SHOOTING FISH IN A BARREL


Hoshi studied his rigid shoulders and braced torso, surreptitiously directing each glance from under her eyelashes so they might go unnoticed. His uniform was drenched with sweat, and a fine grease of perspiration gleamed on his reddened brow. Reed was whole, alive, the bloody smear in his clothing defiantly visible where no wound existed to make it; but he was far from undamaged. He stared into the middle distance, eyes half-lidded, their shocking blue fixed on nothing Hoshi herself could see.

It's bright in here, he murmured, lips barely moving, eyes transfixed to a point beyond the helm where Trip sat piloting the shuttlepod. Could we turn the lights down?

Why, got a headache? That's what happens when ya smuggle information in your bloodstream for a bunch of aliens ya can't even see, Trip drawled, lazily . . . but he lowered the shuttlepod's interior lights, just the same.

Reed nodded his thanks, and shuddered. Hoshi fetched a blanket from one of the storage lockers and slipped it around him, tucking the folds well in. His fingers clutched automatically at the edges and drew the material in tighter, with barely a glance to her in acknowledgment. For a long time Hoshi merely sat beside him on the aft bench, studying his unchanging profile.

Much of what he had said since they lifted him aboard had been lost in muttering, words barely formed or partly missing, and what he had said made no sense. He insisted that the nanobots were good, bearers of information to orchestrate first contact between these shades' and the Vulcan High Command. He had lamented that the lights were too bright and the engines too loud . . . and throughout his garbled speech he had spoken, repeatedly, of a Dark Man', the arbitrator of every complication they had experienced.

Neither Hoshi nor Trip had known what he was talking about, but a fleeting notion of the mysterious he' Reed had mentioned before lingered in Hoshi's mind.

As the sleek lines of Enterprise neared and Shuttlepod One made ready to dock, Reed started abruptly, flinging the blanket aside and clambering to the nearest viewport.

he muttered, making the word burn like an accusation. Trip lowered them automatically, but Reed raised a peremptory hand, gesturing he brighten them again. No, no, leave them! Leave them.

Trip and Hoshi exchanged an uncertain glance, not the first they had indulged throughout the journey; and then, trusting him as Hoshi appeared to, Trip raised the lights again. Hoshi tried not to notice how Reed winced as he did so. She watched him at the viewport but made no move to join him, disturbed at his sudden lack of grace. It was as if he had lost control over his own limbs, of his sense of distance, treating obstacles as if they did not exist in the same three-dimensional space as he did. She cast her mind back over all the times when his agility had astounded her, and shuddered inwardly at the painful difference.

Let it go, Ensign, she berated herself. It's not like you should be surprised he's feeling a little off right now. In fact, I'm surprised he's even . . .

The thought remained uncompleted, dying away in light of new information of greater importance. She stopped cold, staring helplessly at a point in the hull of the shuttlepod directly in front of her.

Reed's hand had just passed seamlessly through it. As if it did not even exist.

Or as if he did not exist.

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

Hoshi watched him like a hawk the whole of the time they spent docking, waiting for it to happen again. It did not. He never strayed near enough to any solid surface he may sink into, by conscious design or by accident she would not like to say. Maybe he was more aware of his . . . changing . . . than she gave him credit for, and was taking pains to avoid announcing it.

Maybe he wasn't.

The same uncommunicative avoidance was true the whole time from docking to entering the air lock—and there Reed stopped without warning, halting her and Trip behind him. Hoshi dared a sidelong glance to the commander, but his unusually grave face gave no sign of his having noticed anything wrong.

Reed tapped the com on the wall smartly, and they waited, not attempting to stop him until they understood better what it was they would be trying to stop. Reed to the captain, he said curtly, his clipped, professional tone slipping effortlessly back into place as if this were merely a routine mission. As if he had not recently stolen a shuttlepod and a com officer. And as if they had not just survived a difficult exodus from perhaps the most alien encounter to date.

