THE BLACK ARROW
The captain's chair had never felt so uncomfortable. Usually, Jonathan Archer felt as at home in it as ever he had felt anywhere—like he belonged in this chair, that after all his father's struggles to achieve this ship no other had the right to claim this command—but today he fidgeted, the dips and rises of the upholstery that at any other time moulded perfectly to his body refusing to conform to him this time. His eyes combed the viewscreen ahead of him restlessly, finding little interest in the immense star field that could easily hold him enthralled for hours on any other day. He never tired of watching the stars. Perhaps, had he felt that any of the decisions made recently had been his, he would feel better about all of this. But somehow, as he had found all too often since they launched, the situation had gotten out of hand too quickly for him to do anything about it, and he was forced to trust the crew he had hand-picked with the decisions that, in any normal circumstances, would fall to a captain to make.
He should never have allowed Trip to take Shuttlepod Two down to the surface alone, any more than he should have allowed Malcolm to make off with Hoshi and Shuttlepod One. Not because he truly believed the hostage story—he had every confidence that Hoshi's involvement was voluntary—but because of the unpredictability of his armory officer at the present time. They were down there, the three of them, and he had heard nothing since Shuttlepod Two launched. Ensign Kerr had made repeated attempts to make contact, but each hail went unanswered, the com channel devoid of even static. A dampening field of some kind must be in operation over the institute, or else there was some other interference. He was left with a sense not so much of delegation to the three as preemption from them; he hadn't sent them, they just went.
And that made him edgy. He jumped from the chair at last, startling the bridge crew, and began to pace the nerves out of his body—ridding himself, with every footfall, of one more worry, one more confusion.
When he turned back to his seat, he found a small bundle of fur nestled comfortably there like a joey in its mother's pouch. It happened every time. Archer was a naturally patient man with everyone but the Vulcans, and even they were beginning to enjoy a little leeway with him, but this bizarre creature was beginning to get to his frayed nerves just a little.
Porthos, get down from there, he said, wearily.
The dog looked up hopefully, and whimpered.
At the helm, Travis Mayweather attempted to hide a snigger, and Ensign Kerr's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
Archer strode across the bridge and plucked the little animal firmly from his chair, placing him pointedly on the deck. Now how many times have I told you, he said, not unkindly, that you're not to sit in my chair every time I stretch my legs?
I think it's called pacing, sir, Travis ventured.
Archer ignored the ensign, but offered a polite, weary smile. Perhaps the comment would be frowned upon by most in Starfleet, but considering the tension swimming beneath the surface today like water under a slick of oil, it was encouraging that his remaining bridge crew were still laughing and joking. He watched Porthos' stump of a tail twitch, wanting to wag, and uncertain if he was permitted when his master frowned at him like that.
Go ahead, Archer sighed, letting his shoulders slump. Wag your tail. Give me those big brown doggy eyes and look innocent.
Porthos obliged. Archer stooped and patted him before returning to the captain's chair.
Captain, I'm detecting a transmission, Ensign Kerr said, suddenly.
Archer glanced over to the young woman hunched over the communications station, unable to prevent the obvious associations it brought—that at this time and in this shift, it should be Hoshi operating those controls. Where is it coming from?
I can't tell you, sir. There don't appear to be any ships or beacons for at least three light-years, and none of those are emitting any kind of signal.
Put it through.
Kerr tapped at her station, and a flat field of static began to invade the bridge. It did not appear to come from the speakers as other transmissions did; it permeated every square centimeter of the bridge, a crackle in the skin, teasing goose flesh from Archer's arms. The hairs at the base of his neck stiffened, for no reason other than a vague suspicion he would not like what came next. He waited, anticipating a break in the static or an introduction of some kind. One by one, his bridge crew turned to look uncomfortably hard at him, expectant. But he did not intend to jump in blindly on this one.
Then, without warning, a loud, monotonous voice began to speak.
YOU HAVE SOMETHING THAT BELONGS TO US. WE DETECT 81 HUMANS ON YOUR SHIP MANIFEST. PREPARE FOR THOSE ONBOARD TO BE SCANNED.
I'm Captain Archer, of the Starship Enterprise. Explain yourself.
Nothing. The transmission did not come again, either as a reply or a repetition. Archer stood, braced for a warning shot—or maybe this mysterious scan spoken of, a process unnervingly vague and seemingly unstoppable. A viscous white-blue steam began to rise from the deck plates at his feet, rising from between like a volcanic spume, and as he glanced around the bridge he saw the same vapor rising in a dense, stinging fog that made his eyes water and his throat force a cough on reflex. There was the strong, even sickly, stench of a spilled chemistry set, thick with citric acid and dry ice.
