It was towards the end of the second day that they intercepted the transmission.

It was an all-purpose hail, not apparently aimed at them or at anyone in particular. Nor did it ask for introductions or explanations of their presence. It simply announced that 'strict trade rules must be complied with'.

Malcolm, woken from an apparently sound sleep by the UT's rendition of the warning, came quickly to the console and tapped out a sequence of numbers in reply.

Another sequence came back after a few moments, to which he replied with a shorter sequence and a verbal rider in distinctly colloquial English.

Jon's eyebrows rose.

Another and longer pause followed. Then the comms board crackled into life, with the UT hooked into it.

"Still with us, then, you scrawny little uit ge'falla?" Presumably that was a term the UT programming didn't include. "I'd have thought someone would have separated you from your chiath years ago."

"No. Still attached." A feral smile twisted Malcolm's mouth. "No thanks to you, you brainless hachhuk. Give my love to Naz's sisters. I'm sure they still remember me fondly."

"'Fondly'? They said they'd break you in half if they ever clapped eyes on you again."

"Thanks for the warning. I'll keep my distance." They both laughed. "We'll have a chat in the usual place once I've got the goods tucked away safely."

He closed the transmission, and Jon eyed him.

"'The goods?'" The captain's voice was measured.

The lieutenant shrugged. "Just a logical precaution, sir. As a Starfleet crewman you're hardly likely to give me your parole. And if you did, I'm hardly likely to accept it."

"So presumably I allow you to lock me up somewhere and wait for you to come back."

"If you trust me, you do. Sir." The gray eyes were unreadable.

And suppose you don't come back at all, Malcolm? What then?

Without commenting, Archer shifted slightly in the pilot's seat, trying to ease his shoulder, which had stiffened up even despite another couple of doses with the hypospray. The enclosed space in the shuttlepod was beginning to wear on him, though the two of them had been careful to afford each other as much consideration and courtesy as could be contrived in the circumstances. He remembered forcing a discussion with Trip about that disastrous mission he and Malcolm had undertaken in Shuttlepod One, and being surprised by the way Trip had almost shouted that being trapped in there with the Grim Reaper for two days was enough to drive any guy nuts even if they hadn't thought Enterprise was history. That reaction had been explained pretty clearly shortly afterwards when both men were diagnosed with post-traumatic stress, but even so he'd expected to have a pretty tough time. It hadn't happened. After that first day, their conversations had been carefully confined to the most neutral of subjects, and now he thought it was just the sensation of being cooped up for so long that was getting to him. Malcolm, when he had his guard down (insofar as he ever did let it down), was a surprisingly agreeable companion.

"We've got company." The lieutenant had been watching the sensor readouts and picked up the winking signal as soon as it appeared.

"Try to lose them?"

"No. Hold our course."

It felt slightly weird, being the one taking the orders instead of giving them. He kept an eye on the information the scanners fed through. Just as well they weren't trying to outrun their visitor; although he didn't recognize the conformation, it was fast.

It came up on their starboard side, jinked suddenly to fly astern of them and then pulled off an incredibly tight inside turn on its x axis and sped past them, going abruptly to warp. Throughout what had certainly been an inspection flyby, Malcolm's fingers had rested lightly on the weapons controls, but he didn't attempt to fire, or even get a weapons lock just in case.

"Friends of yours?"

"No."

"Acquaintances?"

"Something like that." Eyes narrowed, the Englishman watched the speck vanish from the sensors. "It gives me the answer to one interesting question, anyway."

"Which is?"

"They aren't going to kill me on sight."

"Well, it's a start." Jon let out a breath, as stealthily as he could. Then, watching the smaller man relax, he decided that he wanted, and deserved, to know a heck of a lot more than he did yet about what Malcolm thought was going to happen when the shuttlepod reached Farlaxi Station.

"I gather you intend to use me as part of your cover story," he said casually. "Mind letting me in on any of the rest of it?"

"There really isn't much 'rest of it', sir." Malcolm stared unseeingly through the viewscreen. "I'm going to supposedly offer you as part of a deal. If it goes through, as soon as I have Keri safe I'll come after you." He nodded at the support bandage. "I wasn't going to mention this, but when I dislocated your shoulder I inserted a chip into you. Where it is, it'll just look like a bone splinter if you're scanned."

Another Section 31 trick? Jon wondered uneasily, but said nothing.

"Farlaxi handles a lot of the slave trade in this area of the quadrant; I'm taking a chance that Keri will have been brought through here. I plan to let it be known that I have ... specialised preferences." The lieutenant's mouth twisted. "For the right price, with the right contacts, there's not much you can't buy on Farlaxi Station."

"She may have been disposed of already." The captain spoke very quietly. "But I'm sure you've already considered that." He knew that his tactical officer was trained to consider every eventuality, even the worst, and would not have flinched from it on this occasion, however much agony it brought him.

"It's possible." Malcolm's face was so still that anyone who didn't know him really, really well might have mistaken it for indifferent. "But even out here, they listen to the news broadcasts. Someone as famous as the Grenhams can afford to make appeals, offer rewards, hire detectives – all the sorts of activity that would make it risky to put a pretty little human girl on the open market straight away. It's more likely that they'll hold on to her for a while, till the hue and cry's died down a bit. Unless, of course, they get an offer from someone who they know will keep his mouth shut – an offer that's too good to refuse."

"And you think you'll get that sort of money just by selling me?" asked Jon incredulously. Admittedly his value as a captain to Starfleet was enormous, but he wasn't nearly vain enough to think that as an anonymous slave in an alien market he was going to fetch sums beyond the dreams of avarice.

"Not really, sir." Unexpectedly, Malcolm grinned. "I was thinking of you more in the light of a 'down-payment'."

The captain grinned back at him. "Just for a moment there, I thought you were implying I was valuable."

"Oh, no, sir," said the lieutenant solemnly. "I wouldn't want to give you false hopes."

And suddenly somehow, in spite of everything, the two of them were laughing.


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