The First Sacred Duty

by Seacook

An attacked alien vessel sends out a distress signal; when the Enterprise crew tries to help they are mistaken for the attackers. "From his place in the Weapons Room Thelik listened to them while staring numbly at the image of the crippled scout ship on the screen before him, finally at the end of his tether..."

8. Chapter 8

Author's note: While editing future chapters I had to come back to this one for reference and came to the awful realization that there were not only a couple glaring errors that I should have spotted before even posting but also a missing scene between Hoshi and Travis. My apologies for the errors as well as the delay in finding and correcting them.

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"Crewman," Ensign Rossini addressed Miranda quietly, "I'm here to relieve you." Atkinson nodded silently. "How is everyone?" he asked.

Stepping away from the foot of the alien's bed, Miranda tried to relax. "Lt. Reed is still out cold. His readings are stable right now but he's still having muscle tremors off and on. On the plus side, they were able to take advantage of him being unconscious and get pajamas on him so at least he's not laying there in just his skivvies.

"David's still in kinda rough shape. He's getting a transfusion now, but Phlox says he'll probably need at least a couple more units of blood. His breathing's improved," she observed, brightening slightly. "He's breathing almost entirely on his own now and might be able to get off the ventilator by this time tomorrow. But it'll still be a while before he can talk so Ensign Sato rigged a padd for him to use when he wakes up—he'll be able to enter what he wants to say and it'll talk for him. She used samples of his voice to program the thing, so it'll even sound like him. He kinda woke up a little while ago and we told him about it, but he faded back out pretty soon after so I don't know if he'll remember or not."

"He's gonna pull through, though…that's the important thing. And what about our furry friend?"

Atkinson glanced at the sleeping G'l Benai and scowled. "He's doing well. Doc says he seems to be recovering a bit faster than expected—something about his metabolism being different from ours. He finally fell asleep a little while ago but only after chirping and chanting damned near nonstop for almost half an hour." She studied the readout of his vital signs. "Looks like he's in a pretty deep sleep right now, so he shouldn't cause any more trouble for a while."

"And how are you?" Rossini asked with concern.

"I'm fine," she replied too quickly.

"Miranda…I know what happened. Phlox told me what you had to do. He's worried about you." Her shoulders drooped in silent response. "Must've been horrible," he added. After an uneasy silence he asked, "Wanna talk about it?"

She shook her head, still having trouble believing it had happened. "His hands were wrapped around Phlox's throat…I shot once, and it was like he hardly felt it. He looked right at me but it was like...it wasn't him. I mean…you've seen him angry, right? I mean, really pissed off?"

"Yeah. Not pretty."

"This was worse."

He shook his head. "Not possible, Randy."

"You didn't see him. His eyes were jet black, and they were like…an enraged wild animal's eyes. Like there wasn't any part of Lt. Reed in there at all. God, Keith, he was howling... snarling…growling.

"Phlox couldn't breathe and the lieutenant still wouldn't let go, so I fired again and his eyes…changed. He was looking right at me, and I saw his eyes, his face…change. I can't get it out of my mind...he was so confused and he looked…scared. I don't think he quite knew what had happened, but he knew he'd been shot and he knew I was the one that did it. He looked so scared."

Rossini gripped her shoulders reassuringly. "You did what you had to do. Hell, the condition he was in he probably won't even remember any of it."

"I'll remember," she said sorrowfully.

"Yeah…I know. And Phlox will remember, too. You said it yourself, Randy—the doc couldn't breathe. So it was a choice between shooting your CO—who was out of his everlovin' mind at the time—or watching him strangle a man to death. Is there any doubt in your mind that he was gonna kill the doctor?"

"No. And I know—at least, part of me knows—that I didn't have any other option. But knowing that doesn't make it any easier."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm sure that if the roles had been reversed he would have shot you."

A slow grin crept across Miranda's face. "Yeah…he would've, wouldn't he?"

"Oh hell yes. In a heartbeat. Now, tell me about our fuzzy buddy. You said he was chanting?"

"Pretty much nonstop until he finally fell asleep, thank God. Thought I would lose. My. Freaking. Mind."

"What was he saying?"

Atkinson shrugged. "Dunno…he'd turned off his translator and ours couldn't keep up with him. I gave a recording of it to Ensign Sato when she dropped off the padd for Dave, but if I had to make a guess I'd say maybe he was praying.

"Well, if I'd pissed off Lt. Reed as much as he did, I'd pray nonstop, too." Miranda chuckled, and then Keith laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "You look beat, Randy. Go get some sleep."

She shook her head. "I'm gonna sit with David. Just for a little while," she assured him as he began to protest. "Then I'll go grab some sack time, I promise."

Both were startled by a faint, stifled moan from behind the curtain surrounding the lieutenant's bed. Atkinson took a step back but Rossini cautiously drew the curtain aside to silently study the form of their CO. Another groan spurred him forward; he motioned for Atkinson to follow. She lingered at the foot of the bed while he stood at the lieutenant's shoulder.

"Sir?" he whispered, hoping that the man wouldn't hear him.

Reed's eyelids flickered then opened with agonizing slowness, his unfocused, questioning gaze finally meeting the ensign's; though his pupils were still dilated his eyes finally showed some color. A single word forced through raw vocal cords whispered past his parched lips. "Saunders?"

Keith smiled. "He's unconscious but still with us, sir," he whispered back.

Reed licked his lips, eyes closing in grateful relief then opening to meet Rossini's again. "Tell Saunders…tell him…" Malcolm pushed the words out with difficulty, swallowing painfully before trying again. "Tell him...he did…a damn fine job."

"You'll be able to tell him soon enough, sir."

"Want him…to know now."

"Yes, sir. Atkinson was just going to pay him a visit—you'll pass along the lieutenant's message, right?" Miranda nodded wordlessly then slipped away, replaced almost immediately by the doctor's smiling face.

"Ahh...welcolme back, Lieutenant. I'll be with you momentarily," he told Reed before disappearing behind the curtain surrounding the G'l Benai's bed.

"Go with him," Reed demanded as forcefully as his ruined voice would allow. "And don't trust that hairy S.O.B. for one second." Acknowledging his instructions with a brisk nod the ensign went after the doctor as Malcolm wearily closed his eyes. Courtesy of whatever had been pumped into him by the behemoth in the next bed, all his senses remained on high alert: the lights made his eyes burn, his muscles ached from the punishment they'd endured, and the smell of hospital-grade antiseptics—distasteful even at its usually faint level—was almost nausea-inducing in its intensity. Each sound seemed amplified a hundredfold so not only were the sounds of the various medical devices assailing him but every footfall, whispered word, and even the sounds of Sickbay's resident menagerie (imperceptible to everyone else) flooded in on him. Every leaf being chewed and every fluttering wing seemed to reverberate in his ears, echoing painfully in his already-throbbing head. He could swear that somewhere in the din he had heard the osmotic eel belch.

Somehow Miranda's impossibly soft, trembling whisper pushed through the rest of the noise, drowning out even the deafening cadence of his own hammering heart. Though he felt guilty about eavesdropping there was nothing Malcolm could do to prevent it.

"Hey, David…it's Randy. I, uh…I can't stay too long 'cuz the doc wants you to get plenty of rest, but I wanted you to know that we're all thinking of you. Lt. Reed is here, in the next bed over, and he said to tell you that you did a damn fine job—that's a direct quote, Dave. I'm sure that as soon as Phlox has his back turned the lieutenant will be out of that bed and over here telling you himself…"

Hearing the doctor's approach Malcolm reluctantly opened his eyes, squinting against the light.

Phlox set a glass on the bedside table then checked the readouts from the biobed, smiling slightly. "Feeling any better, Lieutenant?" he asked quietly as he pulled a scanner from his pocket and began taking readings, still smiling.

Reed's eyes lingered on the bruised throat of the doctor. "Not really," he answered hoarsely. "My God, Phlox, I almost killed you."

Phlox tucked the scanner back in his pocket then reclaimed the glass and held it out to his patient. "I brought you some ice chips—Ensign Cutler thought it might help soothe your throat." He paused. "How much do you remember?"

Malcolm sat up gingerly, trying to ignore the worst of the pain as well as the cast on his hand, and took the glass in his trembling hands. "All of it. But it was as if I were standing in the corner watching someone else." His weak voice cracked as he fought to get the words out. "I saw myself…strangling you…the orderlies and Atkinson trying to pull me off…and Atkinson finally…stopping me." He raised the glass to his lips, still gripping it in both hands, and shook some ice into his mouth.

"To be perfectly honest, we were rather hoping you wouldn't remember too much about it." Seeing Malcolm's puzzled expression Phlox elaborated. "Crewman Atkinson and I. She still feels tremendously guilty about the method she employed to subdue you. And I'm concerned about the guilt you feel about the…episode. Now, while I've thus far been unable to assuage Miranda's guilt I'd like to try to do something about yours.

"You, my dear boy, were suffering from the effects of an alien stimulant. You had absolutely no control over your actions and were not responsible for what happened. You were quite simply pushed—physically, mentally, and emotionally—far beyond your endurance. If I had been able to find a safe way to neutralize the stimulant, or at least diminish its effects—"

"Now whoth feeling guilty?" Malcolm asked through a mouthful of ice, drawing a small chuckle from the doctor. He spit the ice back into the glass before continuing. "I just wish the furry bastard had given the stuff to me a little sooner."

"You can't possibly mean that!"

Malcolm took a deep breath, reluctant to explain but feeling it necessary. "Doctor…the torpedoes that were fired at the ship…he dragged me into their Armoury and…forced me to fire them. I couldn't stop him. If I'd had that stimulant in me I'd have been better able to fight him off, but…" Reed's already weak voice trailed off as he fixed his eyes on his right hand. "How's that for guilt, Phlox?" he finally added bitterly as he shifted his attention to the Denobulan. "All the damage the repair crews are trying to undo, all the injuries you've had to mend…my doing. Because I wasn't strong enough to fight him off."

"If I may be blunt, Lieutenant, you lacked the strength to continue fighting because you were perilously close to dying. You'd been beaten, stabbed and suffered severe internal injuries. As marvelously resilient as the human body is there are limits to how much punishment it can withstand, and you had simply reached that limit."

Reed sighed in response, raising the glass and again shaking some ice into his mouth. Rolling the rapidly-melting lump around with his tongue brought an odd sense of calm. His eyes closed in contentment. The cool liquid slid down his throat with surprising ease, bringing heavenly comfort as it chilled the raw, hypersensitive nerve endings all the way down. At last he'd found one part of his body that didn't hurt—or at least wouldn't hurt as much, so long as the supply of ice held out. He raised the glass again, not bothering to open his eyes as he deposited more ice onto his tongue.

"The tremors seem to be subsiding," Phlox observed. "I'm going to take that as a good sign."