Archer's voice returned over the com, seeming, to Hoshi's ears, admirably unjudging. I see you returned my shuttlepod in one piece, he said. Not to mention my com officer.

Yes, sir, Reed replied. Hoshi noticed that he made no attempt to apologize. Captain, I need for you to trust me on something, and I don't know that there's time to explain.

Forgive me if I don't feel very trusting at the moment. What's the reason for all this secrecy?

Run the commander and Hoshi through standard decon first, sir. Then I'll explain.

Reed ushered Hoshi and Trip to overtake him, and they did so, bewildered. As Hoshi brushed past him in the narrow space, Reed hastily averted his eyes. Her mouth opened to protest, and then she thought better of it, and let the silence fall.

Do as I say, Hoshi, he said, very softly so Trip would not overhear. He offered a pale half-smile which did not quite reach his eyes. Trust me.

Hoshi nodded, and followed Trip into decon.

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

It was a brief stay, and both were pronounced clean by Phlox. The door to the air lock opened and Hoshi and Trip spilled out hastily, anxious to know what Reed was being so reticent about. Phlox had assured them that whatever Reed carried was no threat to them, and that, if they were clean of other contagions, then logically so was he.

He had remained in the air lock throughout, and stood quietly by as Hoshi and Trip redressed. He didn't offer a word, or make a move beyond folding his arms as he waited. Now that it felt so close to being over, Hoshi didn't honestly know if she was mad with him for involving her, or not. It was true that she had mostly involved herself. Trip's face was shuttered, but to her eye shock and an unreadable emotion lying barely beneath the surface had as much to do with it as any animosity toward the lieutenant for stealing her and the shuttlepod. Trip had always struck her as a passionate soul, and one to take things deeply to heart.

Reed, the textbook compliment to her evaluation of the commander if ever she saw one, waited until both were dressed in fresh uniforms before saying, simply:

If you could fetch T'Pol, Commander.

Trip gave Reed a thoughtful stare, searching for the evidence of more than was said; then he nodded and left through the now inactive decon, leaving Hoshi alone with Reed once more. Hoshi let the silence work for her, allowing Enterprise's restful hum to carry the awkward moment when she herself felt unable to. Compliment, indeed—so opposite, and sometimes so cold where Trip was warm, but like as two subspace beacons inside. Both of them, despite their different approach to the task, had tried their utmost to protect her down on that planet. They had succeeded, she thought with no intention of ever disclosing it, every bit as much as Captain Archer would have done.

Her eyes wandered not quite idly, looking for signs of injury on Reed's body as he stripped his shredded uniform away, unaware as she did so that she expected to find none beyond the angry redness of his hands, and in particular the back of his right. Her attention settled uncomfortably on his shoulder, where the dark bloom in his uniform had rested.

Didn't you have a scar . . . just there? She reached across, and traced the memory of it in the air a breath away from his skin.

I did, he said, simply. It healed.

So . . . why send us through decon before you? Did you figure out how to reverse . . . whatever's happening to you?

He nodded. I believe so.

So what do we have to do? No accidental slip of the tongue—she wanted to help him. Wanted to be a part of this to the bitter end, having embarked on it at its beginning.

Reed sighed, as if by doing so he could somehow expel the contaminants from his body on the outrush of breath. When you and the commander brought the shuttlepod overhead at the institute, I noticed something. I'd seen it, a hundred times before, but . . . well, I guess you could say I wasn't paying attention. He smiled, bitterly. The aliens we're dealing with have an aversion to light, Ensign. I know because . . . I felt it.

Hoshi gulped, that image of his hand sinking into the hull flashing through her mind. You're becoming like them, aren't you?

Reed refused to meet her eyes or her accusation, instead fusing his whole attention to the process of folding a uniform fit now only for waste disposal. If he registered any surprise at her question, then he kept it carefully hidden away. The light hurt him. I think it could kill him. Therefore an intense burst of EM radiation should destroy any biological elements of theirs in either myself or the subcommander.



