"He still vomiting?" Kahrae asked, still chewing his meat.

"No," Baezhu replied. "That only lasted a few days. I think he's getting control of himself again. He's always more . . . animated after the procedures--and the coma, of course. Then, after a few days, he goes back to ignoring us with all his might."

"Maybe you should 'procedure' him more often," Kahrae suggested.

Baezhu eyed him critically. "Spoken like a true Raptor. Every procedure induces trauma to the body, weakens it. If we don't allow his body time to repair and heal, he will rapidly decline and die. Then we'll learn only from an autopsy, and the colonel still won't get anything he considers useful."

Kahrae slurped his water. "Well, it was a thought. What about the female?"

"They are still working her in the fields with the other females." Baezhu pushed his bowl away in anger. "They're going to get her killed."

"I'm surprised they haven't eaten her yet."

"They tried!" Baezhu said. Then he remembered where he was and lowered his voice. "At her last cycle."

"That would do it," Kahrae agreed. "Especially this year. Have they fertilized her yet?"

"They're not going to 'fertilize' her," Baezhu corrected. "Besides, right now, they're just inducing hormones and observing."

"I suppose if this is working, she's animate. Are they learning anything more from her than the male?"

Baezhu bobbed his head. "Physiologically, yes. She's a lot more graceful than any of our primates but she never says a word."

"Well, she is a female," Kahrae pointed out.

"They do speak, Kahrae. Not at the same level as we do, perhaps, but they can follow simple concepts and vocalize them."

"How is it that we get half our DNA from them and yet we don't come out like them?"

Baezhu shrugged. "They get half their DNA from us so why don't they come out like us? Genetics, I suppose. Evolution. We don't need intelligent females so we evolved limited ones."

Kahrae laughed. "Right, I won't need a conversationalist come Turn!"

Baezhu leaned forward. "Does that mean you've got a spot?"

"I wish! No one's heard yet. You?"

"There are rumors they are reworking the quotas again."

"Maybe Obek has a point," Kahrae said, throwing down his utensil in disgust. "He's always going on about the Great Plan and how we're not managing it. If this was a classless, non-governmental society, we would just have the Turn with whatever females we find and be done with it. But instead, we have a minority locked up in committee deciding who gets to propagate the species and who doesn't."

"So Obek does talk," Baezhu said, trying to lighten the conversation again. After the traitor scandal, he didn't want Kahrae getting questioned about bad-talking the Council.

"Kind of surprised me, too," Kahrae replied. "Don't worry; he's no traitor. He's a super-patriot. He was going on about Buftanis last night, how they're meddling in Shirkatisa, trying to turn them to their chaotic ways."

"Maybe cooperating over the alien research has emboldened them to think we are all just friends," Baezhu thought out loud. "They wouldn't have dared before."

"Shirkatisa wouldn't have dared! And they still shouldn't."

There was noise all around him: voices speaking urgently, footsteps near his head.

His head? He opened his eyes and sat straight up, nearly bumping into Phlox's legs. "We're busy, Lieutenant," the doctor said. "Please wait outside."

Again. Malcolm stood and felt no pain in his stomach. A small blessing in an otherwise bothersome ordeal. "This isn't real," he told the Denobulan.

"Please, Lieutenant. . . ." Phlox didn't finish. Machines started to beep frantically. Malcolm turned to see Major Hayes lying on a bed with a blackened hole in his chest. He looked around. Every bed seemed to be used. Medics rushed here and there, trying to help the wounded and bleeding. That chaos was better than watching Hayes die again.

But if this was when Hayes died . . . yes, Hoshi! She was there, lying still and pale on a bed in the corner. He tried to push through the crowd to reach her, but he was pushed out the door into the corridor instead. "Later. She needs her rest, Malcolm," Trip said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "How're you holdin' up?"

"I'm not and you know it!" Malcolm threw back, not wanting to play this charade again and again. "I told you this would happen. Because it has all happened before."

"Malcolm--"

Malcolm pushed Trip's hand away. "How much longer?"

Trip shook his head. "Until what? You're the guy that knows the future."

Malcolm's face grew hot. "Don't patronize me! They've cut us open, Trip. They've got Hoshi on the other side of the planet doing who knows what to her."

"Hoshi's in Sickbay; we got her."

"Then, not now. How much longer are we supposed to hold on?"

"Lieutenant," Trip said, with obvious impatience, "the Xindi prototype killed seven million people. And now they want to destroy all of Earth. I think that takes priority over one man's sob story."

