Disclaimer: See chapter one, please. They aren't mine.

Rating: M

Two

Tom

We're marched down endless corridors, the route twisting and turning. Long titanium lines of crisscrossing grates intersecting with gleaming black paneling. I somehow doubt these people could be bribed with even Voyager's technology. This is a smooth ship. Sleek, but powerful. I couldn't outmaneuver it in the Flyer, after all.

As we walk, I stare at the captain's back, trying not to focus on the fact that she's barely dressed. Hoping she's pretty much doing the same whenever she turns to make sure I'm still behind her, but for all she seems affected by it, we could be on the bridge right now, doing business as usual. She keeps her head held high and her shoulders back. The entire time, our captor's words ring in my ears. Alive, you are worth fifteen million lycca. Dead, you are worth five.

We're being led to an execution, plain and simple. Probably not a swift one, either, if the price set for our live capture means anything – well – her live capture, anyway. The captain's singular acknowledgement echoes in my ears, too. Kaelo.

Arguably the worst sign yet. I can only go by what I heard, for the most part, but the captain and Chakotay fought over whether or not to even attempt trading with him. Of course the captain won, but the security teams' detailed accounts of the prefect's behavior coupled with the few transmissions the captain hadn't taken in private were enough to tell most of the story: Kaelo was a real bastard. I was grateful B'Elanna's condition precluded her as a candidate for planet-side activities. There was no way I wanted my wife within reaching distance of someone with Kaelo's volatile, almost predatory temperament.

Not that any of us wanted the captain down there with him any more than we wanted her with a pack of rabid Toskitars, but she was accompanied by either Chakotay or Tuvok most times, not to mention a full security team.

The prefect's interest in us…well, her, primarily…was a little strange from the beginning. If Jifan was the center of commerce in this system, and it seemed to be from all the interstellar traffic around the planet, then how could the ruler of the planet afford to spend his time meeting with every single hopeful trade prospect that came calling?

Tuvok thought it was odd; he said so right on the bridge, and she'd agreed with him. The best we could all gather was that most of the other ships were local while we, clearly, were not. It was conceivable that he'd taken our hail himself when their sensor net revealed how foreign we were to the area.

I somehow resisted adding my observation that, whatever the reason for his initial greeting, I thought it blatantly obvious why he wanted her to put in our request for supplies in person. Kaelo hadn't taken his dark eyes off of her for a single second once the channel opened…it was as if none of the rest of us existed at all.

I trusted Chakotay to have noticed it, since the captain hadn't seemed to, and he didn't disappoint. On the bridge, he kept his usual, calm persona, but after that first transmission, the commander didn't wait more than the standard minute before asking to see her in her ready room, which of course meant he didn't like her decision to beam down and meet with the Jifan prefect. And later, when Tuvok insisted she take a double security team to the surface for the second and third days of negotiation, it was clear how he felt about the prefect. And Ayala hated his guts on sight. Mike still swears that if he hadn't stepped in when he did that last day...

Needless to say, when the away team returned early from the third day of negotiations and the captain ordered us to break orbit immediately, I think the whole crew breathed a sigh of relief.

And Kaelo's the one who wants her now. Badly enough to spend an extra ten million lycca to get her alive. I can only imagine what he has planned...it makes my stomach churn.

Eventually, we're stopped in front of a large set of gleaming silver doors, and my darker imaginings are disrupted for the time being. A code is tapped into a keypad set beside the entryway, but it's way too intricate to memorize at one glance. I think I have a good idea of the first two keys, but there are at least a dozen more input in rapid succession right after those. I'd need to see it input several more times to have a chance at getting it right. But the fact that the guard entering the code only smirks when he notices us both watching him like hawks (while pretending not to) is probably not such a good sign. If they're worth even half their salt, they'll be changing that code on a frequent basis. And they're definitely professionals. The whole time we've walked, either one of our arms has been held in a fierce grip, or a weapon has pressed firmly into our backs – usually, both. They're not taking any chances, despite the captain's promise of cooperation.