"Mmm," his patient hummed noncommittally, unwilling to let his attention veer too far from the frozen ecstasy in his mouth. "Doth that mean," he asked without caring that his mouth was full, "dat you can gib me thumb-thing for the pain?"

"I'm afraid not," Phlox answered with regret. "The most recent blood sample I took showed that a significant amount of the stimulant is still present in your system." Malcolm's eyes slowly opened, pupils again unnaturally large, his dangerous glare unnerving the Denobulan. "Lieutenant, it would be unsafe to administer anything to you at this point, whether it be an analgesic or a vitamin supplement. I just don't know what kind of interaction there might be."

Malcolm silently glowered at the doctor an instant longer then squeezed his eyes shut, his grip on the glass tightening. It was happening again. He could feel it. Unreasoning rage was building rapidly within him, exactly as it had just before…oh god...

Just before he'd tried to throttle Phlox.

Jaws clenched, heart hammering, breath coming more and more rapidly—any second he would feel himself disconnect as before, becoming a powerless observer to his own uncontrollable actions.

He had to regain control. Couldn't allow himself to let this…whatever it was…wash over him like that again. What had that oversized fleabag said? 'It takes a measure of discipline to prevent the animal mind from overpowering the rational mind.' Animal mind: at first blush an overly simplistic term, but terrifyingly accurate when experienced firsthand.

He could not lose control. No, amend that; he would not lose control. What would his father think if he ever found out that his son had allowed some alien pharmaceutical to get the upper hand? Reed men were made of stronger stuff, so succumbing to these impulses simply was not an option. Snowball would have to bloody well find his entertainment elsewhere.

Snowball. Good Lord. Commander Tucker had called the G'l Benai 'Snowball' and, amazingly, lived to tell the tale. The look of shock on the smug warrior's face had been gratifyingly hilarious; he'd looked as though he'd been smacked across the snout with a rolled-up newspaper. Swallowing the mouthful of now-melted ice Malcolm laughed aloud at the memory, opening his eyes in surprise as the rage and tension drained out of him.

A very uneasy Denobulan was staring back at him.

"Lieutenant?"

"Something…happened," Reed replied, puzzled.

"You looked as though you were going to have another… outburst."

Looking down at the glass still in his hands, Malcolm pondered that. 'Outburst.' The doctor certainly was adept at tactful understatement. "Snowball," he said, unsuccessfully stifling a giggle as he looked at Phlox. He placed the glass on the table then swung his legs around so he was perched on the edge of the biobed, facing the nervous doctor.

"You really should stay in bed, Lieutenant."

The words tumbled far too fast from Reed's mouth. "Yes, I am, I mean I will, I just…" 'Have to slow down. Maintain control. Take a deep breath.' "Sorry, Doctor…I just need to sit up for a bit. You're right about the, um, 'outburst'. I could feel it coming on and tried to rein it in. And then Commander Tucker calling him 'Snowball' popped into my head, and now…I'm fine." He giggled again then froze, eyes going wide as he gazed at Phlox. "No. Not fine," he corrected himself. "It's almost like I'm mildly drunk. I feel…giddy." Song lyrics danced unbidden through his mind. 'I feel giddy, oh so giddy, I feel giddy and witty and—'

'Stop that this instant!' he commanded himself. 'That's not even how that bloody song goes!' Rocking gently back and forth, he took another deep breath as he tried to steady his thoughts.

Phlox stood over him, scanner in hand. He carefully placed his other hand on Reed's shoulder to stop him rocking. "Your hormone levels were affected, so it's possible that the rapid changes in mood could be a result, or perhaps an indication that the drug's impact is lessening." Taking a long look into the lieutenant's eyes the doctor offered a smile. "If it makes you feel any better, your eyes appear almost normal. That would seem to be an encouraging sign. Lie back please," he instructed gently.

Amazingly, Malcolm complied without complaint. Almost. "May I at least sit up a little? It's more comfortable." The doctor nodded then adjusted the head of the bed to a semi-upright position. Malcolm reclaimed his glass from the table, intently studying its contents before plucking out a large chip of ice with his left hand and slipping it into his mouth. His hands barely trembled at all.

"I can bring more if you like," Phlox offered, motioning to the glass.

"Yeth, pleath. More eyeth would be nyeth." Despite the pain in his facial muscles he found himself grinning stupidly as the phrase 'More ice would be nice' began repeating rapidly in his mind. Phlox gave him a quizzical look but said nothing as he went for more ice. Reed closed his eyes.

'Ice, ice, ice, more ice would be nice, twice the ice in a thrice.' His mind raced coming up with rhymes as the ice rapidly melted in his mouth. His first impulse was to try to stop until he realized that the rhyming was keeping the deafening sounds around him at bay. Letting his mind run amok with images of sliced spiced ice for mice playing dice with lice was preferable to the noise.

The doctor returned shortly, placing an insulated carafe on the table. "Would you like anything else?"

"No, thank you. Wait, yes," Malcolm corrected, suddenly somber. "I need to speak with Miranda." Seeing the 'no' forming on the doctor's face, Reed persisted. "It will only take a minute or two. Please…it's important. Very important, or I wouldn't ask. She's still with Saunders, isn't she?" Relenting, Phlox went to summon the crewman.

Malcolm silently lectured himself while the doctor was gone. 'There will be no outbursts. No tantrums. No shouting, no screaming, and Absolutely No Giggling. And for the love of God, please no rhyming. After all, you're not Dr. ruddy Seuss.'

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Atkinson asked timidly, standing at attention at the foot of the bed. Reed motioned her closer; she reluctantly complied, moving to stand beside him, still at rigid attention and still looking terrified.

"At ease, Crewman." Though he was trying for a comforting tone his voice cracked and squeaked, embarrassing him into a crooked half-smile. "Well that rang with authority, didn't it?" Some of the tension lifted and Atkinson returned the small smile. Awkward silence reigned briefly as Reed contemplated what he'd say. Knowing that the bridge crew had been privy to the events on the alien ship—and knowing how efficient the grapevine was on Enterprise—he was certain that by now everyone on board knew what had transpired on that 'battledeck', blow-for-blow. And if they didn't yet know what had happened in Sickbay they'd be brought up to speed soon enough.

At last he spoke, his voice ragged and husky. "It's been one hell of a day, hasn't it? And our Mr. Saunders certainly is full of surprises. Were you aware that he's claustrophobic?"

"Yes, sir, he told me not long after we met at the academy. We even debated once whether it was claustrophobia or clethrophobia—he said since it was his phobia he got to decide what to call it. Said he'd stick with the one that was easier to pronounce," she added with a chuckle.

"Mmm…remarkable job he did over on that ship. If he hadn't acted when he did I've no doubt I'd be dead now. How is he doing?"

"Still holding his own. He even came to a little while ago...just for a minute or so, but Hoshi and I got to talk to him before he dropped off again. We were trying to explain to him about using a padd to communicate instead of talking—Hoshi rigged one up for him. I think he understood us. He's still out now...Phlox says that's best for him right now."

"Did you give him my message?"

"Yes, sir," she said quietly, determined to hold her emotions in check. "I'm not entirely sure he heard me, but I told him."

Malcolm nodded his approval, struggling to talk past the lump that had suddenly formed in his own throat. "Thank you. We'll tell him again later, just to be sure. He really did an exceptional job. Damn fine job." He fixed his eyes firmly on hers. "And so did you." He couldn't help smiling at the stunned expression on her face but grew serious as he continued. "I remember what happened, Miranda. I know I attacked Phlox, and I know that you…stopped me…before I did any lasting damage. It can't have been easy for you, and I wanted to thank you. You did very well."

"But sir, I—"

"Shot me. Yes, I know," he croaked almost casually. "Not something I'd normally encourage, believe me. But you saved the doctor's life, and I'm certain no one who saw what happened has any doubt about that. There is no doubt in my mind that you did the right thing, and I want to be certain that there's no doubt in yours.

"Phlox thinks that the worst may be over, so there shouldn't be any repeats of what happened earlier, but if it does happen again…" He paused, hating the very notion of it. "If someone's life is in danger because of me," he finally continued, motioning to the phase pistol in her holster, "then you'd bloody well better pull that trigger if that's what it takes to stop me. After you've exhausted all other options, of course," he added, near-normal blue-grey eyes twinkling.

She returned his smile. "Aye, sir."

"I promised Phlox that I'd only keep you a few minutes—I'm sure you must be knackered, and heaven knows I am. One thing before you go, though…I'd like to go see Saunders but my legs aren't feeling overly cooperative at the moment. Would you pull the curtain aside for me, please?"

Atkinson balked. "Sir, I'm…not sure that would be a good idea at the moment. He's, um…not looking too good right now. It might be best to wait a while, sir."

Anger surged for a millisecond but Reed stifled it before replying. "I don't expect it's very pretty, Crewman. Nevertheless, I want to see him. I need to see him, to see for myself…" His voice cracked but not entirely because of the damage to his vocal cords. "Atkinson, I have to see him." 'I need to see that he's really still alive.'

"Sir, I understand. Really," she sympathized. "It's just that…well…it's the leech, sir. Or eel. Or whatever the hell it is. Phlox is, um...making use of it right now. Which is almost kinda funny—I mean, David was always—"

"None of that, Crewman," Reed scolded with mock sternness. "No referring to him in the past tense."

She chuckled nervously. "Huh. Didn't even realize I'd done it." She stared at the floor until Malcolm cleared his throat.

"You were going to tell me why Phlox using his private zoo on Saunders is…amusing."

"Oh. Right. Well, it's just that Dave's always had an interest in alternative medicines and such. Herbal remedies, homeopathy, stuff like that. I don't know how many times I've seen him in the Mess Hall chatting with Phlox about which critters do what. Can't help but wonder if he'd still find it so fascinating if he could see one of those things plastered on him."

"Hmm. We'll just have to ask him when he wakes up, won't we? And I suppose you're right—I'll wait until the eel's done with him to pay a visit." There was a long silence as he decided what to say. "You, um…you and Saunders are…quite close, aren't you?"

Miranda looked stunned and a bit put out. "We're friends, yes," she answered coolly. "But I can assure you, sir, that there's nothing…unprofessional or…or romantic—"

Now it was Reed's turn to be taken aback. "Oh god…I didn't mean to imply…I just…oh, bloody hell," he murmured hoarsely, scrubbing his left hand tiredly over his face before looking at her again. "I apologize. It's just that…I know you've known each other since you went through the academy together. When he was in Sickbay after he had his fall I stopped in several times to check his progress. We had a chance for a few chats, and he spoke about you. And it's always been fairly obvious that you're quite fond of one another. He values your friendship quite highly, and I know you value his."

Atkinson's demeanor softened. "Yes, sir. We've been friends pretty much since the first time we met."

"He told me about his maternal grandparents during one of our visits but he never mentioned the rest of his family. I was hoping that perhaps you could...fill me in? His parents will need to be told about what's happened, and it might be helpful to know a little about them."

