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§ 12 §

Captain Archer needed help. There were no two ways about it. Malcolm felt anguish tear at his insides as he took in the deathly pallor of the man's face, the green of his usually lively eyes dull; like the eyes of a…

There was a moan, and he couldn't tell whether it had been his own or the Captain's.

A hand on his chest, shaking him gently, ferried him into consciousness. He opened his eyes to alien surroundings, but he knew right away that he was in a medical environment. This must be the Andorian ship's sickbay.

Things came back to him fast. The knife, the grappling... He glanced at his left arm; the sleeve of his uniform had been cut off, and the injury had been dressed. There was no pain; at least while he kept still.

"I can't leave ya alone one moment, that you immediately get into a fight," a soft but well-known voice beside him teased.

Malcolm turned to his right. Trip's smile was beginning to fall away as the man assessed him, but Malcolm couldn't find it in himself to fake the famous Reed 'I am fine' expression. The distress of seeing Archer in his subconscious – or whatever it was – was still lingering. He had always been a pragmatic person; ghost stories had left him cold even as a child. It struck him now, unexpectedly, that if these... visions kept haunting him and affected him so deeply, they must have a meaning. Post Traumatic Syndrome might have nothing to do with it. Good heavens, if that was true, they might have wasted far too much precious time.

"Hey, you with me?"

Trip was starting to look around for a medic. That was not what Malcolm wanted. He needed to speak to him in privacy; he had to stop him. The urgent words that came out of his mouth certainly did, and fast.

"I believe Captain Archer is still alive."

Trip jerked back to him with a frown. It wasn't long before emotion flitted across his features.

"Malcolm, you've had a tough time with it," he said, in the gentle tone of someone who's speaking to a poor imbecile, or a poor griever, or a poor something.

The Engineer swallowed hard against the knot that had obviously formed in his throat, and Malcolm struggled to keep calm. He felt like grabbing Trip by an arm and shouting, 'I'm telling you, he's still alive!' but he had very clear in his mind the recent example of that defector; how he had lost credibility and his bet by losing his cool.

"You told me you thought you were goin' insane," Trip continued, still in a careful voice. "When we get back to Enterprise I think you'd better have a talk with Phlox."

"Trip..."

There was a muffled cry of pain, and as he gathered his thoughts Malcolm let his eyes stray behind his friend. Sat on a biobed, fortunately at quite a distance, was the Admiral; an Andorian Doctor was setting his nose. Let him suffer a bit – he thought, finding within himself no empathy for the arrogant man – it might do him some good.

Refocusing on Trip, Malcolm heaved a deep breath. "I know this sounds crazy," he said, in a deep, quiet tone. "But I really do think the Captain is still alive." Trip's blue eyes were discouragingly wary, but Malcolm went on, his voice getting more animated despite his best intentions. "I keep seeing him, Trip. Not only in my nightmares. Sometimes his face just pops into my mind, as if he were there before me. It's as if he wanted to tell me something." Wincing, he concluded with a troubled frown, "It used to be only his eyes; now I can see all of his face, and it doesn't look good."

Trip's guarded gaze bore into him, and Malcolm held it, hiding nothing. He was too tired for silly tactics; besides, it was too late to keep anything back.

"Look," the Engineer breathed out, at length. "To me this sounds like---"

"It's not PTS," Malcolm cut him off sharply. He had come out a bit strong, so he rephrased. "I don't think it is. I know, I know," he tiredly forestalled. "People with PTS tend to deny it. But... it's..." Frustration took over. "Look, I just know what I feel," he insisted. "I feel the Captain is still alive, and reaching out to me. And I'm here, doing nothing, damn it. When every hour could count."

Trip grimaced. "It's been almost a week, Malcolm. Even if he… What are the chances…?" He blew out a slow breath. "You know that there is nothing I'd like more than for the Capt'n to be alive," he said painfully.

"Then, please, believe me," Malcolm desperately pleaded. "I need someone to believe me, and I doubt that someone can be T'Pol."

Trip rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Yeah, she's too…"

When Trip didn't continue, Malcolm added, "Logical?"

Trip's eyes flashed, amusement temporarily winning over worry. "I was going to say something a bit less polite, but yes, 'logical'." He pursed his lips. "What do you suggest I do?"

The sound of steps approaching interrupted them. Trip turned, and Malcolm straightened a little at the sight of T'Pol and Shran, cursing their untimely arrival.

