They had to be careful. Phlox said it. Trip said it. They all knew it.

But Jonathan wasn't used to being careful on his own ship. This was his crew, and they worked for him. It had always been his job to motivate and direct them. And now he had to lay back, watch them work without him, knowing they were pointed in the wrong direction.

However, Malcolm stood as an example to them all of what happened to anyone who interfered, even slightly. Rejected, beaten, locked up and threatened with court martial had been the price Malcolm had paid to give them a fighting chance. The price he continued to pay.

Much as he wanted to, Jonathan couldn't come up with a justification for letting Malcolm out of the Brig that he thought anyone on the crew would buy in their current frame of mind. Even if Trip and Phlox sided with him, the crew would immediately smell something was up, and this little rebellion against what Trip called "the mushroom cult" would be over before it began. Malcolm was the pariah of the ship, and would have to endure that humiliating status awhile longer... for all their sakes.

In the meantime, Jonathan, Trip and Phlox had to all pretend everything was business as usual. The trouble was, business as usual had become something none of them could recognize, and all three of them were plagued by fatigue and migraines, which considerably impaired their acting ability.

Both Jonathan and Trip had suggested giving everyone the parasite suppression concoction they'd had, but Phlox had instantly shot them down by asking them how they intended to justify injections for everybody. Especially since they had scientists like T'Pol aligned against them. She wasn't specialized in medicine, but she was definitely smart enough and knowledgeable enough to see through any excuse Phlox might make up. And of course taking everyone by surprise as Trip and Phlox had been was absolutely out of the question. You couldn't hope to get lucky eighty-three times on something like that. And as soon as the crew became aware of the enemies in their midst, things would turn ugly very quickly. Jonathan had no desire to see what a seventy plus crewmen mutiny on him might look like.

Trip probably had the hardest job. Nobody bothered Phlox all that much, and things were so far along that Jonathan wasn't doing much besides just watching the events he'd set in motion, but poor Trip had to actually participate in tearing apart the Armory, and problem solving issues that were holding up progress, and otherwise put his heart and soul into a task he despised.

Not only that, but Trip had to work with the engineers and former Armory officers, who all had a special hostility towards Malcolm. They were incensed that Malcolm had stood in their way, and that he had assaulted the chief engineer (though Trip had told Jonathan he was pretty sure he'd done the initial assaulting and Malcolm had merely reacted). In their view, Malcolm had gotten exactly what he deserved and, according to Trip, not a day went by that someone didn't suggest that maybe they should just "forget" Malcolm in the Brig and let the problem take care of itself.

All through it, they all worked and spoke and laughed and griped just as they always had, as if nothing had changed and contemplating the murder of Enterprise's tactical officer was no different from repairing a power relay. Malcolm was just a technical issue to them, they didn't even seem to consider him as a human being, though their views on each other seemed not to have changed. Personality conflicts still existed, and not everyone was agreed on how to accomplish a given task, and some people liked to socialize with one another when they were off duty, while others couldn't wait to get away from each other. And that was perhaps the most unsettling thing about it.

That everyone still seemed like themselves, but then they really weren't.

Jonathan tried to imagine what it might have been like for Malcolm to be totally alone in this changed landscape, but he couldn't. It was isolating enough to be one of four people. To be the only one out of eighty-three must have been completely intolerable.

Inevitably, something finally slipped. Unsurprisingly, it was Trip during breakfast one morning.

"I can't believe Haynem suggested 'accidentally' depressurizing the Brig. Right to my face," Trip said.

T'Pol, delicately cutting a salad, replied pragmatically, "Perhaps you should consider it."

"What!?" Trip exclaimed before Jonathan could stop him.

Not looking up from her salad, T'Pol elaborated, "So long as he remains on board, Lt. Reed continues to be a threat to our mission. He is a tactical officer, and demolitions is his specialty. If he were to escape from the Brig, he might well sabotage our efforts, or possibly even destroy this ship."

It looked like T'Pol. It sounded like T'Pol. But Jonathan couldn't believe she could be so utterly cold in suggesting that they kill an unarmed, badly injured man locked up in the Brig, supposedly in their own self defense. As if Malcolm represented any kind of threat to anyone in his present condition. At the same time, she was suggesting they bypass all the legalities of taking him back to Earth for court martial, as well as the obligation of all socially advanced and intelligent beings to grant second chances, especially for such small infractions as one could argue Malcolm was guilty of.

You didn't kill a man for fighting back when he was attacked. And you certainly didn't kill him for trying to save his ship and crew in the only way he knew how. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right.

Jonathan's first instinct was to reply that he reserved the right to judge how dangerous Malcolm might be to the mission, but he reminded himself that he wasn't really talking to his first officer right now, just some... thing that happened to look like her. He needed to come up with something more convincing. Otherwise, it was possible Malcolm's time in the Brig might be coming very soon to a decidedly unpleasant and rather abrupt end.

"As you just pointed out, Malcolm's my tactical officer," Jonathan reminded her, "And he's a damn good one. I'm not ready to let go of that asset casually. This mission is too important."