We're herded inside. The room is huge, about half the size of the hangar, with a few tables and comfortable looking chairs and recliners lining the walls. But what catch my attention immediately are the four circular units dominating the center of the room. As the walls are transparent, it's pretty clear that they're holding cells. They line up in a neat little row, with hardly any space left between them, and inside each one is a small bunk that juts out from the far edge of the cell, crossing about halfway through it. Some kind of thin white cloth covers the beds, and there's a small pillow on each, but from what I can tell, there're no blankets. I hope it's warmer in there than it is in the main section of the room – it's freezing in here, the goosebumps prickling along my exposed skin almost painful.

Aside from the beds, each cell is equipped with what I assume are toilet facilities – even including a simple sink, too. But there's no opening to the cells and no locking mechanisms that I can see: escaping from holding units like these is going to be nearly impossible. Which is probably the point, I guess, but I wonder how they're planning on getting us into them.

And so much for privacy: everything we do inside those cells is going to be clearly visible from the outside. With all the comfortable furniture around, it looks like we're going to be monitored constantly.

That doesn't concern me so much for myself; I'm familiar with the ins and outs of prison life, but the captain isn't. Come to think of it, I don't think she's ever even been in a holding cell before – well, apart from that little stay in the brig recently, courtesy of a mind-altered first officer, that is. Looking at the setup in front of us, I can't help cringing a little, remembering the first few weeks in New Zealand before "good behavior" got me transferred to minimum security wing. There was no privacy whatsoever in those initial intake centers, and it took a long while to get used to the complete lack of seclusion. I highly doubt the captain's going to be comfortable with this situation at all. I'll at least keep my back discreetly turned as much as possible, but that's not speaking to what the guards will do.

I know the cells are transparent for a reason, but I still can't help hating them for it on her behalf. Dignity is an especially precious thing to a commanding officer...almost sacred. They strive to maintain it, particularly in front of their subordinates, and our captors are making it all but impossible for the captain to maintain hers here.

I look them over again, now that they've removed the helmets. Pale Romulans, with two sets of eyes. Most of them look supremely bored, as if they do this sort of thing all the time – which they probably do. A few are smiling at the blank expressions on our faces as we look over our cells for the first time, but more are looking at her than at me. Damn. If they're anything like most prison guards, getting off on the power trip of having our lives in their hands, they're probably going to enjoy embarrassing her. It'll only be worse because I'll be here to bear witness to it…

I hate that I'm here right now. I mean, I'd take her place in a second, but I'm bright enough to realize that my presence isn't going to be any great comfort to the captain. If anything, I'm the biggest liability she has; she's going to have to make crucial concessions on my behalf...is making them. Already, she could be offering more resistance, almost certainly would be, and I'd rather she did. Setting herself up as an easy target won't bode well for her chances here (not to mention wherever we're headed), and "relatively undamaged" isn't exactly a confidence-boosting concept.

I meet the captain's eyes again and, sure enough, she's giving me that reassuring half smile of hers. Typical, but it doesn't fool me. She can see the conditions we'll be kept in as well as I can, and she may not know all the finer points of the situation we're in, but she'll already know how vulnerable we are in cells like these. Unarmed, undressed…basically defenseless and on constant display.

I hold her gaze. Yeah, she knows. And she's using her smile to cover for the way her eyes are coolly accessing my mental condition, practically searing over my face for signs of apprehension. Not that there's a damned thing she can do about it, but she's checking to make sure I'm not panicking, probably worried that I'm afraid. Hell, she's right; at the moment, I'm just this side of terrified that I'm never going to see or hold my wife again. That my kid is going to grow up without a father. Not to mention the claustrophobia those tiny cells are already bringing on. Of course I'm not looking forward to being dumped into those cells and gaped and poked at like some kind of overgrown land-dwelling goldfish in a bowl…

But at least I don't have to show it. My mental condition is the last damn thing the captain needs to be worrying about, on top of everything else. So while I may not be feeling it on the inside, I'm careful to give her a confident nod, anyway.

Seeing her relax by a tiny fraction is all the reward I need for my efforts.

We're guided into position in front of the two closest cells. The sharp prod to the middle of my back starts me reluctantly moving forward, and I'm marched up to stand in front of the first cell, and the captain is led to the next one, more towards the middle. As we watch impassively, a small dark pad rises up from the floor in front of me, and I'm nudged by a weapon in the back to step on top of it. Beside me, I can see the captain maneuvered onto an identical pad, the guard next to her actually taking her arm and steadying her almost chivalrously.