"Lieutenant," T'Pol greeted him softly, eyeing his wounded arm. "How are you feeling?"

"I've been better," Malcolm replied, forcing a small smile on his lips. "But it's mostly accumulated tiredness. This," – he darted a glance at his bandaged arm – "is nothing serious; or at least doesn't look like it is," he amended, remembering he actually didn't know.

"Only a flesh wound," Shran thundered, with a dismissive wave of a hand.

It was the staunch attitude of a soldier; one that Malcolm knew well and didn't mind.

"The Admiral can thank your quick reflexes," the Andorian added with more than a hint of respect.

Malcolm bit his tongue. It wouldn't be proper to erupt in a string of foul words in front of a commanding officer. He took comfort, though, in Trip's supportive glance. What the man thought of Blake showed all over his face.

"Our Doctor told me something you need to know, Lieutenant," Shran went on after a beat, and his sudden change in tone, to one of uncharacteristic caution, drew him the immediate attention of everyone. The Andorian squared his shoulders, looking ill at ease. "Our CMO is… somewhat telepathic," he finally admitted. "A gift that has been in his family for generations and which he uses strictly for professional reasons," he hurried to add, wanting to sound reassuring.

Well, he didn't. Using telepathy without a patient's consent was a questionable practice, as far as Malcolm was concerned. His muscles clenched, sending the first jolt of pain up his injured arm.

"We shall leave you, then," T'Pol said, darting Trip a quick glance.

Catching the gist of it, the Engineer blurted out, "Yeah; we'll come back later."

"I think you'd better hear this too," Shran stopped them, though his gaze had remained fixed on Malcolm, who as a reflex had let his eyes go cold and unreadable, bringing up his famous shields.

There was a second of silence before T'Pol reacted. "Lieutenant?" she enquired, raising her eyebrows.

Malcolm wavered for a moment. He was a very private person, and the thought that he'd have to reveal something he'd really rather keep to himself was not a welcome one. But in the end he agreed with a slow nod. Shran was no fool, and if he said Trip and T'Pol should hear this too, he had to believe him.

"The Doctor observed something strange," Shran said intriguingly. "There seem to be instances when your brain reacts to stimula that... well, that aren't there. He used his telepathy to learn more, and has sensed that you are quite troubled, especially at those particular times." Narrowing his gaze, he said rather pointedly, "It's as if you were trying to communicate with someone; or someone with you."

Malcolm's eyes flew to Trip. If this wasn't confirmation of what he had just been telling him...

No; Shran was no fool. He watched the silent exchange and fired the question that must have been on his lips from the beginning.

"What happened to Captain Archer?"

"The Planet of Farewells," Shran said, nodding darkly, at the end of Trip's story. "I saw that Enterprise's course had come close to it." He eyed T'Pol. "Don't Vulcans know about it?"

"No," the Science Officer replied, with a fleeting frown.

"Every Andorian knows about the Planet of Farewells," Shran snorted, without sarcasm. "Every Andorian ship knows to keep away from it."

"What do you mean?" Malcolm asked tautly. The place didn't have a very hopeful name. With Trip's help he pushed to a sitting position, letting his feet dangle off the side of the bed.

The blue alien regarded him and shrugged. "People have been disappearing on it for centuries." he explained. "I'm sorry for Captain Archer. The man was okay, for a Pinkskin."

"Captain Archer is alive," Malcolm said firmly. "And I will find him."

A stunned silence ensued. Malcolm sought support on Trip's face. He found it, but swimming in pain and doubt.

"Why are you saying that, Lieutenant?" T'Pol enquired, looking troubled – as Vulcan trouble went.

Malcolm licked his lips. How to explain a deep-rooted feeling to a logical mind?

"Because I know," he croaked out. It was the stupidest thing he could have said, a child's reply; yet it was the one that came closest to the truth.

T'Pol lifted her eyebrows and considered the words. "And you think you can find him?" she asked, unexpectedly going with the assumption that he indeed could.

"I…" Malcolm didn't really know. "I keep seeing him," he replied, eluding a real answer to T'Pol's question. "And I know he's been trying to communicate with me. The Andorian Doctor just confirmed it." Engaging T'Pol with an intense glance, he added, "Whatever we do, we must do it fast. The Captain doesn't have much time."

