BABEL, PART ONE

Reed fretted over the handcuffs binding him, urging the metal from the skin where they chafed. A fine, raw welt had risen at the base of his palm, threading around his wrist, a line scored in the flesh that itched and maddened more than hurt, but would not be satiated. Prying the cuff away was akin to shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted, as his mother had always been so fond of saying. Better to leave them be, to give up tugging and twisting his manacled hand, and grit his teeth against the inconvenience. Better, ha-ha, to take it lying down.

Truthfully, though he had not exactly earned this, he had brought it on himself.

The energy which had made his every nerve sing since he woke in sickbay to Hoshi's startling concern had not faded, but remained simmering under his skin like oil crisping bacon in a pan. His lack of sleep had not seemed to drain him in the way it drained the others, especially Hoshi, and he was as alert now as ever he had been after eight hours of unbroken sleep. He was bright, buzzing, in spite of his only rest that night being a tormented kaleidoscope of half-forgotten memories and mind games of the highest degree. But as was his duty, security measures he himself imposed prevented him from putting that energy to practical use.

Reed pulled petulantly at the cuff restraining his left wrist, and fell back on the bunk, dissecting the shadows above him. Like it or not, the captain had ordered they rest before any final decisions were made, and he was duty-bound to submit to this indignity, tired or not, instead of spending those hours at his post where he could be guarded by eye. But holy translators, was it boring.

Of them all, Hoshi had been the most in need of these hours of grace. The disarrayed head propped in her hands as they waited for the return of Commander Tucker and the captain in sickbay had been sagging pitifully with exhaustion. Her first yawn, nevertheless concealed valiantly in her cupped palms, had prompted him to lean forward from the biobed and touch her shoulder, briefly, catching her attention.

he had murmured, mindful of too abruptly breaking sickbay's hush.

She had raised her head at the nudge, and assured him that she was okay, but he had been unconvinced. He couldn't help but wonder now, a little belatedly, at her willingness to stay—but at the time, he had been too grateful to outwardly question. She would be enjoying some well-deserved sleep in her quarters now, he reflected . . . except that he knew her better than that. Perhaps he would not be so far from the truth if he imagined her awake, warding off sleep with strong black coffee, pouring over the data from the sampled nanobots. Completing the task he had unfairly asked her to do.

Whoever and whatever this Dark Man, this Shade, proved to be, he surely must intend for them to unravel the true nature of the nanobots; otherwise he would never have guided Reed in removing this sample for Hoshi to study. But that was one incident, one token of help in contrast to several of ambiguous hindrance, and he wasn't ready, quite yet, to trust him.

There was still so much they didn't know. And after what had happened earlier, he was not sure he wanted to know . . .

In the half hour after he woke to the welcoming lights of sickbay, Reed had almost wished he could have stayed dead a little longer. Once Trip and the captain left to track down T'Pol, the second concerned at the lengthy absence of the first, Reed had been scanned, tested, and prodded in ways undreamed of in his secular philosophy. Phlox had then retired to a corner to mutter and shake a fluffy-haired head over the incomprehensible readings, leaving Reed and Hoshi alone. As far as Phlox was able to ascertain, Reed had never been in better physical health. And he must admit, he felt better than he had in years; revitalized, as if every cell in his body had simultaneously regenerated.

Hoshi had turned a sallow clay gray in that half hour, the cream-coffee tones of her skin wan in the unkind lights—but every effort he made to urge her to go and get some rest had been met with stout refusal, and an attempt to straighten in her seat, feigning alertness, jutting a resistant lip at him.

I'm okay, she had replied, pouting ever so lightly in her determination to live up to the lie. I just need some strong coffee, that's all.

Nothing wrong with a good cup of tea, if you ask me, Reed muttered, to himself. Hoshi looked sidelong at him, dark eyes flashing with revived humor, and shot him one of her more impatient, disbelieving smiles. Reed raised his hands palm outward in placation, and she softened the satirical edge to the smile with a shake of her head.

Why don't you at least do that? he had pressed her. The captain didn't order you to wait here. Go and freshen up, get some . . . coffee.

I'm okay. But I want to know what's going on, and I won't find out in the mess hall or in my quarters. She huffed, and swept her tangled hair back in her palms. Reed, always a little reticent of personal contact and especially nervous, tonight, of Hoshi's fragility, had not liked to tell her as much—but judging by the bruised rings shadowing her eyes, he doubted she would remain awake so long. He could have told her his full story then and spared her the wait, let her further into his confidence . . . but he believed then, and still believed now, that the captain should be the first to hear all he had to tell.

He might have known it would not turn out to be so easy for him as that.

He had tried not to express his surprise—and worse, the part of him that was anything but surprised—when the captain and Commander Tucker returned, carrying an unconscious T'Pol between them.