It was really no use getting angry with a dream from the past, so Malcolm tried a different approach. "After that then? We will destroy the weapon while you and T'Pol destroy the network of spheres. Earth and the Expanse will be safe. Will you come for us then?"

Trip sighed. "All I know, Malcolm, is that we're not there yet. Lord willing, we'll do what you said. But right now, we've got to see this through. We need you, Malcolm. Hang in there."

At that moment, the lights went out in the corridor and when they flickered back on, he was in a stark white room, strapped to a slightly padded table with his abdomen still tightly wrapped in bandages.

Now that planting was done, the work was somewhat easier, Hoshi decided. Still, her back ached and her thighs burned from the near-constant crouch as she and the other young females patrolled for weeds or re-dug irrigation ditches that had caved in. Small green shoots were starting to sprout from the seeds, and Hoshi actually found time to wonder what they had planted. She asked Pipa when there was no one else close enough to hear. The answer she got was less than promising.

"Seeds."

"Seeds of what?"

Pipa just stared. "Seeds," she repeated.

Did Pipa not know the names of the plants? Or was it beyond that? Did Pipa not grasp the concept of seeds becoming plants that produced fruits or fabrics or other materials?

She pondered this more fully as she ate her lunch alone. None of the females she'd encountered had seemed equally as intelligent as the males of the species. But was that only because they didn't have the same opportunities for education and advancement? Was it due to a paternal, chauvinistic society? Or was there something wrong with the females? Something so endemic to their society that they would not even think a female alien worth questioning? Is that why they only tried to speak with Malcolm?

Two societies, she realized. There and here. Two societies that looked at her as little more than a curiosity. She had not once seen a female in the first location. But they had not tried to communicate with her there either. Here, they didn't even bother with children's shows or constant laboratory observation. They were running some kind of experiments on her, but otherwise, they had thrown her in with the other females apparently content with a life of forced labor.

She thought back to when Trip had met Charlie. Discounted by her race, she was thought incapable of learning until Trip had taught her to read. In the end, it turned out sad for Trip and worse for Charlie. But Hoshi had her doubts that she could start a revolution here. So maybe she could find a way to try to see what Pipa was capable of. Of course, she did not know the alphabet here but she could do something phonetically. Or maybe math. Maybe she would run some experiments of her own.

"What news from Buftanis?" Doctor Bishtae asked as he stepped into the office.

Baezhu had just been familiarizing himself with the report. "Besides that they're working her like a typical female?" he asked in return. He didn't really expect an answer. They all thought it was egregious to do such a thing with such a rare specimen. "They're preparing for egg collection. They say the ovaries have responded to the hormones and they should have a fair number of eggs to offer several attempts over the summer."

Dr. Bishtae snorted. "If they do manage a successfully pregnancy, she will likely lose it in the fields. Even the traitor should know better."

"I can't imagine the other females would react well," Baezhu agreed. Those who did not conceive during Turn always had to be kept secluded from the others. They tended to show a fierce jealousy.

"Well, what have they learned about her physiology from working her so hard?"

"Her muscles appear to be well-toned. Her skin has darkened in the sunlight. She does tire more easily than the other females, but she is more flexible and has more dexterity."

Bishtae took the report from him to peruse the data himself. "Still no speech?"

Baezhu shook his head. "Not one word."

"Our females can speak," Bishtae said. "I thought I saw so much more intelligence in her eyes. I would have gambled she could at least manage a few syllables. She has the same vocal organs as the male, and we know he can speak. He just won't speak."

"Maybe she is refusing as well," Hinath suggested with a yawn.

Bishtae gave him a pointed look. "She is female. I'd be surprised if she has that capacity."

Baezhu thought for a minute what it would be like to speak to no one for over four months. Then he added into his imagination the treatment each of the aliens had received. Could he hold his tongue and not complain? "They seem overly docile, don't you think?" he asked aloud.

"How so?" Bishtae asked, setting aside the report.

"If I were one of them, either one," Baezhu tried to explain, "and I was refusing to speak, I think I might be driven mad or at least been forced to complain by now. But they don't complain. They don't act out."

"The male tried to kill himself," Hinath pointed out. "That's a pretty loud complaint."

"He's had two instances in over four months," Bishtae argued. "That doesn't quite refute Baezhu's hypothesis yet."

Baezhu took that as a cue to continue. "Yes, in general though, he's not fought us or tried to escape. She does what she's shown to do, goes where she is taken, makes no fuss."

