7.
Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
Which sky and ocean smote,
Like one that hath been seven days drowned
My body lay afloat;
But swift as dreams, myself I found
Within the Pilot's boat.


"They want to induct you into the international merchant's guild. This is a good thing. I do not know why you should complain," Tar'a chides impatiently.

"It's just . . . it's been twelve years, Tar'a. I've been doing this for twelve bloody years without membership to this guild and I've been the best for ten of those years. Why now? And why do I need to?"

"I agree," Matt says, frowning.

Every tactical sense Malcolm has is saying that this seems fishy, but living with the Mil'aka has certainly taught him that he can't always trust his instincts as might apply to humans when faced with another culture.

"The Guild is powerful, Mal'colm. You do not wish to anger them. A rejection would surely do that."

"We weren't good enough before. Why should we be good enough now? If they need us, then they can only hurt us." Malcolm has begun to think like a merchant. It's taken years, but he finally has.

"You are males and you are Tak'ai, of course they were suspicious. Would you not have been?"

"That's besides the point," Malcolm spits, giving Matt a silencing look as he chuckles. They both know that he's sometimes been a little bit paranoid, but Matt's supposed to be on his side.

"It's a trick. They want to shut us down. They want to attack us or something."

Tar'a looks skeptical, amused. "You forget about whom you are speaking, Tak'ai. The Guild would never resort to violence."

"Not in it's pure form," Malcolm mumbles. They have come to learn much about the Mil'aka version of violence over the years. "It still seems suspicious to me."

"You must go. There will certainly be consequences if you do not."

Malcolm and Matt share a look. They'll go, but they're not going to be happy about it.

"And you?"

"I am already a guild member. My mother was on the board for a time. I received honorary membership. I will stay and tend the ship."

"Fine. But stay close to the coast. I'll give you coordinates."

---

"God, Walters would have eaten this up," Matt whispers in Malcolm's ear. Of course, if Walters had survived the crash, they might never have been in this mess. An anthropologist probably would have noticed what four soldiers and an engineer could not. But they do not have time to dwell. It is enough that they have finally gotten to the point where they can mention it.

One of the board members of the guild is standing at the Mil'akan equivalent of a podium, decorated with a variety of seashells and garlands of flowers. They are in the open air, fires lit all around a great stone amphitheater on a bluff overlooking the sea. Somewhere out in the harbor, Tar'a has parked their ship. A long time ago, Malcolm christened it Enterprise, painting a name the Mil'aka could not understand on the side of the well-worn wooden hull.

The air is calm, still with a hint of electricity and thick and humid like summer in the Tropics. Their clothes cling, but the Mil'aka seem at home, flashing what Tar'a has assured them is a polite shade of dull green. This is the first real social function they've been to. Even after all these years, most of what they know of Mil'akan culture comes from Tar'a. As traders, they need only know the customs of the ports, nothing more. This night has already been taxing on their limited language skills.

The speaker begins the meeting with a tale about how the first guild was formed – the beginning of Mil'akan society. "And so, the ‘aka, all separate beings, consumed with warlust and territoriality, could not survive the coming storm. The first Mil'aka sent out a warning flash, golden and bright, the first true language, like the spark from the Creator that painted the entire world in color. All the separate ‘aka took notice. Some thought that the first Mil'aka was bluffing, trying to scare them away so that she might gather more uluk'ai for herself or impress a far-off male. But the wise ‘aka, that would become the members of the first Guild, believed the solitary ‘aka. Now some ‘aka had uluk'ai hides that could be stretched to make covers over their crops but they did not have wood with which to prop them up or with which to make fire. Others had wood but did not have skins, or enough food stores, or the hard rope from the woven bark of the Sil'ala tree. And so they met together and they traded peacefully, as this most esteemed Guild does to this day. We are here today to invite two new members to join in this great tradition."

"Smile and look pretty," Matt murmurs under his breath, nudging Malcolm, who rolls his eyes.

The speaker continues. "They are tak'ai, but they have done much for the field of shipping in the time in which we have known them. They have created the fastest ship in all the seas, sailed with a small crew but with efficiency and great entrepreneurial skill. Inspired by their designs and by the great forces of competition, Mil'akan shipbuilding has progressed swiftly. And no one will argue with me when I say that their goods have always been transported with the best of care. Please, tak'ai. Mal'colm and Hay'es, please approach."