Looks like I missed something, sir, Reed ventured. The sight of the unmoving Vulcan troubled him far more personally than it should, as if he should know the answer, but had mislaid it.

That'll teach you to pretend you're dead, Archer returned, as he and Trip hauled her seemingly boneless body onto the biobed beside his.

Hoshi gravitated a little towards the group, skin now insipid under the reflective lights as she took in the sight of T'Pol. As the others stared silently at the inert Vulcan, Reed was captivated, morbidly, by Hoshi's shocked face. She had never responded this way to merely unconscious people before . . . and he realized, with wistful gravity, that it had been his own near death which caused her to pale now.

She thought the same thing might have happened to T'Pol. And none of them could say for sure that she was wrong.

Is she . . ? Hoshi halted beside the biobed, eyes fixed rigidly on T'Pol. I mean, is she . . .

Reed picked up the remainder of the question and asked it for her, seeing she was coming unhinged. As well she might, after all this. What happened, sir?

Maybe Trip can tell it better than me. I only joined the show during the final act, Archer replied grimly.

Wish I could, Cap'n. All I can tell ya is if she ever invites you for coffee, my advice is decline. Politely. Trip shook his head, puzzled. I tried her quarters; nuthin' there but evidence she'd had a bad case o' the munchies during the night. Ensign Cutler said she saw her get coffee, told me T'Pol was actin' weird. I finally tracked her down in one of the access tunnels and she kinda went for me. That's when you dropped by with the phase pistol, Cap'n.

Archer had nodded, seemingly acceptant of the stripped bones of the story for the time being, but Reed pricked an ear helplessly; not at the information he was told, but at the suggestion of things they were not being told. It was too sanitized, too undramatic, too boring for the usually colorful commander, and Trip was at pains not to look at any of them but the subcommander as he spoke. Whatever it was Trip concealed, he was sure T'Pol would appreciate it.

Looks like I'm not the only one who knows how to keep a secret, he thought, but, as apparently he had a reputation for, did not say.

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That had been three hours ago, and as there had been no news, Reed chose to assume T'Pol had not yet awoke, and was in no better or worse a condition than when they left sickbay—alive, but completely unresponsive to any attempts at waking her. He supposed he should find that comforting, considering the suspicions he had of the incident, but he could find nothing to be enthusiastic about.

Of course, overt enthusiasm had never been his strong suit.

It was too great a coincidence. That Subcommander T'Pol should show signs of unusual behavior now, after his own less than normal attempts to sabotage the warp reactor and his even less normal brush with death, was certainly not accidental.

Whatever was affecting him was affecting her. The Dark Man? No, he didn't think so. If there was one individual on Enterprise more capable of keeping a secret than he, it was T'Pol—and if the Dark Man had chosen instead to use him, then it must be due to some incompatibility on her part. Hadn't the two on Devoli V mentioned a problem with copper-based blood, in terms of the nanobots? Perhaps copper was as much a threat to the alien cells as to the nanobots. Which may also help explain, in some way, the differences between his own behavior and T'Pol's.

Reed attempted to turn onto his side, stiff with lying still for three hours in his bunk; but his sore wrist caught at the turn, and the cuff prevented him. He rolled submissively onto his back again, staring into the shadows twisting in the black over him, and sighed. It was going to be a long day, to rival the long night just passed. He could foresee every day for some considerable time would be long, arduous, and tainted by distrust. Because there was a certain, tentative distrust surrounding him now, whether his crewmates said as much or not—they were afraid, not of him, but of whatever it was that lurked beneath his skin. To them, the nanobots . . . to him, the Dark Man. Yes, the nanobots were there; but he did not attribute any of what had happened to them. They were inanimate, carriers of information and nothing more, and unable to exert any influence over him.

So he believed, and so he would until there was more evidence to base his conclusions on. But the captain, and the others, had not been party to the same information that he was . . . and he had been unable to convince them . . .

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Trip had volunteered to stay with T'Pol as Phlox attempted to treat her, and relate as much information concerning her behavior as the doctor required—but Reed had had an idea, one he kept firmly to himself, that the commander would do no such thing. There was a story buried within the bones of the report that would remain buried, and never see the light of day again.

As he himself had so nearly never seen light, any light, again.

It had taken a direct order from the captain before Hoshi would consent to leave, and freshen up if she would not sleep. She had stumbled from sickbay like a drugged mole, blind to the things, like doors, which reared up and crashed into her on the way. The captain had then invited Reed to his ready room, understandably wanting privacy to debrief the entangled events of the night, and make some kind of sense of them. Reed's suspicions had already begun to take shape, even so soon after, and he had complied with the request having every intention of filling the captain in—on everything.

Of course, those intentions had ended at a dead end.

Archer had offered Reed a seat, but he had declined, busting with energy then as now. He could tell, straightaway, that the captain was agitated—perhaps even on the verge of anger—but he had also known that neither the agitation nor the anger was directed towards him.

