It was a low, square white building with a meticulously groomed lawn around it, some decorative trees and a large car park for customers and employees. The front of the entrance area was made out of darkened window panes, looking like a massive, frozen ice palace. It led into an atrium where a reception desk stood. Sun poured in through the windows and the artificial light of the large lamps set into the gray stone ceiling increased the effect.
To whoever visited, the place looked like the representative front of a business company, maybe pharmaceutics or micro technology. That was what the real owners of the building actually wanted; a false front. No questions asked as to what was really here. There were no company logos mounted anywhere outside, no overly visible security present, and though it was in the middle of an industrial complex, with more buildings of its type everywhere around this one, no one actually paid it much attention.
In one of the offices on the top floor, a woman in her mid-fifties sat behind a modern, functional desk, looking at the computer monitor in front of her. The shelves behind and around the desk contained rows of books, family pictures and some miscellaneous decorations.
“If we do this,” she said, addressing the man in the gray business suit sitting in front of the desk, “if we actually pull it off without the Vulcans or anyone else getting wind of it, it would mean a possible new ally for Earth.”
The man, maybe five to six years her junior, nodded. “If,” he echoed. “You know the risks involved.”
“Of course. We all do.”
“And you realize that if something goes wrong, it might mean total annihilation.” It wasn’t even a question.
The woman raised one slender eyebrow. “I’m completely aware of it, Isaac. But think of the bonus we get. A first contact of sorts, a new race no one, not even the Vulcans, know more of than that they exist somewhere.”
Isaac looked contemplative. “There is only one vessel even close enough to the transport ship.”
“Enterprise,” the woman supplied. “Can we trust the captain with it?”
“We can trust him to follow orders, but I’d rather not inform him of the true nature of the mission. There is a Vulcan science officer aboard. If the captain knows, she might get wind of it.”
“Agreed. But we need someone aboard who knows what is at stake. The alien is sick. If he dies…”
Isaac nodded, interrupting her with a curt gesture. “I’m aware of it, Ruth. Thank you. I read the preliminary information we received.” He pulled out a data chip and handed it to her. “This is who I had in mind.”
Ruth inserted the chip and read over the information, looking pleased. “Good. I agree. Contact Denoblia and let them know that we’re sending Enterprise to meet with the transport vessel.”
Isaac rose and collected his chip again. Ruth leaned back and looked at the monitor, gazing into the eyes of the crewman aboard Enterprise they had chosen for this operation. There was no question whether or not he would do what they were about to ask of him.
“Good luck,” she murmured.

* * *

The dim light illuminating the Enterprise’s sickbay brightened several notches when the doors swooshed open to the man entering the room. It was still rather early in the morning, close to five a.m. ship time, and except for the lone visitor, no one else was present.
“Good morning everyone. Slept well?” the ship’s doctor answered the chorus of squeaking, purring, even chirping sounds greeting his entrance. Phlox smiled at his little - sometimes odd, even bizarre, but nevertheless mostly help- and useful - zoo.
“Don’t be in such a hurry, fellows, here it comes.”
Taking some boxes he started to feed the menagerie, granting himself an occasional bite every now and then. Continuing his morning ritual after the feeding was over, Phlox checked for messages, letters or mail, smiling in surprise as he saw that there was indeed one. He noticed the sender and the surprise doubled. He rarely received letters from his home world. When he did, they were either from his family or colleagues.
But not this one.
Very curious.
Opening the file he began to read.
Mere seconds later his eye ridges were close to meet his forehead as surprise turned into mild shock, then deep shock. Phlox leaned back, a contemplative expression on his face. His eyes scanned over the file again and then once more, but the words didn’t change. He thought over the message’s clear-cut wording, his mind racing, and then sighed. He would have to have a talk to a certain crewmember. And knowing the man in question he doubtlessly wouldn’t be too excited about this.

* * *

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed smiled dimly at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, showing him a man who looked as if he had been - well, lucky the other night. Which wasn’t far from the truth, the Brit mused, remembering only too well how fervently Trip had kissed him, held him and, well - loved him. Intense. It had seemed to him as if his lover had wanted to melt into him, become one in every sense of the word. Thinking about it, Malcolm frowned slightly. It had been this way ever since their near-miss with the flood about two months ago.
He knew something had happened there, but to his own discomfort he couldn’t remember too much of it. The simple attempt to think, remember, had resulted in one hell of a migraine every time. He had tried to talk to Trip, sensing the other man’s unease about the whole thing, but his lover had just shaken his head, pulling him even closer, and whispering,
“It doesn’t matter none, Mal. Only thing matters now is that you’re here, with me. Just - stay.”
And he had done just that, letting the matter rest although it wasn’t too satisfying for him. Especially considering how it seemed to disturb his lover, not to mention the few times it had sent him to sickbay due to the throbbing pain and turning stomach. But, Malcolm smiled again, it had its advantages. Trip had taken every opportunity, even so small, to be by his side, touching, comforting, whatever.
Anchoring himself?
Maybe.
And right now he was probably waiting with breakfast; he pulled himself out of his thoughts. Zipping his uniform shut Reed heard the faint chirp of the door chime and cocked one eyebrow.
“Come in. Miss me already, love?”
There was no answer. Malcolm frowned, switching into officer mode immediately.
“Who is it?”
“Dr. Phlox, Lieutenant.“
O-kay?
The Denoblian had never come to his quarters. Not in all the four years they were now out here, exploring the universe.
Malcolm pushed the opening button and found himself looking into a pair of alien eyes. Phlox’s expression was dead serious, and Malcolm turned up his security officer mode a few degrees.
“Something I can help you with, doctor?”
“Indeed, Lieutenant. You are - alone at the moment?”
“Yes ..?”
Now this WAS odd.
“I need to talk to you, in private and off the record. Would you be so kind to meet me in sickbay in thirty minutes.”
“Of course.” It hadn’t been a simple request.
“Very well. Please do not notify ANY member of the crew of our meeting, Lieutenant.”
“I understand.”
In fact he didn’t, not a single thing. But there seemed to be just one way to find out what made the ship’s usually cheerful and positive doctor act like - a Vulcan? And that was to meet the man in sickbay at the appointed time.

*

Exactly forty minutes later Malcolm did find out. Reading the message for the third time he forced his mind to wrap itself around the true meaning of the brief words, trying to get the exact significance of what was revealed to him, no, what he was ordered to do, more precisely. What was expected of him -- he wished dearly he had never asked.
Looking up he met Phlox’s eyes, fully understanding the dead seriousness he had detected earlier.
“I take it you understand the delicacy of the situation, Lieutenant,” the doctor stated calmly.
“Of course.”
“And the necessity to keep it confidential.”
“Doubtlessly.”
Malcolm shuddered at the picture forming involuntarily in his mind, the consequences of this information getting into the wrong hands.
“Then we will proceed.”

* * *

Captain Jonathan Archer sipped at his morning coffee while opening his mail and smiled as he discovered one that he had been waiting for. It was about time. He saved the contents and made arrangements in his head as to what had to be done. Then his eyes fell on the mail coded as ‘high priority’ and when he clicked on it, it required his personal code to open.
It was from Admiral Forrest, detailing a diplomatic pick-up.
Archer frowned. They were supposed to play shuttle service for an alien diplomat, currently aboard a Denoblian transport ship. The diplomat had come down with some kind of illness that required immediate treatment, which could be given on Jupiter Station. Since the Denoblian transporter was too slow and Enterprise was in the vicinity, as well as on its way back to the station anyway, they could swing by and pick up the man.
Easy.
Right.
Archer’s frown stayed. He had had enough diplomatic missions and encounters to know that having an alien politician aboard only meant trouble. Especially a sick one.
But orders were orders.
He scanned over the other mails and found none important enough to keep him in his office.
Well, then off to meet the Denoblians they would go. Archer grimaced as he pushed a button on the intercom.
“Travis? Set a course for the following coordinates ... “.

* * *

Malcolm performed his duties as he usual. No one could accuse him of laxness or preoccupation, though he would have every reason to be preoccupied. There was never a reason or an excuse for being lax, though.
The brief message he had read on Phlox’s terminal in sickbay was going round and round in his mind. His mind analyzed the danger, the possibilities of failure, and what success would mean.
If they succeeded.
There were so many unknowns and variables, it made him quite uneasy. He hated to deal with the almost completely unknown. He had nothing to work with except for the information contained in the mail. Phlox had sent off their agreement and more would hopefully follow, but he couldn’t rely on it. He had to make his own decisions and come up with contingency plans if their primary objective could not be achieved.
Considering what he was asked to do, Reed was almost positive he needed a plan B. And C. Most likely the whole bloody alphabet!
Wrapped up in his thoughts, he went through dinner and checked their position in relation to the Denoblian transporter. Twenty-six more hours. More than a day.
Malcolm walked through the corridors of the ship and finally found himself back in his quarters, too restless to sleep, too tired to work on anything. He needed to do something, but what exactly eluded him.
The soft chime of the door bell announced a visitor and even without asking he knew who it would be.
Trip stepped into the quarters, still in uniform but clearly off duty like his partner. Expressive blue eyes met Malcolm’s. Reed simply walked over to the slightly taller man and wrapped his arms around him, holding on tight.
This was what he needed, he realized. The presence of the person closest to him, the man he loved, who he seemed so oddly connected to. Trip’s arms curled around him.
“Had a feelin’ you needed me,” came the quiet drawl and a gentle kiss was placed on his hair.
“Yes,” was the simple answer.
He had needed Trip. Plain and simple.
“Somethin’ wrong?” the engineer queried.
Everything, Malcolm thought bitterly. Everything and nothing. My whole world.
But he couldn’t tell his partner about the top secret communiqué.
“I love you,” he whispered and tilted his head to kiss the wonderful lips.
Trip didn’t press on, simply answered the needy kiss, opening up and accepting. Reed was thankful for it. Four years had given them a silent understanding of the other, even a feeling for the partner that sometimes scared them.
The kiss was filled with warmth and need, relaying more than words what Malcolm wanted. They ended up in bed, Trip wrapped around him like a living, breathing blanket. Warm, alive, just there. Malcolm smiled as he carded his fingers through the blond hair.
His Trip blanket, he thought with amusement.
Human warmth.
In twenty-four hours, things might forever change.

* * *

Enterprise was about thirteen hours from the rendezvous point with the transport vessel when Hoshi Sato picked up the call.
“Sir, we have an incoming distress call,” she announced. “It’s from a Denoblian ship... apparently automated. They were hit by an asteroid. From the coding, I think it is the vessel were are supposed to meet.”
Archer looked over to his communications officer. “How much damage?”
“It doesn’t say exactly. Engines... life support... They require medical assistance.”
“Tell them we’re on our way, Hoshi. Travis, how fast can you get us there?”
Mayweather let his fingers play over the helm controls. “Three hours, sir.”
“Then do it.” Archer pushed the call button for sickbay. “Bridge to Dr. Phlox.”
“Phlox here.”
“We picked up a distress call from our rendezvous. They need medical assistance.”
“I’ll be prepared, captain.”
Archer clicked off the comm, clenching his jaw. He didn’t like the situation. Not one bit. Now they had not only a sick diplomat to deal with which was bad enough as it was, but a damaged ship on top of it. Great.
Caught in his broodings Archer never noticed the suddenly rather pale and tense looking form of his Armory Officer.