They're still trying to smile, despite the fact that the Mil'aka won't understand, as they stand and make their way to the podium. They're both wearing fresh green tunics, hoping that it will express all the emotion they will need to.

"Now," the speaker continues. "If there is anyone in this gathering that disagrees with this admission to our company, please let it be known now, before our covenant of protection and aid is made, in perpetuity."

There is silence, and then a flash of discontent, a figure standing out in the sea of green, soon melting to yellow in shock. A figure steps forward, and Matt recognizes it immediately, taking an almost reflexive step nearer to Malcolm. It's Raj'a, his captor of long ago. Much has changed about her, including the two red streaks, signifying a double bankruptcy.

The speaker looks shocked, but stands aside, allowing her to come to the podium and speak. Matt looks over to meet Malcolm's eyes, showing his fear for once. There is no way this can turn out well.

"These two would like to join our guild, yes? But they are a liability."

There is the equivalent of a gasp from the audience. A flash of color rolls like a wave through the crowd, a rainbow of shock and disappointment. Liability is a very bad word on Mil'aka. It's a bad word in any group whose interest is collective security, nothing more, nothing less.

Matt inches closer and the two of them automatically begin to take up a defensive stance – not that the Mil'aka would know.

"They have violated embargos before and they will do so again."

The speaker looks doubtful. She is very obviously mistrusting of the two-time bankrupted mark marring Raj'a's clear skin. Matt wonders briefly why Raj'a would be doing this. She hurt him, yes, but never out of hatred or malcontent. And she has nothing to gain by this.

The speaker turns to them, serious. "Is this true?"

Of course, they'd be out of their minds to say yes. The penalty of violating the embargo is death. Malcolm clears his throat and speaks, not changing his stance in the slightest. "No. This is clearly an act of desperation. We have never violated an Embargo."

"I have proof," Raj'a declares. But what proof is there to garner? These people don't have DNA dating and sequencing technology; they don't have surveillance cameras; they don't even have photographs! And after eleven years? "This one," Raj'a points to Matt. "Once belonged to me. He was a hopeless case of war-lust. I have the papers signing him over to me."

There are shouts and screams. They blend together, but it's clear that none of them are protests. ‘I knew it!' ‘How horrible!' ‘Off with their heads!' more likely.

The crowd oscillates, swarms like a great quivering mass of Jell-o. Malcolm meets Matt's eyes for a second and all the passionate determination, all the fight is back in them, like it was lurking there all along. They're probably going to die here, running through the mass of angry creatures whose planet they never really called home, but they'll die fighting.

Up the steps and through the throng, bruised and battered but together . . . when they go over the cliff, they're holding hands.

---

It's been a long time since he's felt pain like this. He supposes that pain isn't something you remember. What good would there be in that? He shifts slightly, groaning and forcing eyes that feel welded shut to open.

There are shapes hovering above him, dark on light. Malcolm blinks up at them hazily.

"Malcolm? Malcolm? Can you hear me?" That voice . . . it's all wrong. It's not Matt's soft but fierce drawl. Nor is it the stuttering speech of Tar'a and the Mil'aka. It's deep, eager, an open enthusiasm that all on Mil'al are incapable of. Malcolm tried to force his eyes wider. This voice is familiar.

"Wha . . ." he asks – throat parched and dry.

Warm hands squeeze his shoulders. "Malcolm. Thank god. You have no idea how glad I am to see you."

And suddenly, thick arms surround him, a muscular chest, like Matt's but the smell, the smell is different, thick and musky and . . . he hasn't. He doesn't even know if it's a smell he knew before. Everything on Mil'al is sweet and fragrant – colorful, fresh like the sea.

He settles into the hug, real flesh on flesh, like he's gripping a for a lifeline . . . somehow . . . someway . . . someone different.

This time, when he opens his eyes, he sees. "Travis?"

Travis is wearing a simple grey sweater, fastened strangely at the neck – fashion, he supposes – such a strange concept that beings with so many different colors to adorn themselves with should all choose to dress the same. Travis looks older. His face is broader now, more hard lines and less youthful curves. Behind him – the twisted metal bulwark of an honest-to-god spaceship, the hum of the engines beneath them, something Malcolm didn't even know he'd missed.