Behind him, Porthos hopped happily back into the captain's chair behind his master's back, yawned, and curled up to sleep, oblivious to the cloud that enveloped the bridge.
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For the second time in only an hour, Reed found himself slowly becoming aware of his surroundings in cautious degrees, though he remembered neither falling asleep nor being knocked unconscious. Sickly bluish light pierced his closed eyelids and a familiar silence swelled in his ears; but other than that, and the knowledge that he was lying on a hard floor again, there was nothing. His head rang faintly with a raucous cacophony of stunned echoes and his eyelids were imprinted with dizzying, brilliant stars. He must, then, have been neither knocked out nor willingly slept, but passed out from that trembling, tenuous pain in his head.
He dragged himself to a sitting position with both hands, detecting an odd sensation of loose fabric gathered at his hips, and glancing down saw that his uniform had been unfastened and peeled back to the waist, revealing a bloody smear in the left shoulder of his undershirt. It all came rushing back to him like a clap of thunder; the globe-shaped room, the dim corridor, the healing wound . . . and the number sequence that had opened a door beneath his feet.
What . . . where am I? he murmured, having made no effort, in his waking state, to discover as much for himself. He hardly expected any answer. It was a further shock, neither pleasant nor yet worrying, when a voice he had heard once before in this very room said:
You must remember this place.
Reed banished the stars from his head, briskly shaking them away, and stumbled to his feet. As he looked about him he understood why the image of thunder had occurred to him; this was the conference room in which they had held their first meeting with Sparek and T'Lau, the conference room that had been lit, as it was now, with blue-gray twilight and the scurrying shadows of amassed storm clouds outside those tall, slim windows. But . . . but he had fallen down, hadn't he? Then why was he back where he began . . ?
He smoothed all signs of surprise from his face, as he had cultivated the ability to do, and constructed as best he could, with his head so wooly and his heart so loud, a relaxed demeanor. He had come here to demand answers of these people, if people they could even be called, and he had no intention of allowing the opportunity to slide. Of course, he replied. What I actually meant to say was: is this your attempt to shut me up for good?
From the far shadows pooling in the room's corners there came the dense pounds of footfalls. A figure, smallish in comparison with the Dark Man but taller than Reed himself, emerged from them into the watery moonlight. The patterns of shadow cast by the crossbars of the window panes created a lattice of black and blue across the floor, and across the sallow face of the stranger that approached.
It was no stranger. It was Sparek, or the image of him, as he had appeared those few days ago. So much anger, Sparek observed softly, from beneath the monkish white hood that partially concealed his gaunt face. Now I remember why we had our reservations about you.
Reed squared his aching shoulders, drew himself up to his best height, and snapped: You're not exactly my first choice either. But enough chitchat; I've come here because I want answers. What are these nanobots, and what have they done to T'Pol?
You sound as if you already think you know. What did he tell you?
The question struck like a stone between the eyes, but he wrestled the surprise back, and feigned ignorance. He did not much care for the parallel between David and Goliath his first impression had presented him with—although, should he reverse those roles, the analogy was frighteningly apt.
The one of us who visits you.
No one visits' me.
The hood dipped in a minimal, regal nod. The voice that answered was far from confrontational, but if anything that almost Vulcan character was . . . sad. You lie, human, and not very well. We know you see in the dark. You have cat's eyes, like us. The test we laid for you was in darkness and yet you saw your way. Only one of us could have given you that gift.
Reed pressed his lips together, sealing in any reflex comment which may betray both his acquaintance with the Dark Man and his confusion over this sudden revelation. His eyes flickered from the Sparek-double's tranquil face for a fraction of a heartbeat, then steadied, fixing resolutely on the being before him. A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind, some instantly rejected, others held up to what he already had set in stone to see how they may fit, but he allowed none of that activity to mar his unrevealing face. If this being could be believed then the hopscotch test, that ridiculous and unreal number sequence, had been a test laid by these beings to uncover his mark, and not a path created by the Dark Man, after all. They had set it to bring him here where he couldn't run but also to test him, to prove that he had alien cells in his body capable of making him see in the dark. That ghostly light he had seen radiating from no visible source had not been light at all, but an ability bestowed on him, by accident or design, by the Dark Man's imprint. It was a fact he could hardly deny, having seen the evidence himself, though he reared instinctively against taking this creature's word on such blind faith.