She frowns up at him, as do I, but when he lets go immediately and steps back, her expression clears. She gives him a small smile then, to my surprise, but I guess I shouldn't be. Our conditions in captivity will depend upon the goodwill of the guards. Not only do they have complete access to us, but if we have any hope of escape – not that I'm holding my breath – it'll probably be with their help.

She's already trying to charm them. The soldier is young, has to be inexperienced. He even seems to flush a little under her gaze and shyly looks away from her. I'd laugh if the situation wasn't so serious.

My restraints are removed, drawing my attention back to the guards nearest to me, and I slowly reach up to remove the damned dry cloth from my mouth. They let me, and the captain does the same beside me. Our eyes meet again as something chirps behind us. It sounds like the muted indicator noises from the buttons of a console.

There's the sensation of insects crawling over, through my skin: a transporter beam beginning to take hold. The captain's figure is enveloped in a column of light, fading in front of my eyes, along with the rest of the room. Voyager, I think, for one wild second. Voyager found us already, after all... If my features weren't caught up in a blur of frozen energy, a huge grin would split my face, but then the pain takes hold.

Damn, that burns! It's no Starfleet transporter, and it's certainly not Voyager's: neither B'Elanna nor Harry would be caught dead operating a transporter with such obvious ineptitude. Shit, shit, shit! I can feel my molecules being forcibly ripped away from each other and then the standard nothingness for a heartbeat before the pain returns full force again. God, it feels like I'm being zapped with body sized painsticks or something…it burns…and then I'm standing next to the bed in the middle of my cell, gasping for air as my lungs protest the rough rematerialization they've just undergone. So does the rest of me. My muscles are spasming violently. I fall, the top half of me hitting the mattress only by sheer luck. The pain of impact against my seizing muscles is too much, and my vision goes black: not enough oxygen to the brain.

I welcome the oblivion when it overtakes me.

Kathryn

The first thing I'm aware of is that the surface beneath me isn't soft like a bed...and then strong hands are turning me over onto my back. Who…? It must be him, of course. I must have fallen asleep reading again while waiting up for him to finish in the holodeck. Damn. That means I've probably ruined dinner again, too.

That's another bet lost. It's a good thing he doesn't actually make me pay my debts. If he did, I'd have to give up replicated meals entirely. Not to mention coffee...

But something isn't quite right here. Wasn't I on the bridge? We were testing the artificial grav. units today, weren't we? The hands are stroking my arms now, closing around them. Firm. Shaking me. Trying to rouse me.

"Get up."

I can't open my eyelids. They're too heavy. I don't want to open them; I'm too tired. Exhausted. I can't remember the last time I was so drained. There's a sharp ache in my side. My skin is bare. The hands are moving firmly over my arms. Now gripping my shoulders. Shaking me again. It must be him, of course. And it's practically freezing in my quarters. Goosebumps are rising on my exposed flesh.

"Get up."

I don't want to, I try to say. I'm exhausted. But no sound seems to want to leave my mouth, which feels drier than usual; I can only groan incoherently. And I ache everywhere, though the worst of it seems to be located at the side of my chest. Why am I so drowsy?

"Captain, get up now!"

Captain, huh? I guess he's in a playful mood this evening. The last time he called me "captain" in private was years ago. And he's never this insistent. If I wasn't so tired and annoyed, I might be a little…improperly excited by it, in fact…

"Wake up!"

Irritation sparks. Damn it, Chakotay, I quit. You can deal with it. Everything hurts. Must have been a tougher day on the bridge than I thought… But, no, this isn't right. We're on the bridge, aren't we? I frown. His hands are digging into me. Hard. Too hard…ouch!

Something's very wrong. It never takes this long to focus my thoughts; my body is trained to wake up at the slightest urging from me.

"It won't work, Captain. We know you're faking. Now get up before you really make me angry."

It's not his voice. I don't know how the hell I thought it was, but it's definitely not him. Something hisses against my neck. I'm shaken again, and just as I feel on the verge of being able to open my eyes, something heavy and solid slams into the throbbing side of my ribcage. The sudden pain exploding through me is incredible, making my eyes squeeze further shut against the onslaught. I suck air through my gritted teeth. It burns my lungs, but that's nothing compared to the sharp, seizing sensation in my side as I do so. I gasp and try to move, to wriggle and alleviate the pain, but it sparks up again at my movement. Agony.