Malcolm sighs. "That's a lovely sound."

Travis looks around him for a moment, questioning, before he's smiling at Malcolm – his same youthful grin. It's surreal, being here like this – a lifetime's spent in another world, a world of sailing ships and strange creatures and a moonless sky, and then, poof, he's sitting here on an heavenly soft bed, looking into eager eyes.

"We've been looking for you Malcolm. Every time we're in the sector, we look. I never thought . . . after all these years . . . God, Malcolm."

Travis hovers close as Malcolm levers himself off the bed. He feels tired and bruised, but nothing seems broken. "Matt?"

"Major Hayes? He's fine, Malcolm. There are some old wounds . . . I assume you know about them. Our doctor's working on him now. He'll be good as new in no time." Travis flashes him a brilliant smile. "So, how are you? How did you . . . I mean, we saw you getting mobbed and everything, so I assume this awards ceremony thing didn't go over so well, but other than that?"

Malcolm shrugs. There's so much to tell, so many things. Emotions bubble to the surface, rich, tickling his memory like champagne, and he can't say anything to describe it all – the loneliness, the surrealness, the connection despite it all. What can he say that will encompass the sea breeze soft on his face, the desperate need coiling in his belly, the quiet calm of a darkened night dozing among the sails? He has barely been gone and already it is fading, so different from this world of people sailing through space that it could simply be a dream.

"We survived. You? I'd have thought you would have made captain by now."

Travis chuckles. "I have. Captain Travis Mayweather of the merchant ship Atlas at your service."

"Atlas? I always thought of him as more of a . . . steady character."

"The man who built her was thinking about an actual Atlas, with all the maps. At least, I think . . ."

Malcolm snorts. "Engineers." Trip had always been like that – he was well educated in Starfleet, but really, the book-learning was the rubber-stamp on his practical knowledge. Trip could've built a ship without ever attending school – not one like Enterprise, but he could've built one.

"Yeah."

"So, why did you leave Starfleet? Not the food, I hope?"

Travis smiles awkwardly. Malcolm remembers just enough to know that maybe he'd missed the cues to stay away from this particular subject of conversation. Travis speaks carefully, choosing his words. "The world has changed a lot in the past years, Malcolm. The captain's an admiral now. He helped negotiate the Federation. You know how he was always talking about it? An interplanetary alliance of trade and mutual defense? Well, he succeeded."

"That's wonderful news." Malcolm always hated the lawlessness of the many places they visited. Trading posts, especially, were never without their shady characters.

"It is. But, Starfleet has changed too. They've been so busy hammering out trade agreements and building space stations and patrolling the newly designated borders . . . it's hard to find the exploration in that anymore. I mean, I'm sure it'll change, once the Federation's truly on it's feet, but it's been ten years and it still seems like that day's a long way away."

Malcolm nods. Enterprise, as wonderful as it was, had taught him so much about mistakes, about the dangers among the stars. And Mil'al had shown him both the value and the price of order.

"And then there are the new laws. That's why we couldn't just beam you out of there. The first law – the prime directive, is not to interfere in the affairs of pre-warp civilizations." That was a lesson Malcolm had already learned hard, even before Mil'al. But when push came to shove . . . he didn't obey it. When push came to shove, he and Matt changed things simply by being there. They refused to give in, to burry their war-lust, their care for creatures that clearly did not care about them.

"And everyone else?"

"Only the captain and T'Pol stayed in the service. Trip does freelance work, thought still mostly for Starfleet. Hoshi's got herself a family and a part-time professorship. Phlox went home to Denobula. Even Chef . . . he opened up a five-star restaurant in San Francisco."

Malcolm nods, trying to recall, to match names and faces . . . to make himself believe all these ghosts that haunted his imagination for so long were really real.

Travis takes him down a corridor, door opening to a room, sterile white against the grunge of the rest of the place. Matt is laid out on a bed there, arm again in a brace. He looks troubled in his sleep, but young. Malcolm reaches out to take his hand, squeezing it lightly. He needs to know Matt's here, needs him to verify all this as real.

---

Matt's eyes creep slowly open, he sees Malcolm looking down on him and smiles a lazy smile. "We beat them?"