* * *

The Denoblian ship was in a sad, sad condition. Most of the rear engine was missing, and what was left of the maneuvering thrusters was in no condition to get the ship anywhere. It was adrift, with barely any energy signatures, and a large hole in its side next to where the engine had been.
“I scan three biosigns, sir,” Malcolm said, voice controlled. “Fading.”
“Life support aboard the vessel is at a minimum, captain,” T’Pol added levelly.
“Can we dock the shuttle pod somewhere?”
“There is a hatch that appears to be still in working order,” Reed answered.
Archer nodded.
“I’d advise a team consisting of three security officers and maybe Dr. Phlox,” the lieutenant went on, voice firm.
The captain gave his Armory Officer a penetrating look. “You being one of them?”
“Yes, sir. The ship is in a very unstable condition and if we can still help these people, Dr. Phlox should be there. His on site help might be required. And because of the dangerous situation, I’d advise against risking any other crew members.”
Green eyes stared into gray ones, challenging, probing, and finally Archer indicated his ‘surrender’ with a cocked eyebrow and a fine smile on his lips.
“Agreed, Lieutenant.”
Malcolm nodded once and rose. “We’ll be on our way shortly, sir.”

* * *

The sight presenting itself to the four men carefully entering the damaged ship was horrible. If the outer condition of the ship had been sad, the inside looked devastated. Corridors had collapsed, trapping hapless crewmembers and killing them. Parts had depressurized and taken the lives of more men and women. Phlox sighed as he gazed at the bodies, aware that there was nothing he could do anymore.
Three were still alive and it was them he was here to try and save. Two bodies were rather close together on the bridge, the third inside what had to be guest quarters aboard the functional transporter. Followed by the security detail, the Denoblian made his way to the bridge.
Everyone was dressed in EV suits because of the failing life support, as well as the leaking pipes and vents. Reed had gone off to find the third man and simultaneously checking for the diplomat they were supposed to pick up. If he was dead, things might get ugly. If he was dying... things would get ugly.
 

The bridge was a mess. Fallen ceiling panels blocked the way, wires sparked, tubes leaked fluids, and the bodies lay sprawled everywhere. The first survivor they found was a woman, maybe Phlox’s age, with severe cranial damage, both legs twisted and broken. She had died only a minute or two ago. The acid burn to her thorax, revealing open, cauterized wounds, said enough. It was a miracle she had lived this long. He shook his head when one of the ensigns shot him a questioning look.
The second live body was a man, about the same age as the woman, but maybe a bit older. A piece from the ceiling had speared him. His eyes were open and he looked at Phlox, mouth twitching into a smile.
“Stupid asteroid,” he wheezed.
Phlox didn’t need a scanner to tell that even if they moved him to Enterprise, there was nothing he could do any more.
“Too late, hm?” the man asked.
“I am sorry.”
“Don’t. Anyone else make it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
The man closed his eyes. A sigh escaped his lips and it was almost visible how he let go. Phlox briefly rested his chin against his chest, then straightened.
“Phlox to Lieutenant Reed.”
“Reed here.”
“We found the survivors. I’m sad to say that they passed away. There was nothing I could do. Have you located the third one?”
“I’m outside the quarters. The door lock’s fused shut, but I think I can open it.”
Phlox nodded. “We will be there shortly. Phlox out.” The Denoblian left the smashed room that once had been the bridge of an intact vessel without looking back.

*

Malcolm managed to break the door open in no time. Behind the twisted and bent metal lay a small but functional cabin. It was in a relatively good condition, even though the occupant was not. He was clearly not Denoblian, which led him to only one conclusion: the diplomat. Reed felt himself tense as the alien moved sluggishly.
He was taller than the average human, covered in dark brown, short fur, and appeared decidedly feline. The head with its nose ridge and snout, the very large ears and black eyes turned and a rumbling purr escaped the lipless mouth. Slender, four-fingered claws curled and the long tail lying limply on the floor twitched slightly.
“My name is Malcolm Reed,” he introduced himself. “I’m from the Enterprise, the ship that was sent to pick you up and get you to Jupiter Station. I know what you carry, how important it is. Our ship’s doctor is coming and will be here shortly. We’ll get you to safety.”
There was a crackle from what seemed to look like an amulet around the feline’s neck.
“Too... late,” could be heard. “Dying. So sorry. Made... mistake.”
The lips never moved, but the strange purring, rumbling noises fluctuated. The amulet had to be some kind of translator.
“We can help you,” Reed insisted. “Just hold on.”
The purring increased. “Too late,” he repeated. “Help?”
“Help will be here shortly.”
“No,” the feline whispered. “You have to... take Razor... please. Get it to safety.”
Malcolm looked down into the breaking black eyes of the alien creature, eyes that seemed to burn themselves, through the smoke and haze, through the mask of the EV suit, right into his very soul.
“I’m not equipped to do it,” the Armory Officer said softly. “I’m sorry.”
“No. No. Please.” The diplomat coughed and blood flecked the brown fur. “It is the only chance.”
Malcolm shook hishead, almost feeling the other’s desperation. “We can get you aboard Enterprise.”
“Dying.”
“I know, but your body…”
Another weak denial. “Without me… there… it will break free. Please!”
Malcolm felt his world reduced to these pleading eyes, and then there was only one thing he could think of.
Trip.
God, would he ever be able to forgive him?
“How… what would I have to do?” he heard himself ask, his own voice strange in his ears.
“Contact,” the alien whispered, voice fading. “Physical contact….”
Reaching out carefully, taking the shaking, clawed, four-fingered hand of the dying feline, Malcolm slowly opened his EV suit.
Malcolm pushed the thermal underwear aside and almost tenderly laid the dangerous looking paw on the naked skin of his chest. The pain-contracted hand slowly uncurled and Malcolm felt the soft caress of fur against skin as the alien placed his hand flat on his chest.
Their eyes locked.

* * *

Phlox hurried into the severely damaged quarters, indicating with a brief gesture that the two security officers should remain outside due to the size of the room. He concentrated on the crumpled feline form on the floor, only barely registering Malcolm closing his suit with a wince. Running a quick diagnostic scan over the body he grimaced at the readings. There was no way the alien could be saved. A fur covered hand shot up, closing around his wrist, and he could hear the deep, almost subsonic purr that was part of the alien’s communication.
“ ... Razor ... my fault ... take to safety before ... Razor...“
Then the creature exhaled and the grip around Phlox’s wrist went lax. It was no more.
The complete reality of the situation hit him, and he groped for his instruments, trying to save what was left. Another hand, human, appeared in his field of vision and he looked up, right into Malcolm’s pale face, only illuminated by the bluish light of the suit’s helmet. Reed shook his head slightly, patting his chest with his fingertips.
“We’re finished. We - did what we came here for.”
Phlox blinked twice before his mind had processed the complete information, before he finally realized the gravity of the Lieutenant’s statement.
“Lieutenant…”
“Let’s get back to Enterprise,” Reed interrupted calmly. “Jupiter Station is waiting for us.”

* * *

Archer briefly hung his head, then sighed slightly as Phlox calmly delivered the sad and final news from the Denoblian transporter. No survivors. Even those who had still been alive were now dead.
“Thank you, doctor. Should we bring the bodies aboard?”
“No. Please relay a message to my homeworld, detailing the position of the ship. That is all that is required.”
“All right. Archer out.” He turned to Hoshi. “Compose a message and send it to Denoblia.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jon mentally restrained himself from hitting the armrest of his chair in utter frustration. The whole situation was highly annoying, the loss of life as unnecessary as it could be. He was preparing himself for reporting the incident to Forrest when he became aware of a slightly uneasy feeling, something he had detected earlier. It had nothing to do with the fact that eleven lives had just been wiped out of existence, one of them a diplomat of an unknown race.
Malcolm hadn’t reported back immediately.
His Armory Officer; the head of security. The man who was so stuck to the rulebook sometimes, Archer suspected he slept with the damn thing under his pillow. Yes, he had changed profoundly ever since getting together with Trip, but ingrained training didn’t change all that easily.
And a man of Malcolm Reed’s training wouldn’t have let a medical officer make the report.

*

“Doctor, what’s wrong with Malcolm?” Archer inquired as he stepped into sickbay.
News that his lieutenant had gone from the shuttle straight into quarantine had reached him immediately. Phlox hadn’t mentioned a word of it when they had been in contact before.
The Denoblian looked up, his expression grave.
“He’s currently in quarantine, Captain. Decon detected an unknown virus in him.”
“What kind of virus?”
“If I knew that, Captain, it wouldn’t be unknown.”
He scowled at his doctor, then walked over to the transparent section of wall that marked the barrier between sickbay and quarantine. Malcolm was sitting on the single bed, looking a bit pale and shaken, but otherwise okay.
“Malcolm?”
“Captain,” he greeted him.
Archer’s eyes fell on the chest wound. “What happened over there?”
“The man we were supposed to pick up had been of a feline race, sir. He convulsed as he died and I was caught by his claws.”
Archer frowned. From anyone else he would have accepted the explanation, but not from Malcolm Reed. The man was very cautious when dealing with alien life forms and he would never have come close enough to a claw-handed alien to get skewered. Right through the flexible and very enduring material of the EV suit, as well as the thermal layer underneath, leaving still deep gauges.
But he let it slip.
For now.
“So the virus was transferred through the wound?”
“Apparently,” Phlox spoke up. “It’s attacking Mr. Reed’s system on several levels. I have never seen anything like it before and since it could be highly contagious, and is resistant to Decon bombardment, he has to stay in quarantine.”
“I understand. Malcolm, is there anything you need?”
Reed smiled dimly. “A book would be nice.”
Archer smiled back. “I’ll see what I can find.” He turned to Phlox. “I want detailed updates on Malcolm’s condition.”
“Of course.”
With that he left sickbay again, mind whirling, always coming back to a few facts that didn’t sit well with him.
Malcolm had exposed himself to an alien attack.
Why?
He had been injured.
How exactly?
And Phlox had put him into quarantine.
Why hadn’t the two security men been there? Why had Malcolm gone in alone, come close enough to what had to be claws from hell, and been hurt?
Archer wanted answers and he wanted them now.

* * *

Phlox had been in contact with Denoblia twice in the hours since Lieutenant Reed’s quarantine. He had received a few more specifics about the virus now coursing through the human’s system, but it didn’t really help much. It told him nothing completely new, but he had given the information to his patient as well. Reed needed to know what he was dealing with.
What they had to deal with. One way or the other.
Of course, the people who had contacted him, and Lieutenant Reed, were less than happy with what had occurred. Malcolm’s orders had been far from specific, there had been room for interpretation, but apparently his interpretation was not the preferred one.
Approaching the quarantine room, Phlox checked on his patient’s current status. Still rather stable, he noticed with a small amount of satisfaction, but there were first indicators as to what to expect.
He activated the comm unit.
“Hello, Lieutenant. How do you feel?”
 