I freeze abruptly. All right. Breathing deeply is out. So is moving. Pain in my side, hurts to breathe... Fractured rib. I should be still. But I cough, unable to help it, and agony spreads through my entire chest again, worse than before. Horrible. Fluid is filling my lungs, making me cough. I have to spit it out… A slap to the side of my face finally startles me into consciousness that last little bit and allows me to summon the energy to open my eyes.

This isn't Voyager. The figure leaning over me isn't my first officer, which I had, at least, already gathered. The memories rush back over me just as the excruciating pain does, and I know where I am. The holding cell. The transporter wasn't calibrated properly to compensate for human physiology...our patterns must significantly differ from theirs. That, or they just have substandard equipment. I rematerialized dizzy, my muscles too weakened to support my shaking body. In shame, I remember that the weakening of my muscles had unfortunately extended to those in my bladder. I'd been looking forward to the opportunity to use the toilet facilities, but…no need for that now. God, that's humiliating. Almost worse than the pain.

Way to retain your dignity, Captain.

The soldier bending over me lifts me, and more agony sweeps over me. The tightness in my chest, the spasm of sharp, ripping pain has me crying out without a care for whether or not it makes me appear weak; it hurts that much. He arranges me on something softer than the surface of the floor…the cot, I realize, struggling to think through the pain. I fight to put together the last pieces of information, to remember how I was injured until I manage to come up with the answer…

Oh, yes. In the immediate aftermath of the botched transport I'd fallen, striking my side hard on the edge of the sink on my way down. From the feel of it, from the insistent coughing racking my body and the slick, fluid feel continually accumulating in my lungs, I've definitely broken a rib, as I'd guessed. Done that before. Some of the pain is recognizable. But I've done the deed properly this time, cracking it so far inward that the damned thing has pierced my lung. The warm fluid I keep coughing up and spilling out now is blood.

Damn. This injury is fatal if left untreated – that much, even I know.

"Tom," I manage to gasp, remembering belatedly that he's here, too. Has he even survived the alien transporter? I can't see him. My head is facing the opposite direction.

The soldier leaning over me is trying to keep me quiet. He's running something over the air above me, concentrating on my left side. That's where most of the pain is situ…I cough again, spewing up rivulets of warm liquid. The taste is nauseating because there's simply no way to tell myself this isn't as bad as it seems. I can't breathe, and it's increasingly difficult to stay calm. But I have to see Tom. I manage to loll my head to the other side, careful not to move my body any but then cough again, and I can see the pattern of fresh blood stains on this side of the pillow as I exhale.

Tom is there, thankfully. And he seems all right. In fact, he seems more than all right. Has quite a bit of energy as he's pressed against the edge of his cell, shouting at the guard in here with me. I can't hear what he's saying. Either the cells are sound proofed and won't allow noise to enter them, or the opposite, and no noise can leave them… It doesn't matter. Tom is all right. I relax by a fraction, at least mentally, fighting the pain from showing on my face, not wanting him to worry more than necessary.

"Tell him…I'm okay," I wheeze, before another coughing fit overtakes me. Just those four words have taken all the air I was able to take into my lungs. My voice is breathy and too shallow. Too soft. Can they even hear what I'm saying? Not enough air. The soldier doesn't seem to understand me. But I can understand him. Their translators are either malfunctioning, or he just isn't listening.

He's frowning down at me and pressing into my side…a hoarse attempt at a scream escapes me. And if Kaelo was looking forward to the pleasure of torturing me all by himself, he's going to be sorely disappointed. I think he could take a few lessons from these sadistic sons of…

Another soldier is with us now, distracting me. Holding me down, hands pressing down on my shoulders, distorting my posture into an agonizingly pressured pose. They're shouting. Raised voices arguing back and forth over me. I'll be damned if I know what they're saying, but they're panicked, and then I'll be damned if their panic isn't panicking me, too.

Fatal. Can't get enough air. Dear God, this isn't happening, this can't be how I die. I'm going to die in battle. I'm going down with my ship, not drowning in my own blood in some glass alien holding cell as the result of a botched transporter accident…

I have to inhale deeply. I have to breathe, and I have to do it calmly. I try again, but instead of precious oxygen, there's only the sensation of liquid pouring into my lungs. Lung? Surely I haven't punctured both?

