Finally FF.net has fixed whatever bug was stopping uploads to the site, so I'm hoping to post a chapter or two a day, at least, from now till the end. Hope that's all right?
Catspaw, thank you for taking the moment to point out the difficulty you found in 16. Not many people do, you know. In this instance I'm fairly comfortable with the abruptness of T'Pol's transformation', shall we say, because a later related incident relies on just this same thing happening suddenly, again. Not necessarily T'Pol! And I hope that as we reach the explanations for it you'll be happy with it being so out of the blue. If I've done my job properly (bit hit and miss, that!) then it will make sense. If I haven't, please do let me know! I can't say any more without giving it all away, but yeah, ordinarily speaking, you'd be quite right. Enough of my chat, on with the story.
SHADES
Archer watched Hoshi leave, frowning at her back until the doors of his ready room swept closed behind her. If she was aware of his moroseness, then she made an admirable job of turning blind eyes and deaf ears, and did not hurry out.
In the initial months of their mission, he had, he must admit, lost sleep over the suitability of the young ensign; he could not help but feel that he had no right to baptize an innocent by fire. Her lack of experience had been enough to make her a danger, to the ship and to herself . . . but over time he had witnessed that naivety's gradual demise, and seen a competent officer and brilliant linguist flourish into an eagerness younger than her years and a maturity far older.
Each of the crew had presented challenges, controversies he had seen negated and, in some cases, laughed out of his head since; there had been his existing friendship with Trip, and the concern that as a captain he may be susceptible to, and accused of, favoritism, or that the commander would forget the formalities of a chain of command. There had been T'Pol, a rare case of a Vulcan serving long-term with a human crew, and the contention inevitable to such a situation. Travis Mayweather, with his too-eager attitude and, Archer had feared, a tendency to view the pitfalls of space as normal. Phlox, and the disconcerting fact that humans knew almost nothing of Denobulans and their unorthodox medical practises. Hoshi, and her space-nerves.
And then, there was Malcolm. The closed book to which all of their lives were entrusted, and of which so few could pry open the pages. He could not say that the lieutenant had never surprised him, each of his crew surprised him every day; but Malcolm Reed, although solitary and cantankerous, was remarkably solid, and these defiant silences and sleepwalks and choking fits did not seem like him.
Whichever angle Archer approached the facts from, the same conclusion reared up as a barrier to further thought. Some outside force was at work.
He glowered at the closed door again, thoughtfully. Hoshi's request to guard the lieutenant had been one surprise worthy of note, but only for the first few seconds, and no more. She still blamed herself for shooting him in engineering. It seemed the two officers, so opposite in temperament, had worked the improbable if not the impossible; they had each lent balance to each other, as he had found most of his senior officers did. Hoshi's inveterate warmth drew the lieutenant from his cold barriers, and his practical application of himself and his refusal to give in had encouraged Hoshi to do the same. It would have been foolish, not to mention barbaric, to deny her request. He had given her the security codes for both door and cuffs, and sent her on her way.
T'Pol was the greater worry, now, and the implications of her condition in the current situation were not ones Archer wanted to contemplate.
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Reed squinted and fanned the seven cards in awkward fingers, imagining a line drawn in the static air between them and his fixed eyes to keep his attention where it belonged. In the past half hour, Hoshi had shot him glances and even kicked him, playfully enough, to arrest his attention when she made a move or spoke to him; but he had reasons aplenty for refusing to raise his eyes from the cards.
It was that mirror.
He could see her current hand, if he moved his head a little to the right and tilted his chin upward, the cards bluntly reflected in the glass at her back and facing him gallingly; but that was not it, not truthfully, and the excuse sat awkwardly on him.
He could have used the knowledge and let her win as a thank you—if he chose—but the reflections, obscured only in part by Hoshi's hair and the slender lines of her back, were tainted at intervals that followed no regular pattern by the lazy spire of black smoke in the glass. A reflection of something which was not there, as the words in the steam had not been there, as the tapping, the voices . . . all in his head, and clamoring to get out.
Hoshi declared, and set her cards on the table, cheeky eyes laughing at him from a face otherwise deathly serious. He had not consciously relinquished the game to her, and was far from certain he would have done so, even with such a blatant opportunity; and yet she had won, again. When they embarked on this game to pass away the time and keep Hoshi's eyes from drooping closed uninvited, Reed had foolishly anticipated an easy conquest over the obliging ensign; but with her three games to his miserable one, he was beginning to regret accepting her suggestion of a game at all.
Aren't you supposed to be tired? he snapped, put out.
Aren't you supposed to be a tactician? she replied, impishly. Where's your infamous poker face tonight?
Reed sighed, and tossed his cards haphazardly on the table where they fanned and scattered and fluttered to rest in three of the four corners. How about chess? he ventured, kicking back in his seat, pushing the nearest of his losing cards away from him with a mild sneer.