Malcolm looked up from the biobed he was sitting on, reading a magazine. “Not as bad as I would have expected, doctor. From the description I...”
“Mal!”
The southern drawl from the door interrupted him, as Trip stormed into sickbay.
His lover looked worried and exasperated in one, trying not to let the worry take over.
“Heard you’re here. Mal, what the hell happened out there? Can’t let you out of my sight for even a little mission like this, can I?”
Malcolm couldn’t help smiling, watching his lover all but gluing himself to the glass wall dividing sickbay from the quarantine area. Trip was babbling only to mask his worry, he knew that. Reed strode to the wall, putting his hand on the glass, pretending to touch warm flesh and skin instead of rather cold, high security plastic. He saw Trip’s eyes widen in shock when his lover’s gaze fell on his chest, and he swore inwardly. Starfleet underwear wasn’t fit to hide the deep scratches where the alien claws had embedded themselves when the feline creature had convulsed. Nor did the shirt hide the fact that the wounds, despite Phlox’s treatment, were still oozing.
“Malcolm?”
It was a mere whisper, carrying all the emotion Trip had tried to suppress over the last few weeks: worry, confusion, fear. Malcolm tried to smile, tried to reassure the man he had loved for over four years now, that he was fine, that everything would be all right eventually—and found he couldn’t do it.
Because he knew better.
 

Trip took in the angry, still oozing welts in his lover’s flesh—looking like something an angry animal would do—and the grayish color of the skin. All in all Malcolm looked like the proverbial death warmed over.
“Mal?” he whispered in shock. //Please, no, not again, not you, not now ... what’s going on here...//
Before Malcolm could answer, a violent sneeze wrecked the suddenly fragile looking body of his lover, and Trip gasped when he saw the crimson splatters hitting the glass wall.
“Malcolm!” And a second later. “Phlox!”

* * *

Archer impatiently tapped his fingers on the smooth surface of the desk. There was something so not right here it threatened to bite him into his behind if he didn’t turn quickly enough.
Let’s sum up, he mused.
His Armory Officer was in quarantine due to a foreign virus he had been exposed to during the injury of a dying alien’s claws.
His Armory Officer.
We’re talking about Malcolm Reed here...
That would mean Malcolm must have been close to those claws so that they had been able to sink into his flesh the way they seemed to have done during a convulsion while dying. Claws that were so razor sharp they could cut through a Starfleet EV suit.
Why in god’s name would he do that?
And why hadn’t ANYbody reported his injury? It must have been obvious.
Like the two security men with him. Archer called up their names. Ensigns Michael Montoya and Erica Lewandowsky. Their brief reports about the visit to the wreck were already in the data base and Archer scanned them.
No mentioning of Lieutenant Reed receiving an injury. Even though they hadn’t been present, they should have seen the damage to the suit. Emergency repairs should have followed, closing the ripped area as to not endanger their colleague any further.
Nothing
Nada.
Zilch.
Unless.
Archer changed folders and let his eyes wander over the enquired list just seconds later.
The quartermaster hadn’t reported any damaged suits for over three weeks.
And he hadn’t today.
Leaning back Archer’s eyebrows dipped while his suspicion rose.
It would mean Malcolm must not have worn the suit.
Right.
Malcolm Reed, in a dangerous situation, onboard a seriously compromised alien vessel, with whatever hazardous particles and gas in the atmosphere, in front of a dying alien creature. Not worn his suit.
Yeah, right.
Something was definitely not right here.
The captain reached for the comm button. “Ensign Lewandowski, please report to the captain.”

* * *

Malcolm couldn’t say he was feeling very good. Not even ‘fine’. Truth to be told, he was feeling downright miserable. It felt like the mother of all colds, with his head aching, his throat sore, his lungs congested, but it wasn’t a simple cold. It was a virus, yes. He had voluntarily infected himself with it, and was now carrying the deadliest weapon in himself that the universe had probably ever known.
A weak smile crossed his thin lips.
“How stupid can you be?” he whispered, his voice rough in his own ears.
Very stupid, was the answer.
It wasn’t as if it had been an accident. He had fully known what he was doing when he had allowed the parasite to enter him. He had been aware that in all possibility, he might not survive this. But he had a mission to do, orders to follow, and these orders had been quite specific.
What Reed carried within his system was a weapon, artificially born, that had all the abilities and generics of a virus. It had been developed by a now dead race; a scientific breakthrough, a once in a lifetime find. An intelligent weapon of such deadly intention, that it could wipe out an entire nation, a race, a specific genetic group or a planet. And wipe out it had. Set lose by accident, the few strands of cells had killed the race that had invented it within a very short amount of time. Just a few years.
The name of the race wasn’t known, but there was no chance of Enterprise accidentally passing it any time soon. And even if they did, all they would find were empty ruins. No trace of the former inhabitants. They had been reduced to... nothing. Myths and legends were told about the race that had died here, some containing kernels of truth.
According to Starfleet, more precisely the Secret Service, the virus infected its host’s body, destroying it within a matter of days. The main carrier host remained alive for a while, transferring the infection, then it was dumped and the main cell cluster, the parasite, sought out another. It was an epidemic, pure and simple.
Malcolm coughed and grimaced as specs of blood fell onto his hand. Great. More coughing up of blood. Not good at all.
The airlock swished open and Phlox, in full quarantine gear, entered the highly secured room. His serious expression alone told Malcolm volumes.
“Hey, doc,” he whispered.
“Lieutenant. How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve pneumonia,” he answered, coughing again.
“The symptoms you exhibit are parallel with pneumonia,” the Denoblian informed him. “I can try and treat it, but with the presence of the parasite, I can’t be certain of the results.”
Malcolm nodded and tried to sit up. The exertion to get upright took most of his strength out of him, leaving him pale, sweating and breathless.
The parasite, which carried the designation RZ001R, had been rather planet bound for a while, but another species had set foot on the by by then dead world, a species that was only called the Hosts. Unlike Vulcans, Klingons, Humans and all the other species the RZ001R found ‘edible’, they could carry the intelligent weapon without it harming them. And they had given it a kind of sanctuary.
Why was anyone’s guess. No one knew.
Malcolm closed his eyes and tried to ignore the soreness, the headache, the general feeling of illness.
Phlox injected him whatever it was he had cooked up.
“I’ve tripled the normal dosage,” he explained. “We have to wait a few hours to see if it has any effect.”
“Thanks,” he murmured.
Malcolm wished the alien who had died in his arms was still alive. He would give him a piece of his mind for sure. Traipsing around the universe with a deadly weapon inside him! It was irresponsible.
Normally the Host carrying the weapon remained planet-bound, like a large part of his species. The Hosts were an old but mostly unknown race. Curious, highly intelligent and capable of space flight, but they preferred to tag along, be part of another ship’s crew, and learn. In case of the one carrying the parasite, traveling was dangerous, but he had left his home world for whatever reason, and he had become sick.
And died in my arms, Malcolm thought humorlessly. All I had to do was use Enterprise’s weapons and destroy the matter-antimatter generator, burn the ship. But no, I had to be a good officer and follow orders.
Enterprise had been the closest ship to the Denoblian transport vessel, where the Host had hired on as an observer, and Forrest had asked them to pick up a sick diplomat and bring him to Jupiter Station. Reed had his doubts that the Admiral actually knew what precisely he had ordered them to pick up and deliver. Judging from where his original orders had come from, it was unlikely.
Another Host was waiting to receive the parasite on Jupiter Station, and in an ideal world, the original feline alien would now be in his place.
Huh, ideal.
When had that ever been the case?
For Starfleet and Earth, this ‘run’ meant danger, but also a chance to make contact with a mostly unknown species and maybe a friendly first contact.
You never know when such a helpful gesture would be appreciated in the future, Malcolm thought dimly.
As a weapons officer, Reed was fascinated by the specifics of this creature; as a security officer he was horrified as to what could happen to this ship, this crew, if the parasite got lose.
He must have dozed off because the next time he was consciously aware of anyone, was when Phlox gently tried to rouse him.
“What?” he murmured, confusion reigning in his mind.
“You need to take in more fluids, Lieutenant,” Phlox told him, voice calming. “Please try to drink something or I’ve to hook you up to an IV.”
Malcolm’s hands were shaking as he took the bottle and sipped tentatively at it.

* * *

Archer looked at the ensign sitting in front of him, looking nervous but composed. Ensign Michel Montoya, like his colleague Lewandowski, was still very young and had just been out of the Academy with high grades when they had been placed on Enterprise. He had an excellent record and there had never been any complaints.
“So you never went with Lieutenant Reed?” Archer now asked.
“No, sir. We were told to accompany Dr. Phlox, since he would be taking care of the two survivors on the bridge. The lieutenant would try and find the third.”
“When did you arrive at Lieutenant Reed’s position?”
“About fifteen minutes after the doctor told us that the two Denoblians on the bridge had died. Lieutenant Reed had forced open the door to the private quarters and was kneeling next to a body.”
“You are certain it was a body?”
“I never saw much of it, sir,” Montoya explained. “The cabin was small and barely fit three, let alone five people the shape it was in. Dr. Phlox told us to stay outside.”
“What about Mr. Reed’s injury?”
Confusion crossed the young man’s features. “His injury?”
“Apparently the lieutenant received three deep gauges across the chest.”
Montoya shook his head. “Ah, no sir. I never saw an injury.”
“No damage to the EV suit?” the captain pressed on.
“None that I could see. If the suit had been compromised, the lieutenant wouldn’t have risked the trip back to the shuttle. The danger of sudden depressurization is too great...”
Archer nodded. “Thank you, Ensign Montoya. That will be all.”
Montoya rose and nodded once, then left.
Archer sank back into his chair. Montoya’s story corroborated with Lewandowsky’s. No damage to the EV suit. So their very own Mr.-I’m-paranoid-about-aliens Reed had opened the EV suit and had received those painfully deep scratch marks.
Why?
Not to forget what he had found when skimming over the Decon logs. Malcolm Reed had never been in Decon. For whatever reason, Phlox had whisked the lieutenant straight into sickbay and quarantine.
Why?
He would find out. One way or another.

* * *

Define intelligence.
It was called the ability to learn and remember what had been learned, to communicate in one way or the other, to adapt to new situations, to actually process a situation and change accordingly to it. And finally, to be self-aware.
People called computers intelligent. Or dogs. Dolphins. Cats.

Define sentiency.
The ability to differentiate between the concept of ‘you’ and the concept of ‘me’. To be able to emphasize, project oneself into the situation of another, feel with the other, understand that person. To more than just rationally know of the emotional spectrum, to actually realize the pain and joy, sadness and happiness another felt.
What was sentient?
A machine? Something artificially created?
 

It had been in the human for a very long time by now. Too long. Way too long. Its own resolve not to attack the one helping it was weakening with each hour, and by now its involuntary host was feeling the effects of its presence. Curled into a tight ball, not allowing itself near those tempting and delicious cells it instinctively sought after and devoured in each infected body, it contemplated what to do. Part of it was stretched out, touching its host, and even those little touches hurt the human.
But it couldn’t help itself.
It was what it was. It had been developed to do this and the instincts were rather strong. Its own wish never to kill again, horrified what it had done in the past because of its programming, couldn’t persevere against the primal instinct to survive.
Strangely enough, the human’s body was fighting it. Not with antibodies, but with an energy coming from within the human, not from outside. Whenever it lost its own control over the instinctual part, something pushed it away, contained it again.
Very strange.
But probably the only thing that saved the human from dying right now.
Needing to be in some contact with the outside world, RZ001R did what it normally did in the Host race: attach itself to the sensory organs. While unable to speak to the human as such, it could see and hear what he did, which was how he learned his name.
Malcolm Reed.
There was also the physician treating them both in quarantine, a Denoblian called Phlox.
So existed inside the host, hoping it wouldn’t damage him irrevocably. It would forever feel guilty about it. The harm already inflicted was quite a lot.
And then the apparently natural defense wavered. Not for long, but long enough for instinct to scream too loudly, and it had to follow. By the time the human fought back again, RZ001R had done some more damage.
Not much later, a second fluctuation in the ‘shields’, as it now called the protective walls, resulted in another deadly feeding spree, leaving the human barely conscious and in a quickly deteriorating condition.
It had to stop these fluctuations.
Slowly, as carefully as was possible in the current situation, it rose to the surface of the human mind, taking over control, using synapses and neural pathways.