T'Pol gave him a shuttered glance, but Jonathan wasn't sure what that meant in terms of her buying what he was selling and not realizing that he'd switched teams in the final period of the game.

Somehow, sorry just didn't feel like it would cut it. So Trip didn't say it. He just tried to make sure he was in the Brig whenever Phlox gave Malcolm the suppressant hypo, and hung around as long as Malcolm still sounded like Malcolm when he talked.

The low dosage apparently still kept the parasites slowed down, without as heavily influencing Malcolm's ability to heal as the higher doses Phlox, Trip and Captain Archer were taking… but it also meant he only talked sense for a little while. Trip preferred not to try imagining the violently unpredictable mental and emotional seesaw that put Malcolm on, but it was hard because sometimes he could see it in his friend's eyes, the losing struggle and hopeless fight.

Until Phlox came up with an actual cure, it was a battle they were all slowly losing. According to Phlox, the parasites were probably continuing to inhibit their thinking and affect their behavior in ways they were at present incapable of realizing. There would come a time where the critical mass of parasites would override the effects of the suppressant. And then it would be over.

"Phlox thinks he's close to a prototype," Trip told Malcolm, "But he's worried about side effects, and who he can test it on once he's done all he can in the lab."

"Obviously that should be me," Malcolm replied.

At the moment, Malcolm was as clear-headed as he ever got these days, sitting up on his cot with his back against the wall. It wasn't lost on Trip the way Malcolm kept watchful eyes on him at all times, wary, alert, anticipating an attack at any moment. He didn't call Malcolm on it.

Malcolm had been assaulted in the dark by his own crew mates. Trip hadn't been one of them, but it was obvious in both their minds that he had been the primary cause, and he just as easily could have been there. After all, mere hours before, Trip had tried to kill Malcolm. And he'd talked about wanting to finish the job after the fact. There wasn't any reason or excuse that could change the reality, and it wasn't fair to expect Malcolm to immediately put all that behind him and forget it.

"Are you kidding? Phlox'd never go for it," Trip said, "Not in your present condition. Malcolm, he won't even give you the full dose of the suppressant."

"Which of us is most expendable, Commander? Dr. Phlox? He's needed to synthesize more of the cure if it works, and to continue his research if it doesn't. The Captain? He's the one thing keeping the crew off Phlox's back," not to mention out of Malcolm's cell, Trip thought, "And as for you… your services would be rather keenly missed in the Armory. Fairly immediately, I should think."

Not liking that Malcolm had a point, Trip asked, "Why can't you just leave logic to the Vulcans?"

"Because, at the moment, our Vulcan is working against us," Malcolm said matter-of-factly.

"I'm wonderin' about the Captain's call on that one," Trip admitted, "Seems like T'Pol's gettin' closer to findin' us out ev'ry minute. And I'm not sure what'll happen when she does."

"She'll find a way to put an end to our little anti-mushroom rebellion," Malcolm replied, "For good."

"That's what I'm worried about. Seems like, if we could just get her on our team..."

"You want to pit a Vulcan's acting ability against the entire Enterprise crew?"

Malcolm certainly had a point there. But he wasn't done.

"Subcommander T'Pol's more compromised than any of us," Malcolm continued, "Vulcans prize their logic and controlled emotions above anything. This whole situation is an illogical nightmare for a Vulcan, and I don't imagine that she's emotionally uninvolved, though we both know she'd say otherwise. Vulcans don't seem to do much of anything by half-measures. When they commit to a course, they're all in on it. You can't just rip them off their track and expect it to go well."

"I guess I hadn't thought of it that way."

"It's safe to assume that Captain Archer has," Malcolm said.

Trip wasn't so sure that was the case. Captain Archer hadn't been in possession of his marbles for very long, especially compared with Malcolm, who'd had weeks to watch the situation develop and to think about all the angles of this thing, even if only subconsciously or wistfully.

Besides, Captain Archer tended to put a lot of faith in T'Pol's ability to cope with anything and everything. Usually it seemed to pay off, but Trip had a feeling there'd come a time where that might not be the case. Even Vulcans weren't invincible.

Trip sighed heavily, "This is such a mess."

"How is the Captain anyway?" Malcolm asked.

It was news to Trip that Captain Archer hadn't been down to see Malcolm since that first time. Doubtless, the Captain was trying to carry all the blame for everything that had happened on his shoulders, and feeling guilty about his own helplessness. Trip decided he should check in with his friend later. In the meantime, he didn't want to admit to not having an answer for Malcolm.

"He's hangin' tough," Trip said, "He's the Captain."

"Yes…," Malcolm replied, but it seemed like he saw right through Trip in that moment, "He is."

"It's just hard, not bein' able to do anything to help. All he can do is listen to T'Pol's mushroom farm updates and go down to Sick Bay to bother Phlox. It's drivin' him crazy."

"I imagine it is," Malcolm said neutrally, which effectively reminded Trip that Malcolm had been in a very similar position, but for much longer and with far less promise of relief.

