Title: Nocturnus
Author: Vesper (Regina)
Rated: T, violence
Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to Paramount. This is for fun, not profit (insert appropriate Ferengi joke here).
Category: ST:ENT, drama, angst
Codes: R/S, OFC, A, T, Tu, P
Archival: Permission to Warp 5 Complex (EntSTCommunity). Anyone else, please link to my website. Please keep all my headers intact.
Spoilers: Detained, Silent Enemy
Summary: The dark night of the soul.
...sin otra luz y guía
sino la que en el corazón ardía.
--"En Una Noche Oscura" San Juan de la Cruz
It was supposed to be a simple mission. "Just get in and get done with it," Archer said, "There's no sense in wasting our time or announcing our presence. You all know your tasks, so get them done quickly."
Just three. Hoshi, Malcolm, and Trip. Just a simple mission of information retrieval.
They had been joking before they left, attempting to alleviate their tension. They all knew the risks they were taking, given their reputation with these people, and the last thing they needed was to get caught.
She should have known. Should have paid attention to the fear that went through her when Trip said, "At least you look more human this time, Malcolm."
It happened so quickly. Too quickly to do anything but scream his name, before the shimmer of the transporter clouded her vision. So quickly and yet the image of him, as he fell beneath the green stream of energy, froze in her mind and she could not get the last cry of his voice out of her head.
A simple mission. An unbelievably foolish mission, the danger they had foreseen incalculably incorrect. The Tandaran ships innumerable against an unshielded ship.
T'Pol's final analysis.
"Overwhelming odds."
Archer's final decision.
"Retreat."
And her legs wouldn't hold her and she crumpled to the deck. She barely heard Trip's concerned voice beside her through the roaring in her ears.
"Hoshi. Hoshi."
Her sight grew dim. She whispered, "He can't be dead."
"Who are you?"
The voice, for that was all it was, came out of the darkness, rough, unforgiving, harsh in its unrelenting persistence. To the captive's ears it was accented, the vowels stretched and flattened.
The same question, over and over. For a time he'd answered it, resorting to humor, sarcasm, outright defiance, and finally stubborn silence. To each response came the inevitable question.
"Who are you?"
There was no mercy in that voice, a fact proven over and over. It came at regular intervals, but time was lost, reference distorted by the starkness of this prison.
"Who are you?"
The first time the question had been asked, he'd answered by rote, rattling off the information. He never saw the blow, only felt the impact of something hard, spiked, driven into his back, and pain flared hot and white as he fell to his knees.
They let him heal before they asked again. Each injury was mendable, no permanent damage done, their technology repairing burnt skin, black hematomas, delicate stinging razor slices.
They broke his hand once. He remembers this because it was the first time they shattered his bones and the only time he lost consciousness, the bright colors of agony throbbing at the corners of his eyes, as the pain spread from the crushed digits into his entire body, setting him on fire. When he awoke, in the perpetual pitch-black of his cell, the pain was gone, his hand repaired.
He knew what they wanted from him. Just one sentence, just seven words. Seven, the number of perfection, and he laughed, bitterly, when he realized that. He would say them in his head, test the cadence and the speed, knowing all he needed was to say them to free himself of the dreaded ritual. He never said them aloud. That would have been giving up the fight.
"Who are you?"
And he screamed, yet never said the words.
"Who are you?"
And he wept, yet never said the words.
"Who are you?"
Dissolving his resistance.
"Who are you?"
Beating at his will.
"Who are you?"
"Who are you?"
Who do you want me to be?
"Ours."
With seven words, Malcolm Reed surrendered his identity.
Hoshi woke to the concerned faces of Dr. Phlox, Jonathan and Trip.
For one blessed moment she couldn't recall what had happened, and then she heard the echo of screaming and her own voice, broken, "Oh God, Malcolm."
She couldn't keep the sobs back then, and when Trip placed his arms around her, she clung desperately to him, shaking with the force of her grief.
She didn't see the look pass from Trip to the Captain, or hear Phlox leave the room. Trip murmured into her hair, "I'm here."
She cried herself hoarse and Trip didn't let go until she was done. Her eyes were red, her cheeks still wet, but a disturbing calm had settled on her face. She said, "It was my fault."
She should have listened longer.
But should have didn't keep her from dreaming at night, or from reaching for a warm body that wasn't there, or from fighting the frequent lump in her throat and the stinging tears she'd frantically blink away. Should have didn't change the fact that they'd left him behind.