*

“Phlox.”
Dr. Phlox looked up from his test results, eye ridges rising fractionally. His name had been spoken by his patient, through the com. Reed had been unconscious after the last visit by Commander Tucker, a visit cut short by the rather spectacular dead faint and the succeeding attempts to stabilize the weakening man. Phlox hadn’t expected the man to regain consciousness any time soon.
He depressed the answering button.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“No, I am Razor.”
The raised eye ridges dipped into a frown and something inside the Denoblian clenched briefly. Razor. It was what the dying Host had said as well, apparently calling the RZ001R by a name given to it by another race. He quickly stepped toward the viewing window and found himself eye to eye with Malcolm Reed.
Or not Malcolm Reed.
The lieutenant sat almost stiffly on the bed, hands resting on his knees, eyes and face close to expressionless.
“Please do not be alarmed,” he/it said, the voice, while still Lieutenant Reed’s, curiously without the British accent. “It is my only way to communicate. I need to talk to you.”
Fascinating. Intriguing. Incredible.
The reports from Starfleet and Denoblia had mentioned that the weapon was intelligent, but that wasn’t the same as sentient. Apparently, it was sentient.
“You have attached yourself to Mr. Reed’s nervous system?” he asked.
“Yes. It is highly dangerous. I devour nervous cells. Detaching myself will prove to be difficult. Communicating is a risk, but I had to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“My host is dying.”
Phlox’s lips became a thin line. “Yes, I know.”
“Not as quickly as a normal human would, though. He is fighting me,” Razor carefully added. “But I have noticed fluctuations. Each time, he grew worse. You need to stop it or I cannot stop doing what I was programmed to do. I do not want to kill him. I do not want to kill anyone any more.”
Phlox’s mind was racing.
Malcolm was fighting the virus; he was keeping it in check somehow.
Something triggered Razor now and again, and each time the Lieutenant had suffered for it.
“I understand,” he said slowly, thinking back to what had happened within the last 36 hours, what might have triggered the attacks.
Something stood out.
Commander Tucker.
His visits, which had coincided with Lieutenant Reed’s deteriorating condition each time. It might be the cause, but how could he be sure of it? Calling the commander to come down to sickbay, exposing Reed to whatever it was that triggered Razor’s program, was highly dangerous. The parasite itself had told him that he was hard pressed to fight his instinct each time.
“Is there something I can do to help?” the Denoblian finally asked.
Razor smiled, the smile being inhuman and without humor. “Bring me a Host, Doctor.”
Phlox’s eyes met the expressionless gray ones. It sounded so easy, but it was the hardest thing in the world.

* * *

Trip Tucker had been patient for a long time now. Very patient. First there had been Malcolm’s sudden admittance to sickbay, quarantine no less. Then, at his first visit, Phlox had nearly bodily removed him from the premises. A second visit, about a day later, had resulted in another forceful removal, this time after Malcolm had collapsed in an unconscious heap from one second to the next. Trip would never be able to forget the sudden drain of color, the gray eyes rolling up, and his partner falling onto the floor like a puppet with cut strings.
This time he would stay. He would get answers!
He would confront Phlox.
He wouldn’t have thought that their doctor could be quite so... forceful, though.
“Commander, I’m asking you again to leave my sickbay.”
“The hell I will!” Trip exploded. “The man in there is my partner! I’ve the right to be here, damnit!”
“Your presence is worsening his condition,” Phlox said calmly.
“Worsening my ass! He is in quarantine! How can me being here make him worse?”
As if on cue, the alarms on the bio-monitors shrilled and Phlox hurried over to the controls. His expression darkened, then grew even graver than it had been. In the quarantine room, Malcolm Reed started to cough weakly, each breath a raspy fight for air, his body shaking with seizures.
“Commander, please,” he insisted.
Trip violently shook his head. “No!”
The alien, white-blue eyes met his and Phlox’s face took on a strange expression. He made a soft, grunting sound and then just slipped into the quarantine gear, using the airlock to enter Reed’s ‘prison’.
Trip remained glued to the window, watching every move the doctor made until he left the cubicle again. By that time, Malcolm was almost unconscious.
“Commander, the signs are clear,” Phlox repeated as he pulled off the protective suit’s hood.” Each time you visited, Mr. Reed exhibited signs of deterioration. The first time he sneezed blood, the second he fainted. If you will look at the monitors now, he is getting worse by the minute. He was stable until a few minutes ago.”
“If you think you can blame your own shortcomin’s as a doctor on me, you got the wrong person, doc!” Trip snarled.
Phlox’s face shifted into a mask of polite dismissal, but there was anger beneath that mask. “Commander, I will ask you one more time to leave sickbay, or I will call security and have you removed.”
“Ah’m not leavin’!”
He tried to push past the alien medic to get closer to the window again, but strong hands grasped him.
“Trip.”
Tucker stopped short. Phlox had never called him by his first name, or his nick. Now it was spoken with such quiet authority, it stopped him dead in his track.
“Malcolm is getting worse and worse by the day. The virus he was infected with is highly contagious, very deadly, and I have no means of treating him. All I can do is try; experiment, so to speak. Keep him stable enough until we get to Jupiter Station.”
“You cured Porthos,” Trip argued hotly. “He was infected with somethin’ unknown as well.”
“Unknown, no. It was a pathogen from a planet’s atmosphere. I nearly lost him, too.”
“Can’t you transplant some kind of gland into Malcolm, too?”
Phlox smiled sadly. “No. Mr. Reed’s condition is by far worse. And for whatever reason, your mere presence is making it even more serious.”
“But...”
“Please. Follow my advice. You can talk to him over the comm, but don’t come close to sickbay.”
Trip’s whole stance deflated into one of utter defeat. His eyes sought out the transparent wall panel that showed him his lover, curled up on the quarantine bed, face pale, drawn and sweaty. He wanted to comfort him, be with him, be there for him. He could do nothing. Nothing at all.
“Commander?”
“Yeah. Okay,” he whispered.

* * *

Archer had not followed up on his detailed detective work so far, except to look around some more. He had yet to confront Phlox with his findings, the lies the man had told—just like his security officer.
Something was definitely wrong here. Something that was slowly killing Malcolm, something that kept Phlox in an almost muted state of mind. The normally so cheerful Denoblian was suddenly very serious and barely left sickbay any more. Access to quarantine was restricted to him and no one else.
But throwing Trip out had almost broken the camel’s back. Archer had been close to going down there and ordering his medical officer to tell him what in blazes was happening.
But he didn’t.
Not yet.
And there was still one thing he hadn’t done: call Forrest. If this was something so secretive, something only two people were apparently completely aware of, something not even T’Pol seemed to know, then Forrest was his next best bet.
And Jonathan Archer placed a call.

* * *

Trip sat on Malcolm’s bed, in his lover’s quarters, leaning against the wall. His head rested against the cool metal, eyes gazing sightlessly at no specific point.
“How are you?” he asked softly.
“I’ve felt better,” came the raspy reply. “But Phlox told me I’ve been stable since last night. Some good news.” A soft laugh made it over the comm unit.
Tucker smiled sadly. “Yeah. Wish I could see you.”
“So do I, Trip. But... please heed the doctor’s orders.”
“Yeah,” he murmured again, hands twisting in the sheets. “Just wanna see you, Mal. I know I can’t touch you. Kiss you. Anythin’. Just wanna... see you,” he repeated once more, voice wavering.
“Trip,” his lover’s voice whispered. “Please...”
“Love you.” Trip could almost see the smile, the gray eyes, the wonderful warmth. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I know, Trip,” Malcolm murmured, coughing slightly. “I’d love to see you, too, but you can’t.”
No, he couldn’t. Something made Malcolm’s condition worse every time he was near his partner, and no one knew what it was. Phlox had given very specific instructions and while he had protested and even called the captain, nothing could be done about it. In medical cases, Phlox had the final authority. He was using it right now.
All he could do was use the comm system.
He did so whenever he had time. Whenever Malcolm felt well enough, which was growing more and more infrequent.
“It’s some secrecy thing, right?” the engineer sighed. “You an’ Phlox know what’s goin’ on. No one else does. Somethin’ to do with the Denoblian ship.”
“Trip...” his partner begged.
“I know, I know. You can’t tell me. Never. Spy stuff or somethin’. Y’know, I’d never be able t’do it. Can’t keep a secret. Face like an open book.”
Malcolm chuckled. It sounded raspy and wet. Trip winced, one hand brushing over the pillow, then clenching into it. There was nothing he could do. Nothing at all. Just sit around and wait.
Useless.
“Get better,” he whispered. “Please.”
“Doing my best,” was the soft answer.
With that, the comm clicked off.
Trip curled up on the bed the two of them had shared so many times in the last years, hugging a pillow and wishing it was another sort of pillow. My Malcolm-pillow, he sighed. But Malcolm was incarcerated in quarantine and nobody had the slightest idea if he would make it.
Don’t go there.
He’s strong. The strongest man I’ve ever known. The man I love. The man who belongs to me, at my side – the two of us together, through thick and thin.
It couldn’t get any thicker than that…
Trip let his mind wander. All he wanted was at least feel close to Malcolm by being surrounded by his lover’s personal things. Trip knew Malcolm wouldn’t feel offended by his actions, most likely would do right the same, would the situation be reversed.
It didn’t work.
He still felt lonely, somewhat empty, though deep inside him he could feel his lover’s presence.
So strange.
So natural.
He had never thought about it. Not really. He had never felt anything close to what he experienced with Malcolm; not with any of his past lovers. This was unique; just them.
And he was about to lose it.
He’s not dead, Trip.
And he wouldn’t die, oh no. Malcolm wouldn’t dare do that to him, not after all they went through together. A part of Trip’s mind, maybe the more rational part, noticed shyly the futility of thoughts like that - as if Malcolm had a saying in this.
Bloody Brit’s too stubborn to die.
Not after...
…for a fraction of a second the water had caved in over him, buried them both, and then... the blur.
We should have been dead then.
But we aren’t.
Still alive and kicking ...
Why?
Every time Malcolm had tried to bring the matter up, Trip had felt - helpless, vulnerable, even to his own lover. And he had seen what trying to remember did to Malcolm every time. Not that he didn’t want to know, mind you.
But not at all costs, no sir.
Trip knew he had acted foolish by clinging to Malcolm like - what? A dependent child? A shadow? Whatever. He couldn’t explain his rather irrational behavior even to himself, all he knew was he didn’t want to lose sight of the man he loved; the burning need to stay close to him, the urgency to touch, even in his sleep. Sure, they had been sleeping spooned up behind one another, but not this close. Sometimes Trip wondered why Malcolm never said a word.
Because he loves you, stupid.
Yes.
But there was more.
Like now.
The feeling deep inside of him, an awareness of the other man’s - essence? Very soul? Trip had no words to elucidate the sensations.
Supplement, a very far away, very alien voice whispered. You are bonded. You are different.
Yeah, right.

