A story for "Get Trip Into Trouble" month - Hope you'll enjoy and review.
Grateful thanks to my beta reader, RoaringMice
§ 1 §
"I what, Sir?"
Archer's nonchalant tone made the proposition sound more outlandish than it might otherwise have been. Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest and turned narrowed eyes away, to a nondescript spot on the deck-plating, feeling his irritation swell. It didn't help that he had been summoned to the ready room before his alarm clock, and had had to rush through his customary morning rituals.
"With all due respect, Captain, it's not ethical."
"I know, Malcolm. I don't like it any more than you do; but I already tried all other options, and if we don't do something..."
As he re-materialised inside the dark structure, Malcolm was still silently cursing the blue streak he had begun on the transporter pad. No, in the Armoury. Actually, in the ready room. For a moment, as feeling returned to his limbs, he wondered if this was a verified fact: if Starfleet was aware that being transported didn't interrupt your – uhm – mental processes. Better not ask them: he doubted they'd be interested in learning what mental processes had not been interrupted.
Darkness surrounded him, but he had come prepared: the moment he switched on his torch a maze of corridors came into view, which triggered another silent but colourful expression. A labyrinth wasn't a good start, even though he more or less knew in which direction to look for the wayward member of their crew.
Mindful of any little noise, he scanned his surroundings with his eyes. The silence was complete. Only his heartbeat drummed in his ears. Not that he disliked a bit of adrenaline doing the rounds in his bloodstream, mind you. A few times the daring man in him had suggested, in the quiet of 'their' conscience, that the occasional brush with danger was a part of his profession he couldn't do without. It was the why, here, which irritated him. One just didn't --
The squeak of a heavy door being opened – or closed – prompted him to flatten against the wall and turn off the torch.
These wrinkled-faced people were an odd species. Candians had things like warp drive and phase weapons, but in other respects had remained surprisingly primitive, from a technological point of view. It was – Malcolm understood – a choice of life. Oh – and they didn't have the electric bulb. They simply had no need for it: according to the Vulcan database, they had eyesight that allowed them to see even in darkness. Lucky them. Think of the saving. Too bad it made things slightly more complicated for him. At least this planet's moon was quite bright, and some of its yellowish light was filtering through a high window somewhere down one of the corridors.
The sound of soft steps. They seemed to be coming his way. Malcolm tried the handle of the nearest door. Locked. Fortune may be blind, but one could always count on Bad-luck having perfect eyesight. Oh, well. Time to give this someone an unexpected welcome.
Flattening in the recess of the door, Malcolm focused on his hearing, timing his attack on the sound of the approaching steps. They were very light, almost as if the Candian were planning the same little surprise on him. Brilliant. Briefest stealth mission in history.
Suddenly the steps stopped, and for a moment there was total silence. Malcolm held his breath. By now his eyes had got somewhat accustomed to the darkness and he could make out shades and outlines. Better than nothing.
The soft shuffling resumed. Closer. And closer. Malcolm could swear the man was no more than a couple of metres away now. He could almost hear his breathing – or was that his imagination? Carefully, he leaned out and cast a quick glance: yes, a dark figure was sliding along the wall, undoubtedly closing in on him …
Now, Lieutenant.
Punch in the gut, arm twisted behind the man's back; it looked like a straightforward job, but the person dug his free elbow back with force, and it connected with Malcolm's stomach, making him grunt and lose his grip.
"Take that, ya damn shrivelled face!" the enemy choked out, in perfect Floridian accent.
Bloody...
Cursing against the pain in his stomach, Malcolm managed to lock Trip in a secure grip and wrap an arm over his mouth. "Quiet!" he choked out in his ear. "It's me." He felt the Engineer relax, and gradually released him.
"Malcolm? What the hell..."
Malcolm pulled him into the recess. "I'm here to get you out," he said in a low voice. As he switched the torch back on, he added in a grunt, massaging his stomach, "Nice welcome."
"You're the one who jumped me," Trip complained, rubbing the shoulder of the arm Malcolm had twisted. "Besides, I'm already out. Pickin' locks is my second nature."