It's alien, the sensation. Foreign. Wrong. I cough again, and the agony is overwhelming. It's like drowning. Drowning on dry land. My entire being is pain now. It's all I know, all I'm aware of. Enduring becomes my primary objective.

But Tom's face blurs in and out of focus from across the room, demanding some of my attention. He's upset. Damn it, Kathryn, you're upsetting him…

Tom. Tom can fix this, if they let him. He can help me…I hope he can. I try to communicate this to the aliens, to say his name but…

I'm far too dizzy. Breathing is becoming so difficult. Not enough air. I'm getting some, I think, but not enough, not nearly enough. I need more air… My vision has blurred. Tom isn't in my line of sight anymore. I only see blood. Blood staining white cloth. The inside of my eyelids red, the color of blood. The pain is indescribable. Seconds become eternity. Eternity becomes unbearable. I'm cold. I realize now that I may well be dying, and there isn't a damned thing I can do about it.

Ironically, it's the loss of control that hurts the most.

The man who may well be able to fix me lies scant meters across the room, and I can't even tell them how to treat me. If it weren't so frustrating and so unbelievably painful, it would be almost comical. I try to stay conscious, needing to stay alert, but it's a losing battle. But Tom… Oh God. If I die now, before we even get there…

The thought is lost, drowned in another spasm of pain. Drowned under another invading trickle of blood. I was hanging on, wasn't I? It was vital that I do so. Why? I can't recall now. Nothing seems quite worth the pain. Not enough air…

Tom

She didn't start coughing until he kicked her. The idiot thought we were faking unconsciousness, so he tried to call her bluff. And then she started coughing up the blood. Never a good sign.

I watch the soldier pull her up onto the cot and set her down. He starts scanning her, seeming frantic. His pale features are flushing a sort of greenish hue. I don't know if that's anger or fear. I don't particularly care. He starts digging his fingers into her side, and as she turns her head, I can see her features contort in anguish. I need to get to her. For God's sake, he's hurting her further while trying to figure out what's wrong with her. These soldiers don't know what the hell they're doing, and how can they? They aren't medics.

She needs one. Now. I've rarely known the kind of helplessness as I do in these few moments, stuck in here, trapped behind the sheer alloy. I'm yelling at the top of my lungs, pounding on the smooth walls of my cell, trying to catch someone's attention. Watching in frustration as another soldier steps up to the transporter pad and then appears inside her cell. The captain's eyes lock onto mine. They're hardly focused. She coughs again, trying to say something. I think I can see my name forming on her lips.

God. She's asking for me. She knows she's in serious trouble. She must be trying to tell them…

But they're paying no attention! She's telling them how to help her, and they're not even listening. It's absurd. Defying belief. Desperately, I look over the parts of her the first soldier isn't obscuring from my view. From this moderate distance, I think I can see heavy bruising forming along the outside edges of her ribcage. Blood. She's coughing up blood… If something has punctured her lung, she has maybe fifteen minutes from the time of injury until she passes out. In the meantime, she's going to be in agony, barely able to breathe. And if they don't let me treat her soon – or find someone who can – this is going to kill her shortly thereafter.

I resume my pounding on the walls, frantic now. Every second that passes with them doing nothing is less of a chance that she can be saved… And they're completely ignoring me. Hell. I don't think they can even hear me, let alone understand me. They haven't spoken a word to us since taking our communicators.

The captain is having difficulty keeping her eyes open. Her face is one pale, continual contortion of pain. In desperation, I look wildly around me, searching for something, anything I might be able to use to either break through the solid, transparent wall keeping me in here or something I can bang against it to grab their attention…

And there's nothing. The bed is sturdy. A few desperate, solid tugs yield no results. The sink is too well attached. Not even the faucet gives an inch. I turn back around, dragging my fingernails into my scalp through my hair as I try to force myself to think about this clearly. This isn't happening. There must be a way to make them let me help her. I'm not going to sit here and watch Captain Janeway die in front of me when I might be able to save her if they'd only let me get to her.

Something catches my eye. The soldier the captain smiled at earlier has turned to watch me. I freeze, and my pulse pounds in my eardrums. His pale face looks pinched. Worried. His eyes keep darting back and forth between us, as though he can't decide who to watch, but finally I have someone's attention. I force myself to calm. I have to do this with a clear head. I have to figure out a way to communicate that I can help her. That I know how. Otherwise, he's probably going to assume I'm just upset that she's hurt.