Reed smiled, sadly. Of course. I never told you much about him, did I?

Hoshi shook her head, no. I get the feeling you're not going to now. Malcolm, if . . . if you had the same reaction to light as he did, does that mean . . ?

That I've taken on other interesting attributes'? Now that would be telling. There was something about the reply that should come with a smile—and yet it came with nothing, not even a frown.

I only asked, Lieutenant. There's no need to bite my head off.

Reed shrugged and handed her his folded uniform, plumping it unceremoniously into her arms. She accepted it without a word. You don't know what it was like, Ensign. What it felt like. I could have destroyed him down there, in the blink of an eye, but I didn't. I bargained instead. And do you know why?

Weakly, Hoshi shook her head, wilting under his sudden tempest. He had changed from quiet and melancholy to shockingly harsh in one fell breath, sweeping her away in the flash flood.

Because I knew I wouldn't be able to stop, he answered, subsiding as suddenly as he had erupted. That kind of power . . . I was only beginning to get an idea of what I could do, but I know more than well enough what he did do. To me, to T'Pol. I might start out using these abilities to defend the Enterprise . . . but before long I'd want to try a little bit more, and a little bit more, until eventually . . . eventually I'd be as bad as he is. That's why I want this reversed. As quickly as possible.

But if you're turning into . . . whatever it is they are . . . and this could kill one of them . . .

He suddenly turned bloodshot eyes on her, and whatever she had intended to say died in her mouth, seeming inconsequential, tactless, and even unkind. Whatever objections she had meant to raise, he was already aware of them all.

I know, Hoshi, he whispered. As he reached her name, his voice weakened into something terrifyingly close to breaking. Believe me, I know.

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

This time Trip found T'Pol in her quarters, kneeling beside a lighted candle at her low table, her head reverentially bowed. Aside from the flickering single flame, the room was in darkness, and the furthest corners were shrouded in dancing striations of flame and shadow. The clutter he had witnessed before had been tidied away, presumably by T'Pol herself, and a near impossible degree of order had once more been imposed on the room. She may not be very vocal at present, nor forthcoming with her inevitable insults thinly disguised as guidance, but in every other respect, she appeared to be the same old stuck-up Vulcan again. The inebriation' appeared to have passed as suddenly as it had come.

She raised her head as he entered, and though Trip hardly expected her to rattle off a welcome speech, he had hoped for something a little more concrete than the bland appraisal she was directing his way now. The stuttering shadows netted across her face were the only semblance of movement in the whole, dim room.

I, uh . . . I think we found a way to fix you all up, he said, tentatively.

T'Pol, naturally, said nothing in response. She made no move to stand and come with him. Instead, she reached across the low table, selected an unlit oil burner, and tilted it towards him to reveal a sludgy brown liquid coating the base. How any face so expressionless could be so accusing, Trip would never know.

Look, I'm sorry about that, he conceded, reluctantly. T'Pol set the vessel down again, and nodded.

Trip waited a moment, hoping for some sign of compliance from her. He realized, within a few moments, that she was waiting for him to offer a little more first.

Malcolm thinks he found a way to solve your little . . . problem, he ventured, hoping that by attributing this request to someone else, he would enjoy a better response. It was clear Trip himself was far from her favorite person right now. Look, pointy, I'm sorry I bruised your elbows, okay? I'm sorry I spat coffee in your little pot. But if you ever want that voice o' yours back so's you can tear me off a strip, you're gonna have to trust me on this. I'll even go a round with ya in the gym so's you can pay me back a shiner or two. How's that?

T'Pol levelly met his gaze, owlishly unblinking, her face the picture of serenity. Then, minutely, she nodded, snuffed the candle flame between her forefinger and thumb, and rose to follow him.