Are you sure? I was queen of the chess club in high school.
Reed smiled his faintest, most fiendish smile as he stood, and said, with a consciously satirical bow:
My dear Hoshi. I have never met any man, woman, or Vulcan that could outplay me at chess.
Hoshi grinned and Reed, pausing to retrieve an errant card and tuck it silently into her hand with one emphatic pat, went to fetch his chessboard.
Since he was a child Reed had always liked to play black, and by a rare stroke of fortune, Hoshi had spent her school years playing white, so there was no argument or coin-toss to cloud the game's beginning. Soon they were deeply ensconced, even the serpentine coils in the mirror opposite forgotten.
he said cautiously, removing her bishop from the board with a flourish, I'm assuming you've told the captain what you found? Or should I say didn't find?
How else do you think I got permission to come down here? She advanced an unsuspecting pawn into the path of his knight. Your move.
Reed appraised the board silently, careful not to raise his eyes above the line of Hoshi's shoulder. And I suppose that means I can expect an official reprimand. That will hardly look flattering on my permanent record. But, I should have told him about the voices the moment I started hearing them, not asked you to . . . well, that didn't exactly turn out for the best, did it? There was more than a passing apology buried in there, but he could not bring himself to make it any plainer.
You're breathing, aren't you? she said quietly. And besides, who said anything about you? All Captain Archer knows is what I told him. That I got a sample of the nanobots from your hair and tried to decrypt them. She inclined her head, chin down, eyes liquid pools of dark light under her brows. Hair can be left on a comb, Malcolm. Or a pillow.
The subtext was not lost on him; unintentional, he was sure, but it was not something he would encourage her to spread. It was too easily misunderstood. he floundered, instead. Where was I?
The voice that replied was not Hoshi's; and around him, fragrant and utterly repulsive to him now, was the acerbic scent of alien chemicals rising from his skin. I would pay attention to your knight, if I were you, it said.
Reed's head snapped up, eyes darting to the mirror. Hoshi, too, looked up sharply, perhaps alerted by that flesh-deep odor. Malcolm . . ? she stammered. Her eyes were like black holes themselves, dilated in the low light and widened in fear. Can you hear something?
He nodded. Can't you?
She shook her head, no.
Reed kicked back his chair and stood, not waiting to answer her. The shadows clotted in the glass to a brooding mass, like thunderclouds gathering in a silver sky, and in its depths, a swarm of sinuous shapes swam into features a shade of ebony deeper than the gloom around.
That was all the Dark Man was, in a way. A shade, formed in Reed's own mind by his own mind, whatever physical presence the alien possessed there extrapolated from his own memories. Shades of light, shades of black, shades of reality and fantasy. The lines blurred into a gray haze where nothing seemed true any more.
Reed approached the mirror, fingers outstretched, hoping to somehow reaffirm his belief in reality by tactile contact. He ignored Hoshi's questions, ignored his neglected move, and pressed his fingertips to the mirror, feeling its cold surface tingle. The black cumulus warped and shimmered where he touched, like water spreading its disquiet in concentric circles at the fall of a stone, and for an instant the blackness broke, and reformed.
In its deepest heart, two eyes glowed faintly, guiding lanterns in a thick mist. What do you want now? Reed demanded, certain his vocal cords would again fail should he try to say anything that Hoshi may overhear. I have nothing more to say to you until you're willing to provide me with fitting information.
Is it the voices? Hoshi asked, twisting in her chair. Reed silenced her with a raised hand.
Still chomping at the same bit, Malcolm? To use a phrase familiar to you. You know I only tell what I want to tell.
And you know I do nothing acting on incomplete information, Reed snapped, uncomfortably forcing back every time he had done just that against his own better judgment. It did not alter his ideal. Nor do I take orders from any voice' but the captain's.
The captain may well be giving orders before the morning has passed. The Vulcan is about to wake up.
Well, that's nice to know, he sighed, tightly. I suppose you know what happened to her?
Of course. I told you those nanobots were dangerous, Malcolm. I told you there are those who would keep our existence a secret, that would prevent first contact. The Vulcan is evidence of that.
You're saying that the nanobots are responsible for T'Pol? Reed demanded, forgetting to speak inside, and hardly noticing that the block on his throat did not kick in.
Without a mouth it spoke and without lips it smiled, but the shifts in the black where mouth and lips should be performed the task just as well. The Dark Man's avatar chuckled, softly. When you sweat, is it not true to say that many of the chemicals in your blood seep out in perspiration? In the dead skin cells, the lost hairs and eyelashes? Think, Malcolm. You'll remember.
I do, he murmured, suddenly headsick. T'Pol. Her bizarre, and fruitless, Vulcan memory retrieval technique. He had passed a few—but enough—of the nanobots from his skin to hers when she placed her fingers in his palm.