* * *

They were twelve hours away from their destination when Archer finally received an answer from his message to Forrest that they needed to talk.
In the time that had passed, Malcolm’s condition had grown serious. Very, very serious. His Armory Officer was by now unable to keep his hands from shaking, sit up without help or complete exertion, and had problems seeing. According to Phlox, he was mirroring symptoms of someone suffering from multiple sclerosis. But whatever the doctor tried as a treatment for that particular illness, it had no effect.
Not to mention his chief engineer. Trip’s whole personality seemed to be dampened, muted, and he was barely seen outside work any more. When he was on duty, he was clearly running on autopilot. Answers were monosyllabic. His performance was as reliable as always, but Archer didn’t recognize his long-time and best friend any more.
No wonder.
Malcolm was dying in sickbay.
That Forrest was unable to tell him anything of importance, let alone actually answer his questions, frustrated Archer even more.
All he received were clear-cut orders: dock at the assigned port, let the quarantine unit handle Malcolm Reed, then report to the Admiral.
Great. Just great.
Military hierarchy.
What fun.
 

Exactly eleven hours and forty-nine minutes later, they docked.

* * *

The quarantine unit of Jupiter Station was a sterile, almost inhospitable place. The single room where Malcolm lay in, hooked up to monitors and several feeds, was brightly lit and whoever was allowed to enter—after passing through two airlocks—was dressed in full EV suit gear. Currently, a doctor and a nurse were in the room, each barely recognizable under the protective outfit.
Reed looked worse than when he had been whisked out of sickbay in a hermetically sealed container, almost like a decompression chamber but smaller, and brought aboard the station. He had lost weight, his skin was an almost translucent white, and each breath was taken for him by a machine. Tubes were running into his body, electrodes attached to his skin, while the biobed kept its own readings of the fading body.
Julius McKay, Head of Xenomedicine, looked up and met the eyes of the watcher. The man safely behind the security glass didn’t say anything, but the medic in the EV suit nodded nevertheless and then left the quarantine room. After passing the airlocks and getting a green light, he peeled off the suit.
“We need a Host,” was the first thing the dark-haired doctor said.
“He is on his way.”
“Reed can’t last much longer, sir. It’s a miracle he has survived this long already. I talked to the parasite just after he was brought here, and it is necessary to remove him. The Lieutenant is comatose.”
“I know, Dr. McKay. All I can tell you is that a Host is coming here.”
If Enterprise would have picked up the sick Host, it would have been safe and simple. No one had thought of emergency procedures that included the ship’s Armory Officer taking on the weapon.
“Twenty-four hours,” McKay insisted. “It’s all the parasite can give us. Any longer and we will lose him.”
“I understand.”
And he did.
He knew what had happened, was actually one of the few who did. He was part of Starfleet’s intelligence department, a secret service so to speak, and he had been among those arranging for the transfer of the sick Host to Jupiter Station.
So, yes, he understood.
In twenty-four hours, Malcolm Reed would die of the deadly virus infection called RZ001R, and after that, the weapon would be free to seek a new host.
It could destroy the station.
It could destroy a planet.
If they didn’t destroy it first.

* * *

Forrest tried not to let his own annoyance show as he watched his captain, the man in command of Starfleet’s pride and joy. Jonathan Archer was one of the best men he knew. Some called him too lax in his style of command, too independent from protocol, but it was what Starfleet had been looking for when it had been time to search for the right man to lead their first interstellar mission. Archer was a man who cared about his men, about the whole crew. And because of that, he was now close to going up walls.
Forrest sympathized.
“Jon, I know how you feel,” he said again. “But I know even less than you do. I wasn’t told anything about the specific nature of the diplomat aboard the Denoblian vessel, nor that there might be the danger for you and your crew.”
“Someone knew! My own chief medical officer knew!”
The Admiral nodded.
“So someone contacted him, and Lieutenant Reed as well, telling them what to expect. We never took the body of the dead alien aboard, just left coordinates with the Denoblian government for them to pick them all up. Why, Admiral?”
Forrest interlaced his fingers. “I don’t know, Jon. I tried to find out, but no one seems to know.”
Archer snorted in disbelief and disgust. “Right! Someone does!” he insisted.
“I agree, but it goes somewhere else than simply Starfleet Command.”
“Where?”
“My personal suspicions are the Intelligence Service.”
Archer stared at him a moment, then shook his head in sheer amazement. “The secret service? And they asked Malcolm and Phlox?”
“Apparently. Jon, whatever went on out there, we probably will never know.”
“No use asking Malcolm. He can shut up tighter than a hermetically sealed room.” Archer rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Forrest smiled briefly. “I’m sorry I can’t give you more, but I’m as much in the dark as you are.”
“Thanks anyway.” The captain rose. “I’ll see if I can at least get an update on my lieutenant’s condition.”
With that he left the Admiral’s office, deep in thought.

* * *

In another part of the station, Trip Tucker, out of uniform and dressed in a loose shirt and pants, sat in a small, secluded bar, staring at his drink. Music thrummed around him, hard and heavy, close to the limit where enjoyment turned into pain. It seemed to by-pass the ears, going right into every cell.
He didn’t notice.
People moved about in the semi-darkness, drinking, laughing, talking. Some looked rather seedy, others seemed to have no place here, all dressed up and looking oh-so proper.
He didn’t notice.
Waitresses brought more drinks, alcoholic or not. Games were on here or there, others watched TV. Some of the women who came in alone tried to hook up with a man, uncaring of the origin, earning their share of money for tonight.
He didn’t care.
Trip had turned down several offers, male and female, and had simply curled up in the semi-dark booth with his drink. He wasn’t hungry, not even for a little snack that was offered for free on the grimy table. It looked rather moldy anyway.
As if he really cared.
What he cared about was one person, currently in quarantine, hidden and protected behind impenetrable walls. He wasn’t allowed to see his partner, let alone to talk to him, though with Malcolm in a coma, it was useless anyway. He wanted to hear that British accented voice again, touch his lover, laugh and joke around, kiss him, hold him, make love to him.
That was what he cared about.
But Tucker had been turned away from quarantine immediately. He had briefly caught sight of Phlox, saw the serious expression in the Denoblian’s eyes, and something inside of him had cracked.
Malcolm wasn’t good. He was even worse than before. He knew that, but Trip had firmly held on to the belief that here, on this station, was rescue. Was the cure.
Twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four stinking hours!
No news, no contact, nothing. He had first stayed aboard Enterprise, but the sympathetic looks from some of the skeleton crew that was still aboard to oversee dry-docking for a while, had been too much. As had been the questions as to how his partner was. So Trip had fled, packed a few things and left.
Only to come here.
The less than reputable part of Jupiter Station.
As if he cared.
Sipping at the burning liquid, he let dull, blue eyes wander around. So many people not giving a damn, carefree, intoxicated, having fun. He wasn’t even properly intoxicated yet. Somehow the alcohol wouldn’t go down. It tasted stale, if there was taste at all. And it wasn’t the quality of the liquid; it was him. Food seemed to be made out of cardboard, drinks were stale water...
God, Mal, I want to be with you, he thought tiredly. Just for a moment. What if... what if...?
The crack widened, starting to bleed, and Trip’s eyes filled with tears.
What if that little moment in sickbay was the last time he had ever seen his lover?

* * *

Phlox watched the graceful alien enter the quarantine unit, completely unprotected, only dressed in his normal, traditional garb. Like its dead predecessor, it looked feline, with the same big ears and large black eyes that now gazed at the frail, human figure on the bed, then traveled over the medical data displayed on the monitors. But unlike the brownish fur from the dead Host, this one was black.
The Host was alone in the room. Everyone else had been asked to wait outside because if Razor was tempted by a near-by human target, the transfer might be interrupted. Both the parasite and Malcolm Reed were in an unstable condition.
Clawed, slender hands stroked over one bare arm down to the pale, thin fingers of the current carrier of the RZ001R. The sharp looking nails left almost invisible, red lines.
“Are you conscious?” The question was spoken in an almost musical lilt, a hidden purr behind the words.
Gray eyes opened. “Yes,” came the almost inflectionless answer. “He won’t last much longer.”
“I know.”
The dangerous looking claws curled gently around one forearm.
“Is he strong enough to withstand the transfer?”
“He is stronger than any human I have ever met,” Razor answered carefully, closing his current host’s fingers around his future Host’s forearm. “He wouldn’t have lasted this long otherwise.”
The Host nodded. “But will he survive the ordeal?”
“His chances are good.”
There was a moment of silence, then another nod. “Then let us proceed.”
Malcolm’s eyes slid shut, but the grip around the Host’s forearm tightened. To the outside world, nothing happened, but for the three life forms involved in the transfer of the parasite into another body, matters became dead serious.
 

Outside the quarantine chamber, Dr. Julius McKay exchanged a quick look with his Denoblian colleague. Phlox was watching the monitors, noting the decrease of Malcolm’s bio signs, and worry lines appeared on his features. Reed’s heart rate was spiking, his breathing was laborious and warning signals went off one by one. They needed to go in there and get the man intubated again, connect him to life support. But as long as the parasite was in transfer, it was too dangerous.
Suddenly the Host let go of Malcolm’s arm, placing it gently back onto the bed. The black eyes gazed at the human and Denoblian medics.
“You may enter now,” he said calmly.
McKay was already in quarantine gear, as was Phlox, and the two men donned their helmets and air tanks, walking through the two airlocks into the hermetically sealed chamber. The Host stepped back as they converged on their patient. Sad, dark eyes watched them work.

* * *

Jon Archer was surprised when he received a call from quarantine, allowing him to come by and see his lieutenant. He briefly wondered where Trip was, but ever since they had arrived at Jupiter Station, the man had disappeared. Archer was worried about his best friend, but currently there was nothing he could do. Except find some time to scout around the station.
“Mr. Reed suffers from severe cellular damage from the virus infection,” McKay explained. “Luckily, all his major organs are in good condition, but he will need to regenerate nervous cells, as well as most of the major muscle structures. It’s nothing we can’t help him with, but it will take time.”
“How long?” Archer asked, sounding calm and composed.
“Initial treatment will probably be a week to ten days. After that most of the nervous clusters will be repaired and he should have a limited mobility back. Physiotherapy will be accompanying the healing process, but I doubt he will be fit for any kind of duty for a while.”
“How long, doctor?” Archer repeated with a note of impatience.
“Estimates are a month.”
The captain exhaled slowly. “I understand. Is Malcolm conscious?”
“He is drifting in and out of consciousness. Most of the time he isn’t even aware of his surroundings. Dr. Phlox and my colleagues are doing whatever they can.”
“Thank you. Can I see him?”
“Of course.”
Archer was brought to the single room where Malcolm Reed lay on a biobed, looking like death warmed over. Literally. He was too thin, had no color left, and was hooked up to so many monitors and machines, he seemed to be the center of a very complicated machinery.
“He will be fine, captain.”
Archer looked up and into the sympathetic eyes of his chief medical officer. “I hope so, Phlox,” he said softly. “I don’t know what went on out there, I probably never will, but if Malcolm retains any kind of handicap from this, I’ll be on your case for the rest of the mission.”
Phlox nodded, expression serious. “I understand, captain.”
“Has Trip been here?”
“No. Like on board Enterprise, I couldn’t allow Commander Tucker close to the Lieutenant.” There was an almost apologetic tone to his voice.
“And now?”
“Now? Yes.”
“I’ll find him and bring him here.”
With that the captain left quarantine, set on his mission.