"You'd probably be better off just notifying his grandparents, sir—his mother and sister do a lot of traveling so I'm not sure how you'd get in touch with them, his brothers are both dead, and he hasn't had any contact with his father in ages. They don't exactly...get along."

"Mr. Saunders seems the sort that gets along with everyone," Reed observed, puzzled.

"I had the distinct misfortune of meeting his father once, and that was once too often. The man is an abusive, miserable S.O.B. who couldn't get along with anyone for any length of time. I'm not sure that he was always quite so intolerable but according to Dave even on his best day the man could make a Vulcan swear a blue streak. After meeting him, I believe it."

Now Malcolm's curiosity was thoroughly piqued. "May I ask how you met this memorable fellow?"

Cautiously settling into the chair beside the bed, Miranda gave a slow sigh. "Dave had invited me to his grandparents' place for a little downtime after our first quarter at Starfleet. It was just for a weekend but he wanted to go because his mom and sister Molly were going to be there for a visit at the same time. His father showed up Sunday afternoon looking for his wife. Turns out they'd split up quite some time before, and when the divorce was due to be finalized he decided to try again to get her to come back." She sighed again, pausing to gather her thoughts. "Things got very ugly very fast, and when he tried to drag her out the front door all hell broke loose. David and his father wound up in the front yard going at it tooth and nail—at first I was scared for Dave, what with his dad being so much bigger and being a former MACO, but it didn't take long for him to get the best of his old man and send him packing. Dave's the sort who'll put up with a lot of crap if you're dishing it out to him, but God help anyone who screws with his family or friends." Her eyes met Reed's, her gaze even. "I've seen the footage of the fight on the Koshneer, sir. What David did, and what happened to him. And I can tell you without any doubt that if he had it to do all over again, the only thing he'd do differently would be to get out from under that crate faster and hit that G'l Benai harder. I'd be willing to bet a year's salary that not being able to get that bastard off of you sooner will be his biggest regret. He's gonna blame himself for you getting hurt."

Reed looked toward Saunders' bed, considering the man behind the curtain and having a bit of trouble envisioning the man's father being even bigger than the tall, sturdy young man he'd come to know. Mentally replaying what had happened on the G'l Benai ship his brow furrowed. "If that's the case, he'll have it a bit backward. I'm his superior officer—his safety was my responsibility."

"He won't see it that way, sir," Atkinson insisted gently. "You were the one in trouble and he couldn't help you. Convincing him otherwise won't be easy."

"Why should things start getting easy now?" Malcolm quipped.

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When she'd first started on the recording Miranda had given her, Hoshi had been struck by the strange mix of ferocity and beauty in the sound and cadence of it. It was slightly different from the messages that Koshneer's captain had sent out, owning no doubt to differences in dialect, but the longer she listened the more Hoshi realized that it was more than that. The transmissions between Koshneer and VekCha'a had been filled with formalized protocol. This, on the other hand, had an entirely different feel to it. He spoke slowly, choosing each word with great care and consideration. There was a still a formality to it, no doubt of that, but not a formality based on military protocol. What was it based on, then? She had her answer after translating the first sentence.

"Ancestors help me, I beseech you." The passionate respectful formality of a prayer. As the translation progressed Hoshi made a stunning discovery: improbable as it seemed, the G'l Benai was afraid of them.

"I am na'oosh tcha'a among savage enemies…" After struggling unsuccessfully with na'oosh tcha'a she decided to come back to it later, surmising that there was perhaps no corresponding word or phrase in English. She'd gone through the Vulcan Database looking for information about their language; from the little that she'd found some G'l Benai words had more depth of meaning, conveying intricate concepts rather than a single word, so translating wasn't just a matter of simply figuring out nouns and verbs. Of course, the same was true of many languages, Earth languages included, so it wasn't unfamiliar territory for her. But the possibility that an incorrect translation could mean the difference between befriending their alien guest and being disemboweled by him definitely upped the ante.

The rest of the translation went quickly, the prayer of the alien making Hoshi's heart ache for him until she came to the very end of it. She hesitated only a second before contacting Captain Archer in his Ready Room.

"Sir…I've got something I think you should hear."

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"Ancestors help me, I beseech you. Hear the petition of this your unworthy descendant. I am na'oosh tcha'a among savage enemies, armed only with the weapons bestowed upon me by nature. My wife and children have already made their way into your presence, slain by the soulless creatures in whose midst I am now trapped.

"Ancestors, guide my wife and children to the warmth and safety of the Great Hall. Welcome them into your presence and watch over them in my absence, I implore you. The children are innocents, and their mother died trying to guide them safely away from our enemy as those honorless heathens attacked my captain's ship.

"Guide also those others who were slain by our enemy. Welcome them into your midst and bestow upon them places of honor among you.

"Ancestors, I your unworthy descendant would ask one among you to come to me in this, my time of utmost need. My uncle, brother of my father's father, who was summoned to the Great Hall during a hunt, who has guided me in times past, I seek your counsel now. In times past your wise voice has come to me, your hand once guiding me from the depths when I was a child, alone and drowning in the frozen ocean of our home province. Again I am alone, drowning among this enemy of our people. I beg you to guide me again, for I am lost among these strange animals and am afraid. Help me find my way.

"You know already that they have attacked my captain's ship, have slain elders and children. They claim they have not done these things, that they wish to render aid. It confuses me, for why would an enemy render aid? Yet they have not slain me and I do not know why I yet live. I fear these beasts, my uncle. I fear that they seek to confuse me with deceptions and treachery, to steal from me my honor and my soul. Cherished Ancestor, brother of my father's father, venerated uncle, do not abandon me to these creatures, I plead with you. I am na'oosh tcha'a, lost among these aliens, injured and afraid. Guide me, Uncle, for my mind is clouded by uncertainty and I fear madness shall seize me.

"As you once led me away from death beneath the ice of the province of our birth, guide me now. Fear clouds my soul and obscures my honor, making me unworthy to enter into the Great Hall. Grant me clarity of thought, I beg of you, that my soul and honor can be cleansed of their flaws so that I may dwell again with my family upon my death. Grant to me the strength to face my impending death at the hands of these creatures, that I may die honorably on my feet, with the blood of the enemy upon my lips. Guide my blade hand and do not let me falter."

Archer shook his head as the recording ended. Despite the G'l Benai's earlier blustering and bravado, Atkinson had been right about him being afraid. The revelation did little to help matters—the alien was still convinced that he was in the midst of his enemies and he sounded determined to kill as many people as he could.

The warrior spoke of his soul and his honor almost as if the two were inseparable. When he spoke of death he sounded almost content with the thought of dying…it was losing his honor that had him scared, and Archer hadn't the faintest idea how to convince the man that neither his honor nor his life were in danger.

Pacing in his Ready Room, the captain's eyes fell upon the sword still on his desk and a horrible thought planted itself in his mind. 'I am na'oosh tcha'a among savage enemies, armed only with the weapons bestowed upon me by nature.' Though seldom stumped for long by foreign words and phrases, Hoshi had been forced to concede defeat on "na'oosh tcha'a". Lifting the heavy sword with great care, Jon studied the intricate patterns engraved on the blade and hilt—an inscription, according to Hoshi, though she hadn't had an opportunity to fully decipher it yet—before dismissing the idea of returning it to its owner. The possibility that the G'l Benai's fears would be allayed by such a gesture was far outweighed by the likelihood that the warrior would turn the weapon against them. He carefully put the sword back down.

Playing the recording again, Archer pondered the focus on honor. The alien had called them savage, soulless animals…honorless heathens…beasts. And he was worried about repairing his own damaged honor. "So all I have to do," Jon muttered sarcastically to himself as he resumed his pacing, "is convince him that his honor isn't in any danger and prove that we aren't soulless, honorless animals. Great." Ever since they'd left dry dock he'd found himself acting as a diplomat almost as often as he got to be a captain. He'd known that his mission would often require delicate negotiations with other cultures but despite his training he'd never felt that diplomacy was his strong suit. How was he supposed to convince this pissed-off warrior that the people around him weren't enemies, that they were trying to help, and that Humans, too, were capable of honorable behavior?

Of course, it would help if he knew what kind of code of honor the G'l Benai people had. On that topic, though, Archer was at a loss. Well, except for the whole 'kill your enemies or die trying' creed so adeptly demonstrated by their large, furry guest. He dropped into his chair with a sigh. Reaching for the comm button, he hesitated—he'd been about to call T'Pol but she was still helping Trip with repairs. With heaven only knew how many G'l Benai ships likely heading their way and no idea when they'd show up, he was pretty sure he didn't have time to wade through the Vulcan Database blindly searching for information on the subject. Thinking it over a minute a slow smile of inspiration crept across his face; though he hated to interrupt her meal he tapped the button to contact the one person who'd already combed through the Database looking for anything that would help them communicate with their guest. "Ensign Sato… please report to my Ready Room. And if you've made any notes on the G'l Benai, bring them with you." '

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Most of the time Hoshi loved her job. But right now, frankly, it sucked. She paused the video she'd been watching in her efforts to glean samples of the G'l Benai language for the UT, dropping the padd onto the Mess Hall table alongside the three other padds, empty coffee cup, and ignored sandwich in front of her. A real, honest-to-god break would be fabulous right about now but she'd have to settle for another cup of extra-strong coffee and promise herself a few extra pieces of chocolate when this as all over with and she was relaxing in her quarters. Or maybe if she really poured on the charm she could wheedle some chocolate cheesecake out of Chef. Closing her eyes she allowed herself the luxury of a satisfied sigh: she was definitely going to go for the cheesecake.

For right now, though, she had to finish getting a working translation algorithm for the G'l Benai language, preferably before a couple dozen of their ships showed up and started blowing holes in Enterprise's hull. The warrior's prayer in Sickbay—which the captain was still reviewing in his Ready Room—had been immensely helpful but for a more complete, precise translation program to offer to the UT she needed more material. Samples in the Vulcan Database were limited; they'd apparently been sufficiently spooked by their encounter with the warrior race to curtail any further contact with them. The boarding party's visit to Koshneer's bridge hadn't yielded enough information to be helpful since, after Malcolm's mishap with the tactical station, accessing the computer had—justifiably—been deemed imprudent. That left one other source of a great deal of G'l Benai dialog: the video of the soldier's attack on Malcolm and David.

It had been bad enough watching helplessly from the G'l Benai bridge as it had happened; between filtering out extraneous sounds and separating out what the alien had been saying from what his translator had been relaying, this made the fourth time she'd viewed the attack. She'd found that skipping over the parts where the warrior wasn't talking didn't make the viewing much easier, but at least it trimmed a few minutes off the experience. Still, by the time she got it all into the UT and ran it against what had come out of the G'l Benai's translator, she'd likely have to watch it another two or three times. Then of course she'd take a programmed UT to Sickbay so she could try it out on their guest. The soldier had looked intimidating even when asleep: she shuddered to think what he'd be like when he woke up.