I . . . didn't know, he stammered, eventually.
Which of us visits you? Sparek's form repeated. There was no more emotion in him than in the Vulcan he impersonated, though Vulcan he most definitely was not. Something in his total equanimity carried more assurance and ease than all the Dark Man's soothing promises had done.
Reed sidestepped the question, wary of giving away anything more until he could uncover for himself just who this creature was . . . and how much he already knew. He didn't give me a name, he said, slowly. I always thought of him as the Dark Man.
Because he always appeared at night. In the dark, no . . . no lights at all. I was only six at the time. All I can tell you is that he always appears with a tattoo on his hand. A black arrow.
We know the one. He is . . . against us. Against what we are trying to do. But until now we had no proof. His methods of remaining undetected are regrettably advanced.
I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to keep the Vulcans quiet. They found out a little too much about you and now you want to prevent it going any further. It emerged as an accusation he had not intended to make.
The Sparek-creature did not falter in so much as one perfect eyebrow. We are not trying to silence the Vulcans, he stated, simply.
Oh no? Then what about T'Pol? From what I hear, she's none too talkative right now. And the same thing happened to me when I tried to talk about the . . . the one who visits me. Are you telling me that was a coincidence?
It is not a coincidence. Would we freely answer your questions now if our goal was to silence you all?
Reed hesitated, thrown off-balance by the unnegotiable impenetrability of that logic. Maybe not. But if you didn't, then who did?
The other one of us.
He told me he wanted first contact. But that statement fell heavily on the silence, losing any degree of the anger or fervor that his first assertions had carried. Even as he spoke, doubt was eating at his mind like a cancer—he made these statements as if they were concrete facts, proven by solid evidence . . . but in actual fact, when he thought back on the events that had led him here, he realized that every one of these statements stemmed only from the Dark Man's word. He had believed each explanation that came because any explanation, however farfetched, had been better than none. But how could he be sure . . ? He said you planted the nanobots to stop him, he continued, no longer stating what he felt he knew, but urging forward questions he never wanted to have to ask. I assume by affecting speech in some way if my own experience is anything to go by. Or perhaps causing illness, again like you've done to me this whole time. He said they mustn't reach Titrinus or they would spread throughout the Vulcan High Command.
And then, clear in the echoing twilight of the high-arched conference room, came the two words he had most dreaded, and most expected, to hear. He lied.
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The steam dispersed as quickly as it had come. Archer choked, blinking back the sting in his eyes, and looked around at the streaming eyes and checked coughs of his bridge crew.
Is everyone all right? he asked, once his voice had returned. He had no desire to speak so soon, but as always, his crew took precedence. They nodded, mostly unable to speak until their throats recovered. Travis muttered a weak: I think so, Captain.
That voice invaded suddenly again, seeming not to pass through their ears at all, but to arrive directly in their heads, disembodied and echoless. An abyss.
THE 78 HUMANS WE SCANNED ARE CLEAN. WE ALSO DETECT ONE DENOBULAN AND ONE VULCAN ON YOUR SHIP MANIFEST. PREPARE FOR THEM TO BE SCANNED.
Archer knew better than to protest. A being without a body and a transmission without a transmitter was something even the best of Starfleet's training had never prepared him for. It was like attempting to communicate with, and possibly to fight against, a ghost.
There was a pause, and the bridge was silent for two or three minutes. Then a chirp from the communicator in his armrest disturbed him. He punched the button and Phlox's voice came over the com, sounding strained for the buoyant Denobulan.
Captain, the subcommander and myself appear to have been scanned by a vapor cloud of some description. I assume you have been experiencing similar . . . abnormalities.
We're fine, Doctor. Are you and T'Pol okay?
I think so, Captain. Phlox sounded surprised at the question.
Sit tight. Archer out. He punched the com silent again and glanced around at his bridge crew, waiting for the voice to announce a further discovery, or issue a challenge. Nothing was forthcoming for a long, long moment. Then, tightly and with obvious disgust for its failed attempts at locating what it had came for, the voice said:
WE WILL BE BACK. YOU MUST HAVE WHAT WE WANT.
Archer let out the gush of breath he had held for the past two minutes, and scratched Porthos absently behind the ears. The bridge crew sat poised for a moment, afraid to return to their posts, afraid it was not over. Archer glanced down at the little dog gazing lovingly up at him from his chair, the plump little canine body defiantly planted where he had been told not to go.