Bishtae sat down and was quiet for a moment. "If that is true, it begs the question all the more. What were these docile, sentient creatures doing up in space to come crashing down on our planet?"

Major Zhenah was impressed. Doctor Kaife now had a replica--enlarged for practicality--of the device. Each pertinent piece was color-coded for easy identification.

"It is a communication device," he stated as he held it up.

"You're certain?" Zhenah asked. If it were true, why had the aliens left it behind?

"Ninety-nine percent certain," Kaife replied. He opened the mock-up. "This is a microphone." He pointed to a red point on the base. "And this is the speaker," he added, now pointing to a yellow area on the inside of the cover.

Kaife moved to another table and set the replica down before he cracked it open to display the innards. "There is a transmitter and a receiver. But beyond that, it's not recognizable. It's not a cellular telephone. It does not use radio waves or digital signals."

"What does it use?"

Doctor Kaife shrugged. "I'm not sure. But that's what I'd like to find out next. The power source still has a strong charge. It'd like to use the device, test it with various transmission methods."

Zhenah thought for a moment. If they used it, who might hear it? Why had the aliens left it? It was far from the crash site and rather in the area where the aliens were found. So they'd kept it until they were found. They hid it right then. Why? They had walked for days. Why not use it to call for help?

Maybe they did.

"Concentrate on detecting what it transmits first, Doctor." If they could find the aliens had called but no help came, what would it mean? Were they sent here as some punishment? With a communication device and explosives? Unlikely. But what?

"I will do my best," Kaife replied. "This isn't from here, Major. It's staggering but I can't find any other logical explanation. This is an alien artifact."

Zhenah looked him right in the eye. "Yes, Doctor, it is." Then he turned and walked out. He had to find the colonel.

Doctor Enesh held up the little piece of paper with his name and fictitious address. The voting station noted on it was equally fictitious as both actually resided at the clandestine facility. Doctor Besta had helped him acquire the card, proof of his eligibility to vote in the upcoming election. He was amazed that Buftanis was already affording him the rights of a Buftanisian citizen, and that all citizens were eligible to vote for candidates to fill the highest governmental posts in the country. What had appeared a reckless pursuit of anarchy when he was younger now seemed an intricate exercise in trust. The government trusted the citizens to make enormous decisions.

Enesh's understanding of the language had increased significantly. He could carry on most social and scientific conversations with relative ease now, so the new political climate had come just in time to broaden his vocabulary. Each evening, he listened to the candidates and news about the elections then discussed them with Besta over breakfast.

There were two front-runners now for President. One opted for a strong stand of defiance against Zheiren and its allies. He wanted boycotts of goods, increased intelligence and a build-up of defense forces. This, he claimed, would also boost the sagging economy. To that end, he advocated a majority female Turn, allowing more workers.

The other candidate was more liberal, preferring bilateral talks with nations under Zheiren's sphere of influence. Already there were economic interests in Shirkatisa. Capitalism and the free market--not guns and bluster--would free Zheiren's people eventually. He advocated a more equal Turn ratio, bringing new scientists, artists, and thinkers and not just workers and soldiers.

It was interesting to Enesh that some in the society wanted a return to unlimited Turn. Regardless how any particular country implemented it, all developed countries realized the need to balance resources with birthrate. More females meant more workers but also more food, more waste, more housing, and more opportunities for labor. Too many males and unemployment sky-rocketed. Prices would go up, pay would go down, and the economy would suffer. Prey species would decline and even disappear, bringing malnutrition and starvation. No, balance had to be found and maintained. Though Enesh did find it fascinating how Buftanis went about it.

In Zheiren, the quota was used to limit the number and races of males allowed to mate. In Buftanis, all males had the right to mate--and with multiple females. Some females were simply given contraceptive hormones to prevent the fertilization and maturation of any eggs produced. Others were given different hormones to encourage one gender over the other, thus producing a proper ratio of female-to-male new births.

The race of a male wasn't even an issue except that transracial copulation was not allowed. Besta assured him that there was usually a 4:1 ratio at the very least for Greater Wingeds in the compound. Raptors generally petitioned for other locations in the industrial centers where female Raptors were more numerous. Enesh decided he was very much looking forward to the future here in his new homeland.

"They would seem to be of little threat," the Head Councilman stated.

"On what grounds?" Grand Raptor Ussa butted in. While his words were harsh, his tone had been kept low and diplomatic. Still, Gaezhur recognized the bravado building. After Turn, Ussa would likely be the Head Councilman.