* * *

He found Trip in a bar the two men had once visited years back. A rather disreputable bar. Archer weaved his way through the clientele and toward where his chief engineer and best friend was nursing a beer.
Tucker looked bad. Hollow-faced, smudges under his eyes, his hair unkempt, his clothes hanging on his thin frame. His fingers played with the beer bottle and the glass in front of him was still almost full. The foam had dissipated a long time ago.
Archer slid into the only free chair and gazed at his friend. “Hey,” he said softly.
Blood-short eyes looked up and he winced at the devastated, hopeless expression. “Cap’n.”
“I’m coming from the medical bay. Malcolm is getting better.”
“Oh. Good.”
The eyes were lowered again, the fingers still played with the bottle, now flitting over the dry rim.
“I talked to the doctors. Whatever it was, it’s gone. You can visit him, Trip.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
But he didn’t move.
“Trip?”
Silence.
“Trip, if you don’t go and see Malcolm, I’ll bodily drag you there,” Archer threatened quietly.
Silence.
“And you know I don’t make idle promises!”
Again those painful eyes were raised. “They won’t let me see him, Jon.” Hopelessness dripped off his friend like a waterfall. “Never again. I’m hurtin’ him.”
“Not any more. Whatever it was, something to do with the virus, it’s gone. You can go see him now,” Archer insisted.
But Trip didn’t hear him at all.
“I hurt him, Jon. The man I claim I love. The man I’d nevah raise a hand against. How can I say I love ‘im? He hurts ‘cause of me.”
Archer grabbed one weakly flailing hand and wrapped his fingers tightly around the shaking wrist.
“Malcolm is fine. Whatever it was, whatever happened, it’s over.” He tugged gently at the wrist. “C’mon. Let’s get you out of here, showered and shaved, and then see Malcolm.”
“Jon...” The voice was so lost and small, Archer barely recognized his friend any more.
“You’ll be fine,” was all he could say. “Both of you.”
And he prayed it was the truth.
Trip rose hesitantly, reluctantly, and they left the bar.

* * *

Malcolm sat upright in his bed, feeling better than in days. Actually, nearly two weeks. His recollection of most of the time spent in Jupiter Station’s medical facilities was hazy at best, but the last two days were clearly imprinted on his mind. Most of all Trip’s presence.
He had been secretly horrified to see his partner for the first time after he had been allowed out of quarantine and into a regular room. Captain Archer had more or less manhandled him into the room, giving him a not so gentle shove and telling the reluctant blond to ‘stay, talk, or else!’.
Trip looked like hell, even though he had apparently showered and shaved, and his whole behavior had been severely muted. For a brief moment, Malcolm thought that Tucker looked like he felt. Additionally to that, it had been as if the blond had been terrified of touching Reed, which Malcolm had quickly handled by reaching out for him.
Their first touch had been hesitant, but Malcolm had pulled his lover closer until Trip had placed a soft kiss on his lips. Nothing more.
Still, it had been more than enough.
From that moment on, Trip was glued to his side. Not that he was complaining; far the opposite. But still, there had to be more constructive things his partner could do instead of baby-sitting him in sickbay. It wasn’t as if he was going anywhere any time soon. Trip would always know where to find him.
Being with him seemed to do wonders for Trip, though. A warmth had returned to his eyes and face that had been buried underneath so much pain and distress that Reed felt guilty himself. All because of the damned secrecy. Even now he couldn’t tell his partner what had really happened. It ate away at him and somehow Malcolm knew that Trip felt the unease, the tension, even if he was hiding it.
The strange phenomenon of Malcolm getting worse each time Trip had been close hadn’t helped either. No one could explain it. No one.
Neither of them cared what the staff thought of them holding hands. Or exchanging kisses. Trip rarely left his lover’s side now
Kissing was still exhausting Malcolm, which embarrassed the dark-haired man to no end. The same was true about walking, talking for longer stretches -- all the day-to-day normal routines. Still, the doctors and the physiotherapists were positive that he would regain all his muscular functions and coordination. He was healing just fine.
Trip squeezed the hand he was holding, getting Malcolm back to the Here and Now.
“You eatin’ that jelly?” he asked.
Malcolm grimaced. “No. You can have it.”
“I think it’s pineapple.”
He gave the yellowish jelly a closer look, poking experimentally at the semi-translucent mass. It jiggled briefly.
“I feel gracious today,” Malcolm declared. “You eat it.”
Trip chuckled and took the small bowl, spooning down the dessert.
Malcolm’s appetite was slow to return, but he had gained weight. Most of his food was high in calories, but his stomach couldn’t take the amounts required right now. Dr. McKay was still giving him energy shots.
Enterprise was stuck at the station as long as it took the Armory Officer to get back on his own two feet, which, by estimates made from McKay, was about a month. It meant some serious servicing for Starfleet’s pride and joy, as well as leave for the whole crew.
Trip had refused to go anywhere but where Malcolm was.
“Called my parents. Explained it all. They understand. Dad says they wanna come here, so we just sit tight,” he had explained.
Malcolm’s parents had been informed as well, but Reed had insisted that they stay on Earth, not come here. It would be futile. He was stuck in sickbay anyway. It hadn’t kept Trip from calling as well, telling the Reeds to come by whenever they wanted to. Their son would appreciate it.
The door to the private room opened and both men looked at their visitor. Phlox smiled a greeting.
“Commander, Lieutenant. How are you feeling?”
“Actually, all things considered, I’m feeling fine,” Malcolm answered with a little grin.
Trip squeezed his hand again, chuckling.
“Good. There is someone who would like to talk to you. Both of you,” Phlox went on.
He stepped aside and Malcolm tensed involuntarily as the graceful, black furred alien entered his room. Large ears turned slightly, a long tail swishing briefly, and those bottomless, black eyes seemed to see right into his very soul, Malcolm thought, shivering. He knew what kind of race the visitor belonged to. One of its kind had died in his arms not too long ago.
He tensed even more. Trip had instinctively reacted to his lover’s display of alarm, shifting bodily closer to him, even though Malcolm knew they didn’t have the slightest defense against an attack by the parasite.
“Please do not be alarmed,” the feline addressed them, the translator adding the words to the underlying, calming purring noise. “You are quite safe.”
“You are the new Host?” Malcolm asked, voice carefully neutral.
“The what?” Tucker asked, confused.
“I am. Razor is safely with me,” the Host answered. “We have come to thank you, Malcolm Reed, for your services and sacrifice. It was more than could be expected of any race.”
Reed shrugged self-consciously. “I had my orders.”
“These orders did not contain any suicide notes, Malcolm Reed. You were to save Razor or destroy it if that could not be accomplished. Most would have destroyed it.”
Malcolm’s face was unreadable and he felt Trip tense up at the word ‘suicide’. “It would have been a last resort.”
“I understand.”
“Mal?” Trip asked, confusion rising. “What’s going on here?”
The Host looked at Trip, then at their hands. “I understand you are mates? Partners?”
“Yes,” Reed confirmed.
“I see.”
“Would someone please explain to me what the heck is going on here?” Trip almost exploded.
The Host gave him an almost amused look. “Of course. I know your own people will want to keep this quiet, but I want you to know. Me and Razor.””
Trip’s jaw threatened to hit the ground as he listened to the explanation that followed. The grip around Malcolm’s hand tightened and became vice-like, making the other man wince.
“Trip,” he said softly.
“What?” the blond snarled. “First you accept some kinda idiotic mission from Starfleet Intelligence! You don’t even work for them, Malcolm! Then you get infected or somethin’ by an alien parasite that’s some kind of whacky weapon! This guy here tells me you voluntarily put yourself into a fatal situation, ready to die! What am I supposed to feel!” he demanded, shaking slightly.
Reed sighed. He had known it would come to this. “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”
“Damn right we will!”
“Malcolm Reed, are you aware that as a human, you survived a lot longer than any of your race should have?” the Host interrupted the exchange. “Even with the virus trying to control its natural instincts and the programming it still has inside it, your body was under a viral attack and should have succumbed to it.”
Trip’s features hardened. “Well, luckily for you and us, he didn’t!” he snapped.
Malcolm entwined their fingers. “Trip,” he said calmly.
Tucker exhaled explosively. “Hell, he comes in here an’ tells us you should be dead!”
“No, I’m trying to explain to you why you are different, Charles Tucker,” the Host purred.
“Diff’rent?”
“Razor was connected to you on a molecular level, Malcolm Reed. It touched you deep and more intimately than any medical probe ever can. And something inside you kept it at bay, pushed it back whenever it couldn’t stop from feeding. You have a natural defense against this kind of invasion.”
“I still nearly died.”
“Yes, because your defenses, according to Razor, were buffered several times. Something started to block whatever that is inside you.” Black eyes held blue ones and Trip stared at the feline.
“Whatcha lookin’ at me for?”
“Your partner seems to have a genetic predisposition inside him, a defense, something that is triggered by stress. He was under a lot of stress from the invasion by the virus, so he acted by instinct and ‘caged’ the Razor. You seem to have a similar disposition.”
“I have no clue whatcha talkin’ about!”
“Commander,” Phlox spoke up, stepping next to the Host. “You remember that I forbade you to enter sickbay? Because every time Lieutenant Reed’s condition worsened?”
“Yeah...?”
“Your presence coincided with the buffer effect,” the Denoblian explained. “Whatever it is that Mr. Reed did to control the parasite, you negated that... ability.”
Trip stared at the two aliens, then sat heavily on the chair. “I did... what? I mean... no!”
“Razor detected the genetic abnormity in Malcolm Reed. It knows human body structure and cellular composition. It knows their physiology. It has never seen anything like it found in you.” The Host locked eyes with the dark-haired man, then let them fall on Trip. “We could test you for a similar... difference.”
Malcolm sat up straighter. “How?” he demanded, as overrun by the news and revelations as Trip was.
“By letting Razor examine Charles Tucker.”
“What?!” Trip jumped up, backing away a step. “No way! That thing isn’t coming anywhere near me!”
The Host tilted his head. “Under controlled conditions, and for a brief time, it is quite harmless.”
“I’ve seen your harmless!” Tucker growled. “It nearly killed Malcolm!”
“The virus will not remain inside you, Charles Tucker. I will be there, with you.”
Trip’s breathing quickened and he shook his head. “No way! No way in hell!”
The Host nodded. “I understand your reluctance.”
“Reluctance my ass,” the engineer murmured under his breath.
“The fact remains, though,” Phlox spoke up again, “that Mr. Reed seems to harbor a remarkable ability. Something that seems to be... dampened by you, Commander. It’s not a medical condition and so far, I haven’t observed it before, but it is a matter that needs to be... studied.”
“I’m not going to be a guinea pig!” Reed stated immediately and with fervor.
Phlox smiled. “I wasn’t suggesting you’d be, Lieutenant.”
“You share a bond,” the Host told them. “It is there. Razor felt it. Whatever it is, it saved your life, Malcolm Reed. If you ever wish for a genetic analysis, feel free to contact us.”
The black eyes were on Trip again.
“Uh-huh. I think not,” was the muttered reply.
Malcolm rubbed his thumb over Tucker’s hand.
The expression in the feline face changed, his whole demeanor becoming somewhat stiff.
“I do not wish to do any harm, Charles Tucker.”
“Yeah, right.” Trip muttered, not noticing the subtle changes in the Host’s body language. But Malcolm had.
“Razor?” he asked calmly, feeling his lover’s fingers close tightly around his own at the name.
“Yes. I wish to express my gratitude also.”
“You can communicate?”
“Occasionally, should the necessity occur. Malcolm Reed, you saved my - life, by risking more than your own in the process. You were not ordered to do so.”
“In fact, I was.”
Looking into the huge black eyes Malcolm detected something he had seen before, in the other Host, a deep sadness and sorrow, and he understood, at least a part of it.
“I am... grateful... and very sorry, Malcolm Reed. It should never have happened.”
“You’re a goddamn weapon,” Trip exploded. “You kill people. Killed your own creators. And now you wanna tell me you’re sorry about nearly killing Malcolm?”
“Yes. Indeed I am, but I was not asked. I was programmed. I still am. If I leave the Host’s body I would follow my program again. I wish not to kill anymore. I - want to live. Learn more. About myself, about what I am, what I could become. Like you should do, Malcolm Reed, Charles Tucker. Learn about your origins, your - what do your people call it? - roots? Learn where you came from and you will know where you go.”
“Says the weapon.”
“No, Trip,” Malcolm tugged at his lover’s hand. “Says someone who is alone.”
Blue eyes locked with gray ones And Trip understood. At least part of him did. The only one of its kind. The first to be born, the only one to ever exist, living in fear and under the Damocles Sword of the death it could bring. It had no one; not even the Hosts could count as companionship.
“I... apologize,” he murmured.
“I understand emotions,” Razor said calmly. “I have learned to understand attachment. I have seen the bond you share together.”
Yes, the bond. It seemed to be humming between them, happy like Trip was that Malcolm was alive.
“Trip?” Reed queried.
Heedless of their observers Trip bent down to engage Malcolm in a long, comforting, reassuring kiss, each man soon aware of only the other one’s presence.
They didn’t notice the closing of the door.
When they finally separated, Trip brushed some strands off Malcolm’s forehead. “Why?” he whispered.
“Because I was asked to do it, Trip.”
“You’re no spy, Malcolm! They had no right to demand you do it!”
“They didn’t demand. They made it an order and I’m still an officer of Starfleet.”
Tucker sighed explosively. “No one has the right to make another commit suicide just because it’s the damn chain of command!” he growled.
“No one expected events to turn out like this,” Malcolm tried to explain. “Least of all me. What I did was a split-second decision. I acted, reacted to circumstances, and followed my instincts.”
“You were ready to die,” was the soft, plaintive reply.
“No. I wasn’t. I’m not ready to die, Trip. I have too much to lose.” Malcolm reached up and pulled the engineer’s face down to place a little kiss on his lips.
Trip settled down on the bed, a hand left and right of Malcolm’s thighs.
“I love you,” the lieutenant went on. “I won’t give this up for anything in the whole universe. I want to be with you, grow old with you.”
Trip’s eyes lit up at the words and a slow smile flitted over his lips. “I sure hope so,” he replied softly. “’Cause you won’t get rid of me. Not even pullin’ stupid stunts like that.”
Malcolm smiled. “It wasn’t stupid.”
“Was too.”
“Was not.”
“Was too. I’m in the position to make that decision, Mr. Reed, and I’m tellin’ you it was absolutely stupid. Brainless. Idiotic. Inane. Foolish. Harebrained. Asinine. Ill-advised….”
Malcolm clamped a hand over his mouth, gray eyes sparkling. “Someone let you read the thesaurus again, hm? I told you it’s bad for you.”
Tucker grabbed the hand and kissed the inside of the wrist. “And unwise,” he finished. “I know I can’t make you promise never t’do anythin’ like this ever again, but…”
The dark-haired man curled his hand around Trip’s left jaw. He leaned into the touch.
“No, you’re right. I can’t make a promise,” Malcolm said softly, seriously, “but I want you to know, to realize, that I love you. I’d never voluntarily go. Never.”
“Sure hope not.” Trip leaned forward resting his forehead against Malcolm’s. “When you gonna be able to leave this joint?”
Reed chuckled. “Soon.”
“Not soon enough.”
“That I have to agree with.”

