THE SHADOWLANDS

The dirty yellow whitened, the tiger-stripes of light and dark shifting and reforming from the murky environment of the cellar into the bluish lights and blood-deep thrum of the location he had chosen—but for a blip of time in between he was nowhere, no when. The frame, a black and white slide among a reel of color, was over almost before it had begun, and for that instant Reed was standing on nothing, breathing in nothing, feeling cold fingers reaching for him. Then he was standing firmly in decon, breathing its crisp, recycled ship-air, laced only faintly with that ever present chemical fizz that saturated every breath he swallowed.

The Dark Man stood still as a statue, untouched by the glowing EM rays and illuminated by nothing, his coat and hood a black hole cut from the scene like a gingerbread man removed from the slab with a pastry cutter. Only two faint points of light glittered in the depths of the hood; remnants of the shadowlands, the nothing behind the now, that Reed had touched upon so briefly and never wanted to encounter again.

Cozy. The Dark Man's amusement, it seemed, had grown indulgent, watching his newest pet settle into these surroundings. Reed could relate to that—he was beginning to feel like a lab rat running a maze. That was what he had volunteered for, wasn't it? At the institute. The captain had used those selfsame words, demanding who this lab rat was supposed to be.

A lab rat. But still, Reed mused bitterly—forgetting for the moment that his thoughts were not his own—there was no sign of an exit.

I thought so, he responded, trying to appear nonchalant.

Why here?

If you can read my mind then you should know.

Despite this alien's willingness, now, to aid him, Reed was far from convinced that any of it was of benign origin; so much more likely that this being obliged him only to lead him into a false sense of security. Reticent still, he replied: I've always found this place . . . comforting.

Why not the spa in Mexico?

Reed was taken aback at the question, one that relied on information he had given to only a few people. He had mentioned that spa to only two of the crew, and nobody else. This is . . . closer to home, he faltered, wanting always to follow his natural instinct and speak from the throat. For a man of few words but many quick thoughts, the challenge of limiting the words in his head only to those he would permit to leave his mouth was proving more strenuous than being dead had done. He focused fiercely on the mild warmth his pleasant memories of the room had conjured, and the hum, and the filter of the bluish light through his lids when he closed his eyes . . . but the more wandering part of his brain insisted, nevertheless, on dwelling upon his more vivid memories of decon, alone with the two most beautiful women onboard, and neither of them overdressed for the occasion. That was one private, personal element he did not want some nameless alien to be a party to, but the more he concentrated on avoiding it, the more it continued to surface.

You think of the Enterprise as home'? the Dark Man pursued, intrigued.

Now I do. Aren't you going to tell me where your home' is?

Only silence. Reed had long since toyed with the suspicion that if the Dark Man existed inside his mind and could read his thoughts, the reverse may also be true . . . but whenever he reached for some whisper that was not his own, he encountered a barrier, and was forced to fall back again.

If you want me to trust you, then you might as well start answering some of my questions. I've answered more than enough of yours. Why can't I read your mind if you can read mine? If you're in my head then shouldn't I have access to you like I do my own memories?

The singularity shaped like a man began to pace, draining life and sucking light from around him, the coat hushing Chinese whispers about him; and whether it was real or imagined, Reed thought the Dark Man had slowed, and moved somewhat sluggishly now.

Let me put an example to you, the shadow replied, and his inner voice, even existing as words without sounds, seemed weary, unwell. If you spoke through a broadcasting frequency throughout the ship, but you yourself were sealed in a soundproofed booth with no receiver array, would you hear the people answer you?
Reed hesitated, not liking the answer he was given, but understanding it perfectly. So I can't read your thoughts. I'm broadcasting, not receiving. And you . . .

The Dark Man half-nodded, half-bowed once more. You're quick on the uptake. That's one of the reasons they, and consequently I, chose you.
Only one of the reasons? What were the others?

Your secrecy. You keep things to yourself; you don't like to talk about the little problems that trouble you. Secrecy is also important to me. To all of us. It's why I'm here.

To stop the nanobots, Reed ended, preempting the sales pitch before it could be reiterated. Why? What's so special about them?

That is one thing that secrecy' will not allow me to disclose. All I will tell you is that anonymity is our greatest protection. That is why—and please forgive me my somewhat brutal methods—I had to test you. You told nobody of these encounters, even as a child afraid of the storm. We are grateful for that.
Reed settled edgily on the bench against one wall, foreseeing a lengthy and potentially unenlightening lecture on the ethics of silence. You keep saying we'. How many of you are there?

A sigh that manifested itself not as a vocalized breath but as a shudder shot through the Dark Man's gradually sagging body . . . and on the far side of the room, joined by the common threads of his mind, Reed felt the vibrations of it in his own bones.

Enough, the Dark Man replied.

I can see I'm wasting my time.