"They've shown no aggressive behavior," the Head Councilman pointed out, picking off data points one by one to prove his point. Just like a Winged. "They had a communication device from the time of the crash to their capture nearly five months ago. No other such craft has been seen on or around Sharu. Our satellites have been monitoring the skies. No one has come for them. No rescue, no invasion. No threat."

"They could be building up their forces," Gaezhur countered.

The Winged Councilman chuckled. "Against us? We may be a formidable enemy on Sharu, Colonel, but these aliens could travel through space. If anyone were coming for them, I doubt we could even mount enough defense for even ineffectual bluster."

"Then there is a threat," Grand Raptor Ussa said, pouncing on the point.

"If anyone were to come for them," the Councilman agreed, "but given that no one has thus far, I agree it is unlikely anyone will."

Ussa smiled. "But someone may. Someday. The more we can learn of their offensive and defensive capabilities, the better we can prepare an effectual defense. Given another five months, and the alien's knowledge, we might even develop technology to match theirs. Given no knowledge, we could only be taken unprepared."

"Technology itself is to be considered," Gaezhur offered, "even with no eventual invasion or raiding force. They have a form of communication with that device unknown to us. Should we learn its secrets, what might it benefit us here and now? Secure communications our enemies cannot tap? An economic boom? And if the alien were to tell us more about their technology--"

Dr. Burha had been standing so quietly during the exchange that Gaezhur had forgot he was present. Until he interrupted. "He has not so much as told us his name."

"Because you coddle him like an infant!" Gaezhur spat back. "At least the Buftanisians are getting something from the female, even if it's just another weed-puller!"

"Hardly, Colonel," Burha calmly argued, not taking the bait, which actually infuriated Gaezhur all the more. "We have studied his physiology deeply, threatening his life at every turn and yet kept him alive--even against his own will--for future study. We may not have learned of his technology or culture, but we are learning a great deal about his species."

"What do you have planned next, Doctor?" the Head Councilman asked before Gaezhur could come up with a good counterargument.

"Cognitive ability and brain mapping," Burha replied.

The Head Councilman bobbed his head up and down. "You both have valid points, but I think science is still our key to both. Finding out how the alien's brain functions may provide clues as to how to convince him to offer that which we would like to know, invasion force or not. Perhaps after his anatomy has been fully mapped, studies might turn to a more tactical direction, such as vulnerabilities which could also be used to persuade his cooperation."

Grand Raptor Ussa sighed and Gaezhur sensed his feelings on the argument probably matched his own. "I think that is a workable plan," the Councilman said. It was, Gaezhur knew, and yet he felt like the Raptors had still lost.

"Do you favor?" the Head Councilman asked the council. The other members stood, showing their agreement, and so Gaezhur knew it was decided. Burha knew as well and left the chamber. Gaezhur stayed. He still had other business.

The Shirkatisan ambassador came in just as Burha stepped out. His jaw was set hard and his gait was stiff. Gaezhur felt more confident the Raptors would have the upper hand on this issue.

The stitches were gone and his abdomen felt better, though Malcolm had some ache when he had to eat or relieve himself. What really hurt were his arms and legs. He'd been pinned to the bed since he had tried to kill himself. By his admittedly flawed reckoning, that would have been over a month ago. He hadn't even so much as pulled defiantly against the restraints since he found out Hoshi was alive. But the orcs apparently still didn't trust that he wouldn't seek to end their little science project the only way he possibly could. They did come in four times a day to feed him and roll him into a different position. Still, lying in the same position for hours at a time was making his joints stiff and causing sore pressure points wherever he came into contact with the not-nearly-soft-enough mattress he was placed on.

They talked to him sometimes, too. The small one did, anyway. He brought a large pad of paper and a pen each time so he could draw explanations of what he was saying. Malcolm only saw that peripherally. He kept his eyes on the ceiling or whatever was in his direct line of sight, and he tried to let the orc's words bleed into white noise in his ears. The orc mentioned Hoshi's code-name too frequently for Malcolm to successfully tune him out. She was apparently still alive, apparently still in Buftanis, and apparently that was still on the other side of the world. Malcolm didn't understand anything else and fought any urges to try to. That the orc mentioned her name was enough. Enough to know that she was alive.

The little one wasn't so bad a guy, Malcolm decided. He would call him Sméagol and hope that he wasn't harboring a Gollum alter-ego. He wasn't going to go so far as trusting Sméagol the way Frodo Baggins did, but tolerate him watchfully, as Samwise Gamgee did. Maybe that confirmed he was Sam, after all, he mused. He was more comfortable when it was only Sméagol who entered his little cell. The orc's tone of voice was friendly and didn't sound coercive. And he was the gentlest when it came to feeding, poking, prodding, stitch-pulling and the like. It was as if he, alone among his colleagues, actually had a bedside manner and Malcolm appreciated that secretly.