Someone is laughing in the background, but all Matt can see is Malcolm's face, dark against a halo of white. He squeezes Matt's hand. "Not exactly. We were rescued."

"Rescued?" Matt had stopped dreaming of that long ago. And he had never thought of Malcolm as a dreamer.

Malcolm sighs, looking over Matt's shoulder to the doctor for permission before helping him sit up. "We're on a the merchant ship Atlas."

"Silly name," Matt says. He must be dreaming.

"Well, you can take that up with Captain Mayweather."

Matt's eyes bulge as Travis steps forward to squeeze his shoulder. "Good to see you, Major." Major? It's been a long time since anyone thought to refer to him as Major.

"Travis?" Matt blinks . . . confused.

But Malcolm is squeezing his hand. This can't be a dream. It can't be, because if it is, then Malcolm's sharing it. Malcolm might have been the only thing that was real on Mil'al, his one anchor, and he's the same here, looking at this face so familiar, yet completely unfamiliar beside him.

"We're going to take you home," Travis says.

Matt has no idea where home is anymore, only that he hopes that it was Mil'al that was a dream, that he can return a soldier, just as proud and honorable as he remembers.

---

Instead of the messy workroom/apartment Malcolm was expecting of Trip's home, he finds a quaint little suburban house, white picket-fence and one-point-five children and all (the point-five from his wife, Nan's previous marriage).

"Welcome to my humble abode," he grins, just as sunny and almost-manic as Malcolm remembers. The place is certainly messy, but filled with remote-control spaceship models (he recognizes Enterprise) and dolls in mismatched clothing (unless that's the style these days). Malcolm steps carefully over a mechanical teddybear and about a hundred holographic baseball cards as he follows Trip through the sunlit living room and into a large bedroom with a queen sized bed with red sheets and an antique diving helmet and a bunch of design schematics for enterprise that Malcolm recognizes.

Trip smiles at the recognition. "When he's in town, Jon usually stays here."

That explains why this room is actually clean, with a level of meticulousness missing from even the clean parts of the rest of the house.

"Oh. I don't mean to intrude . . ." Malcolm knows that Trip and his former captain have been lovers since long before he met them. Perhaps this ‘Nan' about whom Malcolm has heard very little, is just a convenient mother for the children they'd always wanted.

"Don't be silly, Malcolm. It's no intrusion. I'm just so glad to have you back, and if Jon weren't tied-up in high profile negotiations on Vulcan, he'd be here to welcome you as well. Hell, he was ready to ditch them for a few days when he heard, but T'Pol stopped him. They both say ‘hi,' by the way."

"So you and the captain . . ."

Trip frowns. "He's an admiral now and . . . actually, that about sums it up. I wanted a family. He wanted a United Federation of Planets. I swear it's just something that Daniels planted in his mind – he always wanted to settle down before." Trip sounds resentful, the wounds so obviously still raw. Malcolm doesn't blame him; they were together for more than ten years. "But, what can you do to fight destiny? It got a little nasty for a while, but we're friends now. It just goes to show you that things change – people change. And sometimes all you can do is go with it."

Malcolm nods, absently, wondering where Matt is now. Is he with the parents that pushed him into the military, but loved him more than Malcolm's did their son? Or is he catching up with old friends? Lovers? Is he on a military base somewhere, still debriefing? Is he happy? Is he moving on?

---

Matt finds that he's uncharacteristically nervous. After you've been in the heat of battle so many times, there's very little else in the world that can truly scare you. But he hasn't seen her for twelve years. They used to have something -a spark- so many years ago. He wonders if she spent as much time thinking about him as he did thinking about her. He was trapped alone on an alien planet with only Malcolm for company, granted, so she's probably thought of him less.

But he really shouldn't worry because one of the things he loves most about her is how much she cares about people, about remembering them. She'd take the time to memorize fifteen declension and five genders of nouns just to be polite to an alien she'd spend all of five minutes talking too, so of course she'll remember him - even if she is Professor Sato-Diaz now, married with children and just as beautiful.

Still, his palms are sweating and he's running his fingers through his hair. Then the door opens and the noise on the other side is half-way between a squeal and a sob.

"Matt?!"

And then he finds a familiar frame in his arms, a familiar heat, like all the much more mundane fantasies of just holding her against him, feeling that small bit of contact.

