YELLOW LIGHT

The silence settled like a veil. Reed let it. This was a fundamental principle of security, as infallible as it was respected. If it becomes impossible to prove a thing to be true, then let the opposition attempt to prove it untrue, and thus show themselves to be wrong.

Or, to put it another way, give a dog enough rope and he'll hang himself.
He smiled to himself, grimly confident. He may be the mouse in this game, technically the weaker; but how many times, in those frivolous cartoons Commander Tucker loved so much, had he seen the humble mouse win? What will you do, if I refuse? Reed asked, suddenly.

If the Dark Man was surprised, then he was careful to smooth it away before he responded. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth as glass. All you need know is, if you refuse, you won't be doing anything. Ever again.

But what will you do? You see, it seems to me I'm the only one that knows about you, or can even see you or hear you. I'm not quite sure why that is; but I would assume it was because you put these—these alien cells—in me when I was too young to stop you, so you could control me now. Let me die and you lose the only foothold you have aboard this ship.

There was a bitter twang of laughter, sharp as a plucked string on an out of tune harp. You're trying to trick me. It won't work.

Reed did not bat an eyelash. It has worked. A little bit of me must still be alive to be having this dream. You haven't let me go yet. You won't.

There was that strain of a signature scent again, a rustle on his face, his neck, his hands, anywhere that bare skin showed. Reed was beginning to notice that scent grew stronger at the Dark Man's most active times—the times when some outside influence or Reed himself challenged him, interrupted him, or broke the dream.

You seem very confident, the Dark Man purred, considering how little you know about me.

I am confident. You need me as much as I appear to need you. Whether or not I agree to your little proposal is beside the point. If I'm dead, then you have to start over again, with another crewmember, if you can; if I'm alive there's always the chance you can convince me later.

The figure remained motionless. Then that is your answer?

I didn't give you an answer. I don't answer ultimatums. Neither do I give in to blackmail.

Is a mutual exchange of favors blackmail?

It is when one party is forced into the exchange.

Silence fell back like dust, yielding only for a little while to their talk before returning to its accustomed place. The Dark Man—although the term man' seemed ludicrously inaccurate to Malcolm now—either had no reply to that, or else held it back to unnerve his prey a little further. Malcolm itched to shuffle his feet, but clamped down on it—hard. He mustn't allow any sign of fear. People like this fed from any such knowledge of their opponent.

You're trying to bluff me, Malcolm Reed. Don't kid a kidder, isn't that an old human expression?

Reed did not flinch, not outwardly; but inside he could feel himself crumbling. He took a deep breath, sure the Dark Man heard it, but nonetheless needing it. He knew it wasn't air he breathed, but psychologically it helped to calm his shattered nerves. So you know your history.

I am history.

What's that supposed to mean? Am I supposed to be impressed? Scared? You'll find I don't scare easily.

Although he could not quite see it in the gauze of shadow, Reed was sure he sensed the faceless, nameless being smile. If a wisp of memory or imagination or whatever he was could feel amusement. But you are scared, aren't you? he murmured, almost gently. This is your mind, Malcolm. There's nothing here that you can hide from me.

Reed opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, with nothing to say. Absently, he noted that the back of his right hand had begun to itch again.

You want to say yes, the purring voice continued, stirring butterflies in Reed's stomach. Oh, you know your duty. You care about your friends, your ship. But it's not quite enough, is it? You're a weapons man, Malcolm. A security man. A fighter. You know it's survival of the fittest, that you have to put yourself first. You don't want to die . . . isn't that what you once told Commander Tucker?

With every word and every popping breath, Reed felt his resolve weakening, each accusation striking a stronger blow than the last. It was true, all of it. He didn't want to die. He remembered the shades of sickbay, the way the people he had begun to regard as friends had rallied around him . . . he remembered their concern. He had finally built a life for himself, a life he could be happy in; he didn't want to lose it now.

If you fight and run away, you live to fight another day.