But did that mean . . . was Hoshi, anybody that had touched him in the past two days, due the same fate?
Does she look ill to you?
Reed looked over his shoulder at Hoshi, at her creased brow and pursed lips. No. No, thankfully, blissfully, she did not look ill, and had not set so much as a foot out of place.
I guess not. Does it only affect Vulcans? Are you telling me your opposition has planted these nanobots in order to do the same thing to the Vulcan High Command, just to prevent first contact? That's why I couldn't speak, when I tried to . . .
Yes. Just as the cells in your system are activated by me when I choose to make use of them, so the nanobots are selectively implemented by my rivals. They transfer only to Vulcans—you were the exception, as you were purposefully injected—and target only those who are a danger. That includes both you and the Vulcan among your crew. That trick of hers worked a little too well, wouldn't you say? They couldn't let her go after she had seen me in your dream.
So . . . T'Pol? The subcommander, she saw . . . He let the thought fade, not wanting it finished. The prospect, the invasion of self, was just too terrible. She had seen into his dream, somehow; had seen that vivid childhood memory at the dinner table. It was because she had seen it that she was ill. The assumptions came suddenly, lightning in his brain. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew.
And that's why you want these nanobots stopped? Reed was hypnotized by the smoke, and it seemed his vision had sealed itself, his peripheral sights blackened, the play of mists before him drawing him down a long tunnel to them. Because the same thing will happen?
And the first Vulcan Ambassador you were to shake hands with would contract them from you. A second would contract it from them. The chain would begin.
I'm Patient Zero, Reed gasped, drawing air into lungs that burned at its touch. Why tell me this now? Why not sooner? Or not at all, seeing as you're so secretive?
That smile of shadows quivered into being once more, then faded into mists. Would you have believed me? And your friends are about to learn as much by themselves, what would be the point in keeping things from you? Besides . . . I've decided what it is I want you to do.
------------------------------
For the second time in one day, Trip found himself posted on a silent vigil in sickbay, listening to the steady beep of monitors and equipment in an otherwise bated hush. He was not alone, not as long as Phlox needed the space to examine the tissue samples he had extracted from T'Pol and Malcolm, but he might as well have been. Few words passed between them, the one concerned with his readings, the other with an inability to make the mishmash of information fit into something coherent, though both in fact fussed over the same patient.
T'Pol's sallow skin had grown whiter, lost its greenish tinge as her blood drained from the surface, but her breathing was measured, healthy. No need to worry, this time, that the phase pistol had caused any permanent damage. It was inconceivable that the first had done.
Captain Archer returned at last, and, ignoring Phlox, went straight to Trip and T'Pol.
If ya don't mind the expression, you look like you lost a pound and found a penny, Trip commented, looking round.
Pardon me?
Just a little somethin' Malcolm told me, once. Trip offered a paltry facsimile of his usual grin, but the mischief was missing, and he knew it. Archer nodded it away.
Any sign of her waking up?
I think I saw an eyelid twitch a moment ago. But that might be cause her nasal suppressant's wearin' off and I missed my shower this mornin'.
Archer turned to Phlox, his brow dangerously low now, and lifting his voice, asked: Found anything, Doctor?
Actually, Captain, I have discovered quite a few things. Most extraordinary, and I pride myself on having encountered most forms of illness and inebriation in my time . . .
Trip echoed, incredulous. Are you tellin us she's drunk?
Phlox twitched. Yes and no. The samples and scans I took from the subcommander have been most fascinating. They contain traces of chemical compounds quite unlike any that I have seen before, but it would be reasonably accurate to describe them as having properties similar to that of alcohol. I assume they are part of the medium used to integrate the nanobots I also found in her system, but that is merely an educated guess.
Archer pounced on the word, hotly. You mean . . ?
I would assume they were transferred to the subcommander by epidermal contact with Lieutenant Reed.
Malcolm, you old dog, Trip muttered.
Archer ignored him. Epidermal contact?
It would only need to be slight, Phlox expanded. Fingers touching handing over equipment of some kind, brushing past in a narrow space . . .
Aww, Doc, spoil my fun, Trip complained.
Does that mean anybody that has been in contact with either of them needs to be quarantined? Archer cut in, shooting Trip a warning glance. Trip subsided, locking his grin down with clenched teeth. The captain's question had touched a nerve; he had grappled with T'Pol, and there had been skin contact. Should he expect to go the same way?
That is the most intriguing thing, Phlox continued, plunging happily into his beloved research babble. The same concern occurred to me and so I checked Commander Tucker here for similar contaminants. He's clean.
Well that's always nice to know, Trip responded dryly. But from the way T'Pol's nose keeps wrinklin' I'm not sure she'd agree with you.
