Disclaimer: I do not own Enterprise or its characters.

Author's Note: Thanks for the patience and the reviews. Thank you, Rinne, for getting on my case about writing my paper… it's done now, but it was last minute. Thank you to my beta-readers for translating this mess into a legible format, and for putting in all the words I missed (amazing how 'the' can simply disappear). But thank-you especially to my readers. This may be going in a strange direction, but hopefully by the end of the story it will make some more sense. I'll try to update as soon as possible… but I can't guarantee anything. On either point.

Chapter 5: Execration and Exile.

They say it's darkest right before the dawn
But oh, those darkest hours can be so long
You're feelin' strong, boy
Tellin' yourself, she's wrong, boy
But how much longer can this night go on, boy?
One lonely night
One lonely night
That's all it takes to
Completely break you
– REO Speedwagon

Hell is other people
– Jean Paul Sartre

When I look in the mirror,
Sometimes I see traces of some other guy
– Blue Rodeo


Well, they were wrong on one point. Trip stared around and shivered. Other people would be welcome – even someone like Bryson or Higgens would at least be someone to talk to, or get mad at, or something. But this…

He sank down to the ground, and buried his face on his knees. I thought I was alone before. Hell wasn't other people; it was the lack of people… the lack of anyone to care or anyone to care for. Not even the courtroom remained, just this cold, over-bright nothingness. I've never been afraid of the dark. It's always been the light. Dark was natural – most of the universe lay in the dark. But no one can survive this close to the sun.

Not that there was heat – for heat implied warmth, and warmth implied love. Which must be why the human race is so obsessed with fire. So much so that it became imbedded into the language. Love was warm, a gentle comfort to a flame-driven passion. Fear, on the other hand found itself comprised only of chills. Frozen in terror. A person who couldn't love – didn't language call him 'cold?'

Of course, we're afraid of fire, too. Fire was one of the greatest destructive forces known. But wasn't that part of it? Hadn't Toby mentioned some Indian god whose aspect consisted of creation and destruction together? And some rumour had it that someone on one of the earlier warp projects had nicknamed it the 'new cult of Shiva' or something? It creates. It destroys. Even brimstone – the stuff of hell – had its creative properties, didn't it? Hawaii, that tropical paradise wouldn't be there for mankind to enjoy were it not for the machinations of what mankind so often thought was hell.

But they were wrong. No, every engineer learned the worst, most destructive burns weren't from heat, but from cold. Coolant burned worse than plasma and left bigger scars. Love didn't do the damage – the damage was done when that love was ripped away and left you raw and bleeding, the wounds freezing and the soul dying piece by piece until there was nothing of it left.

And yet, he recognised his own handiwork here. He'd hassled Malcolm on Shuttlepod One, out of jealousy more than anything else. I didn't even have anyone to write to. He hadn't really spoken to his parents in years – oh sure, the obligatory letter home or Christmas or birthday card, but never actually talked. The same with the rest of them: Elizabeth, James… At least you had a way to keep in touch with the girls, Mal. He didn't even have that. When he walked away he never bothered to maintain contact… it was too messy or too complicated or too difficult or too always something. Would he be able to handle even small-talk with T'Pol if she had disappeared for a year on Vulcan, then returned again? Or would she simply be another memory to be avoided or edited down to a couple of words in a passing conversation?

And Malcolm and Jon… they were his closest living friends, and they didn't know him at all. Oh, they thought they did – after all, didn't they spend more time with him than anybody else? And they knew more about him than anybody else, but they still didn't know. Because if you did, you'd be gone. No one wants to be friends with someone who might go crazy at any given moment. Well, Nicci maybe… but Nicci was strange. Sometimes he got the idea that he was just an oversized pet – someone to be fussed over and taken care of. Damaged goods, just like the other two. A stray taken in for no other reason than that he was a stray and she couldn't stand the thought of an abandoned creature. But I never really reciprocated. I never really paid her back for the cost of food and shelter and medical care. Not just metaphorical – how many times had he crashed on her couch because he was too drunk to go home and she hauled him somewhere safe, or even out of jail on occasion, taking care to ensure that the charges disappeared? And scolded him like you would a puppy who messed up the rug – fully aware that you couldn't blame him too much because he really didn't know any better.

Nope, even she doesn't know everything. Even she never got close enough to know him, to have any idea who Charles Tucker III really was. Only one person really knew me – knew me and stuck with me, and I sent her away. Lucifer was right; he really did have a big mouth, and somewhere along the line he'd disconnected it from his brain.