She's crying. She's crying and she can't stop, right into his jacket the way she did when she found out that Captain Archer had died on the Xindi weapon, the way she did when Malcolm and Trip went missing on that supply mission, the way she did when they stopped back on Earth and he took her to his cousin Jenny's wedding.

He places a hand in the middle of her delicate back, feeling the skin through her thin cotton jacket.

"Oh God, Matt. I always hoped . . . Malcolm and Ken and Sara and Karen and Rossie?"

"Malcolm and I were the only ones to make it back." He doesn't want to tell her the details of their failure – not just yet, though he doesn't doubt that he will. All those years and even when they tried to discuss it, he and Malcolm could never truly come to terms – they weren't that type of people. But Hoshi is. If anybody can heal him, he knows that she's the one.

"Oh, Matt, I'm so sorry." She hugs him tighter to her, smelling of cinnamon and strange exotic spices, different than she used to, but still wonderful.

After minutes of just standing in the doorway holding each other, she pulls back and they look each other over. She hasn't changed. She looks as young and beautiful as he remembers, though her hair is shorter and more mature looking and she's wearing a white cotton blazer and a skirt and blouse instead of the far less feminine blue coverall he's used to. Her eyes are wide and tearstained and it's clear that she's tracing the lines of new scars down his face, how his hair is graying at the sides, how he still reflexively holds his left arm a little awkwardly.

"How long are you here?" she asks, after he's sure she's seen everything – sadness and regrets and longing.

"As long as you want me to be. I've been gone so long, I've almost lost the ability to plan."

She looks at him quizzically. "Matt Hayes not scheduling his morning sparing practice at 0600 precisely with a square meal of eggs and bacon and orange juice followed by a five mile run and a briefing session?"

"You still remember my schedule?"

She laughs, high and giggly like he remembers, before deepening her voice to impersonate him. "I can't stay tonight, baby, the men will be expecting me at 0600 sharp and a commander has to show stalwartness and strength of character and imaginable analness for his underlings."

He laughs, reaching out to poke her, flirtatiously. "Hoshi Sato! I hope that's not what you've been telling people about me while I was away."

"Why? It's true." She winks and giggles again. "Matt, I missed you so much."

"I missed you too, Hosh."

She smiles warmly then looks at her watch. "Oops. I was just on my way out to grab the little one from soccer practice. You wanna come?"

Matt's never been much for children. He's never considered a family with his job. He lost a father to the service and he would never put a child of his own through that. But this is Hoshi's kid and he's missed her. "Sure."

"But there's someone I want you to meet first." Her smile is secretive and strangely serious. She's biting her lower lip as she takes him by the hand and leads him through an immaculately clean but colorful house with dark wood floors and white walls and sunlight filtering in from every possible angle.

As they make their way up carpeted stairs he hears the sound of music – a piano playing a tune haunting and familiar and just beyond reach, maybe from an old jazz pianist at one of those smoky bars late at night when he'd had one too many, maybe from one of the tunes Malcolm would whistle when he thought no one was listening, maybe a piece of the music Hoshi always insisted was playing when they were making love, despite Commander Tucker's repeated reassurances that all the bulkheads – especially the one between his room and hers, were completely soundproof.

She cracks open a door to reveal a kid – about ten or eleven years old- sitting at an old-fashioned mahogany grand piano, hunched over the keyboard in concentration. He looks strangely familiar, broad-shouldered but still skinny like most boys his age, longish hair hanging in his eyes just a little and a look of concentration on his face that reminds Matt of Hoshi sitting on his bunk, PADDS spread out before her, working on some language or another.

"Sam!" Hoshi yells several times before the boy comes out of what seems to be a near-trance and looks up.

"I thought you were going to pick up Fooz, Mom." The boy says, looking back to the piano.

"Fooz?"

"It was a hard labor. I was so grateful to get him out of me I told Phlox he could name him."

Matt chuckles.

"Sam! Where're your manners, young man? We have a guest I want you to meet before we go get your brother."

Sam looks slightly annoyed, but stands obediently and trots over to them. "Sorry, Mom."

He sticks out his hand. "Hi, I'm Sam Sato."

Matt smiles a little at the kid's clear longing to get back to his piano. "I'm Major Matthew Hayes, but you can call me Matt."