I am afraid so.
So . . . what? You seem to have said very little using lots of words, and nothing I've heard has done a thing to explain to me why I should help you.

No?

No. Tell me what these nanobots are, why they're dangerous. If you won't tell me who you are, what you are, at least tell me that.
And you will consider my request?

Reed stopped abruptly, trapped by his own careless words into committing either the one way or the other. I'll consider it, he conceded reluctantly.

You drive a hard bargain. My race prides concealment from others above all else, Malcolm Reed. I break millennia of tradition by telling you even this much. But I am of a faction that believes the time has come to make first contact with beings such as yourself. There was a smile in the words, bitter, galling, and the Dark Man's pacing deepened, then slowed and halted.

Then make it. I'm listening.

We exist in a different plane than you, you humans. We exist across the five dimensions, Lieutenant. We are not constrained to the restrictions of length, height, breadth, and time. Even the fifth dimension is a breath of air to us. You might say our home' is the space between worlds, the shadowlands between life and death, waking and sleeping. You yourself have seen it.
Reed gulped, flinching at the phantom fingers of that emptiness reaching for him, recalling the instant of total panic when he stood on nothing, breathed nothing, when even his dream-heart seemed to stop in his chest and his dream-blood froze in his veins. Even now that vacuum did not seem far away, hovering on the edges of vision and the bounds of hearing, waiting to return. Reed looked about at the familiar walls and lights and saw only stage scenery, a thin barrier between he and the shadowlands behind. The name seemed morbidly accurate. I remember.
We have no physical body, Malcolm. That much should be plain to you by now. Our only means of communication is by the minds of the people we contact, the part of corporeal beings such as you which exists close to our own domain. You are closest to the shadowlands when you sleep, when your mind exists almost without your body.
That's why you used my dreams, Reed wondered, speaking the words aloud in surprise at the revelation. But how . . . how did you visit me when I was six? You said that was real. You said you marked me the night of the storm.

We exist outside of time, Malcolm. We see what will come, and what has been, and everything in between. I simply chose that night as one you would remember, one where you might, perhaps, abandon that stiff upper lip of yours.
But how did you visit me if you have no physical body? You're contradicting yourself, sir.

The Dark Man laughed blackly at the formality. Sir? I can always tell when you become uncomfortable, Lieutenant. You begin to act so formally.
We're supposed to be talking about you, not me. How did you visit me? How did you mark me, put these alien cells' in me?

We can manifest ourselves, for a time, using projections of ourselves. Similar to holograms, if you will, whose chemical reactions in human blood produces a sharp odor. You might have noticed it.

Yes, he had noticed it. It had hovered behind his senses long enough that he was beginning to take it for granted, like an aftershave whose imprint lasted the day and beyond. Credit me with some intelligence, if you don't mind. The premise of matter to energy and energy to matter is the basis for most of the technology on this ship. But of course, you knew that.

Of course.
Reed rose from the bench, feeling suddenly vulnerable seated. He could not help but think in three-dimensional terms, even here. And he wasn't about to apologize for that. So what have these nanobots got to do with it?
I've told you enough, Mr. Reed. His own formality parodied, and none too kindly. You'll see for yourself soon enough. Go. I'm tired of questions.
Reed opened his mouth to demand an explanation, vocally, loudly, overcome suddenly by an urge to assert his humanity and speak as such; but the thin paper-and-strut stage dressing of the decon chamber was already darkening, its waxy, ghosted walls stretching and melting like warm taffy. Ice needled into him at the brief kiss of shadow, clutching at him; and then, at his hand, there was a warmth, growing stronger, and he could feel the steady pound of his own heartbeat thumping through him.

The real world, one he could touch, see, taste, hear, and smell. Except that, lingering beneath it all, he could still detect the sizzling scent of the alien cells, branded into his own like a tattoo on a slave.

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He woke with an eagerness he had rarely felt at leaving sleep, anxious to be back. The warmth at his hand had become solid, sweaty fingers nervously grasping his own.

Hoshi.

Reed opened his eyes to the pleasant whiteness and perfect temperature of sickbay, blinking into the light that cast Hoshi's leaning shadow over him. Slowly, as his sight adjusted and the swarming sun spots in his eyes cleared, he saw that she was smiling. It looked thin and somehow stretched, a dam holding back water. He could see from the sooty trails cutting through the smoke and grime on her cheeks that she had been crying, and he wondered at it.

Did . . . he attempted, rediscovering the taste of real, spoken words on his tongue. Did you just shoot me, Ensign?

She laughed, weakly. Behind her, the captain, Commander Tucker and Doctor Phlox joined in with smiles of their own, Trip's broad enough to split his face. You're not angry with me . . . are you? Hoshi ventured, her eyes wide.

I'd have been a lot angrier if you'd missed, he said.