Reasoning that Sméagol was actually worthy of a name--and one belonging to a not-so-villainous character--had taken perhaps all of fifteen minutes, and Malcolm was once again plunged into the near monotony of his existence. He slept a lot for lack of anything better to do and to try to let some hours pass without being awake to feel his aches and frustration. He ate when they fed him, turned when they turned him, ignored when they spoke to him, and endured the pain, stiffness, soreness, and weakness that had become his constant companions. He would have much rather been dead. But Hoshi was alive somewhere on the other side of the world. That was the only reason he cared to live anymore.

Major Zhenah stood next to the door of the lab. It was nearly the only place he could stand. Dr. Kaife's lab was filled with radios, telephones and numerous other transmitting devices. "I thought you were to use it to transmit and see what method it uses?"

Kaife nodded. "Yes, but I believe you also reiterated the need for secrecy. If we send out a signal, how far would it reach? Are we ready to take that risk? If it truly is an alien artifact, it would have the ability to reach beyond our atmosphere. Besides, we don't know that Buftanis or someone else has a receiver that--even by chance--might be able to receive our transmission. I think this is the safer way to proceed for now: testing to see what it can receive."

He had good points. Of course. So Zhenah nodded. "Aren't you going to turn it on?"

"It is on," Kaife responded. "In fact, I can't determine how to turn it off. There is no recognizable switch. It would appear to be in a passive listening mode."

"How do you know it's on?" Zhenah asked. "And how do you know it's passive?"

Kaife wasn't intimidated by the questions. He explained while he went on with his preparations. "It gives off electro-magnetic radiation. All electronics do. When they are turned on. But it hasn't activated. Consider it like a cellular telephone. It is on, waiting for a call. When someone calls, the telephone emits a sound to alert the recipient. This device should do something similar."

There was a thought. "With cellulars, we can see previous calls. Both in and out. What about this device?"

Kaife picked up his first device, a hand-held, two-way radio and switched it on. "If it did, how would we recognize the data? Do we have any samples of their written language?"

Good point again. "Only a handful," Zhenah said, in answer to his question, "but without any oral language we have no way of deciphering their symbols." Kaife still didn't need to know they had any actual aliens in hand. And really, Dr. Kenu had only been able to make some guesses on body language and the one word they'd ever heard the male speak. Zhenah ducked his head to cover his ears against the screeching of the two-way as Kaife cranked up its transmission signal. Trying to ignore the sound, he concentrated on the clues to his mystery.

They had crashed. And considering they had survived, the craft they'd crashed in must have been obliterated after they had escaped it. So they probably exploded it themselves. They had then tried to walk through the desert toward Kudana Forest. Perhaps to hide amongst the trees. Which meant they hadn't wanted to be found by anyone on this planet. They had a communication device and little else. So they had wanted to be found. By their own kind. And yet, they buried the device before they were captured. So they sacrificed potential rescue to keep the device from the native population.

There were several ways one could take that. If one looked from the invasion angle, such a device would be a tactical advantage. They could communicate with their people without being detected. The two aliens had had time, however--days, in fact--to contact their comrades. Did they try? Did anyone respond? The answer to at least one of those questions would seem to be 'no.'

The screeching stopped. The alien device looked exactly as it had before the transmission started. "Has it shown any sign of being activated since we acquired it?"

"No," Kaife replied. "At least not since I reassembled it."

No calls, Zhenah thought, or no answers. And no invasion in the months since the two were found. "Is it possible that it is broken and cannot properly receive any signal?"

"Possible but not likely." Kaife finished his notes on the two-way and picked up another device. "There was no visual damage. Just sand infiltration and even then not even a scratch after it was removed. It's a remarkable piece of engineering all in all."

So either no invasion was coming, as the Council had suggested, or the invasion forces were waiting for a signal from the two survivors on the ground. Who had had days already to contact them. But no real intelligence in those few days. Would they call troops down now if given the opportunity?"

There were options other than invasion. The crash was a complete accident and they wanted to be rescued. But no one rescued them and no one, it would seem, has tried.

Perhaps they were being punished. But if one were to maroon someone as punishment, why leave them a communication device?

Escape? If they crashed here in an escape attempt, the same question arose. Why the communication device if you don't want someone coming after you?