But if he did what the Dark Man asked—if he did, and it turned out that this was the wrong side, that the nanobots were as harmless and as imperative as the Vulcans professed—then he would lose that friendship. Would have squandered it. The thing he wanted to live for would be gone. But if he let go now . . . if he refused . . . they would at least remember him with respect. He would have died selflessly.

You might as well give me your answer, Malcolm. I know what it is you're feeling. Just give the word, and you can wake up.

Reed gulped, feeling it stick in his craw and burn a hole there. he said, with an effort. I won't. I won't risk the Enterprise. I won't betray my friends.

That smile again, whispered, unseen. As you wish.

----------------------------

Hoshi came away at the captain's request, allowing Phlox the space to do his work in peace. In the long minutes that followed, as Phlox scanned Reed's inert body, she did not seem to catch a breath at all. The tiny bit of hope she nursed may be dashed at any moment by a single shake of the doctor's ridged head, and she knew it.

I felt it, she insisted, speaking more for her own assurance than to anybody present. I felt his hand get warmer. I didn't imagine it.

Same here, Cap'n, Trip concurred. There was a pulse, I'd stake my life on that.

Phlox straightened up beside the biobed, tapping at the scanner with a frown knitting the bony cartilage of his forehead. Then I would expect, Commander, for you to be in urgent need of medical attention. There was a trace of raw humor, an attempt to lift the weight in the room, but his face remained respectfully sober throughout. He addressed the captain next. I'm sorry, Captain. I don't doubt the commander and Ensign Sato were correct at the time. It is not unusual for muscle spasm and the like to occur after death . . .

Three hours after death? Trip demanded, incredulous.

Phlox spared him a glance, noting the sarcasm, but he continued undeterred. Perhaps it is not usual for humans. However I have witnessed cases when an individual has spoken up to six hours after death, when no lifesigns are present.

You're not helpin', Trip interrupted. Archer quieted Trip with a raised hand, and nodded, once, to Phlox. I think all we need to know for now, Doctor, is if there are any lifesigns. Anything at all.

I'm sorry, Captain. There are none.

Archer came over to where Hoshi stood, her hand clasped over her mouth, eyes locked on the biobed. She had held it all away, till now; she hadn't cried, hadn't given in to the girlish, emotional grip that might have overwhelmed her only a few months back . . . but there was heat in her eyes and a crack in her throat now.

she croaked. Having him die because of her had been bad—having him almost return only to discover it wasn't what she thought was so much worse. It was only a stun, what went wrong? I don't . . .

Archer reached to lay a hand on her shoulder, but thought better of it and withdrew it again, leaving her be. There's a lot about the last two days we don't know, Hoshi. I'm sure there's nothing you could have done, he said. She could hear the deliberance in his voice, choosing his words with care. Hiding something from her.

She nodded, her hand moving with it. I know, she forced, but it emerged only as a voiceless husk.

Phlox interrupted, suddenly. Archer looked up sharply and Hoshi, somewhat belatedly, followed his gaze. Trip had gone over to the doctor and was peering over his shoulder at the scanner Phlox studied.

What is it, Doctor? Archer asked wearily.

Unless I'm sorely mistaken, Captain . . . it's a heartbeat.

----------------------------

Light flared, driving the shadows back against the far stone walls, dappling a squeamish yellow light dense as butter on the packed earth floor and unpolished wooden stairs. Reed blinked, the sudden light catching him off-guard. That he had expected and braced himself for a complete darkness to descend from that first faltering light only added to his disorientation. This new, insipid light was thrown by a naked bulb in the string-wrapped fixture overhead—just as the light in his parents' cellar had always been, when he found the light switch at last after that first difficult step. This difficult first step had been taken. His darkness had been lifted.

He swallowed, the taste foamy and sugar-sweet in his throat. Why . . . why am I not dead? he asked, defensive in intent, but lacking somewhat in force. What on earth is going on?