Should have didn't keep her from blaming herself.
Dazzling whiteness like the sparkle of snow faded to black as he opened his eyes. He knew where he was, of course.
Other facts were not as certain. They came everyday, told him to repeat information, to memorize minutiae of who they told him he was. He could see their faces now. Tandarans, his mind supplied, but when he tried to understand the source of that knowledge, there was a void. They gave him a mirror one day and he looked at his reflection.
It showed a thin-faced man, a mouth with shadows of pain, and empty eyes. A man with the typical features of a Tandaran, the bridge of his nose...disfigured. The reflection was a stranger to him. He broke the mirror and they didn't feed him for a long time.
He didn't know who he was any longer, their conditioning thorough. They ceased the physical torture, only to wound him psychologically. They drew from him information, everything he knew, and erased the man that gave it to them. At first he thought about his crew-mates all the time, but his memories of them were the first things they ripped from his conscious mind. Swift and sure in their methods, they were finished in several days.
He didn't know that. He didn't know that he had been there for little more than three months.
Kept in the dark, literally. The only light he saw was in his dreams and in their interrogations, a glaring brightness that kept him still, caught within. He never saw them, his eyes only defining figures, shadows that inflicted pain.
His cell was sanctuary, away from the invading figures. The darkness was peace, rest, a refuge.
He stared into the black, trying to recapture the flashes in his dreams.
Hands, soft.
The line of a woman's jaw.
He closed his eyes, tight, his teeth grinding at the pain that lanced through his head. Every time.
Illumination burst through the cell, streaming from the opened door. It cast its glare upon him, back against the wall, his knees drawn to his chest.
He looked up when he heard the voice ask again, "Who are you?"
He stood, his shoulders straight, his stance rigid. He answered, "Nial Avin."
"What is your mission?"
"Locate, interrogate, eliminate." Avin's eyes were cold, flat grey.
"You have ten days to complete your mission."
"Understood."
Sitara could feel the time, like sand, drifting, sifting. Only twenty minutes remained in her shift. A fragment of rhyme from a counting song teased its way through her subconscious, and she murmured it under her breath, tapping out its rhythm with a tapered finger against the control panel.
Three months here, on this godforsaken pit of a space station, and she still couldn't get used to the smells. Or the men, who came through the customs offices, only one thing on their minds, looking for a warm body after the empty stretches of time on their ships. She was a prime target, being the first woman they saw, and her delicate features and slender body earned many a slimy once over.
Some were nicer, who took a moment to look past the fine raven hair and obsidian eyes, treating her with a little respect. These she allowed favors, letting them past her inspection of their cargos, even if they carried illegal substances.
A hand came down on her shoulder. She knew immediately who it was, the sensation of his thoughts a clear identifier.
--Maybe this time she'll jump.--
She said, without turning around, "You're fifteen minutes early, Eshut."
She smiled to herself, waiting. She wasn't disappointed. There was the sound of a muffled curse, then "I will never understand how you do that."
She turned around to see the short well-muscled man, the only friend she had on the station, scratch the back of his neck. Sitara chuckled. "Eshut," she said, "If you want to startle me, don't touch me, it's as simple as that."
He ran his hand through the short red scruff on his head, chagrin twisting his features. "Well, maybe I should just stop trying. You're being hailed." He pointed past her to the monitor.
She turned back to it, seeing the code for a Tandaran leisure craft, followed by the request for docking clearance. She sent the consent and quickly gathered her scanners.
"Go ahead, Eshut, I'm leaving after this," she called over her shoulder.
Sitara waited patiently for the light to indicate decontamination had been completed. The heavy metal door, painted across with the station's identifier in dark red, slid open once the process finished. The man standing beyond them had his back turned to her, looking up at the vents above.
She walked past him, or tried to, when his arm shot out in front of her, effectively blocking her entrance. When he spoke, her instinct was to flee. She'd never heard, even with all the men who spoke to her, something so dangerous before, or so austere.
"Who are you?"
When he turned his gaze to her, even his eyes were cold, the color of glaciers.
"Sitara."
His eyelids briefly flickered in response and for a moment his eyes seemed to brighten in color. She blinked and realized her own tired eyes were playing tricks on her.
She continued, in the Tandaran language, "I need to check your cargo."
"I don't have any cargo."
"Even so, it's station policy." She didn't know how she was still looking him in the eyes, which stared unblinking back at her.