The only one who could truly answer these questions would not speak, and, even if he did--and they managed to understand what he said--they would have no way to prove he was telling the truth. So the alien device was presently still their best source for information. Zhenah growled in frustration. He looked around at all the devices in the lab again and was reminded why he hated science. It always took so long to come up with answers.

"A lot of times," Besta explained, "it's a choice for the lesser of two evils. Politicians are never perfect choices. Compromise is part of politics so there's always something to dislike or disagree about with either candidate. The conservatives tend to be religious and keep conservative morals, but as a party they seem to value money too much and take a short-term view, sacrificing the environment for the sake of profit, for example. The liberals have been accused of caring more about trees than people. They have a lot of programs to help people but have to tax people to pay for them. So you just have to decide which one suits you best. Neither is going to fit perfectly."

Enesh still found it boggling. Every time he thought he had decided, he would hear some charge against his chosen candidate which made him doubt. "Which one suits you best?"

Besta laughed. "Oh, I'm liberal even for liberals! Zheiren didn't get everything wrong. Everyone had a job; no one went hungry. If you were sick, you got treatment at no cost. Education was free. I miss those aspects. Poor people shouldn't have to be uneducated just because they're poor. Or sick. It can cost so much to visit the doctor that people don't go. I want universal health care. I want free education. I want everyone to have a job and enough food to eat."

Enesh agreed. He hated his former country but not for those reasons. Maybe he was a liberal, too. "The conservatives want people to go hungry?"

"No, they just believe the free market is the best way to deal with all problems. So companies end up with more power than people do."

"Which one is the President now? Conservative?"

"Yes," Besta barked. "And I can't wait until he's gone! That man should be prosecuted and locked up in prison!"

Enesh was shocked. He had never heard anyone bad-mouth a member of the ruling party. "Shouldn't you say that more quietly?"

Besta shook his head. "Freedom of speech is something both liberals and conservatives generally agree on. I can call the president a crook and a liar. In Zheiren, I'd be imprisoned for it. Here, we are free."

Enesh felt a rush of exhilaration and panic. It seemed a different world to him. In Zheiren, it was dangerous to complain. But without complaint, problems never got acknowledged, and with no acknowledgment, there were no solutions to the problems. He had felt he was almost done learning to be a citizen here. He was becoming fluent in the language and familiar with the customs. He was even registered to vote. But now he realized he had so much more to learn. If the president was a crook, what laws did he break? Enesh had not been outside the facility since he had arrived. He didn't know the laws!

"What if I vote wrong?" he asked, suddenly worried.

Besta laughed again and clapped him on the back. "You can't. Just vote for who suits you best. Try to learn facts and ignore the rhetoric. Make your best effort to choose and hope your candidate wins."

Enesh's eyes went wide. "What happens if he doesn't?"

"You complain a lot!" Besta roared.

Baezhu clocked in and then checked the night notes. The alien was no different than before. Still passive. He was restless in his sleep. His wounds were healing relatively well.

Baezhu was frustrated with him. He felt sorry for him, strapped to a bed when he'd been flying through space, but he was also angry. The alien never gave them more than the slightest gesture to hint of what he was truly capable. And yet he never fooled them into thinking he was less than sentient. He was purposeful, willful, in his stubbornness.

He checked the chart and noted the next day's fast. They'd learn things anyway. The slower way. Inter-cranial exploration. Baezhu wasn't angry anymore. It was an aggressive step. Brain surgery was risky. Especially on an alien subject.

The door opened and Sméagol came in with a tray of food. Malcolm sighed. Food was good. No food meant they were up to something. Sméagol set the food on a table and then released the restraints and pulled Malcolm to a sitting position. Malcolm secretly hated that he needed the help. But it was his strategy and he could only hope it was working. How long had it been since they had cut him open last?

Sméagol talked while Malcolm ate. That was nothing new. He was yammering a lot these days. Malcolm let the syllables and sounds wash over him, refraining from trying to find any distinct patterns or familiar phrases. Except one. Frodo. Malcolm had schooled his expression into nothing, but when he heard that name, he paid attention to Sméagol's tone of voice, his body language, and his inflection. Sméagol didn't sound negative or worried. She must be okay. Malcolm fought to hide his sigh of relief. He didn't know what he would do if she were gone. Even on the other side of the world, she was with him in this and he was not alone.

Sméagol touched his hair, using two of his three fingers to act like scissors. A haircut. About bloody time! he thought and actually hoped they would give him a shave while they were at it. He probably looked like a Neanderthal in all that hair and his beard. Still, it helped to hide his face so maybe it was better if they left it.

