Star Trek and all its intellectual property belongs to Paramount. No infringement intended, no profit made.

Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom I am, as always, deeply indebted.

Author's Note: Warning. Whilst not graphic, this story visits very dark issues including slavery and child abuse. If these upset you, please do not read it.

The chirp of the comm unit interrupted the peaceful flow of the music playing in the background.

Malcolm had been drowsing on his bunk, his book temporarily laid aside. This piece, In Un'altra Vita, always caught him into dreams. Momentarily swept up into the passion of the melody, his long, slender fingers moved on the blanket, recreating those of the extraordinarily skilled pianist, so long dead but his works immortal.

His school in England had prided itself on the breadth of its curriculum; all pupils were expected to achieve some degree of competence on a musical instrument. Few, however, had spent the hours practising on the piano the way he had done, losing himself in the music and in the ceaseless pursuit of perfection. His music master had wanted him to go on to study it, had even spoken of his being good enough to take it up as a career. Only impassioned pleading had prevented the well-intentioned teacher from mentioning this at Parents' Evening, and only with reluctance had he agreed not to. Pity alone knew what Reed Senior would have come out with at the suggestion that his weakling son and heir pursue music for a living; Malcolm could still remember the almost nauseous wave of relief when the interview was over and the suggestion remained unmade.

He'd known even then that his real inclinations lay towards the technology of weaponry. Reed men were Navy men, but the Royal Navy could find a use for a weapons and explosives specialist. Maybe if he excelled there, his father would eventually stop despising him for his small size and poor health. Because he could excel – deep in that undersized frame there was a passion for excellence as great as that of any of the Reed ancestors whose pictures adorned the walls of the dining room. Let him just get his chance, and he'd do whatever it took to achieve success. One day, his picture too would be up on that wall. He'd been determined on it, even more for his own sake than for his father's.

If things had been different, though...

His mind was so far away that for a second his brain refused to identify the sound summoning him back to the present. Then he sat up immediately. Nobody would disturb him in his cabin, in his off-duty hours, unless it was urgent.

He pressed the 'respond' button on the comm unit on the wall. "Reed."

"Sir, I have a communication for you from Starfleet HQ on a closed channel." Hoshi's beta-shift replacement spoke almost apologetically. "I told him you were off duty, but he said it was urgent."

Malcolm paused for a moment, his mouth tightening. "Record the entire transmission please, Ensign. Security code Epsilon, four, four, zero, four, one, Delta, four, Theta. As soon as it's finished, route an encoded copy to Captain Archer and explain that I request a meeting with him to discuss the contents."

"Yes, sir. Putting the connection through now."

So much for 'might-have-beens'.

He rolled lightly off the bed and strode over to his desk, where he sat down and entered the computer codes for his personal access. As he'd expected, the Enterprise logo on the monitor was replaced almost immediately by the face of pretty well the last person he wanted to see – his old boss from the Section.

Harris.

For all Malcolm's determination to break free from the ties that held him to his old life, sentimentality was not one of the levers that had been available when the exigencies of the discovery of baby Elizabeth's existence had required he contact the Section to request information. Harris had told him bluntly that the price for the goods had been his 'coming back in the game', and although he'd said nothing in reply to that, his consent was implicit when he didn't turn and walk away. The information he'd gleaned thereby (and at a second subsequent meeting) had been sparse enough, but it had been sufficient to allow the ship to track down the miscreant Paxton and prevent him and his xenophobic organisation from destroying Starfleet HQ with the Verteron Array. Thus, incidentally, saving goods and lives from the Section as well, but he'd always harboured doubts as to whether his indebtedness would be regarded as cancelled by that small matter.

Evidently, it hadn't been.

"Sir," he said stiffly. The courtesy due to a senior officer was in the wording; the tone, one he would never have dreamed of using to Captain Archer, said 'What do you want?'.

Harris's smile was a mere movement of the lips. It got nowhere near his eyes. "I believe we made an agreement on the occasion you requested information about Susan Khouri, Lieutenant."

Bastard. "Just so you're aware, sir, this conversation is being recorded and will be passed immediately and in its entirety to Captain Archer."

The smile widened, though it grew no warmer. "You want your captain made privy to all your little exploits, Malcolm?"