He lowered his arm and stood aside. He followed her into the craft and leaned casually against a bulkhead, crossing his arms. He watched as she took readings, and she tried not to catch his eye again. The steady regard was making the back of her neck hot.
Stiffly, she turned back to him and said, "All clear."
He raised his eyebrows at her and uncoiled, his movements deliberate and graceful.
"So, I can go now?"
"I'm not keeping you."
She got a quick twist of his lips for that, barely a smile. So, the man had a sense of humor. Not that she cared. He exuded an edge of perilous charm and she'd had her fill of such men. She walked out of the ship and stood in the alcove, waiting for the decontamination to cease so she could go home to her bed.
He followed her silently, like a black shadow, all the more apropos for the clothing he wore. He said, "Sitara," as if he were testing the pronunciation.
When she didn't look at him, he stepped in front of her, and said, "Can you show me a place to stay?"
The door slid open with its hydraulic groan. She agilely sidestepped past him, then turned to face him. She pointed at the wall with her hand. "Just follow the signs."
He read the vermilion script on the wall of the corridor. He briefly nodded and headed in the direction of the cubicles that served as cheap temporary housing.
She stared at his back. He seemed wrong, warped in some way, the vibe disturbing her. Yet he also seemed familiar. She shook her head, sure she was misinterpreting what her instincts were telling her. There had been nothing in his ship, no cargo at all. Whatever his reasons for being on Sicut 4 Station, they were no concern of hers.
She realized she was still standing in the middle of the corridor, and had let her thoughts consume her attention. She needed nourishment. The befuddled feeling was due to not having eaten for eight hours, that was all. She started to walk, heading toward the concourse that housed all the eating establishments.
The feeling of familiarity teased at her thoughts and with a shock she realized she didn't even know his name. It really didn't matter, however. There were ways of finding out. She wove her way through the crowds of people in the concourse, deftly finding the small corridor that led to the small restaurant that catered to a very small population. The strains of a man's rich voice came drifting out. It was a piece especially favored by the proprietor, and had rapidly become a favorite of hers.
She walked steadily to her favorite spot, far away from others, in a corner and sat down, listening to the music. A server quickly came to take her order, as quickly disappearing once he'd received it and her payment. She recalled the Tandaran's ship code, looking for its registration.
She mouthed the words along with the singer.
Tu dove sei? La tua voce dov'è?
Senza di te, senza il tuo aiuto
che sarà di me?
Ah, there it was, along with the man's name. Nial Avin.
The server appeared at her side, with her order. She barely looked at him, still reviewing the information on the tiny screen.
"Sweet mother earth," she whispered, amazed. She read the information again. No mistake. She shut the scanner off and sat back in her seat, her hunger forgotten.
He was human.
She knew who he was.
So this was the one. Impassively, he watched as she leaned back, staring into space. The music swelled, the man's voice soaring in a language he could remember having heard. He didn't push at the knowledge, knowing the result. The voice sang on, searching, longing.
Avin stood in the shadows, his dark cloak enabling him to blend well into one of the many recesses this station had. The brief encounter with Sitara had given him opportunity to assess her. He hadn't missed the subtle widening of her eyes, such mysterious eyes, an abyss that had swallowed the sun, darker than his prison cell. Her instinctive reaction had been fear, but she hadn't bent under his blatant scrutiny.
She had spirit, no doubt gained through adverse circumstances. He could admire that. He could even relate to it.
She finally recalled where she was and what she had in front of her. As she started to eat, he moved stealthily out of the shadows. She still seemed involved in whatever had captured her inner reverie, methodically chewing and swallowing, as if she wasn't truly tasting her meal.
She didn't sense his approach and he leaned in close, whispering, "Is it good?" His breath stirred the hair around her ear.
She scrambled away from him, her eyes wide.
"You."
He asked artlessly, "Did I frighten you?"
She wasn't fooled for one second. She touched her ear, rubbing at it. She swallowed convulsively, before she said, "Do you need something?"
He smiled thinly. She still had that prickly exterior, even when he'd so obviously unnerved her.
"Some company."
She said tightly, her eyes narrowing, "I'm sure you can find some better company elsewhere."
He sat down across from her, his face intent. "Perhaps, but that's not what I'm really looking for."
"Why me?"
"You... remind me of someone."
"Who?"
The lines around his mouth tightened as he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. She reached out, to touch him, but quickly retracted her hand when he opened his eyes. She suddenly noticed the smudged blue underneath his eyes and realized his skin had gone pale.