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

Hoshi stood with Phlox, Archer and Trip outside the decon chamber as T'Pol removed her jumpsuit and folded it neatly. Phlox was intent upon fine-tuning the adjustments to the EM emitters in the chamber, but the captain and Trip remained silent—and no doubt aware that they were superfluous to proceedings. Reed was already waiting in decon.

So, Doctor, I trust you have some idea of why Malcolm's asked us to do this? Archer asked.

I admit I am not entirely familiar with the process, but there have been notable occasions in human medical history where gamma rays and ultraviolet radiation in controlled doses have been used to cleanse carcinogenic cells from a living organism. These levels should hold minimal risk for either the lieutenant or the subcommander, but if Mr. Reed's information is correct, it will be sufficient to kill any alien elements in their bloodstream. Human and Vulcan tolerance to electromagnetic radiation is far superior to these . . . visitors spoken of.

Hoshi bit her lip. There would be a Vulcan in there; but she suspected, knowing what she knew and was obliged to keep unoffered, that there would be something far from human in there with her—something whose tolerance of EM radiation may differ vastly from their own ideas. She might tell what she knew, but what good would it do? There was nothing else to be done but to go through with this process, and hope.

Ya know, T'Pol, I could always help ya with a little aftersun lotion when you're done, Trip teased idly. I should say the sunburn in there'll be a killer.

Hoshi winced inwardly at Trip's unfortunate choice of words, no part of the conversation but unable to avoid overhearing it. Yes. Although sunburn would be the least of Reed's worries, what he was about to put himself through may very well be a killer.

Vulcans don't get sunburn as a rule, Commander, she said, absently. Their sun's a lot hotter than ours. They developed more resilient skin as a consequence.

Steal my fun, Trip muttered. T'Pol did not deign to give him so much as a glare. They both knew he was only teasing out of nerves. Though Reed's fears had been made known only to Hoshi, the group waited under a general cloud of dread; the air of the side room where they stood was as bated and hushed as their own breath.

T'Pol stepped inside, and the door swept closed behind her.

Archer turned suddenly to Hoshi, and said, without preamble: He's worried, isn't he? He thinks something could go wrong.

Hoshi debated lying out of respect for Reed's confidence in her, but Jonathan Archer had always been able to persuade her deepest fears from her—and had always done something to alleviate it. She nodded, miserably.

Archer said nothing, but his brow creased a little more as they waited. And waited.

And waited.

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

T'Pol entered to find Lieutenant Reed seated on the bench at the chamber's back wall, fingers curled convulsively at its outer edge, his shoulders hunched—a defensive gesture, she had come to understand, and one synonymous with personal insecurity or discomfort. As she entered, he shifted his balance and folded his arms squarely across his bare chest. This, like the sideways nod of his head in acceptance of an order to his liking, was another of his recurring mannerisms, and like them, was largely unconscious; but this one was defensive, as he was by his very nature defensive.

For that particular trait, T'Pol could understand the need, even if it was a need she did not share.

The lieutenant attempted to relax his posture as she settled gingerly on the bench beside him. As she had expected—when humans became nervous, they fidgeted. Anxiety of many distinctive layers was pouring from him in every infinitesimal twitch and every bold attempt at flippancy.

Lieutenant Reed closed his eyes, presumably in anticipation of light from the steadily increasing glow of the EM panels set in the walls around them. Vulcans possessed secondary eyelids that would protect her from any adverse effect, and T'Pol closed them, mimicking him. She rested her head back, and waited, breathing in the sterile air that always seemed so humid to her lungs.

Lieutenant Reed questioned, softly.

She raised her head and opened her eyes to look at him, unable to reply in any other way.

If this . . . doesn't go smoothly, for me . . . He gulped, and T'Pol watched the movement of his throat, seeing in it how much effort it cost him to say whatever he was attempting to say. . . . if it looks like I'm trouble, don't try to stop the process. Not unless I seem to be in serious danger.

T'Pol blinked, respecting the gravity of his request, but not understanding its logic. She raised an eyebrow in query, unable to do anything more.