This time he did not imagine it; the twist in the hood's shadows became a definite, lazy smile. Because you passed the test. I had to be sure of you. I had to know you were trustworthy.

For a moment, a flash flood of thoughts shot through Reed's mind, no single instinct dominant over the roar, no obvious answer presenting itself. If this being could be believed and this sickly light trusted, then death had never been any real danger. His hands shook, and the fingers clamped grimly around the flashlight went lax, letting the cylinder clatter to the ground. It bounced, skipping from step to step, and skidded to a shuddering halt at the foot of the staircase.

It had been a trick. Just not the one he thought.

You mean you never had any intention of letting me die? he demanded, hotly. He had hoped the heat would hold back the quiver in his voice, but he could still hear it there, audible in the undertones. And besides . . . the entity, this Dark Man, existed, it seemed, only in his mind, and knew what he attempted to hide even before Malcolm himself did. The idea made his skin crawl; an invasion of his privacy as well as an invasion of his dreams, his actions, his life. He couldn't hide himself away behind a wall from this being. You were just toying with me?

The hood dipped in a gesture not unlike a nod, but more, perhaps, like a bow. As if the alien before him had just been paid a compliment. I've spent far too much time trying to figure you out, Mr. Reed, the Dark Man said, pleasantly.

Get out of my head! Reed yelled, recognizing the words that had come from his own mouth, in a different time, a different place. Seeing his own ironies thrown back at him from the depths of his memory.

As this entity had done all along.

I'm not strictly in your head, Malcolm. I'm in your blood, in your cells. You can't cut me out like a tumor, if that's what you were wondering.

The thought had crossed my mind. The sudden blow of living—a gift, it had been called, but it left him reeling as if he had been hit—had taken its toll on him. He was in no mood for games. But why all this secrecy? And what right do you have . . .

I would calm down, if I were you, the Dark Man interrupted. It isn't good for your heart.

Reed laughed, breathlessly. This alien's audacity had not yet failed to amaze him. You mean I have a heartbeat?

When the Dark Man replied, the voice didn't come from the ghostly figure standing in front of him, netted in stuttering shadow. It was barely a voice at all, and it placed the words directly in his head. This whole scene was in his head, of course, but this voice was disembodied from the physical representation standing on the steps in front of him.

Your friends have just detected it. They're waiting for you to wake up.
And when will that be? Reed asked out loud.

When I want you to. And there's no need to shout. I can read your thoughts . . . remember?

Reed muttered, but saw no point in speaking aloud any more. How could I forget? So I passed your test. I assume you're going to ask me about that favor' again?

Perhaps. But not here. You are . . . uncomfortable in this setting, aren't you?

Reed glanced about him, seeing the dark corners that had always worried him as a boy, hearing the creak of the stairs under his feet as he shifted and the bare clink as the filament in the old bulb crackled. It had always made that sound just before going dark. You know I am. That's why you chose it . . . correct?

Correct.

And the pond? The storm? Did you just want me to remember . . . or did you use my memories to unsettle me into the bargain?

What do you suppose? There was a bare amusement in the words, somehow. Without a voice, Reed considered that must be fairly difficult.

I suppose' that it was no coincidence you always arrived when I was . . . scared. You made me associate you with some of the worst moments of my life, to make me a nervous wreck, and to make me trust you for being there when I . . . Except for the storm. You actually had a purpose to it all the night of the storm, didn't you?

I marked you . . . remember?

He did. He remembered a sizzling sensation like antiseptic cream on a graze, and that sickly-sweet smell of soda. Putting the alien cells into his system so they could be activated now. Like it was yesterday.

To me, it was. And is.

Now you've lost me.

There is a lot to explain. But not here. The bad memories were to add to the test; I wanted to know how strong your sense of duty was. If you could be bought. By bringing you here, I convinced you I was the wrong side'. There was a resigned sort of humor to that, weary.

I'm still not entirely convinced you aren't.

Then choose somewhere. Somewhere you feel comfortable. And I'll explain.