He shook his head.
"I don't know."
This was going to cause more trouble than she could handle, she knew that, but she had to be sure. "Give me your hand," she said.
"What?"
"Give me your hand."
So he held it out to her, palm up, fingers slightly curled. She placed her hand in his, pushing them flat against her own palm.
--What is she doing?--
He transmitted louder than Eshut and she adjusted her touch, so that her two middle fingers rested lightly on his palm.
She asked again, "Who do I remind you of?"
She saw.
Night, deep and black, pin-pricked and bleeding light. The multitude of stars streaming hot and fast as sparks from driftwood.
Someone.
Hair as black as the expanse, eyes with softer gleam, yet sparking just as bright as the stars. Small in size, strong in spirit.
She heard.
--i think it's safe now. i can't hear them anymore--
--are you sure--
--yes, i'm sure--
She felt.
Rough hands, strong, stronger than his struggling. The final searing fear of separation. His thudding heartbeat, faster and faster. A wave of terror rising strong, with a silent deafening cry of wordless pain, masking something, something she could almost hear.
She tore her hand from his grip, her fingers aching from the grinding crush. She held it still, feeling the poisoned blood rush warmly.
"What did you do?" His voice was distraught, jagged with lingering fear. "What did you do?" His face was gaunt, the lines around his mouth deeper than before.
"I did nothing." She blinked and felt wetness slip and fall, cold on her skin. She quickly swept it away.
He grabbed her hand, the same hand he'd gripped so tightly, and she hastily shielded herself.
"I felt it. You got in my head, found what you wanted." Quiet menace had replaced his agitation, and she watched as his eyes seemed to shift colors, from pale blue to clear grey.
"I'm only a receiver. I didn't find it, it was just there." Her voice trembled. He tossed her hand back at her. He abruptly stood and leaned over her. She inhaled sharply and closed her eyes.
He hissed, "Come with me."
She opened her eyes and stared at him.
"We're being watched. Come on."
She didn't move and he placed a hand on the bare skin below the short sleeve of her dark red uniform, pulling her up by her elbow.
"Move."
He pushed her in front and ushered her out. She didn't look around, simply walked, back straight. He was still touching her, and she let her shield drop a little, but not enough for him to feel the intrusion.
He was in control now, all emotions reined in. The only thing coming through was the desire to escape the attention of the two Tandarans who were standing, surveying the crowd.
She said, softly, "Friends of yours?"
"Questions later."
But she already had her answer.
--No.--
He let go of her the moment they left the Tandarans behind. They walked silently for few minutes before he said, "Ask what you will."
She lifted her chin, defiantly, but his attention was focused on moving them through the crowd. "Oh, you're granting me leave now?"
He said, brusquely, "Ask or leave, either way you're no better off than you were before."
Under other circumstances, she would have groaned at the pun, instead she asked, "What do they want with you?"
"I'm supposed to complete a mission. My time is almost up."
"So they're here to do what?"
"If I don't do what they want, they'll kill me." He said this levelly, as if he'd had a long time to become accustomed to the concept, or maybe merely programmed to accept it.
"And what do they want you to do?"
"Kill you."
They finally were past all the people and into the labyrinth of corridors surrounding the concourse. She fell silent, contemplating his words. She wasn't surprised, just saddened at the measures they had taken. She asked, "Will you?"
"No."
"Why?"
"They want you dead because of your ability, because of what you know about them, right?"
She nodded.
He continued, grimly, "You're their enemy. They haven't treated me well."
"What they did, it's breaking down, isn't it?"
"Yes and I need to know what, exactly, they did. I'm not asking for your trust, only your help."
"Good, because all I can give you is help." She paused for a moment. "You do realize they've been following us?"
He smiled and she shivered. "Of course. You do realize where we are now?"
She looked at the markings on the wall. "We're leaving."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small black object. He slipped it into her hand.
"This has my ship's access code. You run. I'll take care of them."
A shower of sparks exploded on the curve of the wall ahead of them, and the acrid smell of burnt metal filled the air. Sitara ducked involuntarily, startled.
She watched as Avin drew a wicked looking pistol, black and long muzzled. He swung around, the pistol straight in front of him.
The two men stood ten feet from them. One of them still held a matching weapon, now pointed at her heart.
The other said, "We can kill her right now."
They froze.