It won't be pretty. In fact I'm not even sure I want to go through with it at all.

He looked away, suddenly silent as she was, and her faint twinge of interest at what appeared to be a textbook case of human nerves made her wait patiently, expecting further qualification.

At last, he turned back. Would you give up this kind of power, Subcommander, if you had it? Would you just zap it away without even stopping to explore what you could do?

She looked back hard at him, studying the odd dilation of his eyes despite the escalation of light, the tangible eagerness spilling from him. He looked like he was under the influence of a very powerful drug. Which, from what Commander Tucker and especially Ensign Sato had briefed her on, may very well be the case.

You can't even nod any more, can you? he said, at last. With a little too much interest.

T'Pol could claim worse than that; she could no longer do anything to communicate at all. Whoever this mysterious alien being involved was, he was fighting against this cleansing with all his power.

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

The decon chamber swelled with light. T'Pol sat upright, her eyes closed, her hands at her sides, already beginning to detect a faint, sizzling sensation under her skin—like bicarbonate of soda reacting to water—and smelling that scent that had saturated the air around her for the past two days. Her sensitive nose was in no doubt that the frothy odor was rising, filling the tiny decon chamber with an ambient cloud of perfume. It was partly the reason her eyes were closed; the acid in the air was making them sting.

Reed had fallen silent, his head reclined and his eyes closed . . . but he was far from restful. His breathing came in sharp clips, a whistle sounding thinly in his throat like a worn clarinet, and his chest heaved as his lungs struggled to pull in air. The strain increased as the light did.

T'Pol could detect a distinct difference in her own body, but the change was a positive one, her throat less tight, her head a little clearer. She opened her mouth experimentally, but no sound came yet. She would have to be patient.

Lieutenant Reed choked suddenly, a hacking cough expelled from deep behind his ribs, and he reared forward, bent double. T'Pol turned her head towards the sound, but did not risk opening her eyes. She extended her hand blindly to her right, bereft of any other means of contact, and tapped his arm with the backs of her fingers. His skin was feverish to the touch.

I'm all right, Subcommander, he struggled, discomfort shooting through his voice like cracks in a pane of glass. No cause for concern.

She swallowed, feeling its wet glide down her loosened throat, and, flexing her jaw in incremental nudges, forced a few, alien sounding words from her mouth. Alien-sounding because, at last, they were English words she spoke.

I . . . appear improved. No doubt you are experiencing some effect as well.

The pale yellowish ambience filtering through her double eyelids suddenly went black. T'Pol's eyes snapped open to utter darkness, and total silence.

All power—the lighting and the heating and the gentle thrum of the decon chamber—had abruptly cut out.

came Lieutenant Reed's suddenly inflectionless voice beside her. Low, level, and impenetrably calm. I'm experiencing some changes myself. And I have to say . . . I like it.

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

The silence lasted three beats of a heart whose dull pound had risen to fill her head, but throughout that silence, she sensed those eyes on her, watching her every move and every breath though she could see nothing of him at all.

You look tense, Subcommander, he murmured, soothingly. Let me help you with that.

Throughout the silence T'Pol had shimmied, thigh to thigh, hand over hand, along the cool bench under her, putting what distance there was between her and the alien entity sitting there in place of their armory officer. In mid-slide her body went slack from temple to toes, locked with hands feeling their way and one knee crooked beneath her, unable to move. A lemonade fizz filled the air.

Feels like you had your strings cut, doesn't it? he said, softly. Like Pinocchio. She heard the light slip of his skin against the bench as he crept along it towards her. You Vulcans have about as much of a conscience as Pinocchio. If not you would have warned us about these aliens, wouldn't you, Subcommander?

T'Pol sat, a marble statue with eyes seeing only blackness but ears, Vulcan ears, to hear every move he made. That scent billowed like a toxic fume, touching her with its sticky syrup-fingers in the dark.

You are not yourself, Lieutenant. Might I suggest you contact Doctor Phlox?