"Nice to meet you, Matt." That's when the kid looks up and Matt sees his eyes – green and intense and far too familiar.

"Nice to . . ." he's speechless for a second. "Nice to meet you too."

"You're going to be late again, Mom," Sam says without looking at a clock, as far as Matt can tell.

Hoshi smiles. "Okay, Hon, get back to your practice." And, over her shoulder as she practically drags a still flabbergasted Matt down the hall after her. "Don't burn the house down while we're gone."

"Yeah right, Mom. I won't."

"He'll still be playing when we get back," Hoshi says. "Won't have moved. He's worse than me when I used to sit down and watch the international channels on tv."

"You always said you wished you'd learned to play the piano," Matt says, in a daze. The kid's the right age and those eyes . . .

"I know. He's trying to teach me, but he doesn't have much patience for my ‘imprecise keystrokes.'" She laughs. But then turns serious as Matt has to be lead through the rest of the house. "Look, I'm sorry for springing this on you like this. It was kinda cruel. But you should've seen the look on your face."

"But we were always so careful."

"I always knew it would be my luck to be one of the .001 percent that things don't work for. But I couldn't . . . not after I lost you. And, believe it or not, he's the best thing that ever happened to me. I loved getting the first jump on all these new languages, but my heart was never fully in it. I joined more because Jon asked me than anything else."

"I remember." He'd asked Hoshi if there was something between the two of them and Hoshi nearly died laughing. The captain was more like an overprotective older brother to her – a friend of the family.

She smiles warmly. "You should have seen him when he found out. He wanted to be polite and congratulate me, but you could see that he wanted to kill whoever it was that would make me leave Starfleet to raise a child on my own. You know the vein in his temple that goes when he's mad? I swear he was going to have an aneurism. Of course when he found out it was you he tried to look guilty, but I think he would've tried to strangle your ghost if he came across it."

"Am I in danger then?"

"No, I think twelve years and a considerable portion of his paycheck spent spoiling his godson absolutely rotten have calmed him a bit. He's responsible for that monstrous grand piano, you know – had the thing beamed in from some antique shop in Germany. Between him and Trip and your sister . . ."

"Mel? You contacted her?"

"She contacted me, actually. By the time they were finally ready to declare you missing in action and we made it back to Earth, I was far enough along to show at the funeral. She put two and two together. After the baby was born she started hitting on me, though."

"That's Mel for you. Can't keep her hands off anything that she perceives as being mine."

"I always thought she had some . . . issues."

"I was the model son. She was the black sheep – bisexual, hippie, female, in a traditional military family. Not that I turned out much different in the end."

"What do you mean, Matt?"

He tells her. He tells her everything.

---

Malcolm opens the door to find himself locked in a bearhug with his former captain. "Malcolm. So good to see you." Archer pulls back quickly to look Malcolm over. "The beard suits you."

Malcolm rubs at it absently. He's long forgotten a time when he didn't have one. "Thanks, Captain."

"It's Admiral, now. But I think that you can call me ‘Jon.'"

"Congratulations, Jon," he smiles. Archer looks slightly taken aback, like he wasn't expecting Malcolm to take him up on his offer.

It felt natural, even though he knows it shouldn't. He tries to explain himself. "The Mil'aka believe ranks are . . . a prelude to war and thus a crime." He feels stupid saying it to the man he addressed as ‘Captain' and ‘Sir' for four years.

Archer smiles a strange half-smile, still looking put off, though it's hard to tell. Malcolm is having trouble reading emotions now that they're not color-coded. "I know, Malcolm. I read your report."

"I'm glad."

"It made for quite some reading," Archer says, shucking his coat and hanging in the hallway closet without pause, obviously at home here.

"Indeed." He doesn't want to talk about it – especially not with Archer. He's ashamed of his behavior, suddenly. He was Archer's trusted armory officer and security chief for four years only to go so civilian . . . go native. He knows that Archer himself probably doesn't care –the man has bigger things to worry about now- but still, he feels wrong somehow, like he's lying to the captain just standing here, being who he's not.

"So, I was wondering about the Hil'akan custom of . . ."

Luckily, Malcolm is saved by the bell, or rather by the half-yell, half-screech coming from Trip's wife, Nan. "Jonathan! How good to see you! How long have the negotiations kept you away?"