I was just speaking with Sparek at the institute, Archer said, already beginning to pace across the length of the low-lit ready room. Reed had tried, none too successfully, not to notice the pale scuff of wear already visible on the trodden deck plates. You remember Sparek?

How could I forget, sir, Reed replied dryly.

Archer had smiled politely, but there had been no real humor in it. Of course. Well, I have to admit I wasn't particularly polite to him—whatever he's injected into you has hardly helped this mission go according to plan—and he claimed he'd never met us at VISAC.

Reed was a little ashamed of his reaction at that point; he had let his mouth drop open like a panting dog. Are . . . are you sure, sir? I mean . . . could he have been mistaken?

Have you ever seen a Vulcan make a statement they can't back up? There are only two possible explanations, and I can't say I like either of them. There's a chance that Sparek's lying. Or—and I really don't like to say it—the two individuals we contacted at Devoli V may have been impostors. The entire institute might have been a fake. I wanted to know what your take on this was.

(All I can tell you is that they're not what you think they are)

The words came back to him, amplified by the captain's expectant gaze, urging a response from him that Reed didn't know he had to give. The Dark Man had warned him . . . he had said that none of this mission was what they thought it was. Maybe that extended to the individuals that had asked it of them, as well as the nanobots involved.

(I am of a faction that believes the time has come to make first contact with beings such as yourself)

Maybe they had been impostors. Maybe the two Vulcans, as alluded, were of the Dark Man's own race. Holograms, impersonating Sparek and T'lau. Maybe they were the opposing faction, determined to keep their existence secret at all cost.

And maybe the Dark Man was telling the truth after all.

I think you're onto something there, sir, he began, testing the words in his mouth before he allowed them to leave it. We know that, if they're not lying, whoever or whatever impersonated them must be either a race of shapeshifters or else have some fantastic technology to do the job for them. I didn't tell you this before, Captain . . . I didn't know how relevant it was . . . but . . . He trailed away, hardly knowing where to begin, what to tell, what to leave behind. What was his own need for closure pushing its way to the fore and what was information relevant to the situation.

Archer had pricked up his ears, intrigued. You have some light to shed on this, Lieutenant?

Reed had nodded, awkwardly. He had been unable to focus on the captain's intent face, and had studied that worn groove in the floor, the dulled polish in that so oft-paced line. Yes, sir. I . . .

He stopped, a sudden tickle catching in the back of his throat, halting the word.

You all right, Malcolm? Archer asked, his low brow furrowing. I could get you some water . . .

Reed coughed, clearing away the gravel lodged in his windpipe, and straightened up. No, sir, I'm fine. Thank you.

Now: you were saying?

Well, sir, I . . . It came again, a cheesegrater dragging across the back of his throat, a host of dry spikes fencing back the rest of the sentence. His eyes watered. The invasive sensation squealed like nails on a chalkboard. He tried to continue past it, and descended into a deep, wrenching cough.

Hold still, I'll get you a drink, Archer had flustered, gesturing that Reed remain where he was in a wave of his hand.

Reed returned the gesture, halting the captain with a peremptory palm. He coughed, once, cleared his throat, and experimentally flexed his jaw. It's all right, sir. Don't know what came over me.

But he had known. It was no thought of his, but it circled, scraping at the inside of his skull, with a drone like a trapped bluebottle thumping against a window pane.

(You keep things to yourself, you don't like to talk about the little problems that trouble you. Secrecy is also important to me)

It was him. The Dark Man was doing this to him. That gutting cough had surfaced only when he attempted to tell the captain about his dreams, about his knowledge . . . about the Dark Man himself.

Listen, I shouldn't have asked you up here so soon after . . . whatever it was that happened in sickbay. I've ordered Hoshi to go get some rest. Why don't you join her? Archer said.

Malcolm had tried to suppress his laughter, every order he had ever received not to laugh at a superior officer reining the instinct back. But it was difficult. The thought of him arriving in Hoshi's quarters, and what was worse, climbing blithely into her bunk, was just too delicious—and wicked—a thought. But then he remembered . . .

. . . he had already done just that, only last night.

That's not what I meant, Archer amended hastily. I mean . . .

Reed smiled, warmed at the beautifully devilish joke, faintly disturbed at the near brush of truth in it. I know what you mean, sir. But . . . Captain, I might have to ask you . . . I mean, it's hardly safe to let me sleepwalk again.

I've thought of that. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to security-lock your quarters, and ideally I'd like to keep you in some sort of a restraint inside, as well. And don't look at me like that.

Like what, sir? Reed inquired, innocently.

Like I'm Captain Bligh and you're Fletcher Christian. It's not something I'd choose to do, it's just . . .

Protocol. I know that book better than you, sir, if you don't mind my saying so.

Archer had returned the smile, the tension in his shoulders giving a little at last. I don't doubt it for a minute.