T'Pol blinked. Then she turned to Shran. "There is a strange artefact on that planet. What do you know about it?"

Shran shrugged again. "Nothing much. No one has completely deciphered the message it sends out. Whoever goes beyond that obelisk, though, vanishes in a blinding explosion of energy."

"That's what triggered that displacement field," Malcolm muttered thoughtfully. He could see the blips of the recording with his mind's eyes. "When I warned the Captain to get away from it, he took a step beyond the artefact."

T'Pol crossed her arms over her chest. "You said that no one has completely deciphered the message," she said, leaving the rest of the question to the imagination of the Andorian.

"Some of it is thought to be a warning not to trespass," Shran said. "And some of it…"

He looked reluctant to speak.

"What?" Malcolm pressed.

"It's not clear," Shran said gruffly. "Something about a test."

"What test?" Trip butted in, suddenly appearing eager.

"Who the hell knows? That language has been dead for millennia."

Trip reached to T'Pol's arm, in a gesture of total commitment. "We've got to go back," he urged. "We've got to do something!"

"Don't fool yourselves," Shran said gloomily. "No one has ever returned from the Planet of Farewells; at least that I know."

"Captain Archer will," Malcolm insisted.

Why he was feeling so certain about it, he didn't know. But all of a sudden he knew that a real chance was there; and he wouldn't let it slip.

"It's fascinating," Phlox muttered, holding his chin, as he examined Malcolm's on-going EEG. "Indeed, that Andorian Doctor is right."

His intelligent blue gaze tracked to the face of his sleeping patient. Malcolm's eyes were closed but moving; his breathing was irregular.

"This is no normal REM stage of sleep. Truly fascinating," the Denobulan repeated.

After the away party had returned onto Enterprise, Phlox had taken Malcolm aside and told him in clear terms that he'd give him something to knock him off his feet for at least eight hours; plus that he expected the Lieutenant to remain in sickbay, where he could keep an eye on him during that time, and run some tests. After all, he had promised.

"I can't believe we might still get the Capt'n back," Trip breathed out, following the Doctor's movements. "Just a couple of hours ago I was still mournin' him as dead."

"Hmm," Phlox muttered. "Don't raise your hopes too high, Commander," he warned. "You might end up hurt quite badly."

Trip winced. "Come on, Doc. We've got to believe it's possible."

"All I'm saying is..." Phlox narrowed his eyes, looking for the right expression. "Ah, yes – keep your feet on the ground."

Trip gave him a meaningful look as he jerked his head in Malcolm's direction. "We aren't exactly dealin' with rational things, here."

The Denobulan looked at his patient pensively. "I suppose you're right," he convened. "But… Well, you know what I mean, Commander."

"Yeah."

Trip was sitting astride a chair the wrong way around, with his chin resting on his arms, which were folded on top of the backrest. Despite his relaxed position, he felt a general tension that wasn't helping his mood.

He wasn't the only one, apparently: Malcolm was getting agitated.

"Is he okay?" Trip enquired, lifting his head.

Phlox's mouth curved fleetingly down. "Slight increase in heart-rate and respiration, but nothing worrisome. The alarms will go off if they go up to dangerous levels."

In the silence that followed Malcolm mumbled a few broken words, while some creature in Phlox's menagerie went wild, giving a loud screech.

The Doctor glanced at the clock. "Feeding time was over one hour ago. I suppose they're right. Excuse me, Commander." With that and a last glance at Reed, he turned and left to tend to his living remedies.

Trip sighed. Maybe it was time he went to his quarters and got some rest too.

"Hope you're gettin' the Capt'n to tell you how to find him," he murmured, squeezing Malcolm's arm slightly. As he got up to leave, Hoshi came through the doors.

There went someone else who looked in need of a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. As she approached, Trip had time to notice her far-from-pristine looks and stiff bearing; both of which were quite unlike their lovely Communication Officer.

"Commander," she greeted flatly, eyes darting worryingly to the man on the biobed.

Now that he looked at him through Hoshi's eyes, Trip had to admit that Malcolm was not a very reassuring sight: a large – by now yellow – bruise on his forehead; a new, noticeable bandage on his arm; muttering unintelligible things and tossing about restlessly.

"He's fine, Hoshi," he said; but the words did nothing to wipe the concern off her face.