Mentally scolding herself for dawdling Hoshi pushed back from the table. She grabbed her cup and hustled across the empty room to the beverage dispenser for more coffee then hastened to settle back into her seat and braced for another viewing of the video. Just as she reached for the padd the doors hissed open; Ensign Mayweather tentatively entered the Mess Hall and approached her. Usually she'd have loved a visit with him, but this wasn't a good time for reminiscences about the boomer life.

She held up a preemptive hand. "I'm sorry, Travis, I'd love to visit but I have to concentrate on this right now."

"I know. That's, uh…that's why I came to find you. I didn't know if it would help or not, but…here." He thrust a padd toward her. "It's, um, kind of a diary. From when I was a kid on the Horizon." He licked his lips nervously. "From when we encountered some G'l Benai."

If she hadn't been sitting she would have fallen over. "You've met these people before? And you didn't say anything?!"

Travis put the padd on the table and sank into the chair across from her. "After Subcommander T'Pol showed us that vid I didn't think I could really add anything useful. Besides, when she told Captain Archer it was a bad idea to come here he didn't listen to her. And when he blew off Lt. Reed's objections…I mean, c'mon, he's a lieutenant and tactical officer, and I'm just an ensign. If the captain doesn't listen to him, is he really gonna listen to me?" He paused, uncomfortable with her eyes on him. "I admit I didn't learn a lot about their language—they weren't exactly paying us a social call—but I picked up information about their mannerisms and how they interacted with each other, and with us. Didn't know if that would help you or not, but I dug this out of storage so you could take a look at it. If you think it'll help."

"Are you kidding me?" she squeaked as she eagerly snatched up the padd and started reading. "I'll take anything I can get. A lot of times mannerisms and gestures are an integral part of a language. Plus if we know how they interact with each other it might help us know a little bit about how we should act around them." She paused in her reading and looked at the young man. "How did you guys wind up in G'l Benai territory, anyhow?"

Usually Travis would visibly relax and become cheery at the chance to share tales of his youth, but not this time. He straightened in his seat and took a deep breath. "We were having trouble with the engines and had to take them offline for repairs. Apparently we drifted across the G'l Benai border…didn't know it had happened until they started materializing on the ship."

"Oh god," Hoshi whispered, remembering the scene on the Vulcan ship as the warriors had beamed aboard. The image of Travis as a child, confronted by one of the sword-wielding behemoths, sprang to her mind. "What…what happened?"

"Thankfully it wasn't like when they went after the Vulcans—I guess since our engines were down they figured out that we weren't much of a threat. But it was still plenty scary having a bunch of rifle-toting cat people in full battle armor suddenly appearing all over the ship. I was on the bridge with my dad when they boarded us. Nobody moved…we just kinda stared at them. I mean, we were so surprised at them just popping up from nowhere like that." His brow furrowed. "That's probably the only reason they didn't attack any of us, 'cuz we didn't resist them." Finally he relaxed a little. "Dad stood up real slow, told them he was the captain and asked," Travis chuckled at the memory, "he asked them if there was something he could help them with. We're sitting there dead in the water, hanging nose-to-nose with a G'l Benai warship, with half a dozen armed soldiers on the bridge and over 50 more of them throughout the ship, all of them with rifles drawn, we're totally helpless and we've got nothing to offer them, and Dad asks if they need any help.

"Their captain orders one of his soldiers to access the computer. I think it was a woman but it was hard to tell with all that armor. Anyhow, their captain steps up to Dad and says we're violating G'l Benai territory, demands to know why we're there, lets us all know in no uncertain terms what'll happen if they decide that our intentions are hostile…and Dad just stands there, cool as a winter's day. Their captain gets through and Dad just says, 'I'm sure you've already scanned our ship, and if you have you know that our engines are offline. Apparently we've drifted into your territory, and I sincerely apologize for that. It was not our intention to intrude upon or offend your people. All we want to do is fix our engines and finish making our delivery. If it will help ease your concerns, I welcome you to be our guests while we finish making repairs.' Then he asks for permission to address the rest of the crew and let them know what's going on, so he can tell them that the G'l Benai are guests and to not start any trouble with them." Travis shook his head. "On his own ship, he asks permission. My brother got so mad he started to mouth off, but at least he was smart enough to pipe down when Dad told him to shut up.

"I wasn't too happy about it, either, but I figured it was best to follow Dad's lead—if he could keep calm and be so polite to these people, so could the rest of us. So that's what we did…and I'm sure that's what kept us in one piece. Once they'd copied our ship's records and their captain looked them over he sent almost all the troops back to their own ship and accepted Dad's 'invitation' to stick around. Dad even gave him a full tour of the ship…the soldiers didn't seem too impressed, but their captain showed a real interest in our operations. Even had some of his crew pitch in to help with things. The way he explained it, the sooner we finished repairs the sooner we could get out of their territory and the sooner he could get back to his routine. That's how I got to see them in a little more of what I guess you could call a social setting—they were on board for a couple days. A few of them even relaxed…well, as much as they could, I guess."

"You should have told the captain," she told him. "You should still tell him. He does listen to what Malcolm and T'Pol tell him, you know, even if he doesn't always follow their advice. And he'll listen to you, too. Damn, Travis, aside from T'Pol you're the only one of us that's already been out here." She turned her attention back to the padd, ravenously reading Travis' logbook; if the rest was as informative as the beginning she might even share her much-desired cheesecake with the helmsman.

"I know, you're right," Travis admitted. "I guess part of me just wanted to forget about it. I mean, we made out okay for the most part, but it got kinda ugly just before they left."

Hoshi's head popped up. "Ugly how?"

Before Travis could answer the comm chirped. "Ensign Sato," Captain Archer's voice came over the Mess Hall comm speaker, "please report to my Ready Room. And if you've made any notes on the G'l Benai, bring them with you."

Standing, Hoshi gathered her padds and headed for the door; halfway there she turned to Travis. "Don't just sit there…you're coming with me. You can finish telling me what happened on the way, then you can help me brief the captain."

"But…but—"

"I'm supposed to bring any notes on the G'l Benai, and right now that includes you. Plus, it'll give you a chance to come clean to Captain Archer."

'I hate it when she's right.' Mayweather heaved a sigh and stood, heading out the door with her.

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"What manner of mischief have you gotten yourself into now, Thelik?" The warrior respectfully bowed his head, dropping to one knee and lowering his gaze until a large hand gripped his shoulder. "Speak my nephew, firstborn of my brother's firstborn. What do you seek from me?"

The knowledge that he was dreaming couldn't diminish his relief at seeing his uncle standing before him, amid the swirling snows of their home province. No, better than a mere dream—The Ancestors had granted his request and had allowed him an audience with his uncle! Rising, he threw his arms around the man and gave him a firm hug before stepping back. "Uncle, you know all that has happened. Your voice encouraged me as we fired on our attacker's vessel, and again as I protected my captain's ship and the fallen within from the invaders."

His uncle nodded, a tiny smile twitching at his lips. "Mine was not the only voice though, was it? Your battle-brother, and the others who lost their feet on your captain's ship…they also offered encouragement and suggestions. It was your battle-brother who suggested using the stimulant on the Human, wasn't it? So why seek my advice now? Why not one of them?"

"Have I so angered you, cherished uncle, that you will not aid me in this time of crisis? Has my honor perished already? If this is so then I am truly na'oosh tcha'a and am unworthy to be in your presence. All hope is dead, my soul has perished before these dishonorable creatures."

Still smiling with affection his uncle shook his head. "No child—there is no anger toward you. All you have done to defend those in your care has been proper. I am merely curious about your need for my help. You are an experienced warrior while in my life I was only a civilian, a mere scholar."

Thelik shook his head. "What intellect I have threatens to flee from me, Uncle. These creatures' behavior is beyond my ability to comprehend. I have only a warrior's training—I know how to react to attacks, how to slay my enemies, how to obey my captain. But I do not know how best to deal with these creatures. One group attacks, and the next claims to offer aid. They tend my wounds but rejoice at the murder of innocents and elders. There are too many contradictions. How do I discern what is truth and what is treachery?"

Uncle's brow creased as he pondered his nephew's situation. "Mmm…a predicament indeed. Will you be believing a deception or disbelieving a truth? Not an enviable position, my nephew. They offered assistance while aboard your captain's ship, correct?" Thelik nodded, and his uncle continued. "Of course, you acted properly in not believing them then—an enemy will use any means to save their life and take yours. But it is intriguing that even now they tend your injuries, making no effort to cage or shackle you. And their concern seems genuine, does it not?" He crouched, staring at the ground, drawing in the snow with his finger. Thelik hunkered in front of his elder and watched the random patterns grow, patiently waiting for what seemed a lifetime. His earliest memories of his uncle were of the man doing precisely this: no matter how heated the debate, Uncle would simply crouch amidst the other adults who had come seeking his counsel and calmly write in the snow as he considered the various options before him. Having watched such consultations countless times, Thelik knew that the best course of action was to stay silent and simply wait—during his life, Uncle had always dealt with interruptions by withholding a response even longer. There was no reason to believe that death would have changed that.

An eternity seemed to pass before the finger slowed, then stopped. Bringing his head up Uncle blinked thoughtfully at his nephew. "When you were protecting your captain's ship you could not risk believing them, for there was no way to prove or disprove their words. You have an opportunity now that was not available to you then. Speak with these creatures. Question them; analyze their actions as well as their words. Without the fury and distraction of battle it may be possible to more easily determine their true plans and motives. You should speak with one of them. Learn from them what you need to know. And remember that deception has a unique scent that you could not discern on your captain's ship. If their intentions are dishonorable their scent will betray them. You will know then that your fears are justified and you must kill as many of them as you can lay hands on.

"But first you must discover what is in their hearts. If they truly are enemies then their lives are rightfully forfeit. But what if their words are true, my nephew? Perhaps they have realized their transgression and seek to regain their honor."

"Animals have no honor," Thelik snorted indignantly. "One cannot regain what one has never possessed."

"There was a time when the G'l Benai were honorless animals as well," his elder patiently reminded him. "We did not simply awaken one day to find honor had been bestowed upon us—it grew slowly within us, and not all succeeded in nurturing it within themselves. Even now there are times when we falter and either cast our honor aside or risk having it slip away from us. Perhaps it is the same with these Human creatures as well. You will not find the answers to your questions if you do not seek them." Seeing the doubt in his nephew's eyes, he pressed his case. "Those you battled on your captain's ship showed a great measure of courage and honor, did they not? Surely that should count in their favor. "

A long, heaving sigh slipped through the younger man's lips as he pondered his uncle's advice and thought back to his encounter with the invaders. It was almost physically painful to admit it but they had fought well. The larger man had been fearless and unrelenting in his defense of his superior, and the little man's slight build had belied the strength and tenacity contained within. Thelik nodded at last, resigned to the task he now faced. "It will have to be one of the ones I battled on my captain's ship," he grudgingly agreed. "They did show courage and honor, as you have said."