Malcolm can see the screws tightening around his former captain's skull. He doesn't blame him. Nan is shapely and disgustingly giddy, with rosy cheeks and blonde ringlets that Malcolm would have thought should be confined to Shirley Temple or some other disgustingly sweet five-year-old with a lollypop. She's from Georgia, never worked a day in her life other than cooking what's probably the best fried catfish that Malcolm's ever had (and being friends with Trip, he's tried quite a lot). And she's dumb as dirt, only louder.

"Two and a half months," Archer practically grunts, smiling politely as Nan leads him into the living room.

"Well, I've got Malcolm in the guest room, but you're welcome to the futon in the study. Oh, Jonathan. How is Vulcan this time of year? I hear it's lovely. I'm not one for deserts myself, but supposedly the sunsets are absolutely breathtaking."

"Yes, they are," Archer says simply, looking tired and old, hair gone a rich silver. He's still fit though, trim and handsome.

"Have you ever been to Vulcan, Malcolm?"

He shrugs. "Once or twice."

"And what did you think of it?"

"Dry." He used to love that – the calm austerity, not a drop of water, no great naval history, no fear. Now, he thinks he needs the water to survive, that maybe he'll move out here to California, stay on the coast.

"Hm. Well, Jonathan, let's get you settled . . ."

Then Trip shows up at the top of the stairway, smile painted on his face. Nan doesn't seem to notice that it's fake, but Malcolm does. "Jon! Good to see you, buddy!" He strides purposefully down the stairs, giving Archer a very manly embrace, full of back pats and heavy laughter. When they pull away, both their eyes are sad.

"Dinner's already ready, gentlemen, so I'll show you to you room, Jonathan and . . ."

"I think I can find it myself, Nan. Thank you."

Archer slinks off and Trip sighs. Clearly, they're not over each other yet. Malcolm wouldn't expect them to be.

Nan has made steak tonight, with green beans and mashed potatoes. It's frighteningly American-domestic. Malcolm sighs.

The conversation is amiable, though tense. Nan keeps steering the conversation towards what Archer has been up to, even as he and Trip try to bring it back to more comfortable topics.

"And I think that the Federation is doing a wonderful job with those new ships. What were they called, honey?" Nan asks, smiling pleasantly.

"Patrol vessels," Trip says, flopping his napkin over onto his plate.

"No . . . no, the official name."

"They don't need an official name, Nan! That's what they are. They're not for exploring. They're lightweight, heavily armed, small cargo-load, patrol vessels."

"Well, Trip, we need to defend out border," Archer says with a false smile.

"They're not our borders, Jon! They're not our responsibility! The Vulcans have a whole fleet of technologically advanced, defensive ships. Why don't they go out and do some of the defending?"

"Trip, we're the ones that pushed this alliance. We have to show faith in it. The Vulcans will follow. They want safety and security as much as anybody, but it's all a very new concept to them. We need to show them that we are capable of defending . . . of doing our part."

"Don't feed me the company line, Jon! I've heard it a thousand times from that asshole, Reynolds that you've got assigned to deal with contractors."

"Trip, it's not the company line. It's what I really think. T'Pol agrees with me."

"Oh, that's right . . . T'Pol. T'Pol, still as professional and emotionless as ever? Still willing to put everything aside for business . . . chalk it up to a need fulfilled?"

Trip is fuming, turning red. He's more dangerous-looking now than Malcolm remembers. Perhaps, this is the war-lust the Mil'aka talk about. Trip had been itching for a fight the moment Archer got here.

Archer fumes right back, as passionate together as they always were. "Don't bring T'Pol into this. You . . . you made your choice, Trip. I'm free to make mine."

"And I'm glad I did!"

Malcolm wonders what Nan makes of all this – if she knows.

"Then let me live my life! I'm trying to do my duty . . . defend my planet."

"You used to be in this for the exploring, Jon. You used to do it for the sheer adventure alone. You weren't concerned about defense. You didn't care about politics! You . . . you used to be passionate."

Archer sighs. "People change, Trip. Even when they spend every moment together, they change."

A beat and then Nan puts on an even faker smile than the one she usually wears and says. "So . . . who's for dessert?"