Grateful thanks to SitaZ and RoaringMice for beta reading.
§ 1 §
"Get out of here, Lieutenant, that's an order!" The words were barked out in as military a fashion as Malcolm had ever heard from the genial Commander Tucker, and an undercurrent of alarm could be detected in them.
Malcolm bit his lip. "I'm not quite ready to leave you, Commander." His reply, in contrast, exuded his usual distinct calm.
Reed had long perfected the technique of keeping emotions out of his voice in order to project an image of poise, and now he put it to good use. Smoke and mirrors, Malcolm thought with a silent snort: his innards actually felt like a block of hardened cement and adrenaline was coursing through his veins. But wasn't he good at misleading people into thinking that he had a higher than normal threshold for experiencing anxiety. In reality he felt fear like anyone else, it was just that he was able to clamp down on it, keeping an impassivity which allowed him to be cool under pressure. That's why he was good at his job, if he said so himself.
A frustrated groan floated out of Malcolm's communicator. "Don't be so damn pigheaded," Trip pressed. "It's enough that one of us is trapped and we can't get in touch with the ship. You need to inform the bridge. I'll still be here when you come back. I won't be goin' anywhere, Malcolm."
Malcolm felt that the use of his given name authorised him to be a little slack with form, so instead of replying he pursed his lips and moved his flashlight around once more to meticulously inspect the bulkhead that was separating him from his friend.
The medium-size vessel they had detected on the planet Enterprise was currently orbiting, and which they had been sent to investigate, was apparently abandoned; there was no indication that it had crashed or had been shot down. It had seemed innocuous enough and soon they had found their way to the engine room, where Trip had immediately and happily got absorbed in the alien technology there at his glorious disposal. But then, all of a sudden, that bloody bulkhead…
"Answer me, Lieutenant."
Reed flinched. Trip's voice was low but vibrated with anger. He raised his own comm. device in front of his mouth. "I'm not leaving alone, Commander," he said with stubborn resolve.
"I gave you an order!"
"With all due respect, I'm the Tactical Officer, and my opinion is that I shouldn't be leaving you behind. There must be a way to open this bulkhead. Let's stop arguing and find it."
Reed knew that he should shut up and obey: Tucker was his commanding officer; but he was also his friend, and he thought he could take his chance at being a little out of line. Besides, his gut feeling told him that although they might not be in deep trouble now, they soon would be, and he wasn't prepared to leave Trip to face alone whatever threats this ship might throw at them.
Another frustrated sound came through his communicator, and Malcolm fleetingly pictured the fuming expression that must be on Trip's face before focussing all his attention on his task once again. All five senses on the alert, he inspected every inch of the wall that some fifteen minutes before had unexpectedly cut them off. He found nothing that would trigger the bloody thing open.
After a moment Trip's gruff voice made itself heard again. "There's nothin' here to…" Suddenly his words turned into a gasping sound.
"Commander, what's wrong?" Malcolm demanded, feeling his pulse rise.
The pause lasted only a few seconds but to Reed it felt like ages.
"I think I'm bein' scanned," Trip finally replied.
"Are you all right?" Malcolm asked in concern. Being scanned could be an invasive affair.
"Dammit, Lieutenant, do what I told you: get the hell out of here!" Trip barked again, command tone laced with anxiety.
A part of Malcolm's mind, the more rational one, knew that Trip was probably right. Inside this ship something was blocking their communications with Enterprise: the bridge was in the blind and ought to be informed of their status, especially since it looked like the vessel was not as abandoned as it had seemed. But his emotional self screamed that he'd better find a way to get Trip out of there ASAP or it might be too late. And as he tensely weighed his options it didn't take him long to realise which side would win in this battle.
"I'll try to cut through the bulkhead with my phase pistol, Commander," he said calmly into his communicator. "Stand back."
There was some kind of an answer, but Malcolm couldn't quite make it out. He thought it had the punch of a four-letter word. He stood back and set his pistol to the highest yield. No point wasting time. Five minutes later he re-holstered the weapon with a grunt.
"Not a chance," he said. "Our phase pistols are useless against this alloy."
Silence.
"Commander?"
Damn! Malcolm felt another rush of adrenaline and gripped his communicator more tightly.
"Trip, can you read me?"
No answer. Banging his fist hard against the wall, Malcolm let lose with his own string of foul words, frustration and concern finally breaking his control. Suddenly, as if by magic, the partition began to slide open.
With good manners…
Reed frantically searched the small space with his flashlight, looking for something to block the door in case it decided to slide shut again, but he saw nothing that could do the job. He took a quick step inside the room. Trip lay slumped on the floor a few feet away, the beam of his fallen torch giving away his position. Fighting back the concern that they might both get trapped, Malcolm took another couple of steps. He froze when another beam suddenly materialised and zoomed on him. He felt a tingling sensation run through his body, not painful but far from pleasant, and he hesitated. The sight of Trip unconscious was a strong motivation to move, however, and trying to ignore his nerves he rushed to his friend's side.
"Trip!" Malcolm tensed as he felt for a pulse. The rhythm under his fingers was strong, and he blinked in relief. Without further delay, he grabbed the engineer and dragged him to the other side of the treacherous bulkhead.
"Trip, wake up!" This is no time for a nap, Commander. At least the scanning beam had disappeared, and he no longer felt as if he had ants crawling all over him.