Uncle grinned broadly as he stood. "Better to speak with the one called Crew-man. The smaller one—Loo-ten-ant, isn't it?—is quite annoyed with you at present."

Nodding, Thelik rose. "With good reason. I promised him a quick death, which has been denied him. That alone is cause enough for him to hate me." Remembering Loo-ten-ant's enduring defiance both in the corridor when he had demanded to be killed and later in the weapons room left the warrior feeling a growing respect and admiration for the fierce little man. "He faced death bravely but my actions deprived him of the opportunity to go to his ancestors. And in the weapons room, just before his shipmates gained entry, he regained his feet and easily took me off mine. It shames me that I allowed instinct to guide my actions—I pushed him away when I should have allowed him to kill me. To have died by his hand would have been a great honor, even if I had died on my back."

"Indeed…to die at the hands of a worthy opponent is no disgrace," his uncle agreed solemnly. "Such a death, especially in defense of the fallen, would have assured your entry into the Great Hall."

After a long silence Thelik spoke again. "I would ask another question, if I may. I know what I must do if they are deceiving me, but…if I have erred and their intentions are indeed honorable…will all hope be lost to me?"

"I am unsure," Uncle replied. "That will depend upon how you display your repentance. You are a G'l Benai, and a warrior. Would you be able to simply allow these aliens to slay you? Offer no resistance to them? Or would your training and instincts cause you to struggle against the deathblow, as you did upon your captain's ship? And if they decide to punish you in some other manner—with cage and shackles, perhaps—will you be able to accept and endure it? "

Thelik remained silent a long time as he pondered his response. "If I have erred," he finally answered, "then I must accept the consequences in order to regain my honor. I will do what I must to be with my family again. If captivity is to be my fate…I shall endure as long as possible." Uncle nodded his approval as he faded into the blowing, swirling snows. As Thelik felt himself waking he called out, desperate. "My wife and children—watch over them for me until my arrival!" Uncle smiled and nodded again before vanishing.

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Staring bleary-eyed at the ceiling, the only two things that a semiconscious David Saunders knew with any certainty was that he was in Sickbay, and trying to remember what had happened was bloody well exhausting. His last clear memory was of helping an EV-suited Lieutenant Reed prepare to rappel down a turbolift shaft. Beyond that, indistinct images fluttered elusively at the edge of his mind: the lieutenant (still wearing an EV suit) laughing good-naturedly and saying "You don't know me as well as you think", fuzzy, distressed voices calling to him from a million miles away, Phlox in surgical garb studying him with urgent concern, and an overly-sympathetic Hoshi showing him a padd while Randy held his hand and hovered protectively over him.

It was obvious that he was in Sickbay not only from the antiseptic smell and muted sounds of the monitors but also from the breathing tube he could feel in his throat and the fact that he could barely move his head. For a fraction of a second he wondered if there was anyone else there and where they might have tubes stuck into them. Giving a brief look at the curtains surrounding the bed he closed his eyes, deciding that he didn't care if there was anyone there or not. Even if anyone was there, it wasn't as though he could ask what the bloody blue hell had happened to him with a tube stuck down his throat. Better to mentally work his way backward to how he'd wound up here instead. Something must have happened but he hadn't a clue what it was. Whatever it was, though, it had apparently been bad judging from the expression on Randy's face when she'd been there earlier.

Okay…so what was the most recent thing he remembered? He vaguely recalled hearing Randy's voice saying something about Lieutenant Reed and a damned fine job…sometime before that Hoshi and Randy had been for a visit, and Hoshi had been showing him something on a padd. Though their lips had been moving and he'd heard their voices, he couldn't for the life of him recall what they'd been saying. Something about talking—that amused him for a moment, the idea of them talking about talking—and the padd had seemed important to them. The image of Phlox looking ready for surgery popped up again, and David remembered the hiss of a hypospray. And before that…before that?

"Shit and molasses, why can't I remember?" With some of the drugs Phlox made use of it made sense to not remember stuff from after the hypospray, but why couldn't he remember what had happened before? Obviously something had happened or he wouldn't be here. "Sod it," he decided after trying a few more minutes to recall anything about how he'd wound up in Sickbay; probably better to redirect his energy toward ignoring the dull thudding sensation in his legs and the odd numbness in his throat and left side of his face. He'd just begun to doze off when his mind returned to the lieutenant. Why would they have been rappelling down a turbolift shaft? Had he wound up in Sickbay because he'd fallen? No, he couldn't have fallen because he was still alive. They'd been so far up, and there'd been so much debris at the bottom of the shaft…debris and…bodies.

The memories slammed into place all at once: the G'l Benai ship, the doors slamming shut behind them, that thing coming out of nowhere and attacking the lieutenant, and him pinned under that damned storage case just watching as Reed bore the brunt of the alien's wrath.

He'd finally gained enough leverage to shove the trunk off his legs and gotten his phase pistol in hand; after a few useless shots he'd regained enough sensation in his legs to risk standing then grabbed the first thing he laid hands on to use as a cudgel. If the phase pistol hadn't gotten the creature's attention, he'd reasoned, maybe a few pats alongside the head with a metal beam would. Ignoring the annoying hiss in his ears he'd advanced, and damned if the beam wasn't the most effective thing to use against the beastie.

The memories blurred a little at that point, though he recalled helping Reed off the floor and handing off his phase pistol. Keeping the alien at bay with the pistol, the lieutenant told him to get the bay doors open so he'd retrieved the beam to use as a lever and set to work. He'd tried to keep an eye on the alien and his CO but the doors had gone off track and demanded more attention than he'd anticipated; only when Reed screamed and the alien roared did he tear his attention from his task. The lieutenant was falling, a knife protruding from his arm, the alien advancing with its intentions painfully clear, and David had felt a surge of rage. No way was that great beastie getting his grubby paws on the lieutenant. Swinging with all his might he'd planted the beam firmly in the alien's belly then stepped between the two men to make himself the sole target of the creature's ire. He'd heard Reed's admonition—"Watch yourself, Saunders"—the G'l Benai had advanced and he'd started swinging the beam, landing solid blows each time until the creature's faceplate had flown open. And then…

'Oh god. Oh my dear god.' Memory of the pain flooded back and he didn't want to remember anything more, but the memories would not be stopped. The expression on the alien's face had been almost gleeful and had frozen him in place. Teeth tore into him and the creature had let out a low growl of satisfaction that had resonated through his entire body. He'd felt himself go limp, almost but not quite unconscious, and the giant had let him drop to the deck. He thought he heard a phase pistol firing, someone or something bellowing like an enraged bull moose, the G'l Benai's voice said something that he couldn't discern, and all he could think of through the excruciating pain was that he'd let the lieutenant down. His CO was injured and unarmed and there was nothing he could do to protect him now. He'd failed: Lt. Reed was about to be killed and it would be his fault.

He'd lain there without even enough strength to open his eyes, the sounds around him fading in and out as the pain alternately flared and dimmed, annoyed that there was something soft but unyielding pressing against his throat preventing him from moving his head. He wanted to lift his head, wanted to open his eyes, he had to help the lieutenant, dammit! But his limbs would not obey; even his eyelids rebelled against his command to open until he'd heard Commander Tucker's voice calling urgently to him. They had opened then, just a bit and only briefly, but enough to let him see the engineer's pale face looking back at him through an EV helmet faceplate. The commander's eyes had filled with fear and concern then surprise as he'd called out to an unseen someone, "He's alive!" before instructing him, "Stay with me, Saunders. You hear me? Don't you dare give up now." It would have been poor form to disobey.

And now he was here, in Sickbay, and Lt. Reed was…oh god. He couldn't possibly still be alive, could he? Randy had tried to tell him something about their CO but damned if he could clearly recall what she'd said. As determined as that G'l Benai had been to kill him, there was no way Malcolm Reed could still be alive.

Well, David decided, he just had to find him, that's all there was to it. He had to find the lieutenant, had to find out one way or the other what had become of his commanding officer. He roused all his strength and opened his eyes, determined to get the bloody blue hell out of bed and find Reed. Two eyes stared back, one jade-green and the other sapphire-blue.

If not for the tube in his throat he would have screamed.

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He hated 'grown-up' parties, and this one was no different. Being dressed in the uncomfortable dress suit, surrounded by a roomful of adults, watching them slowly but steadily getting drunk out of their skulls was certainly not Malcolm's idea of a fun time. Add to that the fact that he was the only child there, and that he was only there so his father could show the other adults what a well-mannered, obedient boy Malcolm had been trained to be and, well…frankly, it made Malcolm feel like some sort of circus animal. See the amazing Reed boy jump through hoops! See how well he says 'please sir' and 'thank you sir' and 'yes sir'! See him sit up and beg and fetch and roll over! Through it all, the only trick he would like to show them was playing dead.

And why did these parties always seem to last forever? There had been plenty of times when he would have liked to stay up past his bedtime to play, or even just to read, only to be told that he had to go to bed because little boys needed to get a good night's sleep. It hardly seemed fair that he could only stay up late when his parents deemed it convenient for them. Especially when there were so many extra rules to be remembered during these things. At the same time he was supposed to be showing everyone what a well-trained boy he was, he was also supposed to stay out from underfoot, stay out of trouble, don't get dirty, don't speak unless spoken to, don't touch anything, do what you're told, and for goodness sake don't drink the punch.

That last one was usually the hardest because at some point during the course of these parties one adult or another (almost always one of the men, and usually the drunkest person in the room) would invariably decide (once Stuart and Mary were out of sight) that it would be cute to fetch the little Reed boy a drink. And of course he couldn't refuse to drink it because you're always supposed to obey the grown-ups, even when they aren't acting very grown-up at all. So he would obediently drink, the adults would all have a hearty laugh at the funny faces he'd make, then he'd usually wind up spilling some of the noxious liquid either on the floor or himself, or he'd retch and throw up what he'd swallowed. No matter which occurred, it meant a trip to his father's study the next day for a lecture on how Reed Men are expected to conduct themselves during social gatherings.

Needless to say, he was most assuredly not looking forward to the New Years' dinner party he was being dragged to. And there were extra rules in addition to all the others, because the party was being given by some friend of his father, a fellow Royal Navy Man, and the fellow was celebrating not only the New Year but also his recent promotion. Plus the man was "well-to-do" to begin with, which meant he had a lot of fancy expensive stuff in his house that Malcolm absolutely must be careful of. And above all the man had a wife that, for reasons unknown to Malcolm, must not be provoked. His father had made that point several times—it was apparently even more important that "don't drink the punch" since that rule didn't even get mentioned this time. 'Remember, Malcolm, you mustn't provoke Mrs. Berrington.'