Archer smiled, tightly. Thank goodness the aliens had not thought to check the manifest for dogs.
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He lied.
But the mirror, too? Had that lied? He had nothing left open to him but to present the situation as he had seen it, as he still saw it in some indestructible way, and hope that this being may either prove himself the liar . . . or prove the Dark Man as such. Reed suspended every belief for those few, precarious moments. Give a dog enough rope, he thought, wryly, and shuddered at the memory it brought of waiting to be convinced that first time. Hovering between life and death, fenced from the shadowlands by only the flimsy walls of his own memories and imagination. He remembered, with more than a passing thread of shame and a fiercely unbreakable pride, just how low the Dark Man had been forced to stoop to convince him. He had had to kill him and offer that promise of life before the natural Reed paranoia could be conquered. If Malcolm was ashamed at having believed so blindly, then at least he was proud of the effort it had taken to make him do so. He showed me quite a few things that I can't ignore. He showed me what would happen if I stayed on the ship, that you would attack for the sake of silencing the subcommander and me. I saw some . . . some alien thing demand these nanobots back from me—probably because I no longer showed any intention of taking them to Titrinus—and when you had what you wanted, you destroyed the Enterprise. So I came back here, hoping that with me gone you would leave the ship in peace and come after me. And ever since we set foot inside the entrance, this institute has done nothing but try to stop us from confronting you with the truth. If that wasn't your doing, then whose was it?
I accept you have been intercepted at many points. But wasn't somebody also helping you to reach us?
Are you saying that was you?
There was a deathly pause, heavy on his lungs as it seemed to thicken the very air to a soup. Perhaps, in this unreal and fantastical place, it did. Sparek's emotionless clone began to pace restlessly in a half-circle beside Reed, reminding him, very briefly, of the captain. The captain. T'Pol, Trip . . . Hoshi. He wondered, almost painfully, if they were safe. If his leaving had averted the disaster after all. I am saying nothing. He is misleading you, Malcolm Reed, the being said, coldly. It is he manipulating this institute against you, he trying his utmost to prevent first contact. It was he you saw attacking your ship in the vision. Perhaps by showing you his intent he hoped to separate you from your native territory. There, you were to a degree protected by your friends. Like the woman who woke you in your engine room and guarded you in your quarters, at the risk of great danger to herself. But here, Malcolm—here you are fair game to him. This institute may have been ours in the beginning, but it is his playground now.
Reed took this with the proverbial pinch of salt, half-convinced both the one way and the other. There was so much he didn't know, so much to be certain of before any decisions were made. On this one, there was no captain, no subcommander or commander to throw the responsibility onto; here, he was on his own. So often on the ship, he had continued with the job he knew he had to do regardless of rank and authority above him . . . but here, when he was most in need of another's objectivity, he had no choice but to work alone. If he could not do something, then no one would. He was the tactical officer; it was his place to gather all the information that was available to them, and form a plan of action based on that information. No unnecessary conclusions, no emotional outbursts. Just pure, cold logic. He wouldn't make the mistake of trusting too blindly again.
We guided you to make your way here safely, with what power we have against him, the hooded form whispered. We are keeping your friends safe as we can even now.
Friends? You mean Hoshi? he pursued, hopefully.
And a man. A loud man.
Ah. That would be Commander Tucker. So Enterprise had followed, presumably unchallenged, and had sent the commander on a little recon to bring them back. They were all right, for now.
For now.
We are watching them, while we can. But he is strong. We are limited in what we can do. We can hold him back for so long but now that you know the truth about him he will be coming for you and all who know you. In the end, it is your fight as much as it is ours.
Reed shifted his weight from one foot to the other, folding his arms defensively across his chest. His uniform still hung half-stripped and unfastened at his waist. I don't know that it is the truth, he bit. But he did. He might lie—badly—to these beings, but he could never lie to himself.
And if we told you it was he who set Commander Tucker's phase pistol to kill? He used you in your sleep. Before your ensign woke you in engineering you had been to the armory. It was there that you altered the exact phase pistol your commander would later pick up. He knew which it would be. Don't you think it was a little convenient, his being given the opportunity to offer you your life and make so binding a bargain just when he needed to? Do you honestly believe it was an accident? You know your own duties, Lieutenant. You would never have left a lethal weapon set to kill, even sealed away in your armory. Somebody tampered with it, somebody set to benefit from your death.