* * *

Malcolm’s condition improved rapidly and he was dismissed from the station’s sickbay just a week later.
No one from Starfleet Intelligence had so much as called him or paid a visit. Trip was fuming silently, but Malcolm knew enough not to expect more than a note somewhere in some secret file about his involvement in this ‘game’.
Razor and his Host had not shown up again, except for a short note of how to reach him and some brief words of thanks but that had been that. Trip couldn’t say he all that much disappointed. Though he understood his lover’s motives to rescue the alien weapon he still was more than a little angry about the high stakes Malcolm had been willing to accept.
An argument whether or not to fly to Earth and spend the rest of their leave there had been solved by the appearance of Lea and Charles Tucker II. Trip’s parents had actually taken a few days off and booked a flight to Jupiter Station, surprising not only their son, who was delighted, but flattening one Malcolm Reed, who hadn’t expected to see any parents any time soon.
Lea Tucker cast one look at the still too thin lieutenant and shook her head.
“Thank god we came here,” she declared, giving the dark-haired man a once over. “What happened to you, Malcolm? You look terrible.”
Malcolm sighed. “I’m fine, Ma’am.”
Charlie Tucker snorted. “Sure. Fine my ass, son. Old Horace looks better than you do!”
Old Horace being the Tuckers’ ancient mule, Malcolm didn’t know if it was a compliment or not. He decided not to comment.
“But it’s nothing some sun and good food won’t cure,” Lea went on, smiling. “You two are coming home with us for the rest of your leave.”
“That’s very gracious, Mrs. Tucker, but my duties...”
Trip rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything, he saw the expression in his mother’s eyes.
“Malcolm, my name is Lea. Not Mrs. Tucker. You make me feel terribly old calling me that. And I thought we had agreed that you’re part of the family now.” She wrapped an arm around the thin shoulders and squeezed gently. “Technically speaking, you are our son-in-law.”
Reed blushed slightly, meeting the dancing blue eyes of his lover.
“As for your... duties,” Tucker senior told him. “I talked to your captain an’ he said to move your sorry butt off this station in a hurry before he does.”
“Oh. Did he? Well... okay... I still need to pack.”
“You do that, my dear. Charlie and I will have a look around in the meantime. It’s not every day that we get to see Jupiter Station.” Lea smiled brightly. “I intend to spend some money here.”
Mr. Tucker rolled his eyes, but his wife only smiled. Malcolm looked at the closed door after the Tuckers had left, shaking his head.
“Trip?” he asked, as if looking for a translator of the events.
Arms snaked around his waist and he was pulled against his lover. “That was an invitation an’ I don’t mean t’ miss it, love.”
A soft kiss was placed against the slender neck.
“You pack, I’ll inform the captain, okay?”
Malcolm nodded. It was all he could do.

* * *

Jonathan Archer was in his so-called quarters aboard Jupiter Station, smiling as he received Trip’s brief call that he and Malcolm were leaving for a much-needed vacation on Earth.
Good for them.
Archer himself was planning to do some R&R himself now that the latest crisis had been dealt with. He had tickets for a water polo game he wanted to see; good seats too. And there were places he wanted to visit, people he hadn’t met in a long time. It would be nice to just forget who he was for a while.
The soft chime of the doorbell surprised him. Leaving the half open bag on the bed, Porthos sitting next to it and looking attentively at the door, he opened it.
And stared at the visitor in surprise.
Black eyes regarded him solemnly. “You have questions, Jonathan Archer,” the feline alien purred. “I am here to give you the answers.”
“Who are you?”
The large ears flicked once. “I am called a Host. The one you were to pick up from the Denoblian vessel and bring here had been one of my kind.”
Archer let the alien inside, noting the graceful way it moved. Porthos regarded the visitor cautiously, but he didn’t growl or appear hostile in any way.
“What happened,” the Host went on, “never should have. It was an accident. Your man suffered because of it, you seek the answers as to why. I know your government won’t tell you, but we feel you have to understand the events to better understand Malcolm Reed, as well as Trip Tucker.”
Archer frowned in confusion. “What did happen?” he simply asked.
The Host flicked his long tail and a rumble escaped his snout, then he began his tale.

* * *

Lea Tucker smiled fondly as she walked into the living room. On the large couch, close to the open fire, her son and his lover were curled up together. Well, Malcolm had apparently lost his battle against exhaustion, something she had seen coming clear as daylight from the moment the two men had arrived. Reed had been dead on his feet, though he had put up a good front for a while. But mothers knew.
Trip had simply moved to accommodate him on the couch. Malcolm’s head was resting on his lap and Trip had a hand on one shoulder, smiling tenderly.
“He finally gave in?” she asked, voice soft.
Trip chuckled. “Yeah. Even he has to surrender once inna while. Still doesn’t know his own limits. They kinda introduced themselves a few minutes ago.”
Lea placed a glass of juice on the table beside the couch, in easy reach of her son. Alert eyes took in the pale features, the hollow cheeks, and how bundled up Malcolm was. Even in the balmy autumn weather, he seemed to be cold.
“He’s awfully thin.”
“I know.” There was a fleeting look of sadness on Trip’s features. “He was… sick.”
“Don’t worry, honey. I know you can’t tell us what exactly happened, but you’ll both be fine. I’ll see what we can do about Malcolm’s weight loss.” She gave her a son an encouraging smile.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Do you think his parents will come by?”
“I’m not sure. He talked to them, but I think he wants to drop by on the way back. Maddy might pay a quick visit, but she’s currently caught up in school affairs. Looks like she’s on her way to bein’ principal of that elementary school or somethin’.”
Gentle fingers played with dark strands of hair.
Lea could see the love in each gesture, hear the warmth in her son’s voice, and she could remember all the times Trip had brought home his girlfriends. He had never looked like this, never this completely at ease. As if he had found what he had been looking for.
Malcolm.
She liked the sometimes rather shy Brit. He was so completely different from her son, while also very much like him in other ways. He was polite, he tried to be unobtrusive, and Lea believed that if he wanted to, Malcolm could actually make himself invisible. They young man had an uncanny talent to be there and make you forget that he actually was. But there was also a lot of energy in him. Retrained, controlled, but it was there, and it was unleashed whenever he could step out of the shadow of the Starfleet officer and become himself.
“Why don’t you go to bed?” she now suggested.
“Yeah, sounds like a plan.” Trip grinned slightly and gently shook his partner’s shoulder. “Mal? Time t’get up. We’re headin’ for bed.”
Reed moved sleepily and gray eyes blinked open, looking woozy. Lea smiled. Maybe she was too old and Malcolm definitely wasn’t leaning that way, but he was damn cute.
Trip coaxed him more or less back to consciousness, but while the lieutenant had his eyes open, he was far from alert. Knowing that he had been sick for a long time, Lea wasn’t surprised. Shuffling past her, Trip shot her a good-night smile.
“See ya tomorrow.”
“Breakfast whenever you come over,” she promised.
“Thanks. ‘Night, Mom.”