And now… and now all he had was the light and the cold and the knowledge that there was no love left anywhere.


Jon stared at the mess on the floor, a mix of papers and coloured pencils and other assorted objects, including several small vials of coloured liquid and a fine black dust that smeared itself over the deck with just the touch of paper. More secrets, he realised – more clues to the identity of the stranger he called a best friend.

"Ensign." He forced himself to look away, to look at Hoshi while he spoke to her. "I want you and Lieutenant Hess to focus yourselves on getting communications up and running. Get T'Pol to help you. You said it seems to be a virus? An internal problem?" He tried not to grit his teeth out of frustration, not with Hoshi but with himself. I ought to be able to pay attention to a statement made only seconds ago. And this was ship's operations, which was supposed to be his primary concern. Except, why do I have the feeling that the one person who knows what's going on is lying on a bed in front of me?

An alarm sounded, and his eyes flew to the monitor, even as Phlox stepped around Hoshi and to the other side of the bed.

"His fever is increasing." Jon could barely hear Phlox either, Trip's teeth chattered together, the sound boring into Jon's brain. He watched numbly as Phlox injected something into Trip, and waited for it to work. His eyes shifted to the monitor, watching for any change.

Phlox muttered something, out of character for him. "The medication seems to have halted the rise of the fever, but it's not decreasing as it should. We're going to have to attempt to lower it physically. If you could excuse me…"

Jon shook his head. He wasn't leaving now. "How do we do that?"

Phlox glanced uneasily at Hoshi, who looked as worried as Jon had ever seen her. "We need to cool him off."

Jon nodded. "You have a job, Ensign." He tried not to consider the fact that he did too, and was ignoring it. I'm needed here.

Phlox didn't even wait for Hoshi to be all the way out the door before he began stripping Trip of his uniform. As Jon stepped in to help, Phlox left him to it, retrieving a large, silvery blanket from one of the drawers. When they finished removing Trip's clothing, Phlox spread the blanket over his patient and set a program on the controls. Jon reached out and touched the blanket – it was freezing.

"It seems almost cruel," he murmured, watching as Trip's shivering increased. "He feels so cold already."

"Yes, Captain, but that is because his body heat is greater than the ambient air around him, making him feel cold, when in actual fact he is overheating."

"I know what a fever is, Doctor." Jon snapped. "And I know we're doing the right thing. What I don't know is if he knows that." He stopped, registering Phlox's look of hurt. "I'm sorry…"

"Captain, I very much doubt that Commander Tucker is aware of anything at this moment. If this fever continues, there is a very large possibility of permanent brain damage, if not death."

Jon closed his eyes. I know that. But he's my best friend, I can't give up hope. His toe nudged against something, and he looked down again at the avalanche of papers and miscellaneous items. He bent down and began to pick them up, intending to place them back in the box, except…

I never knew you were an artist. The black powder, he realised, was charcoal from the fragile sticks artists used to create their drawings. And the coloured pencils weren't the heavy-wax ones Jon himself had used as a kid, they were an artist's pencils – graphite and colour with very little wax at all, delicate, but capable of more subtle work than the standard issue. He stacked the papers carefully, trying not to allow them to rub against each other and smear. When he had everything picked up, he sat down again, and began to examine the drawings.

Some of them were old – pictures of people Jon had never seen, almost candid shots as though they were re-created from the artist's memory of a scene rather than portraits from a pose. But others were more recent, and confirmed that suspicion. One of the crew, hard at work on the bridge, made more detailed in the black and white of charcoal than the brilliant colours of a photograph could ever produce. No doubt as to the angle, either – off to the right of the captain's chair in the engineering station. I had no idea we were being watched. The more he flipped through them, the more his amazement grew. Not one of the scenes would be called noteworthy in any common interpretation of the term, but Trip seemed to have captured mundanity and turned it into something breathtaking. You are an artist.

One caught his eye. He put the rest down to look at it for a moment. Not done in charcoal, this was pen and ink in a bright pink shade, faded somewhat over time. Not the girl from the photograph – this one was older and her face slightly familiar. An odd, almost mischievously wicked smile tugged at her lips, and the same emotion seemed to sparkle in her eyes. I know her from somewhere. One of Trip's many girlfriends, perhaps? Just special enough to be immortalised in ink but not special enough to bear mention? Usually it's the other way around. Except… Jon looked more closely. The lines weren't lines at all, but… he squinted. Ones and zeros? This must have taken forever to create – this had to be somebody. Carefully he set it aside; he'd have to ask Trip about it later.

