THREE


The long and the short of it - not that she was casting aspersions on his height or anything - was that Archer had been unwilling, but reasonable. He didn't make the regulations, after all. One thing had been clear, and every day for six months they had held to it, faithfully, understanding the import behind the smallest gesture; they must never display so much as a flicker of attraction while on duty. Malcolm flew close to the sun as he threw her a wink from tactical every morning, but if the hawk-eyes of the bridge crew had ever noticed it, then they pretended they hadn't. Nor had they noticed, or drawn attention to, her answering blush.

In public, they held their distance, an awkward remonstrance but a necessary evil, the knives they walked on as a price for having legs. In private, Malcolm slowly allowed his outer defences to crumble, and a sort of reverse adolescence took place; his smiles became more frequent, his jokes less dry, his eyes reflecting the changes both. He never spoke of his past, the last vestige of the old Lieutenant Reed clinging like those proverbial scuds of foam, but this she allowed him, unable to press for what he couldn't give when he gave all else so freely. At night after dinner they often sat on one of the long couches in the observation lounge, and when the people had crept away to their beds or their night shifts and the entire deck hummed with a restful, blue-lit peace, he would slip his arms under hers and clasp her loosely around her middle, and she would rest her head back on his shoulder and lay her hands over his, and they would gaze out at the expanse.

Once, about three months ago, she had glanced down and noticed a fine white scar around his wrist, and her fingers had swept over it lightly. That he had allowed, with a gentle smile that made her toes curl . . . but she had made the mistake of asking him where he had got it, and how, and as he batted her hand away waspishly his eyes had clouded over into a dull misty steel. Aged lead from an old and weathered cathedral roof never looked so black.

She left it alone, and never asked him again. She never mentioned the scars on his back, carved into him by the metal shrapnel of the crashed alien land vehicle. She never looked too hard or too long at the tiny network of fine white lines by his mouth; she simply kissed them. She snuck her hands under his casual shirts when they were off-duty and stroked his back as he had once stroked hers in the rain. And once, under the pretence of admiring his watch, she had got a good look at his wrist.

But it ended there.

Alone on her fallen tree-root and lost in her pointless mental ramblings, Hoshi touched the communicator lying open on her knees, and debated taking a risk. A calculated, minor risk, but a risk nonetheless.

She raised the little box to her mouth, and hesitated. She should hail both men first, and if the captain didn't respond, then she could assume his communicator was switched off, and she would be safe to speak to her husband. If both responded, she could pretend it was a routine check-up. Either way, if she was careful, she should be all right.

This is Ensign Sato. Please report. Can you see anything?

There was the customary crackle of the comm line in way of a reply, and Hoshi unknowingly held her breath until she could be sure of who was going to respond. The temporary break in contact, that endless, empty second when she was completely cut off from any human voice, frightened her for some reason she couldn't quite comprehend.

Sit tight, Hoshi. No sign of anybody yet. It was Malcolm, sounding bristly' as he so often did when his senses were trained outward into potentially hostile terrain. But he also sounded amused, and that was as good as sending up a flare - he was open to talking, if the coast was clear.

She waited for the captain to come in, but he declined. She and Malcolm were alone on the airways for now, at least. If they kept it light and on this local frequency, they were free to talk.

I think Trip rigged the bunk on purpose, she said, cautiously. His idea of a practical joke.

I wouldn't put it past him. How about we fix his shower?

Hoshi smiled, gently, and ran her hands lightly over the plain gold band on her finger - the only jewellery she was permitted to wear on duty, and, in truth, the only piece she would want to. She had never been one to deck herself with finery, but she had to admit, she did like jewellery on men in the right circumstances. Especially, she thought, biting her lip, those little black shoestring chokers. Malcolm would look fantastic in one of those . . . but she had long since abandoned any attempts to force more than his watch and his wedding ring onto him. For all his advances in confidence over the past six months, he was adamant about that, and likely always would be.