* * *

Tucker closed his arms around the still too thin body by his side, in his bed again, cradling the dark head against his own chest. Both men were naked from the waist up and there was no overlooking the scars on Malcolm’s chest where the alien had hurt him. Because of Razor’s presence, which had completely screwed up Reed’s body, the healing process had been close to nil. When they had finally been able to treat the injury, scarring had been inevitable.
Though Phlox hadn’t prohibited any ‘strenuous activities’, Trip didn’t want to exhaust Malcolm too much -- yet. Just being here, having this warm, breathing, loving man with him again, be able to feel, touch, be touched, was enough. More than enough.
They were in the guesthouse across from his parent’s main ranch house, lazing around in bed, just taking it easy. His mother was trying to get Malcolm to eat more and regain his strength. In the three days they had been here by now, she had cooked a lot for him.
It was working.
Mother knows best, Trip thought fondly.
His father had interviewed his son about life aboard Enterprise again, asking him about what had happened, trying to find out what had led to Malcolm looking so thin and starved. Trip couldn’t give him all the answers; secrecy. Tucker senior accepted it. There was nothing else he could do.
“You know,” came a sleepy, accent-thick voice from further down, “we’ve been together for over four years now.”
“Really? Haven’t noticed, Mal,” Trip chuckled, running a finger over Malcolm’s exposed nape and letting it brush through the dark, silky strands.
“See, that’s the point.” Malcolm looked up. “Neither did I. “
“Uhm, I didn’t miss an anniversary again, did I?”
“No. That’s NOT the point - for once.” Malcolm caressed Trip’s naked chest absently.
“The point is - we’re acting like we’ve just found one another, as if it were four months, not four years. Did you ever see a relationship - any relationship - that worked that way?”
“Uhm ... “
“See? Neither did I.”
“And that’s bad... how?” Trip teased.
Malcolm gave an inelegant snort. “I didn’t say it was bad. I just remarked on its... uniqueness.”
“Ah.”
“And then ...”
“What?”
A short hesitation.
“The things that happened to us, especially of late. Alien whales who told us about some kind of supplement; the Qra who could smell our bond…, and flood waves. Not to mention all the other messes we got ourselves into. It’s not - normal.”
“You’re definitely something else, love.”
“Tri-ip.”
Tucker grew serious again, seeing the expression in his lover’s eyes. “You want ‘normal’?” her asked.
“Yes - no. I don’t know. But - I want to know what’s going on here, with me, you. What are we, Trip? WHY are we - different?”
Tucker pushed himself up, looking down into the wonderful gray eyes. Every time he looked at his partner, he felt the same. The bond between them, the relationship, the emotions he felt, hadn’t changed at all. They were strong, all-encompassing, and sometimes scary. Scary because of little things. Like knowing when Malcolm wasn’t feeling too good emotionally.
It was like a sixth sense.
“You intend to follow the weap ... - Razor’s advice?” he wanted to know.
“Find out where we come from, yes. Return to the Orca’s planet, maybe. Talk to the Hosts, I don’t know. But I want answers, Trip.”
“So do I, but ...” It was then Trip recognized the sparkle in his lover’s gray eyes. “What?” he asked suspiciously.
“Weeell, as you said, I followed Razor’s advice.” Malcolm wriggled out of Trip’s embrace and padded over to the desk to pick up a pile of paper.
“I called my parents and asked for the Reed genealogy tree.”
With that he let one end of the paper drop. Trip scanned the contents quickly.
“Genealogy TREE?! Malcolm, that’s more like a Redwood FOREST, for crying out loud!”
“Yep.”
“And you kept telling me you’re not a family person?”
“Guess why?” was the dry remark.
“Let’s see - you have one sister, three uncles, three aunts, six cousins with children of their own already, two great-uncles and one grandaunt, and that’s just your fathers side? Mal, you’re family’s bigger than mine.”
“Jealous?”
“Hmmm... you know ... I’d really like to experience a Reed family gathering.”
“Believe me - you don’t.”

* * *

Being back home felt good, Trip thought as he walked down a small, almost hidden path between a stand of tall trees. Just beyond the trees and down the incline was the river. He could already hear the water from here and it always had a calming effect on him. Ever since his childhood he had come here to be alone, without seeking out solitude. It wasn’t as if he was trying to avoid people; he just needed a moment of space.
The ranch house was no more than a few minutes walk away from here and if he listened very closely, he could hear the sounds of horses and cattle.
Seeking out a dry spot in the semi-shade beneath a tree, he sat down. The river rushed by no more than five meters away. Sun light danced off the ever-moving surface.
Malcolm was still at the main house. He had been sitting on the wide porch, soaking up the sun, reading something or other. A piece of his mother’s famous berry pie had been next to him, as well as a large mug of tea. Trip smiled fondly as he recalled that peaceful image.
Which was quickly shattered by something that had been hanging over him like a thundercloud, ready to unleash its load.
Malcolm had nearly died.
Again.
This time by orders from the anonymous, faceless group of Starfleet Intelligence.
So many near-misses, a voice whispered. Each one getting closer and closer.
Malcolm had over and over explained to him that his job was dangerous. He was the first line of defense, the first one up against the enemy. He was head of security.
Trip had accepted that. He knew he lived with the risk just fine. Hell, as a chief engineer, he was just as endangered. The warp engine wasn’t a safe place to be around should something go wrong. It had several times already, but they had come out of it almost unscathed.
So, yes, they both lived dangerous lives.
How come that they ended up in one mess after the other when they weren’t on duty, too?
A tremor raced through him and he bit his lower lip as he recalled their last shore leave. They almost hadn’t made it. The flood wave…
Malcolm still couldn’t recall all of it, and what had come back was a disjointed, blurry image that made no sense. Trip did remember some of it and it had scared him.
Scared him shitless.
Now, with Malcolm’s near-death again, all of it had coalesced into one dark wave of fear and horror that had finally reached the shores of Trip’s conscious mind. He couldn’t fight it any longer; at least fight to win.
The ‘gift of old’. The Orca had called it that.
More like a curse, part of him laughed with desperate humor.
They were supposed to be different, and now this… parasite had confirmed it, too. On a genetic level.
Different enough to almost die again and again.
Trip felt his breath hitch in his throat, felt his airways constrict, and his vision blurred.
Can’t lose him.
Won’t lose him.
Never.
Not because he was different, not because of some freaky alien telling them they weren’t normal.
The pressure of all that had happened to them in the last six months caught up with the engineer and he felt something inside of him give. The black cloud unloaded its contents and threatened to drown him.

*

Malcolm didn’t know what it was that had made him leave the main house, walk away from his sunny spot on the porch and the relaxing book he had read. Whatever it was, it had urged him on, touched something so deep inside of him, he hadn’t even known it existed before.
Trip. Trip needed him.
He simply knew it.
Drawn to the need, he didn’t think where he went. It was unfamiliar territory, walking through the forest and following a game path to the river. He had been to the river before, but further down, a place where Trip had taken him while they were out riding. Never here.
Still, his gait was sure-footed. He knew where he was going.
Malcolm found his partner at the end of the path where it made way to the broad shore of the river. He sat under one of the tall trees that had grown at an odd angle to reach into the middle of the body of running water and spread shade. His hands were clasped over his face and he was rocking himself.
Malcolm could almost taste the pain, the horror, the darkness that radiated off his lover. It had just been a matter of time when the events would catch up with Trip, and catch up they had.
Now.
Here.
And there was only one thing to do.
Malcolm walked over to the stricken man and knelt down behind him.
“Trip,” he whispered, barely loud enough to be heard over the river.
He slipped his arms around the rocking form and held him tightly, resting his face against the neck, burying it there.
Trip’s breathing hitched and almost instinctively he fell back against him. Malcolm adjusted immediately, taking the weight of the other man, and he curled his arms more around him.
No words were needed. His simple presence was enough.
As they said, talking was highly overrated.
Something inside of him seemed to relax, even out, almost hum with contentment.
 

Trip closed his eyes as he felt his lover’s presence, as he felt the strength coming from the slender body.
He came, was all that shot through his mind. Malcolm came.
And they stayed like this for a long time. Neither spoke a word, but when the sun moved on and it became cooler and dusky, the time to leave had come.
Still wordlessly, they rose, and Malcolm drew him into a gentle, loving kiss. Trip answered it, shivering with the intense emotions racing through him. They walked back side by side, heading for the guest house.
The night was filled with their love-making, the first time since Malcolm’s almost fatal mission, and Trip reaffirmed that his partner was still there. The dark cloud had dispersed, but the fear would still linger on.
For now, it was pushed back.
 

Three days later they left for Malaysia; two days after that they were on their way to Jupiter Station.

* * *

Captain Archer regarded the two men standing to attention in front of him. Malcolm more so than Trip. He had called them to his ready room at the first day of Malcolm’s return back to duty. Enterprise was supposed to leave today, with new orders and a new destination, and before they moved out of the dry dock, there was one thing left to do.
“Gentlemen. The day I received Admiral Forrest’s orders to rendezvous with the Denoblian ship, I had also been given something else from Starfleet.”
He let his eyes wander over the two men who had again survived what had been thrown at them. In Malcolm’s case, literally. Jonathan Archer had been told what exactly had been going on in sickbay, and before that on the transport vessel. No one else but the three men and Phlox were now aware of the RZ001R virus, and it would forever remain that way.
While Archer had been furious with Intelligence concerning the endangerment of his men, his whole crew, and especially his Armory Officer, he understood how highly important the mission had been. Still, some anger remained. It would be slow to fade.
“Since we had no time to follow through with what Starfleet had sent to me, I had to postpone it till now.” A twinkle crept into the green eyes. “Lieutenant Reed?”
Malcolm stiffened more. “Sir.”
“By orders of Starfleet Command, represented by Admiral Forrest, and executed by me in his name, I hereby present you with your promotion to Lieutenant Commander. Effective as of first of August.”
Which meant last month. Before the whole mess had started.
Malcolm’s eyes had widened as the first words settled into his mind, then he only stared. Trip whooped in joy and hugged the freshly promoted man, kissing his rather shocked partner.
“About time!” he cheered.
Archer chuckled and took out the pin that would give the promotion an official character.
“Commander, if you would be so kind to unhand my Lieutenant Commander.”
Trip grinned madly, pushing the still speechless man to their captain, who quickly attached the third pin.
“Congratulations, Malcolm.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Reed stuttered. “I... I...”
Tucker wrapped an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders, hugging him again. “About time,” he repeated, voice softening. “You more than earned it.”
“Well, Commander and... Commander,” Archer addressed them, smiling. “After you.” He gestured at the door leading to the bridge.
 

The moment Malcolm stepped out onto the bridge, the crew present rose and started to applaud. Reed came to a dead stop, clearly embarrassed, and Trip almost bumped into him. Strong hands touched his shoulders, squeezing.
“You earned it,” Tucker whispered again. “It will be one heck of a party after duty if I know the guys.” He lowered his voice even more. “Not to mention our own little celebration much later on...”
Archer strode past them and to his chair, grinning. Malcolm cleared his throat and went over to his station, wishing he were invisible. It didn’t help that Trip took his favored place behind him.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” Archer called. “Let’s head out. Travis, set course for SX-02.”
“Uh, sir?” Trip asked carefully. “SX-02?”
“That’s where we will pick up a couple of scientists. Think of it as a diplomatic run, Commander.” Archer’s brows rose fractionally. “We will drop them off at their destination.”
Malcolm and Trip exchanged brief looks.
Diplomatic?
Oh dear God. Not again!