Of course, that means admitting you pried into his things. Jon felt a sudden rush of guilt, like he was reading someone else's diary. But I can't help it. You've been my friend for year. I want to know who you are. He hadn't even known that Trip could draw. Technical sketches, sure, but this went way beyond that. These pictures had life –pieces and clues to Trip's soul, if only Jon could figure out the code.

He found another one, more recent. I should know this person too. The face provided no hints, but the background was clearly somewhere on Enterprise and her uniform identified her as Starfleet. She seemed an odd choice for a model, not very pretty, a bit overweight, not the type to catch Trip's eye at all. But she had, somehow. The evidence lay in his hands.

He picked up two more. One was of Malcolm on a shuttlepod, looking almost desperate and alone. Worried. Jon was willing to lay money that this one dated to that now infamous couple of days that started the friendship. Neither Commander nor Lieutenant spoke much about what happened during that time – but when Enterprisefound them, drunk and hypothermic, they'd gone from rivals and near enemies to friends despite the differences. The other was of Jon himself, looking serious about something. He frowned now, looking at it. Then he dropped them to the desk and shuffled through the rest of them again, sorting out the portraits from the 'action' shots.

Me. Malcolm. Lieutenant Hess. The girl in pink, and the unknown crewman. Elizabeth… there were a couple of her… and your mysterious redhead who dominates the pack. Out of all of the drawings, only seven subjects had been deemed worthy of portraiture. Why? What do we share, that no one else does? Even T'Pol had been left out in the cold, an odd decision given Trip's obvious feelings for her – even if they had seemed to have changed just recently.

Or maybe not. He stared at the pictures again. He was pretty sure about the crewman, and the redhead seemed to stop aging while still a teen. And I'm pretty sure about Malcolm and I, unless we really don't know you at all. As for Elizabeth… well, Trip's reaction to her death had been pretty extreme, but nothing out of the ordinary. If I'm right, then not one of these is someone you've been romantically involved with. Other than that, he couldn't figure out a link. Two men, his sister, and… If I've got anything in common with Lieutenant Hess, then I'm not sure I want to know about it.

"Whoa." A voice by his ear confirmed that you didn't even have to speak of the devil for her to appear. He'd been so caught up in the pictures that he hadn't even heard the Sickbay doors open, or her footsteps on approach. "I never knew he knew her."

"Who?" Jon grabbed Hess' arm, his fingers digging in deep, and any thoughts of reprimanding her for leaving her post – or simply being present to annoy him – forgotten.

Hess looked at him until he loosened his grip slightly, then tapped the picture done in pink. "Gina Todd."

"Who?" Jon repeated. The name meant no more than the face had.

"Gina Todd, only one of the top names in encryption programming. She was a software genius. Or maybe is… no one's really sure what happened to her. She dropped out of sight a couple of years ago." Suddenly Hess paled. "Oh no."

Jon gritted his teeth. "'Oh no,' what, Lieutenant? Don't tell me 'oh no.'"

"Oh no, if this is what I think it might be, then we are so dead that we might as well break out the cyanide. See, apparently she had been contracted to write a kick-ass encryption program for the government, and she delivered it right before she disappeared."

"I'm not in the mood for conspiracy theories, Lieutenant. The government doesn't order things and then kill the suppliers. For one thing it would be hard to get anyone to bid on a contract."

"That's not it, sir. She delivered the program encrypted in its own encryption. She said she'd take payment when they started using the program. This was five years ago, sir, and scuttlebutt says they still haven't cracked it." She was probably right on the scuttlebutt – some of Hess' connections were as highly placed as you could get.

"After five years?" Jon felt the blood draining from his face too. "Have you any idea the level of computing power the government has to throw at something like that?"

"Yes, sir, and it's more than we've got."

"So what you're saying is that you think that somehow this program got onto our computers, and has encrypted our communications protocols. And there's no way to break it." Jon took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. Any more secrets you're hiding from me, buddy? He had a fairly good idea just where the program came from – top level designers didn't tend to let their work just walk out the door, and Starfleet didn't tend to let outside programs just walk in. Only two ways a program like that ended up on Enterprise's computer. Either Trip stole it, or it had been given to him as a gift. Because it's not something you could buy, is it?

"That's essentially it, sir. Best guess is that it's based on rotating clear-text, meaning that even someone as good with anagrams as Ensign Sato isn't going to manage it, sir. The only way to break into something like that, sir, is if you've got the key."