And damn it, I really wish Chakotay was here right now. This is his bullshit hobby, not mine. The fundamentals of language and communication never held any interest for me, either in school or at the academy. I'm a pilot, damn it. Give me a flight control panel and I'll get you anywhere you need to go, but this…

I don't have any other options. They need to know that I can help her. At a complete loss for finesse, I thump a hand to my chest. What's good enough for Tarzan, I figure. Willing him to understand me, trying to make my eyes speak for me. "Me," I say aloud, not even sure he can hear me. Fairly sure that he can't.

I think it's safe to assume he gets the first part – if he doesn't, we're in serious trouble. I gesture to the captain, who's lying on her back, still coughing, and then I see something else that makes my heart pound harder. Her chest is inflating. That really only means one thing, and if the fractured rib has penetrated the chest wall as well as her lung… I'm forcing panic away with everything I have. Willing myself to stay calm and to think clearly.

"Her," I vocalize, pointing to her cell again. Obviously he's got to understand that I mean her and not the soldiers, right? Right??

Shit.

I point to myself again, thumping my chest and gesturing over to the captain with the other arm. "Get me…to her."

He shakes his head, looking almost remorseful. No, he's saying.

"Come on!" I hit the wall with both fists, frustrated, before I can catch myself. My eyes close. He thinks I just want to get to her because I'm upset. Damn it, I can't think clearly like this. I have to.

Ok, I expected that. So I have to make him understand that I'm not just asking because I don't trust them with her…not that I do, but that's another worry I can't afford to think about right now. He thinks I just want to be with her because she's hurt. Obviously, they're not about to permit that. So how to make him understand? What's the universal sign for medic? Is there even a universal sign for that??

The soldier is looking away. At her. Then his eyes shift back to me. For a minute, I'm at a loss as to how to communicate that I may know what's wrong with her. My eyes, at this point, are burning with frustration. Damn it, if only Chakotay was here. How would he handle this? What's the simplest, quickest way to convey that I know what's wrong?

Simple. It strikes a chord somewhere within me. Simple concepts. Start with what I can communicate clearly. Find two simple concepts that can be connected to form a broader whole. I don't have time for this!

I can do this – I have to. I start to motion along my ribcage, running two fingers very precisely over my ribs where the captain's injury appears to be. I trace the lines of the bones, running laterally along the first, second and third, until I've pointed out each of the seven true ribs along my left side. "Ribs. Bones." I repeat the gesture along all seven once again. "Bones."

I have his attention, if not his full comprehension. At least I think he may finally understand that I have something relevant to say. I pull shaking hands up in front of me, holding his strange red eyes the entire time. Willing him to understand me as I curl my fingers under into loose fists, until they're side by side, thumbs down in front of me. Then I make a motion as if I'm snapping something in half. I repeat it a few times, wondering all the while how it is that I'm stuck in here, playing a game of fucking charades with one of our captors when the captain is bleeding out just a few meters away from me…

"Broken." I return my fingers to my side, again tracing the lines there. Some of my ribs are visible, since I'm only half dressed. He should at least be able to determine that they're bones, right? Right? God, I hope so. I do the snapping thing again. "Broken," I repeat. "Broken."

His eyes light up. He nods. And then, to my utter relief, he repeats my actions, pointing to her and running his right hand along his side. He makes a short chopping gesture through the air. Then he stops, looking at me questioningly. I hope it's his way of indicating he understands. He mouths a word I don't recognize, probably in his native tongue, repeats the slashing motion through the air. I'm praying that it means "broken" – betting the captain's life that's what it means.

"Yes," I confirm, nodding vehemently. "Yes. Broken."

Now for the important part: explaining that I can fix it. I pat at my chest again, my palm flat and my fingers spread wide. "I. Me." I point to her. "Her."

Wait…can it be this simple? I place my hands together, curling them into loose fists in front of me. He's still watching. He seems transfixed by my hands. Good. I set them at the "broken" angle again, and then in the exact reverse of the motion I used for "broken", I bring them slowly together. "Fix," I growl, willing him to understand me, and then repeating the motion. "Fix." I point to myself again, then gesture over to her cell. "I…can…fix…her."