Great minds think alike, she replied. She sounded so much more blithe and accepting than she was, than she even knew how to be. So jolly, so gung-ho. I want to be on this little field trip, her tone said. I don't want to be out there in the black of deep space and cuddled up to the cutest little armoury officer Starfleet ever produced. I'm not sitting here in this heat, alone, wishing I was up there toasty and snug with Britain's greatest export. Uh-huh.

She kicked a loose stone across the path, and frowned. Are you still there, Malcolm?

His answering laugh rattled over the comm like a pebble in a tin can. I'll let you know if I'm going anywhere, Ensign.

Ensign. Such a little word and yet it encompassed her life.

It had taken her far longer than it should have done to realise that when he called her Ensign' in that special, purring way, he meant so much more.

Copy that, Lieutenant. See anything at all?

Non. Il fait chaux, though, and not in a good way.

She smiled again. He had tried so hard these past few months to learn French from her, and though his accent sounded like an untuned violin in an orchestra he had made very good progress; his sweet nothings were often a whispered tangle of exotic Parisian that sent a shiver down her spine. He would slip into it as they sat watching the stars stream by from the obs deck, and she would deliberately fall silent, and listen. She would let him talk, those hushed words placed directly in her ear in that quiet voice of his, and didn't even correct him when he accidentally told her he loved running his hands through her castle. After all, chateaux and cheveaux were an easy mistake to make.

she murmured, affectionately. In exchange for the French, Malcolm had subtly taught her some English. Real, common as muck English. The stuff that wasn't taught in public schools. The stuff that would make his mother blush and his father . . . well, although he alluded to the reaction being unpleasant, she wasn't exactly sure what his father thought of it. He spoke about his family so little, and only Madeline had shown any foreknowledge of the wedding, or even that they had been engaged for the past three months. Hoshi had never spoken to his parents.

There's nothing here, Lieutenant,' she said, at last. Why don't you come back? I'll try to hail the captain.

There was no answer. And this time, the sound of no dogs barking was a thousand times colder.



Far away, muffled by the distance and filtered dead by the dense carpet of undergrowth, but seeming to split the greasy air like a knife through smoke, she heard a deep, thunder-like rumble, and the sheer momentum of it vaulted through the ground at her feet and sent her sprawling from the tree-root onto her knees. Then it echoed away into nothing, and there was only the clinging drifts of golden haze clutching at her with slippery fingers, and the silence, and the click-click-click sounds of tiny insects in the jungle.

Malcolm! Captain!? she screamed into her comm, and again into the air, in the direction of that monstrous noise. The silence swallowed it and left only intermittent birdcalls in its place. Come in. Malcolm? Are you there? Captain? Anybody, can you hear me?

It was the captain's voice, sounding as urgent as hers. What was that? Can you see Malcolm? Are you all right?

I'm fine, captain, but I can't reach Malcolm. I heard this noise . . .

I heard it too, Hoshi. Stay where you are, I'm on my way!

With the sickly sheen of that warm, moist haze cooling on her skin and streaming into her eyes, Hoshi jammed her communicator into her pocket, snatched her phase pistol from another, and ran in the direction of that enormous, tectonic disturbance, as if the ground itself screamed in sympathy with her.

If Malcolm was anywhere near that sound, then even the captain wasn't going to make her stay put.

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

Three months ago

The obs deck is especially silent tonight, which is unusual, except for one lone figure curled sideways into a corner of the long couch looking out over space, which is even more unusual. Malcolm Reed has always been such an early bird, such a creature of immaculate habit, until she influenced him for the worse. Now she knows without a second thought where to find him when he disappears and midnight is fast approaching - abandoning his latest gadgets and inventions, sometimes filling up the corners with a peanut butter sandwich and sometimes not, he will always be here, either stretched out languidly enjoying the sheer pleasure of having nothing more important to do, or scrunched into this exact same corner with his back to the couch and no chance of anybody sneaking up on him. On those occasions, there is nothing of that contented glow about him, and the only pleasure comes from a whisky glass set on the table to one side. He doesn't tend to have the sandwich and the whisky at the same time. When she falteringly suggested it, once, he called her a Philistine, and matter-of-factly bit into his sandwich. She declined a bite.