"Yeah, your first one is getting into trouble," Malcolm said deadpan. "But I don't want to discuss that," he quickly added. "At least not right now. Right now my orders are to get you out and retrieve the Shuttlepod."
Trip smirked. "Can't we just transport out and be gone? I'm kinda tired of this place."
"You'll transport out, and I'll get the Shuttlepod back," Malcolm decided, casting a glance along the corridor. "Captain Archer was very clear. The pod is not to be left behind."
"No way. If that's the Capt'n's order, we'll carry it out together."
"Look, Trip--"
"Besides, I know where to find it."
"I know too; I scanned the place from Enterprise."
There was a beat of silence. Trip's eyes left Malcolm's and tracked down, to his chin.
"I know something that you don't."
"What?"
"I'll tell you later."
A challenging smile split the Engineer's face in two.
"Follow me, Lieutenant."
Picking locks was Trip's second nature. Malcolm watched him make a fast job of a couple of them as they proceeded towards the outside of the detention wing of the military compound.
"If they ever dismiss you from Starfleet, you can make a career as a burglar," Malcolm commented under his breath.
"If they ever dismiss you from Starfleet, you can make a career as a covert agent," Trip retorted with a low chuckle.
Trip would probably never know how close to the mark he'd come. "What kind of prison is this?" Malcolm wondered, chasing away thoughts of Section 31. "No guards?" They had been working peacefully for twenty minutes now. It was disgraceful that no one should be around to stop their escape. Sloppy safety measures always outraged him, even when they worked in his favour.
"I knocked out and gagged the only guard I saw. You should've seen me in action, Lieutenant: would've been quite proud of me." Trip tilted his head, the better to study the job at hand. "They don't need many guards," he went on, as he worked. "Apparently they have very little crime. Last inmate before me, if I got it right, was a Tellarite who had insulted the General, six months ago."
"Shame on you, Commander; as bad as one of those grouches."
Malcolm was beginning to enjoy this. Easy job – at least for the moment – so plenty of opportunities to do a bit of ribbing.
"That's not what worries me," Trip retorted. "What worries me is that inmates don't last very long in this place, they're gotten rid of pretty fast."
Malcolm was about to comment, when voices were heard approaching. He touched Trip's arm and they both got up and looked for a place to hide.
"And in a rather barbarous way," Trip continued in a tense whisper, over Malcolm's right shoulder. "You won't let me end up disembowelled, will ya?"
"Not if I can help it," Malcolm whispered back. "But that's only because the Captain ordered me," he slipped in as he pulled Trip behind a large cabinet.
They held their breath. Three different voices could be detected. One was high pitched, a woman's. Two were deeper and male. Malcolm reached into a pocked and retrieved the UT. Hoshi had programmed it to pick up the Candian language.
"The Captain of the Human ship was mad as anything," one of the deep voices said, almost in amusement. "But in the end he had to accept our laws. The prisoner will be executed tomorrow."
"I have filed a formal petition with the General," the woman said. "He'll listen to me!"
"Don't count on it. The General can't change the law," the third voice commented. "Especially not for you."
They stopped by the door Trip had just opened. Malcolm felt a knot of tension in his gut.
A snort introduced the next words. "Why are you so worried about that Human? You fell under the spell of his blue eyes?"
"Don't you dare! Remember whom you're speaking to," the female voice retorted.
Laughter met her outburst. "What are you going to do about it? File another formal petition?"
"Hey, someone left the door open here," the first voice said.
"It must have been that young recruit. Youngsters!" the second man spat out. "Lucky we found out: your handsome alien might have escaped."
Laughter covered the woman's reply. Then the three went through, the door was locked again, and they continued along the corridor, their voices fading.
Malcolm turned to shoot Trip a deadpan look.
"I didn't think I'd get... I mean, come on, Malcolm: what would you have done?" the man argued.
"Definitely not what you did." Malcolm heaved a sigh. "Let's find that pod."
TBC