Then he noticed that Sméagol wasn't talking anymore. He pushed back the flap of material that served as Malcolm's sleeve. Malcolm flinched. Sméagol growled and then stalked off. Malcolm pulled his sleeve back down over the bedsore on his shoulder and pondered that growl. Was Sméagol angry? Not at him though. He was angry that Malcolm had a bedsore. And he had left him unrestrained. That had to mean something.

Unable to resist, Malcolm rolled his head and stretched his arms and legs. He stood up and nearly fell, surprised at how weak he had become. He couldn't go far. There were still tubes that kept him tethered, one of which he was not willing to pull out. It had been very uncomfortable going in.

Perhaps Sméagol was becoming an advocate for him. Malcolm still had no intention of speaking or communicating in any overt way. But it didn't seem a bad thing to have one of his keepers actually concerned with his well-being. Maybe--and he really doubted it--things were beginning to look up.

This time, they were early. Hoshi was collected in the morning before she and the juveniles were herded out to the fields. Hoshi still wasn't sure how to feel about it. It was a vacation on one hand, but, on the other, it was frightening to be back with the scientists. Either way, she did not resist and followed them back to the lab. She did not want to be with the females once the bleeding started.

Radagast and Grima--he needed a name, too--led her to her cell and left her with a bowl of warm water and some rags. Hoshi gladly took the hint and began to wash off some of the accumulated grime of the last month. It was feeling more like a vacation and she relished it. She could almost pretend she was in a secluded spa on a retreat. She closed her eyes and tried to fall into that fantasy. She built a bamboo hut around her with lotus blossoms tucked into the spaces between the shoots. She lit the room with candles and began to construct a soft mattress. But the whole thing blew away like a wisp of vapor. She knew she'd never see such a place again. Dreams like that would only break her heart.

Her period began that evening. They had provided her with rags to deal with it when they brought her lunch. Hoshi looked around the room for cameras or microphones and didn't find any. It was a very plain room. There was a small window in the door, but no one was looking in at her. She very gently tried the knob but it was still firmly locked.

There could be hidden devices, she supposed. She had to test them. She still had to be vague. If they were listening or watching, she wanted them to react so she would know they could. But she didn't want to actually give them anything useful.

She had tapped before. So had Malcolm. He wasn't there to hear her now, but it gave her an idea anyway. The orcs hadn't noticed, or they hadn't let her or Malcolm know that they did. So tapping would likely not work, but clapping might. It was physical, very audible, and definitely noticeable. She had to clap something simple and vague to them. Too complicated or elaborate and they might expect more of her.

SOS. It wasn't exactly vague, but the orcs would not be aware of the significance. So she clapped three times slowly, three times quickly, and then three more times slowly.

Then she waited, laying down and pretending to sleep. In the end, she did fall asleep. When she woke up the heat lamps were on. No one had come at all.

No one was watching her and no one was listening. At least not when she was in this room. She decided then that she wasn't going to make the same mistake as last time. She would take this as a blessing, no matter how small. So this was her freedom: a 6' by 9' refuge in a lab where she was studied, surrounded by fields where she was worked as a slave. In this room, it was a vacation.

The haircut went well enough, though Malcolm was still worried because they had not given him any food that day. Just water. That was a bad sign. Then Sméagol and another orc had come in with scissors and some shears. He really didn't care if they shaved his head. All the hair would grow back long again before they cut it again. But he was still left with the thought: Would they have him fast just to cut his hair?

He was sitting on the bed he'd heretofore been strapped to. Several of the tubes remained attached but otherwise, they had left the restraints off. Would they do that if they were going to cut him open again? That question contradicted his worries but didn't really slow his pulse any. In fact, the orcs made a point of that little device he still had on his wrist.

Long locks of shaggy, tangled hair fell around him on the bed and on his lap. No more hair to hide his face. For now. It felt odd now that he'd had all that hair for so long. His head felt colder. The doctors came in as Sméagol's cohort was finishing the back of his head. Saruman made a point of inspecting the underling's work, and then Malcolm felt a prick at the back of his neck. It pushed in and stung. He knew then that it was more than a haircut. He was being drugged.