They each took a turn to sigh and stare at the floor or wall, not knowing what to say, well aware that time was not on their side, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

"You know, sometimes I wish you'd never gotten to me," Trip admitted with a shake of his head, "So I could've just gone on in blissful ignorance makin' that damned mushroom farm and spice refinery."

"I know," Malcolm replied quietly, "I'm sorry. It wasn't fair of me to make you carry this when there's nothing you can do to help fix it. If I'd just kept my head a little bit longer-"

"Hey," Trip interrupted firmly, "No. You didn't do anything wrong here," when Malcolm failed to look at him, he insisted, "You hear me, Malcolm? You did the best you could with what you had."

"It wasn't enough."

"You don't know that. Anyway, if you hadn't gotten my head outta my ass, you'd prob'bly be dead by now. I was fixin' to do you in, one way or another."

"I know," Malcolm said, "But still..."

"Still nothin'. If I'm gonna die, I'd rather see it comin' than not. It's just the waitin' around that's killin' me," the double meaning behind that remark wasn't lost on either of them.

At night in his quarters was the only time Jonathan could remotely try to kid himself that things were normal. He still felt like he was carrying a hundred pounds of lead around with him, and sometimes the migraine was so bad he saw stars when he was just sitting still, but that was easier to ignore than the fact that his entire crew had quietly and completely gone insane.

Porthos remained unchanged as far as Jonathan could see. But could that really be true? Of all the species these parasites could so readily infect, was it really possible that a dog of all things had immunity? He'd asked Phlox about it during one of his many visits to Sick Bay to ask for status updates and additional details on the parasites.

Jonathan's abhorrence of what was happening to his crew was admittedly not enough to fully drown out his very real curiosity about the parasites, how they'd evolved and what their life cycle was. Some of that curiosity was purely that, but much of it had to do with wondering how he could expect it to continue affecting the crew and the perhaps vain but nonetheless real hope that one of his questions might somehow spark off a real answer as to how to deal with the plague on board.

Dr. Phlox was a patient, cordial man, and generally politely dismissive of Jonathan's wilder thoughts, theories and more off the wall questions. But, more than occasionally, he would sweetly suggest that Jonathan surely had somewhere else to be, something else he might be doing.

But the truth was, he really didn't.

As captain of the Enterprise, fastest ship in Star Fleet and deep space exploration vessel, Jonathan's days were full of things to do and keep track of. But as captain of this stationary mushroom farming barge… Jonathan was really almost superfluous, especially since the slightest thing that sounded like wanting to stop the current process or even slow it down was met with suspicion and hostility. If the crew was pressed, Jonathan was fairly certain they would mutiny as one, despite the fact that there were still times when they would talk to him and Jonathan could almost believe these were the people he trusted and relied on every day out here. But then they would mention the spice, and he would see in their eyes that they were no one he knew at all.

In any case, Phlox had been rather uninterested in whether or not Porthos might be infected. Phlox said many of the animals in his menagerie seemed to be immune to infection by the parasites, and some of his tinier helpers even liked to snack on them, which sounded more hopeful than it really was.

Contrary to popular belief, predators seldom hunted their prey to extinction. They could slow or prevent the growth of a population, serving as control and stabilizing influence, but they wouldn't exterminate a species altogether. This was true even of the microscopic kind of predators.

And as to parasitic species that might feed on these parasites, most of those did not strictly "intend" to kill their hosts. In fact, they would rather simply feed on the hosts and, on reaching saturation, expand to another host of the same or similar species.

Fleas on a dog, for example. Not long ago, fleas were the bane of every dog owner's existence, particularly in warmer and wetter climates. A dog could have hundreds of fleas without being killed by them. In fact, primarily it would be maddened by the itching caused by the activity of the fleas, rather than seriously debilitated by their feeding. A dog was more likely to get an infection from the constant scratching to alleviate the itching, or get sick off a disease the flea picked up from somewhere else than it was to be severely harmed by the actual feeding of the flea itself. It took a truly extraordinary circumstance for a flea infestation to become so severe that the fleas (rather than any byproducts or side effects or diseases they carried) turned into a major health risk to the dog.

Happily, in space, there weren't any fleas to bother Porthos. Unhappily, wherever there were lifeforms, it seemed there would be parasites of one kind or another feeding off them. Equally unhappily, some small fraction of parasites, both on Earth and out here in space, did kill their hosts… some of them quite rapidly and directly, their survival strategy depending on there always been more hosts available, and possibly some kind of ability to hibernate if hosts were not readily available sometimes.

Worst of all, historically some amount of parasites were always immune or developed immunity to whatever pesticides were developed to kill them. No matter how advanced medicine got, there was always something that couldn't be cured, a chance that the established cure wouldn't work, or that the cure would only partially work for awhile.

These weren't pleasant thoughts, and they made Jonathan realize that, even alone in his quarters, there was no escape from the truth… that even though their mission had barely begun, this could be the end of Enterprise.