"Yeah, I can see that," she commented under her breath. Standing straighter, she turned to Trip. "T'Pol has brought me up to date," she added warily. "I'm crossing my fingers we get to the Captain in time."

Though the situation was hardly conductive to a light mood, Trip found himself smiling inwardly. Hoshi didn't seem to have any trouble with the idea that Archer was still alive; that a man who had vanished into thin air was trying to communicate with them, haunting someone's mind. For sure it had taken him a longer time to get used to it.

"We're doin' all we can," he said. "Pushin' the engine to the limit."

Hoshi nodded, eyes still drawn to Malcolm, who seemed to be easing again into a slightly more relaxed sleep.

"The Subcommander also told me about the supposed message sent by that artefact," she said. "And Commander Shran was kind enough to pass me whatever knowledge Andorians have managed to gather, on that language." She smirked unhappily. "It's ridiculously little, in fact; and if on one hand it's good to know I'm not a complete dolt, on the other I was hoping to get a bit more help." With a frustrated sigh, she ranted, "That signal is driving me insane."

"No luck?" Trip enquired.

Hoshi shook her head dejectedly. "All I might have understood is that it speaks about a test of faith." She smirked. "Or perhaps courage. I'm not sure."

"Well, Malcolm has both, so I figure we'll be okay," Trip said, with an encouraging smile. That finally made her lips curve up too, which was good to see. "Come on." With a gentle arm on her shoulders, he herded her out of Sickbay. "I'm ordering us to sleep."

"By the way," Hoshi said as they walked down the corridor. "T'Pol said a Vulcan ship is coming to pick up the Ambassador."

"When?" Trip darted a frowning side glance. "We don't need to waste any more time, dammit."

"T'Pol is making sure we won't. She informed the High Command that once the vessel has caught up with Enterprise – in exactly thirty-four hours and twelve minutes – we'll go to impulse for no longer that the time necessary to transport V'Sir out."

"That's my girl," Trip commented, blushing a second later when he realised what he had said.

A full smile lit Hoshi's face. "And does the Subcommander know?" she quipped naughtily.

"This is a nonsensical waste of time. I expect you immediately to set a new course to Earth."

The voice was more nasal; but the dark eyes held the same self-assurance and fire which T'Pol had got used to seeing in Blake's gaze. She latched her hands behind her back, wondering how to approach this man and his rightful objection; the truth being that she herself had qualms about the appropriateness of returning to that planet. True, there was the Andorian Doctor and his telepathy; but it was hardly scientific evidence that Lieutenant Reed's conviction that Captain Archer was still alive was well-founded.

She decided to focus on Blake's choice of verb: expect. Not order.

"Admiral." She raised her eyebrows for effect. "Admiral Forrest, as you know, has placed me in command of the ship. As Acting Captain, I have decided to follow Lieutenant Reed's… instinct."

Blake made to snort and a disturbing sound came out instead. He brought a quick hand to his injury as his face flushed in the effort to contain the pain he had obviously inflicted himself.

"Lieutenant Reed!" he spat out as soon as he could. "Isn't it obvious that the man is guilt-ridden? I am going to recommend that he gets a full psychological assessment, as soon as we get to Earth. You should take him off duty, instead of following his insane hunches."

T'Pol blinked. Indeed there was that risk. Her logical mind tended to side with Blake, distasteful as the man was. But she felt an obligation to the crew not to leave anything untried in order to get Captain Archer back. If there was a possibility that the Lieutenant was right, she felt she had a duty to pursue it.

A thought suddenly struck her. It was fascinating, in that it gave her a completely different perspective to the issue, restoring the self-assurance she needed.

"Vulcans, Admiral, do not follow hunches but logic," she said. "The logical course of action, in these circumstances, is to do whatever is necessary to prove whether the Lieutenant is right or wrong. If we do not go back to the planet, we will never achieve that."

Blake's gaze flashed. "If, as I think, this turns into a fiasco, I will make it clear in my report that I objected to this mission," he said darkly. "You are risking your career to go on a wild goose chase."

T'Pol tilted her head in silent acceptance.

With a 'Good day, Subcommander,' Blake strode out of the ready room.

Heaving a deep sigh, T'Pol lowered herself into Archer's chair. Loyalty to this crew might lead her to undesirable consequences, but she was willing to take that risk. Lieutenant Reed appeared very convinced… and in space odd things were known to occur.

TBC

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