No, no, no, no! Malcolm thought. He wanted to scream it but his whole body had gone slack. He fell sideways onto the bed and the orcs lifted his legs onto it. He could still see. And blink. He tried to follow the orcs with just his wide-open eyes, but he couldn't see far enough. He could feel them though, shaving off the last fuzz of his hair with what felt like a single blade. He couldn't be sure. The only one he could really make out was Sméagol. Sméagol now brought the scissors to Malcolm's face and cut away the length of the overgrown facial hair. But it wasn't gone. The stubbly remains made him itch but he had bigger worries.

He fervently hoped for even just the initial unconsciousness that happened before any of the surgeries they put him through. But this time, it never came. And this time he could see. So they had left him conscious on purpose. Why would they do that? Sméagol looked at his face and Malcolm thought maybe he saw something in Sméagol's. Was that remorse, sadness, compassion, encouragement? These darn reptiles had such less expressional faces that Malcolm had little way of knowing. As Sméagol backed away, Malcolm felt a brief touch on his hand. Sméagol had done that.

When Sméagol returned, he was pushing a gurney. The two smaller ones lifted him onto the gurney and started wheeling him out of the room. Malcolm saw the top of the door frame as they passed into the corridor. Fluorescent lights passed overhead as he was moved and then turned into another doorway. The lights were different here and he realized it was not the operating room. He remembered those harsh, blinding lights distinctly from the first time.

They lifted him again and he was deposited on another bed of sorts. It was huge. There was a large thing behind his head. The table moved and he slid right into it until his head and chest was engulfed in a giant machine. He thought of Phlox's imaging chamber and wondered why they hadn't used this in the first place. It began to hum and he thought he knew exactly what it was. Earth had had such machines for a few centuries now. He tried to relax, tried to hope that this was all they had planned. Maybe it was why they'd left him conscious.

But the fact that they had shaved his head nagged at him. They didn't need to do that for magnetic resonance scanners or CTs or whatever.

The machine finally stopped and the bed slid out. Malcolm was once again placed on the gurney and wheeled away. He didn't like where they took him. Surgical lights.

He was transferred face down onto the slightly cushioned table. His forehead and chin resting on straps fitted into a frame. There was a small monitor on the floor, facing up at him. He kept his eyes on it, hoping irrationally for some encouraging sign there. A small red dot appeared in the black screen. It slowly moved toward the upper-right corner. He followed it. But it just moved again. He kept watching, trying to pour all his attention into that little red dot so he wouldn't hear what was going on above and around him.

It didn't work. He heard a whirring sound and a terror exploded in him like a white hot light.

But when it dissipated, he wasn't lying face-down on an operating table. He was standing in a corridor on Enterprise next to one her airlocks. For a moment, he thought it odd. He had never hallucinated Enterprise before. He had only dreamed it when he was asleep. He raised his hand to his head and found only skin where his hair should have been. He slumped to the floor.

"Malcolm?!" Trip's voice called. "What are you doing here?"

Malcolm looked up as his friend approached. "I can't hold on any longer, Trip. They're cutting into my head." He pulled his hand down and there was blood on his fingertips.

"You're supposed to be with the captain," Trip scolded. "You've got to stop the Xindi weapon!"

"Please, Trip!" Malcolm pleaded. "It's already happened. The captain will destroy it. Please come get us."

Trip knelt down in front of him. "Malcolm, you know we're not there yet."

Malcolm wanted to cry. It was just too much. He could hear the buzzing of the bone saw now. Almost like it was inside his head. "Fine," he sobbed, "fine." He grabbed Trip's arm with his bloody fingers. "Then let me stay here with you until you get there. Please, let me stay. I won't cause any trouble. I won't even tell you what's going to happen if you don't want me to. Please don't make me go back there. Let me stay. Please!"

"Then who's going to look after Hoshi, Malcolm?" Trip replied, softly. He put his hand on Malcolm's shoulder. "Malcolm, you're the strongest man I know. You've got to go back for Hoshi. Phlox showed you how to look after her. Not the captain. The captain'll try to push her. He's got to. You've got to watch out for her, take care of her. You can't go with us."

Malcolm's heart sank so deep his chest hurt. He buried his face in his hands and closed his eyes. He wasn't so strong, he wanted to tell Trip. Not anymore. He was lost and alone. He hadn't seen Hoshi for months. He couldn't take care of her anymore than he could take care of himself. Blood flowed between his fingers and dripped onto his uniform.

Trip stood. "Go back, Malcolm." And then he walked away.

Malcolm opened his eyes and found his hands weren't there anymore. The blood was gone. Pain washed over him in a ring around the top and back of his head. He blinked and a tear fell and splashed on the screen where the little red dot was now doing all sorts of tricks on the monitor screen while orcs chattered above his head.