Jon stared for a while at Trip, still shivering violently under the cold blanket. His fever hadn't declined in the slightest, sending Phlox off on another round of comprehensive tests. Frustrated, he stood up and crossed to the sink. Filling a basin with water, he grabbed a clean cloth and returned to the bed, and began sponging Trip's forehead and face. Old fashioned, maybe, but he had to do something.

"You've got it, don't you? You've got the key somewhere in that head of yours, but like everything else, it's locked in tight." He didn't even look back at Hess as he raised his voice. "Do you recognise anybody else?"

"You… and Malcolm." He didn't snap at her for being ridiculous, for once she actually seemed to be cooperating rather than her usual borderline obstruction. "And me of course. His sister…" She picked up the one of the unidentified crewman. "I think that's Crewman DiLorenza. She's in Maintenance – technically – though he had direct command shifted over to him a couple of years ago. Odd, but not unheard of, I guess. He said he didn't want anybody getting in her way." Her brow furrowed. "Kaci DiLorenza, I think."

"Get in her way, Lieutenant. Get her up here. I want to talk to her. You don't recognise the other one?"

Hess shook her head. "No, sir." She looked both at the drawings and the photograph. "He's never mentioned her before sir, not ever. I haven't got a clue."

"Well, maybe Crewman DiLorenza knows," Jon muttered. "Get her up here."

"Yes, sir." Hess didn't question the strangeness of her captain conducting his business from sick-bay. She had reason to be worried too, he realised.

You're more than just a commanding officer to her, just like you're more than just my chief engineer to me. Some people questioned the relationship between Trip and Hess, bordering as it did on fraternisation. But is it really any different than what's between you and me? Maybe that was the link, but how did Crewman DiLorenza fit into that? And if it was just about friendship… well then why didn't Hoshi or Travis merit membership?

He wrung the cloth out again, and continued to wet Trip's face and head. The fever overheated the Southerner's skin, causing the water to evaporate way more quickly than it should. "Come on, Trip." It had to break. They couldn't lose him now. "Come on, pal. I've killed to keep you alive. Don't tell me that it was for nothing. You're a fighter, start fighting this. We need you out here, pal." He had no idea whether Trip could hear him or not, but decided to take the chance. "Don't give up on us yet. Come on… fight." He felt tears burning in his eyes and blinked them back. "That's an order, Mister. Do you hear me? You are not allowed to die. I am not giving you permission to die. You are going to beat this and then you are going to pull one of your patented Trip Tucker miracles and save your ship."

Trip's eyelids flickered wildly, and his eyes moved frantically beneath them.

"That's right, you listen to me. Now, from what Phlox tells me, you beat this once, so you're going to beat it again. There is no other option."

He sensed someone behind him, and turned to look. "Crewman DiLorenza?" Seeing her in colour wasn't that much different than the black and white. Her hair was dark enough brown to almost be black, and her eyes were the same – like dark chocolate.

She nodded, but said nothing.

"Tell me about the relationship between you and Commander Tucker." There was no time to beat around the bush, and it wasn't his style anyway.

She cocked her head slightly, and knit her brow in a question, but still remained silent.

"The relationship between you and Commander Tucker. What did it consist of?" He glanced over at the drawings and back at her.

She moved over to the table and examined the drawings, then stepped up beside the bed, studying Trip. "He's scared." Her voice was light and musical – beauty to contrast the plainness of her appearance. "He doesn't like to be alone."

That wasn't the question, Crewman. Jon fought down the urge to reach over and shake her. "Crewman…" I asked for a member of Starfleet and they sent me a space cadet. He chewed on his lip, to keep from saying something that could get him reprimanded for abuse. Instead, he acted on a hunch. Picking up one of the drawings of the redhead, he held it in front of her face. "Do you recognise her?"

"She's his friend." Other than answering the question, and with no sign that she even recognised who she was speaking to, she didn't react.

"And her name might be?" Jon decided not to tax DiLorenza with anything too difficult like explaining how she knew what Trip's closest friends didn't.

"Toby." She stepped around the picture until it no longer blocked her vision. The same trance-like look stayed on her face, but now she started to sing. "…when you're standing at the cross-roads, and don't know what to choose, let me come along, even if you're wrong… I'll stand by you, I'll stand by you…" She picked up one of Trip's hands and held it between hers, seemingly oblivious to the spots.

Jon set the drawing back down so he wouldn't crush it as his hands curled into fists. You can't kill her, Jon. For one thing, she knows more than you do. For another… he watched in amazement, as Trip's fever slipped a notch. For another, if she keeps that up, you may have to give her a medal for saving his life. Still… there were things he needed to know.