A screeching siren split the still, recycled air. Sitara ran, hoping the station's automatic safety procedure had given Avin enough time to find cover, or, and she hated herself for even thinking it, enough time to kill the two men.
Their knowledge of her existence was lamentable, but not worth the price of their lives, as much as she might wish it. Her anger towards them had always fought against her principles, the sacredness of life precious to her. Enough lives had been lost in this war.
She heard one, two, three more shots, but she didn't look behind her. There was only one objective now, to reach Avin's ship. She never feared that she would be alone in it.
She nearly fell several times, sliding around the corners of the hallways, her speed and the surface beneath her feet conspiring against her. She reached the docking bay doors and, not waiting for the decontamination, immediately input the short numerical code.
The configuration of the ship was familiar to her, and it took little time to send the request for clearance. In the waiting, the door to the ship slid open, and Avin staggered in, lip split and bloodied.
He fell into the chair beside her. The clearance came through and for the next few minutes she was busy separating them from the docking port, setting a course as far away from the station as possible. She could see Avin, in her peripheral vision, reaching behind him. Something banged, a sharp metallic sound. She turned her head sharply, to see him holding a cloth to his face. An opened box was balanced on his knees, holding several things she recognized as medical supplies.
He looked at her and his eyes crinkled at the edges. She couldn't see the smile, but the amusement came clear when he said, "You should see what I did to them."
She said shortly, "I'd rather not." She reached across and plucked the medscanner from the box.
He said, "I can assure you I don't need that."
"Humor me."
She ran the scanner over him and satisfied with the result, turned it off and placed it back in the box.
"Nothing that won't heal."
He looked at her, his face inscrutable. She blushed under his gaze and turned back to the ship's controls.
His voice was quiet. "You're a puzzle, Sitara."
She didn't look at him, knowing she could keep the truth from him if she didn't.
"How's that?"
"Look at me," he demanded.
She did, schooling her face to show no reaction.
He leaned forward, invading her space again, a calculated gesture to rattle her composure. She hoped she was hiding that it was. He said, "I know you're keeping something from me. Every action you've taken since I've met you says you're something more than just a customs officer."
"Ask and I'll answer what I can."
"There's more to why I was sent to execute you, isn't there? It's not just your ability."
"Yes." She hesitated. In a rush she added, "I used to belong to the Suliban Cabal."
His reaction was typical, but to his credit he buried the hatred quickly. Her lips tightened and she watched him stand, pacing in the confined space.
"Used to?"
"The reason I look this way is because I was recruited by another organization, completely unrelated to the Cabal. They changed my appearance, permanently. Tandaran intelligence obviously found me, despite the change."
"What organization?"
"I can't tell you. But I can tell you this. I was once held prisoner in a detention camp by the Tandarans. I was captured a few months after I renounced my involvement in the Cabal. Being captured saved my life, since the Cabal would have executed me otherwise. A few months after my capture, that camp was freed by a group of Terrans, affiliated with their planet's Starfleet. I escaped, along with eighty-eight other Suliban, most innocent of any involvement with the Cabal. You were there."
He stopped pacing and dropped back down into his seat. "You know who I am." The hope in his voice was startlingly raw.
"I know your name."
"Tell me."
"Your name is Malcolm Reed. You're the armory officer aboard the Starfleet Ship Enterprise."
"Do you know where the ship is?"
"I do."
"Set a course."
Sitara rubbed her eyes. The lack of sleep made them feel gritty, glued.
The man she now knew as Reed was asleep on the floor of the craft and she marveled at the trust that entailed. He had believed her story, but he had no reason to. She might know his name and his reputation, but that was of no significance. The man was supposed to be dead. That he wasn't was, frankly, more than she would have expected.
She looked at him, preparing to wake him. He was sweating, a fine sheen on his forehead. There was a stiff tension in his jaw that could only be due to tightly clenched teeth. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, preparing herself.
She knelt and touched his forehead, feeling the heat underneath her palm. She sensed confusion, swirling like oil in water, but she could sense nothing else. Hot forehead. She snatched her hand away and started to scrabble urgently around in the compartments of the ship. There it was. She opened the medkit and took out the scanner. She thumbed the power switch and watched the readout, with held breath.
They had been that cruel, the sons of whores. She tightened her lips in anger.
"Wake up!" she said, shaking him.
His eyes snapped open and he quickly sat up.
"What?"
She thrust the scanner in front of him. He rapidly read the results.
"They poisoned me."