She has no chance of approaching without him seeing her or hearing her long before she reaches him, so she calls in advance, hoping not to startle him, letting him know it is her. She only has to say his name - he does the rest.

I'm here, Hoshi, he says, just as he always does. It sounds weary, but she tries to pretend that is nothing more than exhaustion - he has been working long shifts for some weeks now. Nobody knows why.

You okay? she asks softly, and he pulls his feet up to give her space to sit - away from him, at the far end of the couch. She gingerly balances herself on the edge, and forces a smile.

I'm about as right as a turkey that's just caught the farmer looking at him. With a box of stuffing in his pocket.

Out of respect she doesn't laugh; only smiles sadly, and almost reaches out to smooth her hand over his thigh . . . but she doesn't. When he wants her to touch him, he'll let her know.

Bad news?

It's fine, Hoshi. His tone says quite clearly, and very bitterly, to leave him and his news alone.

She isn't biting. Malcolm . . . Travis said he saw you reading a letter earlier today. You were white, he said. Well - whiter than usual. He said you could give Marley's Ghost a run for his money. What's happened, Malcolm?

He sighs and the fisted hand resting on his knee uncurls a little - not much of a sign, but a sign, nevertheless, that his resistance is already failing, so soon. Feminine wiles can outthink even the best of armoury officers. "I did have a letter arrive, this morning. It's nothing important. These things rarely are."

"And the reason you're killing yourself working? Is that nothing important, too?" she prompts gently. He gets that cold look in his eyes and she lets her questions fade away, withdrawing the hand she has tentatively extended, snatching it back from the dry ice in that stare. But she waits out this storm, knowing his pattern; with so many others, with any others, he turns this silent killer of a glare on them, and they leave him and his trouble alone. But she knows it won't last if she stays . . . and she knows that she is the one person he will finally allow to see that resolve fall, if she will only sit him out and let the idea ferment in his mind long enough. I'm here, Malcolm, her body language whispers, and the longer they sit staring at the stars and daring glimpses at each other the more she can feel him accepting that, his muscles loosening slowly like an unravelling ball of string. I'm here and I'm not going away. So get used to it.

At last there comes that one look she has been waiting on, the placid curl of his lips at one side and his head tilted to one side, and he extends one arm to her, asking without the words he finds so very difficult. She slides along the couch and into the circle of his arm and it tightens around her, pulling her in close to his side. His foot is sticking into her hip, but she doesn't care. She is just glad that he trusts her enough for this. They sit silently for a moment longer, watching the steady wake of warp travel as it trails by like white party streamers in a black breeze.

"Madeline's husband got promoted. He's a captain now." It is a murmur, and she can almost imagine that he is doing it on purpose, hoping that she won't hear and he will be let off the hook. If it weren't for the fact that she knew he was aware of her phenomenal hearing, she would be tempted to think so; but as he surely realises, she hears him easily.

She nods, and lets her fingers skate over his chest, tucking her hand inside the open neck of his uniform and making contact through the thin black undershirt. He growls contentedly a moment, almost too softly for even her to hear, and it becomes a sigh before it leaves his throat. Finally, he is relaxed, and Hoshi congratulates herself silently on her talent. She does it every time, and is deeply flattered by his willingness to let her take control like this. In her experience, traditional men like Malcolm could be so prickly about strong women sometimes. She can only say she is the lucky one; she has landed the black sheep of the Reed family line.

"That's all?" she presses.

"Isn't that enough? Ray is Mr Navy, you know that. Jumped from one rank to another without stopping in any one long enough to look at the scenery."

She says nothing. He will come to the point in his own time; asking any more questions will only make him shut himself off again. She lets her head drop onto his shoulder, and waits for him to continue. In his own time, he does.

"He doesn't say anything," comes his soft, idling voice, laced with a dreamlike quality she recognises, if only from rare acquaintance; he is deep in thought, perhaps barely even aware that she is there at all. "My father, I mean. But it's there, you know. If you how where to look for it. To anybody that didn't expect any more than a civil enough update - family news, trivialities, that sort of thing - it would seem perfectly fair. Same as any other letter from home, if a bit distant. But when he says he's pleased for Madeline . . . when he says that Ray will feel right at home in the Reed family . . . what he's really saying is that I don't belong. He says he's happy for Maddie getting hitched and all the time he's telling me I should be married by now. Before you know it she'll be giving him his first grandchild and that will be another nail in my coffin. But there's been so many other things to do with my life till now . . ."