Oh, very good, T'Pol, very good. You almost had me convinced I'm not . . . scaring you.

T'Pol swallowed, clearing the taste that clung to her teeth, dragging it back down inside where it belonged. I can still speak, she commented, laying the accusation of his failure baldly.

Yes, well. I'm still experimenting. I've only been a superhuman for half a day, don't forget. The trouble with you, Subcommander, is that you expect too many miracles.

Feeling returned to her body as abruptly as it had been stolen, and she stumbled away, falling backwards from the bench and scrambling on hands, feet, and every part of her the floor touched into the farthest corner. Her stare was all the question she need ask.

He laughed, the sound reverberating from the closed walls like a richocheting bullet. It's no fun shooting fish in a barrel, T'Pol.

What is it you want, Lieutenant? T'Pol hooked her feet under her, and hauled herself to her feet, both hands steadying her between the walls as she swayed sickly. She faced out into the chamber, her back to the wall, listening for any approach. Huddled in the angle between walls, she looked into nothing, knowing he could see her, sense her . . . control her. The alien being spoken of by Ensign Sato was nocturnal, a creature of the night, with eyes equipped to see without illumination. And according to her, Malcolm Reed had begun to exhibit more than a passing resemblance.

I want to explore, Subcommander, he purred, chilling the already cooling air with the ice those few words carried. New life and new civilizations, T'Pol. If this isn't new life . . . if this isn't going where no man has gone before . . . then I ask you, what is?

His bare feet made no sound detectable by humans as they paced the floor, counting seconds dead and gone with their rhythmic pad. But she was not human. She waited for those steps to creep closer to her, circling along the wall to her right or to her left.

You needn't worry that I'll pounce on you, he continued, sounding bitterly amused. I can control you with a thought so long as you have his mark in your bloodstream. What power was his is also mine now.

She shivered, the chill that had descended over the room spearing its way into her thin blood and even thinner semblance of control. It is a temporary desire, Lieutenant, she returned. An inebriation. You have a delayed reaction but it is nothing I have not already overcome, with . . . help.

But you didn't have these abilities, did you? You didn't have this . . . this omniscience. It's not like I've never been drunk before. Ask Commander Tucker. This is different.

Of course it is different. It is alien, and by definition of an unknown logic to us. As Vulcans operate on a pattern far from that of humans.

Why do I feel there was an insult in there somewhere?

It will pass, she reiterated. I was unwilling to listen to reason until Captain Archer incapacitated me. But the effects appeared eradicated when I awoke in sickbay. Just give them time.

And get rid of my gift in the meantime, I suppose? Nice try, Subcommander. But you lie about as well as Pinocchio, too. He spat the words as if their taste offended him.

You're delusional, Lieutenant. No doubt you are craving food even as we speak, just as I did.

He gave a breathy, tuneful sound that was neither a sigh nor a laugh. Well, considering I haven't eaten for two days, that's hardly a deductive leap of magnificent proportions, is it? It doesn't prove a thing.

But your behavior does, Mr. Reed. You might not be comfortable with the knowledge that I saw into your dream, and a part of your memories as a direct consequence . . . but the fact remains. I saw enough to know that Malcolm Reed does not give in to pressure beyond his own. He joined Starfleet when everyone around him expected differently.

His hesitation, though unseen and unheard, was tangible; the soft taps of his spring-loaded feet halted a little shy of her. T'Pol felt the muscles in her braced arms and poised legs relax. Her defenses were not quite down, not yet; but they had lessened considerably. When at last he spoke, T'Pol heard a fine, running thread of Malcolm Reed splitting the stranger in two like a canyon breaking a desert. Don't you think I know that, T'Pol? Don't you think I know this isn't who I . . . He gave that resigned huff again, a laugh without humor, a sigh without hope. . . . am.

Without warning, the light returned, launching its inimitable force into the waiting air, banishing every shadow.

As it would, eventually, banish their shadow.