That's all I have. It's the best I can do. He's either going to have to get it, or… The young guard's four eyes widen and dart back up to my face. He's excited. I hope to hell it's a good sign. My breath catches in my throat as he points to me, then to her. He mouths something I don't understand and then turns away from me.

My heart sinks. Did he understand me or not? Why is he turning away? He removes something from his belt and begins speaking into it, and my eyes dart all around the room, looking for any indication of something changing. But nothing seems to. The soldiers are still standing over the captain, arguing. She's lost consciousness. My stomach lurches. Shit. That's even worse. If she isn't able to get out the fluid seeping into her lungs at all, she's going to suffocate quickly. There's hardly any time left for any sort of treatment to be started.

The young soldier turns back to me, gives me an encouraging nod. I can only pray that he got my meaning, that he knows what the hell he's encouraging. Maybe I should try a different communication, I think frantically. Maybe he doesn't understand that I need to get to her now…

A screen I hadn't noticed alights behind the guard. It's huge, practically filling the entire wall behind him. It's a comm. channel. Our captor appears on screen, looking severely disgruntled. He's sitting at a desk, and his hard red eyes fix on the young soldier first. They're speaking. I can't hear what they're saying, but my heart soars when the guard gestures frantically to me and then to the captain. Our captor's eyes flicker over to her. Then they find me as the guard is manipulating something on the control pad in front of him. When the leader speaks again, I could cry when his words are audible…and mostly because they're in Standard.

"What's wrong with her?" he demands, cutting straight to the point. "According to my guards, she shouldn't have suffered grievous injury. The transporters were misaligned, which will be addressed, I assure you, but that doesn't–"

"She's dying," I snap, cutting him off without a single care for his position…or mine. "If she fell against something when we rematerialized, she may have cracked a rib. But it wasn't until your soldier kicked her that it punctured her lung."

He pauses, saying nothing for a minute before drawling, "And?"

He can't know how fortunate he is that he isn't standing in this cell with me right now. "And, it's punctured her lung – she can't breathe. The blood is seeping in through the puncture, filling the space and preventing her from getting oxygen. Without oxygen, she'll die."

He's quiet for a moment, considering. Maybe trying to determine if this is a ploy or a trick. Maybe debating whether or not it's important enough to him to bother. Either way, it's time the captain doesn't have.

I explode, the rage at his apathy flooding through me playing against my urgent need to help her, "Look, do you want your money or not? Ten million lycca is a lot to waste just because it might be too much trouble to treat her… I can help her, damn it! At least let me try!"

His expression hardens at my tone, but I don't back down, and my glare doesn't soften in the slightest while I wait for him to get around to giving me his answer. "You can fix her?" he demands.

"Yes!" I practically shout it. Didn't I just say that? "I'm a medic. If you can get us to a medical bay and find me someone who can supply me with the appropriate equipment, I think I can save her. But we're running out of time. If you want that money, I have to treat her now."

More seconds tick by in which the captain lies drowning in her own blood.

"If this is a trick," our captor warns, "you will both suffer for it, I assure you. On the other hand," he continues before I can explode at him again for his stalling, "if you do manage to save her, it will, as you point out, gain me ten million lycca. This would not be something I would forget when it comes time to decide your fate."

Oh yeah, he's lucky he's not in this cell with me. The idea that I give a damn about trying to save my own skin right now, when her life is imminent danger… I force myself to bite back on a reply, gritting my teeth together. "Just get me to a sickbay and have someone there with a translator, preferably someone who's familiar with medical equipment. And do it now."

He looks me over again before nodding then addresses his young subordinate. "You'll see to the transfer. Make sure they're guarded. I want them watched at all times. And Barra? Make sure the transporters are properly adjusted this time?"

The younger man gulps, quailing under the reproachful tone. Glancing at his feet, he mumbles something in his native language as the screen blinks out. As he sets himself to the task of making the necessary preparations to have us moved, I force myself to stand stock still and wait. It's all I can do until they get us to the medical bay.

That's when the true challenge begins, I realize as the first hurdle is passed…trying to use alien equipment to treat a member of a species the equipment wasn't designed for in the first place. And now I really wish I'd spent a little more time studying in sickbay than I did on the holodeck restoring my Camaro…

My eyes find the captain. She's turning blue, and I gulp. I guess I'd better be up to the challenge.