Malcolm surmised that perhaps the woman didn't like little boys and had so thoroughly convinced himself of this that by the night of the party he was a nervous wreck, certain that the woman hated children and would find some reason to be 'provoked' with him. He was terrified to even walk through the front door but managed it: Reed Men, after all, don't show fear, even if the youngest Reed Man expected Mrs. Berrington to have long fangs and a penchant for roasting children on a spit; from snippets he'd overheard from his parents and the innumerable warnings about provoking her, he'd half-expected to see one of the neighborhood boys served as the main course, complete with an apple stuffed in his mouth. It was with immense relief that he saw nothing resembling that on the dining table.

He was introduced to Mr. Berrington—who insisted that ranks not be used at the party—without incident then set about dutifully obeying the Rules of Conduct for Young Reed Men Whilst At Fancy Dinner Parties. He stayed out from underfoot, said nothing without first being prompted, and remained meticulously tidy. After dinner (which he spent studiously avoiding direct eye contact with the adults) he stood almost unmoving in a corner for a good part of the festivities so as not to touch or break anything in the opulently-appointed home and to avoid provoking Mrs. Berrington, whom he had not yet been introduced to. Maybe, he hoped, she'd decided that she didn't want to come. Maybe she'd heard there was going to be a little boy there and decided that she didn't want to spend her time around some vulgar little urchin.

A hand on his shoulder startled him into looking up from the floor. He looked up into the face of a slight, pretty woman with blue eyes and flowing brilliant red hair; he didn't remember seeing her during the meal. Though she was taller than he was, he noticed how much shorter she was than the other adults. She smiled warmly down at him, her beige gown rustling faintly as she moved.

"Whatcha hidin' in the corner for, little fella?" she asked, her accent decidedly Irish. Unable to find his voice Malcolm shrugged, hoping his fear didn't show. The woman laughed softly.

"Well, ya do know this is a party, dontcha?" Malcolm nodded.

"Yes, ma'am." This was more attention than he was accustomed to receiving at these functions, and he felt uneasy.

"Well, if y'll pardon me sayin', ya don't seem to be havin' a very good time. Are ya feelin' all right?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm fine," he said, staring back down at the floor.

"But yer just standin' here," she said gently, "like yer hidin' from th' world. Why dontcha come on out and join the festivities?"

"I'm supposed to stay out of trouble and not get in the way, ma'am," he finally admitted.

"Not much sense in goin' to a party if yer not gonna have fun, my little lamb." He looked up, unsure if 'little lamb' was meant to be demeaning. From the kind look on her face, he decided it wasn't. "What's yer name, boy-o?" she asked.

"Malcolm Reed, ma'am," he replied, standing very straight.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Malcolm. I'm Colleen," she introduced herself, extending a dainty hand and giving a small curtsy as Malcolm took her fingers in his small hand. "Not much fer fancy parties, are ya?" Unsure whether honesty would be best, he shrugged noncommittally. Her smile broadened. "Awf'lly stiff and formal affairs sometimes," she observed with a look around the room. "An' they can be so boooring. Still, no sense just standin' here looking' like yer waitin' fer the firin' squad." Her voice suddenly took on a formal yet still pleasant tone. "Wouldja be willin' ta do me the kindness of escortin' me to the punch bowl?" Malcolm cringed mentally yet nodded, knowing that saying 'no' to an adult was not an option. Best to just brace himself for this nasty part of the ritual and hope for the best.

There were two huge crystal punch bowls on the beverage table, one clear and the other cranberry red. Each had matching glasses and signs secured to them; the red bowl was labeled "Tis" and the other labeled "Tisn't".

"I'm gonna guess that you're not a big drinker, Malcolm," Colleen chuckled lightly, ladling liquid from the clear bowl into a crystal cup and handing it to Malcolm before serving up one for herself. "I don't often care for the stuff either. Sometimes a little brandy is nice, and to be honest," she added, whispering conspiratorially, "I have been known to enjoy an occasional wee small bit of bourbon. But I find excessive drunkenness to be distasteful, especially in public." She guided him away from the punch table, finding seats for them. The two sat quietly listening to the soft background music and watching the chattering partygoers milling about.

"Ah…this is quite nice," Colleen said after a bit. "I didn't go to many parties growin' up, an' I guess I never really got the hang of all the fancy stuff. What about you, Malcolm? You go to many-a these sorta things?"

Malcolm considered his answer before speaking. "Not a lot, ma'am, but I've been to a few."

She looked at him with kind eyes. "Is somethin' wrong with yer punch? You haven't had even a sip of it."

He'd hoped she wouldn't notice. "No ma'am, nothing's wrong," he replied nervously. She kept looking at him, and he knew that he'd have to finally drink the vile stuff. It made him a little sad: she hadn't seemed the sort who would take pleasure in playing such tricks. Served him right—he should have found a better hiding place. Trying to keep his face from scrunching up, he took a tiny sip of the punch. And was surprised by the pleasant flavor of the liquid. He heard her chuckle and looked over at her.

"Fer a second there, you looked like you were drinkin' poison at gunpoint, lad. Are ya all right?"

"Yes, ma'am. It's just…most of the punch I've had at parties didn't…taste very good, and it smelled funny. But this tastes very good," he hastened to add.

The slight hint of a frown crossed the woman's face then disappeared. "Would you hold my glass and wait here for just a wee bit, Malcolm?" He nodded and she rose, gliding back to the punch bowls and returning with a fresh glass in her hands. "Now don't drink this, lad, just smell it and tell me if it smells anythin' like the stuff you've had before, okay?"

Well this was a new game. Malcolm obediently sniffed the beverage, his nose reflexively wrinkling in distaste. "Yes ma'am," he answered, perplexed.

Colleen nodded and returned to the punch bowls, leaving the glass next to the red bowl. When she returned to her seat she reclaimed her own glass from Malcolm and gazed thoughtfully at the boy a long while before speaking. "Well, if ya didn't like the taste of it those other times, why'dja drink it?"

"Because the grown-ups that gave it to me said to. Children are supposed to do what grown-ups tell them to."

Draping an arm over his shoulder, she gently pulled the boy close to her. "I think it was very mean of them to give you a drink that tasted bad and expect you to drink it," she told him. "If anyone tries that with you here, you have my permission to tell them 'no' and you be sure ta tell'em that Colleen says ya don't hafta drink it. And if you wanna help yourself to more punch, you be sure to get it from the clear bowl, understand? The one marked 'Tisn't'." Malcolm nodded solemnly. He couldn't ever remember being given permission to refuse an adult's commands. He was really beginning to like this lady.

They sipped at their drinks as the woman engaged the shy boy in conversation, asking about his family, hobbies, and school. In return she told him that she was married and had a daughter several years his senior. She started to say something else but then stopped, a brief instant of melancholy crossing her face before she smilingly changed the subject back to him.

It took a while for Malcolm to realize that he was, for the first time, fully enjoying one of his parents' parties. When their glasses were empty Malcolm enthusiastically offered to get her a refill as well as one for himself and she said yes. With the utmost care he filled the crystal glasses—mindful to get punch from the clear bowl as she'd instructed him earlier—and made his way back toward her. Unfortunately, his father saw him helping himself to the punch and, not realizing that Malcolm had fetched the "child-safe" variety, strode purposefully across the room. He reached the boy just as Malcolm reached Colleen.

"Malcolm," Stuart hissed. Startled by his father's voice the younger Reed jumped, spinning to face him. A nearby adult stepped backward, knocking into the boy and making him lose his balance. As if in slow motion Malcolm felt himself falling, landing on the floor directly in front of his new friend, the glasses shattering at her feet as they hit the floor. Their contents had gone airborne, drenching the front of her gown. He laid there a moment before panic kicked in, sending him scrambling to his feet.

"Malcolm, what have you done?" his father rumbled, startling the boy anew. His mother had arrived on the scene by now and was attempting to help mop the front of Colleen's gown.

"Oh, Mrs. Berrington," Mary Reed lamented, "I am so sorry! Let me help you with that."

Mrs. Berrington. That was all Malcolm had to hear. As the woman tried to reach past Mary to get to him, Malcolm ran from the room. Running down the hall he spotted a dimly lit room and ducked in, silently closing the door behind him. Spotting the massive desk he ran around it and huddled beneath it, knees drawn up beneath him, his father's voice echoing over and over in his head: 'Remember, Malcolm, you mustn't provoke Mrs. Berrington.' Before long he was breaking yet another rule by allowing tears to flow freely down his cheeks. His struggle to stifle his sobs was unsuccessful.

"Hello, Malcolm," Colleen's voice called tenderly to him. He hadn't heard her enter the room, hadn't noticed the light coming on, hadn't even heard her approach the desk. Frightened, he pushed himself further back, trying to make himself smaller. She knelt, gazing in at him with concern. "Didja hurt yourself? Didja get cut on the glass?"

He stared at her, his sobs preventing an answer. His gaze drifted down the front of her gown, her beautiful gown that he'd ruined. "I've…spoilt…your…pretty dress and…broke your…glasses and ruined…your party," he gasped between sobs, then froze as he heard his father's stern, icy voice from the doorway. Malcolm held his breath, terrified that his father had heard him crying.

"Malcolm, come out of there this instant."

Mrs. Berrington locked her gentle eyes on Malcolm's and spoke so only he could hear. "You wait right there." Standing, she leaned across the desk. "Stuart, why don'tcha go back to the party and let me tend to this? The lad's just a wee bit upset is all," she said diplomatically.

Stuart Reed would have none of it. "I'm sorry he's caused so much trouble, but you may rest assured that he'll be properly disciplined for misbehaving." Malcolm heard his father striding across the room toward the desk and could see just enough of Mrs. Berrington to see that she'd planted her feet firmly and folded her arms across her chest. The only way for the elder Reed to reach his son would be to knock Mrs. Berrington over. There was far more glacial fury in Colleen's shaking, enraged voice than he had ever heard in his father's.

"Now see here Stuart Reed, ya bloody sonuva sea cook, I'll have ya know that this child has been a perfectly well-mannered little boy the entire evening. Jaysus, when I first saw 'im tonight he was hidin' in a feckin' corner 'cuz he was so bloody worried 'bout doin' somethin' wrong. He didn't cause any trouble and he bloody well wasn't misbehaving, ya feckin' eedgit. We were having a lovely chat over some punch and he graciously offered to fetch a refill for me, like the right and proper gentleman he is. If he hadn't gotten the wits startled out of him by you and then gotten run into, it wouldn't have even happened. How dare ya blame him fer somethin' that wasn't even any of his doin'! An' ta top it off, after the boy's taken a fall and lain amidst broken glass, yer biggest concern is that he's spilt some punch an' embarrassed you!? Shit an' molasses, man, did it even occur to ya that he coulda been hurt? You just get the bloody blue hell outta here an' I'll tend to him." After an arctic silence she spoke again. "You heard me, ya feckin' eedgit—scat. And close the bloody door on yer way out," she commanded. From his hiding place Malcolm heard the door slowly close; after a long silence Colleen crouched down and looked in at him.

