Thank you to all my reviewers. I loved the reviews for the past chapter, and I have corrected the little blunders that had escaped even the careful and always excellent job of my betas.

§ 8 §

Ensign Müller raised his eyes from the tactical station and pointed them straight across the Bridge, to Subcommander T'Pol. Though his brain registered the figure on the left side of his peripheral vision, the one sitting in Captain Archer's chair – Bernhard still thought of it as Captain Archer's chair – he refused to let his gaze stray to it. What he was trying to do, he supposed, was get the Vulcan Officer to lift her own eyes and meet his. After all, weren't Vulcans telepathic? But maybe it took two telepathic individuals to work the trick, and unless he had skills he wasn't aware of, he hadn't got the gift.

If truth be told, Bernhard had mixed feelings about what he was doing – ignoring the person currently in command of Enterprise, that is – but after what had happened a few hours before, and especially after Blake's allusive comments about Lieutenant Reed's lack of professionalism, he couldn't bring himself to consider the Admiral worthy of the respect a figure in command deserved.

The problem remained, though. The pulsing blip which had been showing on and off at the very edge of the sensors' range for the past half hour was still there, and although he knew what it was, he wasn't sure what to make of it. What he was pretty sure of, was that the Subcommander must have seen it too. If he could only capture T'Pol's eyes he might be able to read in them if his assumption was correct, and maybe even what she intended to do about it.

His own guilty silence was making him more uncomfortable with every second that ticked by, and Bernhard was beginning to wonder what he might risk in the way of punishment, if he purposefully withheld information from the Acting Captain. This would definitely be a good moment for Lieutenant Reed to make a surprise appearance and offer to relieve him, but he knew it would be just about as likely as T'Pol breaking into laughter; Reed had gone back to the Armoury from his lunch with Commander Tucker looking even more troubled than before, and had asked him to do Bridge duty in his place for the afternoon. Well, as far as he was concerned, the man couldn't be blamed for not wanting to spend time in the place on board where, more than anywhere else, he'd be reminded of Archer's absence; indeed, what was even worse, where he would have to stand the sight of a man who – if rumours were true – had accused him of incompetence.

With a silent sigh, Bernhard studied the Vulcan lady across from him: why was T'Pol keeping quiet about the fact that the Andorian ship seemed to be following them? Correction: was definitely following them, and in a stealthy way; if Lieutenant Reed hadn't recently improved the efficiency of long-range sensors that blip wouldn't be there now. The Andorians, who couldn't know of Reed's upgrades, obviously thought they were keeping out of the sensors' range. They just about were, but not quite, hence the intermittent reading.

Well, this couldn't go on for much longer. Bernhard cleared his throat. To his relief, Blake didn't even flinch, but T'Pol looked up, as if she had almost expected a reaction of some sort from him. Now that he thought of it, the Vulcan Officer must have wondered the same things: why he wasn't saying anything about something that was obviously appearing on his instruments. Their eyes met for a very long moment. Eventually, an unobtrusive nod told him she was acknowledging his silent message. Bernhard responded likewise and returned to keep that blip under observation. He only hoped he wasn't going to end up in the brig.

Oblivious to the exchange, Blake was playing Captain: lost in his thoughts, eyes fixed on the viewscreen.

Malcolm had had to call upon all of his discipline to get to the end of his meal. Years of having to eat what was put in front of him without complaint had come in handy. In the end he had gobbled down his food simply because it had taken less of an effort to do that than to engage in an open confrontation with Trip. He didn't have the energy – the mental energy – for arguing right now. So, feeling indeed like a bloody child again, he had forced the rest of the food down his throat; then, ignoring his friend's assessing look, he had excused himself and left the mess.

Now he was wandering without an aim. He had asked Müller to replace him on the Bridge; he wasn't going to be of any use there, with so much on his mind. Nor did he feel like returning to the Armoury, where he knew he would be the target of obtrusive glances. He had dismissed his quarters as well: too much silence. His thoughts were chasing him down the corridors of the ship, and he didn't know how to escape them.

All he had needed was for Trip to come and warn him that he might turn Enterprise in a new Bounty. Had Trip really expected approval and support for his rebellious plans from a Reed? What a fool! Dislikeable as Blake was, he was still an Admiral of Starfleet, and the person in command, at the moment.

Hypocrite. Hadn't he himself been a step away from defiance… a step away! He had defied – hadn't he? – the man, right on the Bridge, by addressing T'Pol instead of him.

This Reed had defied his C.O.. So much for calling Trip a fool.

Bloody hypocrite.

Suddenly the Observation lounge was in front of him. It was probably too early in the afternoon for the place to be crowded. Malcolm triggered the doors open and stepped in. Casting a look around, he saw with relief that the room was, in fact, empty. His eyes went to the large porthole and he stopped dead in his tracks, awed like a recruit on his first flight by the beautiful sight. He hardly ever came here, hardly ever had the time to stop and look at the stars – or perhaps he didn't make time for it.

He hadn't wondered at the mysteries of a starry sky since he was a child, probably. Ages ago. The universe had long since lost the enigmatic fascination of those days. It was normal; with age, there came a certain pragmatism that took some of the poetry away from things. A pity one could not lock that child-like awe safely in some drawer, from which to retrieve it, once in a while.

Had the child Jonathan Archer, on the other side of the Earth from him, stuck his nose up and wondered too? Had he joined Starfleet out of an inner desire to explore the universe, or had his career been an obligatory choice, a way to fulfil his father's dream? Yes, the latter had played an important part. Even in this, the two of them were – had been – completely different: one had fulfilled a father's dream, the other had destroyed it.

Malcolm went up to the porthole and leaned on outstretched arms, looking out.