She had, in fact, twitched more than once during their discussion. Trip had listened to the conversation with one ear, watched with one eye, but he kept the other firmly trained on the unconscious Vulcan. he commented, gruffly. She doesn't look so green today. Must be all that copper sinkin' to the bottom.
Phlox turned to him, his cheesiest grin plastered happily on his face, and exclaimed: Thank you, Commander. I think you may have solved the mystery. Give me an hour, Captain. I should have some answers for you.
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Hoshi watched the silent tableau anxiously, her fingers biting into the chair back. Reed was rooted, motionless, staring at his reflection in what was clearly an expensive wall mirror—the image of him there was perfect, unflawed, but he watched as if seeing something other than himself. He had spoken only a few words—something about the nanobots and T'Pol, and that chilling coldness of his voice as he named himself Patient Zero—but since then, nothing. She could do no more than she did, watching the minutiae of expression ripple his face in the reflection facing her, waiting for him to speak again and tell her what was going on.
Or what he thought was going on.
The captain had reminded her, as gently as he could, that the owners of the nanobots warned them Reed may hallucinate, but she had been willing to believe Reed when he said it was more than that. But watching him talk to a mirror, addressing voices she couldn't hear, was enough to put doubt in her mind. Could he be losing his grip on reality? These nanobots had done so much, so quickly. They couldn't really be certain, of anything.
He turned away at last, and stumbled forward on uneven legs. Hoshi shot from her chair and caught him. He was pale as death for the second time that day, a shade only one above lily-white, and sickly.
I have to leave, Hoshi, he said, grimly, and pulled away from her.
Is that what they told you?
He spared her a glance, but if he was surprised by the question or troubled by it, he didn't show it. Showed me, he said quietly.
What do you mean, showed you?
Hoshi, if I don't get these nanobots off the ship . . . He sighed, and his shoulders slumped haggardly. I saw it, in the mirror. If I don't leave the ship then all of you will be in danger.
He made for the door before Hoshi could reply, but the sight of his obvious intentions to go against the captain's orders kick-started her. I can't let you do that, Lieutenant, she called after him, shakily.
He looked back over his shoulder, hand half-raised to the door panel. There was the semblance of a smile, but it was dark. How are you going to stop me, Ensign? he said, clipping his syllables impatiently. Tackle me to the ground and whack those cuffs back on me? I have a superior body weight and I'm trained in over twenty different forms of self-defense. But I suppose you could always . . . talk me into submission. It softened at the end, but failed, somehow, to capture much humor.
I promised the captain. I'll be forced to alert him.
You didn't alert him when I asked you to decrypt those nanobots, he replied. Hoshi didn't reply.
Reed nodded, and opened the door.
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(What's your job description, Malcolm?)
He jogged along the corridors, keeping to the shadows and the less-traveled routes, fragments of the conversation whispered from the mirror playing through his head.
(To defend my captain and my ship from hostile alien life)
(There's more than that, Lieutenant. You know there's more than that)
The image he had seen hovered in front of his eyes, real and yet not, a glimpse of a future he had to avert. It was his duty, his raison d'etre.
And it was his fault.
(To defend with your life, Lieutenant. To always put others above yourself. Be thankful that it hasn't come to that)
He saw it in an endless replay, a loop that wouldn't be broken. The Enterprise, destroyed. An alien mist, half their size, twice their match, demanding the nanobots he carried . . . and when they had what they wanted . . .
He shook the idea away, and picked up his pace. That would never happen if he wasn't here to lead them to him. If that . . . that mist . . . was unsure if what it wanted was here or not, it wouldn't risk any harm to the Enterprise.
The launch bay was empty, and Reed slipped inside unnoticed. It was one of the advantages of his position; he had security access to a vast majority of the ship, including this launch bay . . . and the shuttlepods in it.
(It might, though. I took this assignment knowing the consequences may be . . . final. I'm hoping it won't need to come to that if I act quickly enough)
At that, the voice had been oddly silent.
Reed tapped in his security code, overriding the lockdown on Shuttlepod One, and the door clicked open. Now that he stood here, that open shuttle was like a yawning mouth, waiting to devour him.
As he stood with the soles of his boots all but welded to the metal, he realized that all along he had secretly been waiting for the tactical alert to wail into life over him. For Hoshi to sound the alarm.
Whatever she was doing now, she was a loyal friend.
There was a click behind him, and the kiss of cold steel clattered against his left wrist. He looked down and saw a set of handcuffs attached to a resolute, and shockingly stern, Hoshi.
I was told to watch you, she said, matter-of-factly.
I have to go, Hoshi. He challenged her with his eyes, but she stared him down, her shoulders shuddering with nerves, possibly afraid of him. Of what he may do. It's not safe.
I know you do, she replied. And I'm coming with you.