couldn't hear breathing, saw no movement of his chest under the uniform. Gingerly, Hoshi licked her palm and held it hovered over Reed's nose and oddly tight-closed mouth. She had seen this done by medics arriving on the scene of an accident when no medical scanners were available; testing for breath, waiting for the carbon dioxide to blow cold against the moist skin.

She waited. The sharp sensation she had hoped for did not come.

In her other hand, his had begun to grow cold again.

M . . . Malcolm? she stammered. Malcolm, don't you dare! Stay with me, Lieutenant! If I wasn't only an Ensign, I . . . I'd order you!

Hoshi pulled her tangled hair away from her shoulders, clasping it at her neck with her right hand, and lowered her head to his chest, pressing her ear against the uniform still thick with the dry reek of smoke. The heartbeat of which Trip was so confident had fallen silent.

Malcolm, I order you to breathe! You're always telling me you're a survivor, that it's your job, well then start surviving!

A voice behind her startled her into dropping his hand, and she spun to see Captain Archer, Commander Tucker, and Phlox at the door, watching her expressionlessly. Only Trip looked mildly troubled, neither so adept nor so inclined to contain his emotion as the captain and Phlox did. He was in a position where he could afford to indulge his feelings.

Captain . . . we're losing him, she choked. She looked pleadingly at Phlox, at Trip, her eyes finally settling on the captain. Seeking reassurance, she supposed, when she knew deep down that there was nothing any of them could do.

But wait.

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Are you going to let this happen, Malcolm? Let them think there's a chance only to see you die again?

Reed shuddered, pressing his lips together to quell the rising chatter there. He felt as if two gales, one east and the other west, collided in the exact spot in which he stood, wailing through him and pulling in two incompatible directions. Just tell me one thing; what are these nanobots? Tell me and I'll give you a straight answer, yes or no. The images of Hoshi, of sickbay and the newcomers and the light out there in the real world, pulled away from him, and sank into the black. The contact at his hand, which he could feel but not quite grasp, was suddenly broken.

He was alone. Alone with the Dark Man.

He had always been alone.

It's not for me to tell, that creeping voice confided. All I can tell you is that they're not what you think they are.

Did you want me to act surprised?

There was a flare of sudden light; not the icy, lifeless light of the projections but a dirty, yellow light like a stained light bulb, cutting muddy swathes across the gloom. The Dark Man was there in that light, his tall, slim frame a black silhouette in the yellow pools, a long coat whispering around his shins even though the air was still as glass in his parents' cellar.

You're already closer to waking than you think. The lights could get brighter.

Or they could go out, Reed stated, flatly. He saw all too clearly the choice before him, a terrible choice; he didn't need any further demonstration. If I agree to do what you want me to do then I wake up. And if I don't . . .

The web of shadows glowering still within the lowered hood shifted, and broke. There, faint and almost imperceptible, Reed saw an inhuman mouth twitch valiantly against a smile. If you don't . . . then you don't.