"Please come out. I wanna know if yer all right," she pleaded softly, her voice trembling slightly. "C'mon outta there, please. Lemme check ya over, okay?" When he remained frozen in place, she merely shrugged then stretched out on the floor next to him under the massive desk. He hadn't expected that.

"Malcolm, I wantcha to understand something," she cooed soothingly. I know yer young, but yer a right smart lad so this should be easy enough fer such a bright boy ta understand. First and foremost, you most certainly did not ruin my party. 'Tisn't even my party, it's my husband's, an' to be perfectly frank with ya, I was dreadin' the whole thing 'til I met up with you—ya brightened the whole bloody occasion for me. Now as to the dress, when it comes right down to it this dress is just a wad of fabric. It can be washed, and if it's stained then so be it. They make dresses every day. An' the glasses are just that—chunksa glass. D'ya know what glass is made of?" Malcolm shook his head—he hadn't ever thought about what glass was made of. "Basically, it's sand," she told him. "Just melted sand, and there are countless billions of grains of sand in the world, so they can make lots more glasses on a pretty regular basis. Just like dresses. Now…d'ya know how many dresses and glasses there are in the world?" When Malcolm shook his head Colleen laughed. "Neither do I, my little lamb…but I know how many Malcolm Reeds there are that I care about, an' I'm lookin' at th' only one. An' I'm worried about him 'cuz I dunno if he got hurt when he fell. Now…how 'bout comin' outta there so I kin be sure yer okay?"

Malcolm awoke with a jolt, his breath catching in his throat. The dream had been so vivid he could still smell the sweet, faint odor of Colleen Berrington's perfume mingled with punch. Rubbing his good hand over his face brought the unexpected discovery of dampness on his cheeks. Disoriented, he sat up to get his bearings in the darkened room. Dull pain in his chest, back and abdomen finally helped him remember that he was in a Sickbay biobed, flanked on his left by Crewman Saunders and on his right by the blood-thirsty, crazy-arse alien that had put both of them here.

Shifting in the bed he sighed, closing his eyes in exhaustion. Every muscle ached from the near-constant spasms that had until recently racked his entire body. Even his face hurt, and his throat was raw from all the screaming. And Phlox, still concerned about possible interactions with the alien drug, hadn't dared give him anything for the pain. The doctor had expressed hope that by morning the toxin would be out of his system but there were no guarantees. Malcolm felt, however, that since the tremors and irrepressible impulse to scream and lash out had subsided that the chemical must be all but played out. That didn't mean, however, that the worst was over.

He could just imagine what his crewmates must be saying about him—surely by now everyone on board must know about his screaming, thrashing fits. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to hold his head up in front of them: he'd suffered humiliation before, certainly, but never on a ship-wide basis. The captain had seen him like that, and Trip, as well as the entire staff of Sickbay. And, he wondered, exactly how many Security details had been in and out taking shifts over the G'l Benai in the next bed? His subordinates would not have been able to ignore his uncontrolled, irrational, and oft-times violent fits of rage. Indeed, some of them had been instrumental in restraining him more than once. Prim and proper Lt. Reed, screaming at the top of his lungs and flailing about like a madman for all the world to see. Hell, the only one who wouldn't know about it was Saunders, and that small blessing was bitterly tempered by the fact that the man missed all those rabid antics only because he was in the next bed unconscious and recovering from a near-fatal attack.

Not only would everyone know about his feral behavior but they would no doubt also find out that when the ship had been under fire, his hand had been the one launching the torpedoes. True, the G'l Benai had exerted physical force to make him do it, but in the end it was still his hand on the switch. Being overpowered and forced to try to kill those he was sworn to protect was one of the most mortifying, shameful experiences in his life. Or at least, his adult life. He stared unblinking at the ceiling, replaying the events of the party in his head.

He had cast memories of that night to the farthest corner of his brain: he'd been so successful in pushing it aside that until now the only remnant of the party left in his conscious mind had been a lingering dread at the mention of the name Berrington. The memories now came slamming back in stunning detail. All the sounds and even smells of that evening flooded in on him; it occurred to him that the clarity of it might be a residual effect of the chemical still in his system but he didn't particularly care at the moment.

When the woman had first approached him he'd been scared stiff but she'd quickly put him at ease with her casual banter. And he'd never met and adult who would introduce themselves to a child by only their first name. When she'd put her arm over his shoulders and leaned toward him he'd noticed how lovely she smelled. Her voice was one of the most pleasant he'd ever heard, her Irish lilt relaxing and her words candid; there was none of the stiff formality and protocol he'd come to expect from most adults. Well, her voice had been pleasant when she'd spoken to him—when she'd spoken to his father, verbally chasing him from the room, her voice had been quite different. No one to Malcolm's knowledge had ever been able to intimidate Stuart Reed. The memory of it made him smile almost evilly; he regretted that he hadn't been able to see his father's face when she'd torn into him.

When he'd finally come out from under the desk she'd pulled him onto her lap, stroking his hair and tenderly wiping his tears with the cuff of her sleeve as he rested his head against her chest. Still seated on the floor, she had rocked him gently as everything had poured out of him: all the rules he couldn't seem to obey no matter how hard he tried, his frustrations and fears about not being able to please his father, how he thought he could do nothing to make his parents proud of him, and finally a review of how he'd ruined her party.

"It's the first grown-up party I've ever had any real fun at, too," he'd lamented, snuffling pathetically. "And now I can't stop crying. Reed men don't cry."

"Whaddaya mean, Reed men don't cry?"

"My father says we're not s'possed to cry, 'cuz we're Reeds and Reed men don't cry."

There had been a very long silence as she continued stroking his head. At last she'd spoken. "Tell me somethin', Malcolm…are there alotta rules about what Reed men can and can't do?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Hmmm. Well, I don't think it'd be proper ta tell ya to ignore the rules yer parents lay down, but this is my house, an' I have rules, too, ya know."

He'd looked up into her face then, a surge of dismay running through him. "Which ones did I break?" he'd asked meekly, wondering what kind of punishments she used for naughty children like him. An expression of deep sorrow had filled her face but she'd forced herself to smile, blinking several times to force away tears as she wiped away his.

"Well that's just it, my little lamb, ya haven't broken any of 'em. Quite the opposite, because one of the most important rules of mine is that if yer around me ya can't be shovin' yer feelings aside all the time. If ya wanna cry, ya cry, an' if ya wanna laugh, ya laugh. So, I propose an addendum to that rule about Reed men not cryin', just between the two of us so's we don't get yer father upset with us. Any time you're with me you can cry or laugh or shout or whatever ya want. Just think of me as neutral territory. D'ya understand what I mean?"

As the meaning had sunk in he'd nodded cautiously. "I think so, ma'am. Does it mean you don't care if I make mistakes?"

"Not exactly. It means that I don't think the mistakes ya make are as serious as other folks may think them to be. Y'll not be harshly judged fer breakin' any of those rules about bein' a Reed man, an' it's nobody else's business if any of those rules get bent or broke while yer here."

He'd gazed into those kind sky-blue eyes a long time before speaking again, his voice a somber whisper. "Thank you Mrs. Berrington, ma'am."

"Here now, ya don't need ta be callin' me Mrs. Berrington. I toldja before, I'm Colleen…but I suppose yer father's got a rule about what to call folks too, am I right?" He'd given a small nod and she'd smiled. "Well, first off," her voice sunk to a conspiratorial whisper, "yer father's not here now, is he? Still, I suppose it wouldn't do for me to tell you outright to break a rule that he's laid down, so, if you must be at all formal, let's just stick with 'ma'am', shall we?" He remembered both of them giggling, then her asking if he wanted to return to the party or stay in the study. They'd both opted for the study. He'd realized that he needed a tissue but there wasn't one on hand, so she had offered the hem of her gown to a very shocked little boy. The fabric was soft against his skin as she delicately tidied his face with it, dabbing at the remaining tears before wiping his nose for him, urging him to 'blow summa that muck outta there.' He'd been stunned but obeyed her affectionate command.

He had no idea how long they'd sat there on the floor; he remembered hearing the muted sounds of music and distant conversation, the countdown to midnight and the cheers of the revelers. He also remembered puzzling over some of what she had said to his father, but when he'd asked what a "feckin' eedgit" was she'd merely chuckled, telling him that it was a phrase that some adults used but best not uttered by little boys. He'd felt warm and safe as he'd fallen asleep on the woman's lap, relishing the feeling of having his head stroked as she'd sung quietly to him. Something about little lambs, but he couldn't quite pull the song to the front of his memory. And someone must have come in as he was drifting off to sleep, because he remembered hearing her say the name Edmund.

There had been no time in life, either before or since, when he had felt so entirely safe, comfortable, or loved. Looking back on it, he was having more than a little bit of difficulty believing that the sweet, affectionate little woman he'd met in childhood and the fiery, foul-mouthed harpy bitch-goddess grandmother of Crewman Saunders were one and the same. Well, upon further reflection the foul-mouthed part lined up quite nicely when he recalled how she'd talked to his father. He smirked again at the mental image of his father, a giant of a man who feared neither man nor beast, being cowed by the four-foot-aught force of nature that was Colleen Berrington. It was refreshing to know that after all his parent's admonitions to him, it had been his father that had provoked the woman. God, how he wished he could have seen his father's face.

The nearby unintelligible mumblings of their alien "guest" faded in and out of his mind, breaking his focus and annoying the hell out of him. He refrained from bellowing at the furry bastard to shut the bloody hell up—he feared it might bring about another uncontrollable screaming fit, plus his head was throbbing and his throat wasn't up to the task.

Yelling at the murderous feline just wasn't worth the effort. Closing his eyes again, he decided to try using the low purring sounds to his advantage; there was a bit of a hypnotic quality to it that might help him get back to sleep. As he listened, though, something seemed wrong about it. Frowning, eyes still closed, he concentrated on the alien's voice. 'It's not right…something's not right about it.'

The tone of it wasn't at all threatening, wasn't loud or obnoxious, but something was wrong with it. His eyes snapped open at the shocking realization that it was coming from the wrong place. The G'l Benai was in the bed to his right, but its voice was coming from the left. Where Saunders lay unconscious. Defenseless. Looking to his right and left did no good, for Phlox had drawn the privacy curtains around all the beds. And calling out seemed a poor option—if the creature was indeed stalking through Sickbay there was no sense broadcasting to it that he was awake and available for disemboweling. Instinct and adrenaline took over; Reed slipped quietly from bed to do a little stalking of his own. All discomfort evaporated as he padded barefoot to the corner of the curtain surrounding the alien's bed and edged it silently out of the way.