"Crewman, I know you don't think this is important…"

"You're worried, sir. I understand." She still didn't look at him, but at least she seemed a little more attuned to this reality.

"Okay, Crewman… now who the hell is Toby?"


You wouldn't understand, sir. No, Captain Archer would never understand, not entirely. Understanding was not his gift… not understanding on the level that would be needed. You're still too afraid to understand.Which is why he won't tell you. Fear was the only thing to fear, she knew that well, herself. People hurt out of fear. Prejudice fed on fear, nurtured itself with it. And you are afraid of death. You are afraid not to die, but of what waits for you in death. You are afraid because you don't know, but the knowledge would scare you even more. And he was afraid to lose his best friend to that world, even a little bit. If he knew that Commander Tucker lived every day on the fringes of that world, he would be terrified. "She is his friend, sir."

"You said that. Toby What?"

"I don't know, sir. He never said." And since he never said, Kaci didn't ask. He would have told her, if it were important.

"How did you hear about her?" The captain was growing frustrated; he was not a person who could accept non-knowledge.

You need to feel in charge… you cannot let things go and let them be. "She was there, sir."

"Where? Did you know Commander Tucker before Enterprise"

"No, sir."

She heard the captain grinding his teeth. You don't understand. He would not tell you, because he cares about you too much. He values your opinion of him. He values your friendship and your approval.

"Well, Crewman, I am certain I would remember a person as strikingly individual as that on board my ship. Since his time on Earth before we entered The Expanse was spent largely with Lieutenant Reed, and he didn't visit after we came back, I'm sure you can see how I might be somewhat confused. Now… Where. Did. You. See. Her?"

"Here, sir." She glanced over at the Sickbay doors repaired now, or rather replaced, since the damage had been too great to allow repair.

She sensed his struggle, as he suddenly remembered the doors. "Here…"

"Yes, sir." But where are you now? Perhaps they had argued, and the child had gone to sulk like a child would, not realising the danger her friend now faced.

"As I said, Crewman: I think I would remember someone of that appearance on board my ship. And Doctor Phlox has no memory of her either, and trust me, he would have been fascinated."

"You weren't here, sir." No, that had been someone else – not this Archer at all.

"Crewman…"

She felt the suppressed rage and knew that he wouldn't be able to hold onto it that much longer. "She is his best friend, sir. Her name is Toby."

Then it did snap, nearly into violence. "Thank-you, Crewman, I believe we already covered that. Now I don't suppose you have any idea why he was puking up her DNA, would you?"

So it's come to that. And the captain had a piece then, and no idea how to fit it into the picture. "That's not what I'm good at, sir." She wondered if Commander Tucker knew, or if this was recent, with his illness. If he didn't know, then she had no right to say. It is his life, his burden, not mine. I will help him bear it, but I will not add to the weight. She said nothing. I am not sure entirely what it does mean.

"Kind of like interpersonal communication," Archer muttered.

She didn't take offence – it was true. She didn't communicate well with people, which was why she preferred to work with machines. People were messy, complicated and noisy. Commander Tucker understood, though, which was why he'd taken steps to make sure she was left alone. He has faith where you cannot. Archer trusted his people, but had trouble with faith. He was a man of command and paperwork – Starfleet trained its people so they believed in reports and requisitions. He needed to know what was going on, he didn't have the ability to let go and let be. But Commander Tucker was learning that lesson, perhaps one day the captain could too.

"Captain," the doctor approached, perhaps sensing the tension himself, and better able to understand the situation. Kaci knew all about Phlox's tendency to fascination – he'd watched her many times with his animals, not understanding at all, but wanting to study her interactions with them, because they were not the normal human interactions at all. Most people were terrified of them, especially when he used them as aids in his treatments. But sometimes they are better. People couldn't understand that – they connected insects with decay, and decay with death. But dead flesh cannot heal, and some things would only eat the deadened flesh, leaving what still lived and giving it the ability to repair itself. Nature does not make mistakes.

"What?" Archer snapped back at Phlox, his anger transferring to the innocent.

"As you are aware, I spent some time studying human spiritual beliefs. There are some that believe that the soul exists separate from the body, even transcending death…"

"Are you trying to tell me that the crewman here saw a ghost? I'm sorry, Doctor, but that's a little far-fetched." No, Archer did not have faith – if he could not see it, it did not exist. He was a man of science, raised to believe in what the microscope and telescope could find.