No amount of shaking seemed to revive his friend, so Malcolm gripped one of his arms and, grunting with effort, lifted the bigger man onto his shoulders. Which way was the exit, now? Malcolm hesitated. Staggering under the weight, he took a few steps.
He was certain he had to take a right turn but then… The vessel was laid out like a labyrinth, a seemingly irrational criss-cross of corridors, each looking the same. Planting his feet firmly on the ground, he put his flashlight between his teeth and reached for his scanner to help him find his bearings. What he saw on his instrument made his blood run cold: the ship was coming alive. Still no biosigns that he could tell – thank God for that – but he was now reading several power signatures. He hadn't the faintest idea of what they were, and he wasn't really eager to find out.
Faint lights suddenly came on and Malcolm tensed, looking around him frantically. No one in sight – no biosigns, he reminded himself. Well, if the power signatures meant he could do without walking around with a torch in his mouth, they were more than welcome.
After a last quick glance at the scanner for directions, he turned the flashlight off and pocketed it, setting out on his way as fast as his burdened legs would allow him. Holding on to Trip meant that he only had one free hand, and now that he was pointed in the right way he put away the scanner and got out his communicator.
"Reed to Enterprise…" No answer – not that he had expected one, they were still too deep inside the ship.
He didn't know what set him off. But as he swerved abruptly and stumbled to crash hard against the wall, he thanked his Tactical Officer's sixth sense as a bluish beam vaguely resembling that of an Andorian phase weapon missed him by inches. This vessel, however, was definitely not Andorian.
Keeping close to the wall, he pocketed his communicator and reached for his phase pistol. He was beginning to feel more like a juggler than a Starfleet Officer, but he was determined not to let some automated system get the better of them.
This time he knew what alerted him: a barely audible humming sound. Malcolm turned towards its source and fired blindly; there was a small explosion as something smashed to pieces. The sound ceased.
He was congratulating himself on his reaction time, which he smugly thought had been more than acceptable given that he was slowed by Trip's extra weight, when the humming returned from another spot. He barely saw the beam flash out this time. Pain shot up his left leg as he was hit squarely, momentarily deprived of breath and balance.
A muffled cry escaped his lips and he wavered. Cursing, he spun around and shot back, again not quite sure at what. Once more, however, a small explosion ensued, which hopefully meant the firing device had been put out of business.
His muscles were tiring and his mind was getting fuzzy, so Malcolm allowed himself a moment of rest, leaning with his right shoulder against the wall. Breathing heavily, he glanced at his injured limb, grimacing at the sight of his charred uniform, just above the knee. Lovely.
Can't stop.
Trip's dead weight was beginning to feel a bit too heavy, especially now that his balance was even more precarious, but Malcolm limped on, aware that safety was not too far away. Blinking quickly to clear his vision, now blurred by sweat and exhaustion, he visualised the path that lay ahead. One left turn, then straight.
He came to the next corner and peeked warily around it, ready for action. But of course the ship's defence system was probably set off by body heat, or movement. If it was by movement, as long as he stayed put it wouldn't reveal itself. However, if it was by body heat, he'd be dead in a second anyway, so… He leaned against the wall for another moment, to take some weight off his injured leg and bring his ragged breathing under control. Then with a grunt he pushed off and slowly ventured on.
No sooner had he turned the corner than something caught his eye. Aiming fast, he fired just as the bluish beam flashed towards him. The device exploded as violently as the pain in his right arm and he yelped as his pistol fell out of his hand, skidding with a clattering sound away from him.
Damn!
No matter, another few meters and they would be safe. Through the black spots that now danced in front of his eyes, Malcolm could in fact see the exterior hatch. Biting his lip against the pain in his leg, he let the momentum carry him forward, but at the very last moment stopped in his tracks: anyone designing a defence system would logically concentrate his attention on external accesses. Pain and fatigue had clouded his mind, and almost caused him to make a stupid and probably fatal mistake.
He let Trip slide gently off his shoulder to the ground and crouched down near him, hissing as his injured leg protested the abuse. Time to do what Mr. Tucker had insisted upon earlier: contact Enterprise.
His communicator was in the right leg pocket and Malcolm grimaced as he reached for it with his wounded arm. With an effort he got it out and flicked it open. "Reed to Enterprise…" he paged, annoyed at the hoarseness of his voice.
"Go ahead, Lieutenant," Archer replied a second later.
"We ran into trouble, Sir," Reed said, wishing it weren't so bloody difficult to speak.
"What kind of trouble?"
"The vessel has an automated defence system. Commander Tucker is unconscious and I am injured," he managed. "I am not certain I can get us to the pod without triggering further security devices. Requesting transport."
Archer's voice had a familiar edge to it when it came back. "Stand by; we're getting a lock on you."
Malcolm didn't even have the energy to mutter 'understood'. The world had suddenly started to spin rather fast and he found himself sitting on the ground. He leaned against the wall and let his head fall back, closing his eyes as he felt himself inevitably slipping into unconsciousness. He didn't fancy re-materialising on the transporter pad in an undignified, insentient heap, but there was little he could do to avoid the gaping maw of darkness. He vaguely heard Archer say something, but could neither make out the words nor find his voice to reply. A moan from Trip was the last sound he distinguished, and before yielding to oblivion his last coherent thought was 'Great timing, Commander'
"He got away, the defence system failed."
"Power levels are low, weapons were not as effective; and Subject Two was surprisingly strong-willed. But Subject One is all that matters to us, and the imprint won't fail."
"We have been waiting a long time for a suitable Subject."
"It won't fail."
TBC