Reed stood mast-straight in the center of the chamber, the blue glow crystallizing in the beads of sweat that traced down his body. His shoulders were rigid, his lips immobile, his chest heaving as he breathed . . . but his head was down. His slim frame shuddered gently in spite of his unyielding spine and squarely planted feet.

Slowly, watchful for any sign of deception, T'Pol approached him.

What if he comes back again, T'Pol? he murmured, as she halted close beside him, her bearing as stoic and unquenchably proper as ever . . . but, she hoped, providing some sense of stability for a man whose sanity was unraveling like a ball of string. What if he comes back . . . and I can't defend my crew, my ship, because I threw away the only weapon we had against him?

You have defended this ship before, Lieutenant, using only your human resources to assist you. Had Captain Archer required a superhuman, then he would have selected an armory officer from among the more . . . physically minded of your profession. He chose you for your tactical ability. And tactical ability is what will protect this ship.

He sighed, and finally raised his head to fix brilliant eyes on her. Eyes now blessedly human, the pupils shrunk in the presence of so great a bath of light, heat, and quietude. Thank you, Subcommander. I know this won't mean much to you . . . but human's all I've ever been. I wouldn't want to be anything else. Anything special.

T'Pol did not reply. After a moment, when his breathing began to labor painfully once more, she extended her right hand, approaching from behind him to conceal her movement from his direct line of sight, and gently pinched the nape of his neck in her precise fingers. He slumped to the deck, unconscious . . . and thankfully unaware.

Nobody had told her as much—but logic dictated, naturally, that this process would hurt him as much as the cells it was designed to eradicate. If he could sleep for now and then wake, as she had, feeling in possession of his own mind once more, then all the better for them all.

She nodded, once, and took her seat on the bench at the far wall. No doubt Mr. Tucker would say she had taken her first lesson in human kindness.

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

Phlox had initiated the EM emitters ten minutes ago, building their intensity in creeping fractions. The window to decon remained shuttered throughout, and the com between the two rooms was silent.

Hoshi cupped her elbows in her hands, and shivered. She had counted the passing seconds in a cornucopia of languages, at least those that featured a comprehensive numbering system, merely to distract herself. Like a watched pot, it did not go any faster for the scrupulous timekeeping. The silent group waited, either for an all clear . . . or for a call for help.

When at last the com from decon whistled some time later, Hoshi jumped clean from the ground and left her heart behind. It no longer seemed to beat where it should.

Captain, you must shut off the emitters, came T'Pol's strained and beautifully familiar voice. Now. As you can tell this procedure appears to have worked, but Mr. Reed has collapsed. He seemed comfortable until a few moments ago, at which point he showed signs of fatigue and discomfort. He is currently unconscious but appears to be in no danger.

Archer gestured to Phlox with a cutthroat motion, and Phlox immediately powered down the EM emitters in decon. There was a pause of two or three seconds and the lockdown on the doors was released. Hoshi was the first to spill in the opening door, there before even Phlox could attend his likely patient.

T'Pol stood to one side of the door, discreetly tucked away, and looking on with perfect equanimity. Hoshi barely saw her; her eyes went instantly to the crumpled form of Reed on the far side of the chamber. He was motionless, clearly unconscious. His skin had been burned a throbbing, angry red by the lights.

She and the captain knelt either side of him, and Hoshi carefully lifted his head in her hands. Phlox had entered behind them, a scanner checking Reed's lifesigns. Trip had silently gone to T'Pol, and Hoshi saw enough past Phlox's shoulder to notice the commander shoot the Vulcan a fearful look, a tenuous half-smile touching his lips. It could not be her imagination that, without a single muscle twitching out of place, T'Pol managed to return it. It was in the eyes.

He's clean, Phlox announced. They both are.

Hoshi looked down at the unconscious Reed, reflecting that the killer' sunburn would trouble him badly later on—but he was himself. He was Malcolm.

And he was human again.