Rossini was sprawled unmoving on the floor next to the empty bed. Malcolm noiselessly went to the man's side, checking for vital signs and expecting the worst. The guard was alive but unconscious, with no outward signs of trauma. Reed felt rage building rapidly within him as he heard more of the alien's soft chatterings from behind the curtains. Then he spotted the guard's phase pistol still in its holster. Pulling the weapon from its home with his left hand he checked the setting, giving serious consideration to switching it from "stun". He wanted with all his being to kill the furry bastard. A hundred vicious scenarios flashed vividly through his mind, all of them involving killing the alien and each successive fantasy more violent and gory than its predecessors.

'Whoa. Guess that damned alien drug hasn't entirely worn off after all,' he thought after an unnervingly satisfying fantasy involving their guest, a chainsaw, Chef's extensive collection of cutlery, a meat grinder, and Great-Grandmother Reed's recipe for homemade sausages. Silently skulking toward the sound of the G'l Benai's voice Malcolm vowed that this time he was either going to stop the alien behemoth or die in the attempt. He just wished that he could stop wondering if Chef had any sausage casings.

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His brain was still trying to process the white feline face filling his field of vision as the alien cautiously laid the back of a long, furry index finger against his cheek near his mouth. David flinched reflexively; certain that the beast would tear the tube from his mouth he feebly reaching up to try to prevent it. Though he was able to catch hold of the alien's wrist he was unable to move the bandaged hand away from his mouth.

Rather than pull away, the behemoth reached up with his free hand to turn on the headset translator he was wearing. "Be calm," he said in a deep, hypnotic whisper, his voice slow and deliberate as he chose his words with care. "You are in no danger from me this day. Do you comprehend?" Saunders nodded painfully, frightened eyes locked on the eyes of the alien. A small smile danced on the warrior's lips, the tips of his sharp incisors showing. "Good," he replied, easily slipping from David's grasp as he withdrew his hand from the man's face. He bent closer to the crewman, bringing his face within mere inches of the man he'd tried to kill. "I would speak with you. The physician said you cannot speak yet, but I have questions. Is there a way for you to answer without speaking?"

Despite the proximity of his would-be killer, Saunders suddenly felt remarkably calm. The alien's face no longer showed any sign of the blood lust and rage of their earlier encounter; indeed, his expression was almost peaceful. David only hoped that, if the G'l Benai did decide to kill him now, it would at least do him the courtesy of just snapping his neck and having done with it. He slowly closed his eyes, keeping them shut a moment before opening them again. 'Still there…okay, I guess it's not a Phlox-juice induced hallucination.' He thought about the alien's question: how could he answer any questions? Even without the tube, the damage to his throat would make speaking extremely difficult if not outright impossible. Another memory clicked into place and he reached for the padd Hoshi had left on the bedstand.

His sudden movement startled the G'l Benai, who snatched at his wrist with a gasp. David froze then slowly pointed at the device. The warrior released his grip and carefully lifted the padd from the table, scrutinizing it briefly before giving it a perfunctory sniff and handing it to Sanders.

The alien's broad nose wrinkled as he bent forward and sniffed intently at Saunders. "Has your captain brought you here to kill us?" he finally asked.

The stunned crewman stared at him in disbelief—if the G'l Benai's attack hadn't already rendered him speechless the question would have. After a few seconds he turned his attention to the padd, studying the screen briefly before tapping in his reply. "No. He wanted to help you." The voice that came out of the device sounded somewhat like him but the inflections were off, giving his response an unnatural, almost mechanical quality to it. He wondered if there might be a way for Hoshi to tinker with it a bit more—he found the unemotional voice stilted and unsettling.

The G'l Benai seemed temporarily disconcerted as well; his brow furrowed as his translator did its job but then his features smoothed into an impassive mask as he again sniffed at Saunders. The huge eyes slowly blinked. "Did he send you to claim my captain's ship as his own?"

"No. I already told you, he wanted to help you. We heard your distress call and came to help." Another sniff, long and slow. Saunders wished the alien's features were a little easier to interpret—he almost preferred the all-too-easily read unrestrained rage of a short time ago to the cautiously neutral expression he wore now. At least then there had been no doubt in anyone's mind what the warrior's intentions had been. David couldn't even begin to gauge whether the G'l Benai believed him. Saunders tried to turn his head away only to have the creature seize his chin in a soft but unyielding grip. When he seemed satisfied that the crewman wouldn't turn away again, he took his massive hand away.

"Why did you board my captain's ship?"

"We were hoping to find out where the survivors went. We can't help them if we can't find them." Another damned sniff. 'Geez, did I fart or something?'

The head inched away from him, tipping at an angle that would have been amusing—even endearing—if Porthos had done it. When this fellow did it, though, it was just scary: he could be pondering the answers he'd gotten or deciding where exactly to sink his teeth. An eternal silence followed as the alien eyes kept staring unblinking. Gradually the expression on the felinoid face changed as he straightened his head, showing an odd mix of emotions: regret, sorrow, and fear shone in the G'l Benai's eyes.

With visible effort the warrior forced the emotions from his features before speaking again. "Apologizes for interrupting your rest. It was regrettable, but I required answers. You should sleep now, to speed your recovery." Leaning forward the G'l Benai spoke again, admiration shining in his eyes as he lightly placed his hand on David's shoulder. "Yours is truly worthy blood. You were an admirable opponent, and it was a privilege to do battle against you."

An eternal silence followed, until at last the G'l Benai reached down with one enormous hand and lightly placed the tip of his index finger between Saunders' eyebrows and pressed gently. "This should help you sleep," he explained, keeping pressure on the spot for about a minute before reaching behind the man's head with both hands. With powerful fingers that could have crushed the man's skull the alien tenderly applied light pressure to several points at the base of David's skull. "Sleep now," he urged quietly. "It will be well soon. You should rest now." The deep, soft vocalizations had an hypnotic quality that Saunders could not fend off, and soon he was slumbering peacefully. As the G'l Benai withdrew his hands one of his ears flicked backward at an almost inaudible sound an instant before Lt. Reed's voice growled hoarsely from behind him.

"Get the hell away from him or I'll kill you where you stand."

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Slowly the massive head turned, the warrior looked over his shoulder to appraise the Human behind him. His blue eye warily studied the little man from head to foot, grudgingly admiring the stealth of the Human. Most G'l Benai would have failed to get this close without him knowing it, but this little creature had managed to retrieve the unconscious guard's weapon and get within striking distance almost unnoticed. Impressive.

It would be a shame to kill him—especially now—but his challenge could not go unanswered. What would be the best way to subdue him without causing excessive damage? He surveyed the little man again and smiled to himself. These creatures had no tails…in his experience those without tails were unaware what an effective weapon the appendage could be. He actually chuckled out loud, amused at the potential the situation held as well as the irony of his position. A few hours ago he'd vowed to kill Loo-ten-ant, and now he could not do so. A few hours ago this man and his people had boarded Koshneer not to kill but to render aid, and now this same man would no doubt take great pleasure in killing him. The Ancestors were feeling fickle this day. That was sometimes the way of things.

The worst that could happen, he decided, was that he'd be killed by the toy gun the little man had leveled at him. But, if this were done correctly, his adversary's opportunity to kill him would be denied. As long as the Human did not notice what he was doing, it should work. He knew it would be painful—his tail was broken in several places, after all—but pain had lately come to be a valued and familiar companion. Turning slowly to face his opponent he smiled broadly, teeth glistening. He raised both hands to show his own lack of artificial weaponry as well as to try to keep the Human's gaze away from the floor. His plan would be rendered ineffective if Loo-ten-ant looked down, after all.

"So…it is…awake," he cooed gently, flexing his fingers.

"Damned right," Malcolm replied icily, his eyes locked on the G'l Benai. He tensed, leveling the phase pistol at the creature's head as it took a small, tentative step toward him.

The alien shrugged, a peculiar purring growl coming from deep within. His voice was low, his words coming slowly. "You did tell me to get away from Crew-man, did you not? But you will kill me if I try to move away. Perhaps I should move back to him?"

"Perhaps you shouldn't move at all," Reed growled menacingly.

Seemingly indifferent, the creature merely shrugged again, fingers still gracefully curling and uncurling. "As you wish," he said softly, his voice almost soothing in its gentleness. "But I am…curious. Your injuries are painful, and you are…fatigued. So…how long will you be able to keep your feet beneath you?" Unseen, his tail snaked between his legs and along the floor, twitching toward the Human by millimeters.

"As long as necessary…or at the very least, for the rest of your life—unless you behave yourself," Malcolm replied.

The alien chuckled. "You speak with the arrogance of a general. Tell me, little general, which bothers you more—that I was so easily able to overpower you on my captain's ship or the knowledge that I can just as easily do the same here on your captain's ship?"

"Now who's being arrogant?"

"Hmm," the G'l Benai purred, "a valid point. However, my…arrogance…is earned, I think. I took you off your feet despite my own injuries, and crippled your captain's ship." His smile broadened. Malcolm had always thought Phlox had the most unsettling grin he'd ever seen, but this smug furry bastard had the doctor beaten by a mile in that department.

"And the truly…ironic…part of the whole situation is that now," the warrior continued, "although I no longer seek to kill you, you are quite eager to kill me. My visit with Crew-man bestowed wisdom upon me…perhaps you should talk with him also?"

"What did you do to him?" Reed demanded.

The G'l Benai blinked calmly. "I talked to him. I had…questions. He provided answers." His tail was almost perfectly positioned—if only he could close the gap between them just a little...

"You interrogated him?" Now thoroughly enraged, Malcolm took a menacing step toward the alien. "You damn near kill him and then while he's helpless in a biobed you go after him again? And expect him to answer questions with his throat half torn out?"

"He has a device for communicating, so he did not need to speak. And, knowing he needs to rest, I attempted to keep our conversation brief. I did not, as you claim, 'interrogate' him. Would he have fallen back to sleep so readily if I had done so?"

"I don't know that he is asleep—for all I know you've done something to him, tried to finish the job you started back on your ship."

"It is not my ship, it is my captain's ship," he corrected. "As for Crewman's condition…there are always the monitors."

Malcolm risked a millisecond to glance at the monitor over Saunders' bed and saw that the man did appear to be merely sleeping. He glared back at the G'l Benai.

"If you wish, little general," the warrior offered, head tilted to one side and eyes filled with mischief, "I could demonstrate the difference between a conversation and an interrogation."

The corner of Malcolm's mouth twitched as he replied, eyes narrowing in contempt as he took another half-step closer. "Oh, I do wish you'd try. I'd so love the opportunity to teach you a lesson." The alien grinned wider than ever, eyes glittering maniacally, and an instant later Malcolm Reed felt as though someone had rammed a shuttle pod into his groin at full impulse.