He neither blinked nor swallowed, though he wanted to do both; the man watching him would know them for symptoms of unease. "I was obeying the orders of my superior officers, sir. I'm sure you're aware of Admiral Nelson's advice."

"'Firstly you must always implicitly obey orders, without attempting to form any opinion of your own regarding their propriety.' Still a Royal Navy man at heart, eh, Lieutenant?"

"It certainly served the Section's purposes rather well at the time, sir."

"It still might." The older man leaned forward. "I'm contacting you, Malcolm, because someone in whom you might just possibly be interested has – disappeared. From a location that's not too far distant from Enterprise's present position. Maybe this photograph may give you a clue."

For a split second, Malcolm thought his old handler had completely lost his mind. You never, never transmitted photographs of a Section operative through any electronic means as open as a two-way communication channel, closed or not.

The picture that flashed up on screen, however, was not of any of his team, nor indeed of anyone known to him in the old days. Even so, he sat back suddenly in his chair, the breath catching in his throat.

The likeness was stunning.

"Her name is Keri Grenham, daughter of the famous physicist Joelle Grenham and her husband Marcellus," Harris continued smoothly. "I'll be sending you the file on her in case you want to take a look at it."

"Disappeared – how?" asked Malcolm almost without volition, staring at the screen. Long blonde hair, laughing, reckless grey-blue eyes, and a mouth whose sweet bow almost disguised its owner's air of self-possession.

Pard...

For a moment he thought it was a childhood photograph. The girl on the screen was perhaps seven or eight. But after a moment small differences made themselves known: Pard's eyes had been a more perfect blue, her cheekbones less pronounced. Then he thought, maybe a daughter – but Pard had never got the chance to be a mother, had died in his arms, shot three times through the chest on his last mission for the Section. He'd even attended the funeral, standing at a very discreet distance from the interment and pretending to be contemplating the headstone of some perfect stranger who hadn't died too young at the ripe old age of twenty-nine. He hadn't left flowers; Pard would have scorned the gesture. Instead he'd gone out and got lashed out of his brains, and woken up the next morning in bed with a total stranger who was almost equally hung-over and possibly even more embarrassed, which was saying something.

"I'm sure you'll want to talk things over with Captain Archer before we go any further," said Harris, without answering the question. "The file will be with you shortly. If you're interested – you know where I am."

The screen went blank as the transmission ended, and the Enterprise logo blinked back on to it.

It was late, for disturbing the captain unnecessarily; and besides, he was confident that the comm officer – he was too agitated for the moment to think of the name – would have passed on the recording and his message immediately. If Captain Archer wanted to discuss it, doubtless he would make that decision without prompting.

It seemed that Captain Archer did.

Apprehension made a hollow of Malcolm's stomach as he answered the comm for a second time. "Reed here, sir."

"I've just received a rather cryptic message from the Bridge," his commanding officer observed, his voice carefully neutral. "Not to mention a recording locked with a security code. I believe this is something to do with you."

"Yes, sir." What else could he say?

The ensuing silence was loud with the clattering of painstakingly rebuilt bridges toppling from their supports and falling into the chasm below. The tactical officer watched the planks tumble end over end into the darkness.

"I guess I won't get too much sleep till I find out what all this is about," said the captain eventually. "I'll meet you in the Ready Room in ten minutes."

The link closed.

With an almost inaudible sigh Malcolm saw the arrival of an encrypted message. It was unlocked by his Section code number.

Even now, it flew from his fingers so easily!

He copied the contents onto a data chip and deleted the original message, using a programme he'd designed himself. The file couldn't be completely obliterated – the Starfleet software wouldn't allow it – but any attempt to access it would alert him immediately.

The urge to open the copied file and study its contents was almost overwhelming. Even a glance...

But that wasn't in the bargain – the bargain he'd made with himself, the day he was given a second chance by the ship's captain whose trust in him he'd destroyed.

He slipped the chip into the pocket of his trousers and walked out into the corridor, noticing even as he did so that his gait had changed. Instead of the confident stride of an officer, he had instinctively begun to move more quietly, slipping along the corridor like a shadow.

The shadow of the past he could not outrun.

However hard he tried.

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