She nodded. She said softly, "Time release. Akeriontin. We have nothing to counteract it."
He swore, the first time she'd heard him do so. He asked, "How long until we reach the ship?"
"Fifteen hours."
"How long do I have?"
"About the same."
They increased their speed. That was all they could do. The poison would work steadily and slowly, systemically shutting down vital systems.
He took his turn piloting and she sat in the other chair. She fought sleep but she could feel lethargy encroaching, numbing her muscles and she slept, uncomfortably, drifting in and out of consciousness. She woke to the sound of Avin's strained voice.
"Sitara."
She focused on his face. It was pale and she noticed his hands were trembling. He said, "Take over."
She exchanged seats with him and it didn't escape her how unsteadily and carefully he moved. She asked, "How long have I been asleep?"
"Five hours."
She stared at him in shock. "You should have woken me."
He summoned a little bit of temper, "I did. I can't..." His eyes closed and he slumped in his seat. She gasped and reached out, catching him before he fell. She eased him onto the floor and groped blindly for the medscanner.
He was still alive. She put down the scanner and sighed. When had she developed such a sense of responsibility for him? He needed her now and for some reason she needed to see a good end to his tragedy. She needed to reunite him with his dark-haired woman.
"Hoshi?"
She half turned her head, just enough to see him, and turned back to watch the stars passing, like liquid fire. Trip hesitated briefly and then sat down next to her at the table. There was no one else in the mess-hall, late as it was.
She didn't say anything for a long time, the silence spreading thick and solid. When she did speak her voice was tired.
"Do you know, Malcolm was so adamant about getting involved with anyone on this mission. It took a lot of convincing and my promotion to change his mind." She drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly. "I still remember the word he used. Awkward. Doesn't seem adequate for this situation, does it?" The underlying bitterness was faint, but still full of pain.
Trip reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. He squeezed it, a fleeting pressure.
She looked at him, and he could see the glitter of tears in her eyes. "Do you know how long it's been, Trip?" she said, "Three months and twenty days. I still dream about him, still half see him if I turn my head just right, like a shadow at his station."
"We all do, Hoshi, we all do, even the Captain and I."
"I never blamed you, or the Captain, Trip, you know that," she said with fervent solemnity.
"Of course, but we're still worried about you. You come on shift, do your work. It's like you're operating on habit only. It's not like you. You're shutting yourself off."
She was dismayed by the plea in his voice. "Have I been?"
He nodded. "We may have lost him, but we don't want to lose you."
"I loved him, Trip. I'll never let go of that."
"I know."
She looked out the window again, watching the stars pass, the light-years flowing like water.
Trip stood and started to leave. As he passed Hoshi, she placed a hand on his arm.
"Where are you going?"
"To the bridge. The Captain needs an engineering efficiency report. Thought I'd catch him before he hits the sack. You should get some rest too, Hoshi."
She smiled wanly. "I'll try."
Trip entered the bridge to find Archer leaning forward, concentrating on the view-screen. The image was of a woman, black hair, black eyes, high cheekbones and patrician features. Her hair was woven in numerous tiny braids, falling past her shoulders. She appeared human, but there was something about her eyes that made him second-guess that notion. Urgency was manifest in the line of her body and when she spoke it made her voice slightly higher.
"Captain Archer?"
"Yes. Whom am I speaking to?"
"My name is Sitara. I need medical attention for my companion."
Trip spoke up. "What's wrong with him?"
"Please. He has no time. May we come aboard?"
Archer glanced at Trip and T'Pol. He looked back to the view-screen. "Permission granted. We'll meet you with our doctor."
Archer said to the ensign at the comm station, "Go ahead and give her the docking protocols. Call Dr. Phlox, ask him to meet us there." The ensign nodded.
Archer stood and headed toward the turbolift, saying, "Trip, T'Pol."
They followed him into the turbolift. Trip asked, "What's the situation, Captain?"
"A Tandaran ship approached us. Before we could even call alert status, they hailed, gave us a white flag. You know me, Trip. This has a little too many unanswered questions to pass up. Who is she?"
T'Pol said dryly, "Obviously not Tandaran."
"Maybe her companion is," offered Trip.
Archer said, "Makes sense. But why ask us for help?"
T'Pol said, "It is pointless to speculate without all the data. It's best to wait until we meet her."
Archer nodded and in short time they reached the docking bay. Phlox was waiting there, ready to heal, his tricorder on and waiting.