Bloody hell, Captain, Sir: couldn't you have taken my recommendations a bit more seriously? Did you think so little of your Security Officer?

Grief suddenly slapped him in the face, as grief generally does: treacherously. He closed his eyes against it. Punctually, he was there.

The most disquieting aspect of Archer's visitations was that Malcolm could only see the green gaze; the man's body, or even the rest of his face, were in fog. All of Malcolm's attention was necessarily focused on that single captivating feature. Archer's eyes had always been very communicative, and now it was no different: they were telling him something, something… And now, all of a sudden, it was Archer's mouth, only his mouth, forming silent words, words he felt were directed at him, words he should be able to understand…

He must be going crazy.

The doors opened behind him, and Malcolm was glad beyong saying about it. Someone had come to drag him back from that limbo. He opened his eyes. In the reflection of the glass he saw Hoshi stop and look at him, and he pushed off the bulkhead, turning to greet her.

"Ensign," he croaked out, struggling to appear his normal, proper self.

"Lieutenant."

For being a linguist, Hoshi spoke as much with her body as with actual words. Malcolm watched her fidget with her hands.

"Were you looking for me?" he enquired.

Hoshi bit her lower lip. "I'm not having a lot of luck with that automated signal," she replied in that brusque tone she often used as a defensive move, in this case to cover what she obviously felt was her shame.

"Don't give up," Malcolm replied a bit too roughly. "I need you not to give up," he rephrased. Now he had sounded desperate, but he didn't care. He was: desperate to know what the damn signal had said.

Hoshi drew in a deep breath. Crossing her arms in front of her chest she said, "I also wanted to say that T'Pol was right: you do have the complete trust of this crew, Lieutenant."

Malcolm smiled a bittersweet smile; he couldn't allow himself to criticise the man in command, though, especially with a lower ranking officer.

"Thank you, Ensign; but the Admiral's doubts are understandable," he forced himself to reply.

What Hoshi thought of that, was written all over her face. She must have known, though, that it would only hurt Malcolm to discuss the matter further, for she dropped the subject and went on to say, "Admiral Blake's just given Travis the final coordinates: it appears we'll reach our destination tomorrow morning."

Malcolm blinked, disoriented. "But as far as I know there are no systems we can have reached in this short a time," he blurted out.

"That's right."

"In the middle of nowhere?"

"Not exactly, but almost. In the middle of a nebula."

As he strode purposefully towards the turbo lift, Malcolm was so absorbed in thought that he almost collided with T'Pol, who was walking in the opposite direction. Well, it saved him going all the way to the Bridge.

"Subcommander, I was coming to speak to you," he said.

"And I to you, Lieutenant. I wanted to inform you that tomorrow morning we are going to reach the rendezvous point."

"With all due respect, Ma'am: the rendezvous point for what?" Malcolm enquired directly. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and narrowed his eyes; Trip's doubts about T'Pol's loyalty had briefly crossed his mind. "And especially, the rendezvous with whom?

T'Pol didn't flinch under his almost aggressive approach. With her usual seraphic air, she replied, "I am not authorised to reveal details of the Admiral and Ambassador's mission."

"Which means you know what it is," Malcolm reasoned aloud.

Ignoring the words, T'Pol checked the corridor up and down before continuing, "Lieutenant, I must also warn you that Commander Shran's ship is following us."

"What?"

"They obviously believe that they are keeping out of sensors' range, whereas because of your recent upgrades in fact they are not."

Malcolm's brain was already working overtime. "What was the Admiral's reaction?"

For the first time T'Pol faltered slightly. "He does not know," she said, blinking once. "I deemed it best not to tell him."

It took Malcolm a moment to wrap his mind around that. Those simple words led to quite a few implications, among them the fact that the Vulcan was defying Blake's authority. Was that because she was loyal to the ship, or to follow another – an all Vulcan – agenda?

Before he could speak again, T'Pol continued, "If the Andorians should witness the rendezvous, the mission would fail and a volatile situation might develop."

Maybe it was his tiredness, but Malcolm was beginning to feel a bit too vexed by the mystery surrounding this bloody mission. "I can't be expected to defend the crew if I don't know what the damn mission is," he spat out with more anger than he should have showed a superior officer. T'Pol blinked again, visibly taken aback by his outburst, and he straightened his sore back, unhappy with himself. "I apologise," he mumbled, "That was out of line."

"The rendezvous will take place inside a nebula," T'Pol said softly, choosing not to comment on his unstable temper. "It ought to go undetected. However, I thought it logical to inform you of the potential threat."

Malcolm pursed his lips. "We can't fail to inform the Admiral," he said darkly. "It would be an act of open insubordination."

"Not necessarily. The Admiral is not used to commanding a ship, and might give inappropriate orders. If we manage to disappear inside the nebula, the Admiral won't need to know."

It was stretching logic, especially for a Vulcan.

"If we can't and the Admiral learns that we kept something from him, we'll end up in a court martial."

For a long moment dark eyes and grey eyes held each other.

"For the good of the ship, I am asking you to keep the information to yourself, Lieutenant."

Malcolm's gaze darted to the deckplating. He was so damn exhausted. Now even T'Pol was asking him to put his honour and career on the line. And he was tired of people ignoring his advice. Look where it had got Archer…

"All right," he eventually relented. "But I will not keep quiet if the situation goes wrong."

T'Pol nodded. "Lieutenant," she said, as Malcolm was about to move off. "You have been under a lot of stress. I apologise if I am adding to it."

Like saying that he looked like hell.

"We all have been under stress," Malcolm said.

He was still too raw to discuss his failure. Not now, not with a Vulcan, and especially not when he couldn't close his eyes without seeing his Captain.

"Good evening, Subcommander," he croaked out, making a tactical retreat.

TBC

So... what do you make of it?