But some things cannot be replicated in a lab. The universe was not a sterile environment full of sensors and data collectors, it was a chaotic creation with billions upon trillions of different things influencing the outcome, a change in any of which could change the result. Nor was it a closed system, as most people assumed, outside forces affected it all the time.

She left them to their argument, and turned instead to her commanding officer. The captain wanted to know what the relationship was, but she couldn't tell him. She did not know what words could define it. Not friendship, not in the common sense, for they had no interests in common, and spent no time together exploring them. Certainly not love, under ordinary definitions. The closest physical contact they'd shared consisted of lifesaving measures, and emotionally neither one of them dared supply something like that. He feared the hurt, and she was too at home in her peace. Quiet companions, perhaps… he'd taken to tracking her down lately – finding out where she was at work and joining her there, afraid to be alone but not wanting to answer questions either. He knew she'd never ask them, and at the same time wouldn't be intimidated by his presence. He's been needing the silence. Yet she'd felt the pain there, too… it wasn't just fear of being alone – he didn't trust himself to be alone. She watched him now in his contradiction: cold from too much heat.

You want to be alone, but you're afraid to be by yourself. Other things had changed since they met: a portion of his strength had disappeared. She glanced back at the captain – like most people, now that he was distracted he'd lost conscious track of her. You want him to fight, but the fighter is gone. She picked up her commander's left hand again, adding pressure. You found it once… try again.


He heard it before he saw it, crackling and popping – felt the heat driving out the cold. Then he could see – flickers of red and orange dulling the intensity of the white light. Hell was on fire. Black smoke descended from above, and instinctively he dropped, trying to stay below it. More people die from smoke inhalation than from the fire itself. Stay low. Take controlled breaths. Don't panic. Why he thought of survival when already dead, he had no idea. But the rules of survival in a fire came to him instantly, almost instinctively. They always had – during drills and tests at the Academy, he'd always been the last to panic: smoke and fire never instilled fear.

"Jesus, Tucker… and to think I mighta at one time thought there mighta been hope for you. Why I waste my time I haven't got a clue."

He knew that voice. It was his voice, but not his at the same time. Sarcastic, impatient and more in control than he'd ever managed. He rolled over onto his back and stared up into a familiar face. His own… a little more lined maybe, and with a cigarette dangling in the corner of his mouth. And the eyes… overcast grey to contrast his own sunny blue. But other than that…

A heavily gloved hand clamped onto his collar, hauling him to his feet. Right. He'd forgotten that – his doppelganger was strong, too. Better dressed for the new surroundings too: instead of a light Starfleet uniform, he wore a heavy yellow jacket and pants – stained black in too many places and held shut with a complicated array of fasteners – and even heavier boots. A helmet and old-fashioned air-tank with mask rounded out the array.

He stared in panic, wondering what new tricks the devil had in store. His twin sighed, as though dealing with an exceptionally slow child and trying to teach an exceptionally important lesson that couldn't be delivered via knock to the head.

"Are you deliberately dense, Tucker, or did you just pick up on those genes through osmosis?" The doppelganger looked upwards, as though in prayer. "Hell, part of it got laid out for you, and you still can't catch on." A thicker accent than his own, too, as though his other never got out of the South.

Trip closed his eyes. "You're a voice in my head," he whispered, "You're not real." Besides, he'd lost this part of him… hadn't heard a word since that head injury – since Sim.

"Craziness runs in your mother's family, Tucker… that ain't what you resemble. Yeah, you got that wrong too." The hand released his shoulder and thumped on his head. "Now if that other boy could remember…" Trip opened his eyes to stare into his other's as the stranger-not-stranger continued, "… might take some effort, but I think you can." The voice softened, almost to a hypnotic whisper. "Think about it boy… why the hell are you afraid of heights?"

"I…" Images flickered through his brain, memories that couldn't be his. He'd never been there, never seen those things. He couldn't have seen any of these things, not even as a child. It was impossible for them to be part of his subconscious, yet.

"They say the body remembers… everything's in cycles. The body remembers… it never forgets, even the things the mind throws away."

Genetic memory. Phlox kept nattering on about it, kept asking him if he remembered anything about Sim, wanting to explore the matter – not seeming to realise that Trip didn't want to be a lab rat. He breathed and smelled smoke again, and it was grease and pollution and the scent of spices and cooking tomatoes, the sound of steel against wood, and membership in a ten-percent minority. Then shouts in the familiar tones of home. Remembering.