(We are not constrained to the restrictions of length, height, breadth, and time)
He saw. The words came reluctantly, dragging themselves from his mouth. All this information he had received . . . had been given . . . and he hadn't been paying attention. Can he see the ship? Everything we do?
In theory we each have the ability to see any place or time we wish. But we cannot be everywhere at once. If he is occupied in tracking you and your friends here it is unlikely he will have been watching your ship, as you hoped when you came here. Although we cannot guarantee he is working alone.
How do you know all this? Reed snapped, suddenly. Explain that.
We are shades in this plane of existence, Lieutenant. We see everywhere and every when. We see him when his defenses are weak, as he no doubt sees us. Think about it, Malcolm. What have we held back from you? He has done nothing but keep you in the dark. He makes you ill to keep you from reaching us.
Yes, Reed thought sarcastically to himself. It's like getting blood out of a stone. You, on the other hand . . . well, you're just a veritable little fountain of knowledge, aren't you? He also fixed my shoulder, he contended, but weakly. As if in confirmation of all this other told him, he was beginning to feel dizzy in the head once more. He set his teeth hard, and focused on damming back the pain. The Dark Man had fixed his shoulder . . . but if this creature with him now was so close to convincing him, and knew it, would he make him ill, just when the argument was won?
He was not responsible for healing your wound. He no doubt knew it would heal . . . but he had no part in it. He may even have caused it to open again.
Reed gulped, accepting it without protest now. Clearly this being told the truth. The nanobots had repaired his shoulder, and the Dark Man had foreseen it all those years ago, had used it as a prophecy by which he may plant these false ideas in his intended host's head. It was the Dark Man, it must be, who made the room swim and his head pound like waves on the shore now. The Dark Man that had all along turned this institute against them to keep him from learning the truth. The Dark Man that had caused his death.
The room flickered as a ribbon of white-hot lightning streaked down beyond the far windows, the blackout of walls and floor and the figure of Sparek himself synchronized perfectly with that shocking bolt. Clearly in the ozone-laden air steamed the acid-oxide scent of the Dark Man's alien cells, cooking in his blood.
He is winning, the robed figure said, for the first time betraying an urgency with his voice that was far from evident in his passive face. Quickly. I can extract the nanobots now and arrange for their transport another way. I cannot allow him to take them from you and destroy them; they took much of our resources to perfect. Once they are gone, he should have no business with you. Perhaps when this is settled, we can attempt first contact with your race.
Reed smiled, indulgently, just the faintest tug of his lips to one side. I think you just did.
Then Earth should thank you. You have made a . . . good impression.
Even though I didn't deliver your nanobots for you?
We never expected any of our enemies would intercept you. We are sorry we ever put you and your ship in such a position. We thought that his kind would never suspect such an unknown race as our couriers. We should have known better.
The smile, rare for him, deepened. For some inexplicable and perhaps foolish reason, Reed felt honored at having been trusted with the privilege to begin with. It was an acceptable risk. And you didn't think he would see what you were up to. I assume you have some form of hiding your activities from one other? A society that values secrets yet can see everything that ever was or will be strikes me as a bit of an amusing concept, if you don't mind my saying so.
We have our ways. You have seen that they are not infallible. And there, in answer to his own, was a quiet and most un-Vulcan smile. It seemed strange on Sparek's graven face. But we would like to believe we see with more discernment than he ever will.
Well, if you don't mind . . . I'd like these little pests removed now. If it's at all possible.
Of course. The being—he had no other way to refer to him, and felt ill at ease applying the name of the Vulcan whose form he had chosen to manifest himself in—stepped forward, only a hand's breadth from Reed, and gently placed his arched fingers on Reed's forehead. There was that same, stinging sensation, blessedly brief . . . and then, nothing. The creature withdrew his cold hand. They are gone.
That was quick.
Wasn't it? Not his voice, not Sparek's . . . it rang from behind them, a boom amplified in the distant ceiling of the conference room as a music hall would swell the voices of a choir.
The Dark Man.
Reed spun on his heel, braced to spring aside if the need came. The entire building flickered, allowing a glimpse of a dark and void planet beyond—the real, dead planet on which this fake meeting place had been imposed. Even the storm, in those glimpses, ceased to exist.
Of course. Holographic weather. Designed to hide the comings and goings of these beings from people who had no business to see. To unnerve his hosts as he saw fit . . .
. . . and once to conceal a visit, in a place where aliens never trod, to a little boy's bedroom in the dead of night.