She squeezes his arm, gently, and turns her head where it rests to look up at him. He feels her move and returns the gaze, tearing his eyes away from the stars. Already she knows that's all he's going to give, and this far more than she had ever come to expect from him; far more than she's likely to receive again. "If I didn't know we were already engaged," she said, with her most charming grin, "I'd think this was a very underhanded proposal. And I'd probably think I was a convenient pawn in your little contest with Maddie for first grand kid."

He kisses the top of her head, and his answering smile suddenly beams out like a flashlight switched on. "Never. You know me better than that."

"Lucky me," she retorts. But deep down, she knows something is wrong.

She knows that Malcolm hasn't told anyone about her. Not his mother, not his sister . . .

. . . and, most importantly of all, he hasn't told his father.

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She crashed through the matted veil of turquoise vegetation and fell to her knees into an unexpected clearing, pulling sharp air into reluctant lungs like a tug-o-war team claiming the rope. Gravel bit into her outstretched palms and into her shins even through the brushed twill of her uniform . . . but she barely noticed that complex dot matrix of pain. What she saw in the next few minutes swept everything else from her head.

The captain was struggling viciously in the mulched carpet of blue-green leaves with what looked like a human man. As she watched the pinned Archer flipped the stranger over his head, and the stranger swept out one leather-booted leg and kicked the captain's out from under him the instant he stood. Hoshi snatched her phase pistol from her pocket and trained it on the scuffle with shaking hands, waiting for a window of opportunity, but she didn't dare shoot. She had no guarantee she would hit the right man, and every chance she would hit neither.

"Stay back, Hoshi!" Archer yelled, before she could do anything else. "Don't shoot!"

Leaves scurried in the heavy golden air, kicked up by the two fighters; the eddies hovered in the syrup-haze as if floating on water, the atmosphere buoying them up in balletic swirls and rushes around the one cyclonic centre - her captain and a strange man, knocking seven bells out of one another. Hoshi could only watch, helpless and unable to shoot, as they punched and kicked and parried and ducked back and forth, sometimes taking a fall, sometimes dodging clear. Blood streamed from a skin wound in the captain's temple and the stranger clutched his left arm tight against himself, as if it were injured in some way. His loose dark hair had shaken forward over his face, and his clothes were of no design she had seen before, but she was certain the man was human. Medium height and build, quick as a jaguar, graceful as those flurries of leaves crackling lightly down to earth on the dense mist. He was good. He seemed to anticipate, even before Archer moved, what the captain was going to do, where he feinted or dodged, which hand or leg may strike next, and avoided them with the ease of a trained dancer choreographed for the piece. Loose, discoloured white shirt sleeves tied at the bicep with threadbare rags and billowing out to the cuff concealed whatever damage may have been done to his arm; but that left sleeve was stained an ugly, brilliant scarlet, and as she watched tiny drops pattered to the ground. The sight of the blood caused Archer to hesitate, and Hoshi had her phase pistol trained on the man before another move could be made. But in the second it took her to steady her treacherous hands and take aim, the man had pulled a weapon of his own, and pointed it straight at Archer.

"Don't shoot, Ensign," Archer gasped, not taking his eyes off the stranger dripping pink, bloody sweat into the earth. "Don't shoot. Not yet."

"Captain, why . . ."

"Just trust me. Don't shoot. I want answers and we're not going to get them if he's unconscious."

Never taking his weapon from Archer, the strange man with the wounded left arm laughed, a light, breathless chuckle that ricocheted on the air like the laughter of a madman bouncing from padded walls, and drove a million icy little needles into her flesh like the stings of tiny, poisonous bees.

She knew that laugh.

Then the man raised his free, injured hand and swept the curtain of greasy hair away, and she knew just why she knew it.

It was Malcolm.

It was Malcolm, and it was not.