The door slid back to reveal the woman, Sitara, supporting with difficulty the dead weight of her companion. His head hung down, obviously unconscious.
She said, "He's poisoned. Akeriontin. It's in his blood."
"Sweet Jesus."
Trip's hoarse invocation snapped his Captain's head around.
"What is it, Trip?"
"That's Malcolm."
Phlox had been scanning the unconscious man. He looked up and said, "The Commander is right, Captain. This is indeed Lieutenant Commander Reed."
Trip stood outside Hoshi's quarters, his hands nervously twitching. He didn't want to do this. It was too soon. Before he lost his nerve, he reached out and pressed the door chime. He waited anxiously, until the door opened a few minutes later, framing a sleepy Communications Officer.
She took one look at his face and asked apprehensively, "What's wrong, Trip?"
"Get dressed, Hoshi. You need to come with me to Sickbay."
She nodded and he waited in the hallway, stealing strength from the walls. She was mercifully quick and when the door slid back open, he leapt from his leaning posture and started walking toward a turbolift. She followed silently, still trying to shake the sleep from her mind.
They were there before she could ask him why they needed to go to Sickbay. He halted her before they entered and said, "Hoshi, I don't know how to say this, except--you have a second chance."
He watched her as his words sunk in, how the weary slackness changed and her eyes grew bright. She turned from him and entered Sickbay.
Her voice quavered, but it was surprisingly strong.
"Where is he? Where's Malcolm?"
Her eyes focused on the still figure lying on the biobed. She bit her lip and approached the bed, almost warily, walking past the Captain, Dr. Phlox, and T'Pol.
She reached out and traced his jaw-line with a shaking hand. His skin was warm beneath her touch. Fever, her mind rationally supplied.
She turned around to face the others in the room. Trip was trying desperately not to let his tears fall. Archer had a drawn look on his face that spoke of the depth of his distress and concern. Only Phlox and T'Pol showed no reaction.
"What's wrong with him?"
Phlox answered, "Nothing, Lieutenant, now. He'll recover quite well. Time and rest is all he needs now."
"That doesn't answer my question."
A husky voice intruded. "Are you the one he remembers?"
Hoshi turned to see Sitara, sitting on one of the far beds.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Sitara. He was tortured and used by the Tandarans. He's been searching for you, all this time. I helped him find you."
"Do you know what they did to him?"
"They used a bio-feedback technique to prevent him from remembering who he is. It was part of their torture. It was timed to release a poison into his bloodstream. Your doctor was able to find an antidote."
Archer asked, "Bio-feedback technique?"
Sitara answered, "If he tries to remember anything of his life as Malcolm Reed, it causes him pain. I'm a, I am able to touch someone and hear their thoughts, feel their emotions, but I'm not able to communicate that way. I could see you," she nodded at Hoshi, "in his memories, without a name. My ability can't help him."
T'Pol said, "It would need someone more adept."
"Yes."
"What are you talking about?" Hoshi asked.
"Lieutenant," T'Pol started and Hoshi could hear the sympathy in her voice, if not see it on her face. T'Pol continued, "Commander Reed may not remember you, may not remember any of us, unless he breaks through the barrier that keeps him from remembering."
"How?" Hoshi's voice cracked.
"To preserve his mind, it is best in this type of situation, to have a telepath disarm the mechanism. I can do it, but I would require your permission."
"Do it."
Hoshi was drifting in a light sleep. She could hear a voice, mumbling words.
"Tu dove sei?"
So she answered back. "I'm here, Malcolm."
She opened her eyes and raised her head, stiff muscles protesting. His eyes were still closed.
"Malcolm?" She forcibly lowered her voice. "Malcolm?"
His eyes slowly opened, at first hazy, gradually gaining clearness. They focused on her face.
His voice croaked, "I know you."
"Yes, yes, you do."
"What's your name?"
Only her eyes showed her misery.
"Hoshi. Hoshi, Malcolm."
He watched as a tear fell, sliding down her cheek. He said, "Means star."
Hope started to dispel the misery. "Yes."
"Where have you been?"
"In the dark, Malcolm, in the dark."
End.
Afterword: Translations. Beginning quote--from the mystic's poem, commonly known as "The Dark Night of the Soul." "Without a light or guide, except the light burning in my heart." The song in the story--"Alla Luce del Sole" sung by Josh Groban. "Where are you? Where's your voice? Without you, without your help, what becomes of me?"