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Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!


When Trip opened his eyes again everything was incongruously peaceful. For a moment he wondered why this should bother him so much, and then memory came back to him in a series of jagged, blazing flashes.

He sat up sharply, and then it dawned on him that although he had a splintering headache that felt as though he had an axe buried in the top of his skull, he could sit up. He wasn't tied, as he'd been before. True, he was on a bed in a tent and his clothes had been removed. But the bedding and the furnishings in this tent were in stark contrast to the smothering opulence of the previous one; there was no stench of perfume, no heaps of furs and piles of gorgeous fabrics thrown anyhow. This place was tidy to the point of austerity, its only ornament a single stone jug in which a fantastically twisted branch stood upright. The blankets were plain woven stuff, undyed; there was a single clothes chest of light wood in one corner and a brazier in which pieces of sweet-smelling wood smoldered gently in another. The quality of the light through the canvas suggested that it was mid-morning outside. He must have slept right through since the previous afternoon.

But most importantly of all, there were two other camp beds in the tent, too. The one on his right had Malcolm on it, the one on his left bore T'Pol. Both were apparently fast asleep, just as he had been. Reed's head had been bandaged, and he looked as though he was dreaming or close to waking: his eyelids twitched, and he muttered something, slurring the words too badly for them to be decipherable. T'Pol's torso was supported slightly by extra pillows for some reason, carefully packed around her to discourage movement, though her soft breathing didn't suggest this was in response to any immediate medical problem. All three of the captives had been undressed. The blankets that covered her up to just below her collar bones revealed something of the extent of the bruising that the cream no longer fully disguised. Trip saw it with deep concern. Hell, if it was as bad internally as it was externally they'd better get it taken care of pretty damned quick.

His next thought was naturally of escape. There was nobody in the tent with them, so their captors must be confident of their inability or unwillingness to give any trouble. His rapidly assessing gaze found that beside each of their beds was a heap of folded fabric that proved to be their jackets and uniforms – clean and dry (ironed was perhaps asking a bit much), with, to his sickening relief, their phase pistols, communicators and UTs laid carefully on top. Even their boots had been dried and returned. Over to one side of the tent as much of their baggage as had survived the excitement in the river had been laid in a neat pile. Even the phase rifle was there – that would cheer Malcolm up. Whatever the motives behind their capture might be (and he personally had no intention of hanging around to find out what they were if he could avoid it), it seemed that theft was not among them. He wasn't going to imagine that kindness was either, though. His previous experiences had taught him that these people never gave anything for nothing.

He had the blankets lifted to throw back when the tent flap lifted. Instantly recoiling into defensiveness and suspicion, he put a hand towards his phase pistol. It was within reach if he needed it, and hell, if it was a choice between letting the three of them be abused and murdered or contaminating a pre-warp culture by giving them a demonstration of what a phase pistol could achieve, then sorry, as far as he was concerned that was no choice at all.

But only one man entered, and by the way he stopped immediately and lifted his hands in what appeared to be an effort to appear non-threatening, he wasn't in the abusing and murdering business. He was quite small and slender by bird-people standards, making him only a couple of centimeters taller than Trip and of a comparable build, and although he had the same feathered head as the rest of his species it was noticeably less aggressive in the beak department than most of those Trip had encountered so far. That and his wide yellow eyes were irresistibly reminiscent of a startled owl. Clad in a mid-length tunic of the same plain undyed stuff as the blankets, tied in at the waist by a belt of the same plaited leather as his sandals, he seemed to be unarmed. He certainly wasn't wearing armor like all the others had been.

Now he was speaking. The voice was more melodious than would have been expected, with a cooing note in it that might have been intended to reinforce the attempt at reassurance.

Well, okay. It seemed that conversation was required. At least this man seemed to be trying to talk to him. The other ones had only talked about him as though he was some kind of captive animal, for all his attempts to set up some method of communication that would let them know he was an intelligent, sentient being. Moving slowly to avoid appearing aggressive in his turn, Trip picked up the phase pistol and the UT. These people evidently didn't know what pistols were for or it would never have been left with him, but the translator's function was less obvious.

Leaving the weapon by his hip (though not before clicking it open briefly just to check that the power cell had survived its immersion in water, which thankfully it had), he switched on the UT. This, too, was supposedly waterproof, and at first it seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to come to life; but presently its power indicators flickered and the readout came on. It was, of course, set to the language that Shiránnor had used. T'Pol's report on her rescue of him from the camp had indicated that this was spoken by the bird-people as well, so he could at least get some kind of dialogue going. Not being by nature inclined towards the diplomatic end of encountering new species – he preferred to leave that to Jon, who'd had the training for it – he was a bit uncertain how to get started.

"I guess I have to thank you for fishin' me and my friends out of the river and patchin' us up," he said hesitantly. "My name's Tucker. Charles Tucker."

"It was my duty." The man gave a quaint little bow, and the feathers around the base of his beak moved in what looked like a smile. "And my pleasure, of course. I think your male friend will wake very soon. Your female friend ... well, I have hope."

"She's sick." Trip turned and looked at her with intense concern. "We're … explorers, we come from another world." He glanced apprehensively at the bird-man, but received no more than a blink of interested encouragement. "We came here a few weeks ago, and there was an animal ... hanging on a tree trunk. It bit her. We got the egg out, but she's gettin' sicker. Our doctor thinks she's gonna die if we can't find a cure. That's why we came back ... to try to get one of those animals so that he can get a look at it and see if he can find out about the poison."

"Yes. I thought perhaps that was what ailed her. This bruising is always a symptom of ihaile poisoning." He walked quickly to T'Pol's side and touched her neck gently; Trip bristled, but the clawed talons seemed to convey care.

"Can you ... do your people know how to treat it? Is there a cure?" he asked desperately.

The pause while the other man studied the sleeping Vulcan seemed to go on forever. "Ordinarily, yes, it can be treated. But so late in the season, we may have a problem."

"What kind of problem?" The demand was understandably urgent.

"The problem that the people who would ordinarily treat it are all hibernating by now." The yellow eyes were bleak. "They go into their sleeping caves just as the ihailei start to find themselves over-wintering dens. It's the tree dependency, you see."

"I don't see. Are you saying that those people ... we found some asleep underground, a while north of here, little people with furry legs ... they can cure this?"

"Certainly. When they're awake, that is. And they won't be now, with the winter coming on. They couldn't survive it." He hesitated. "They call themselves the Manyei, the People of the Trees. They actually believe they're related to trees. That's why they have some ... affinity with tree-creatures like the ihaile. Ordinarily when someone is bitten, a Manyé in the area will, I don't know exactly how it works, but somehow – connect the victim to the tree the ihailei live on, and the poison is drawn out. It's so rare, I've never seen it done, and I don't know anyone who has. People know to avoid that particular tree, especially late in the year." He shrugged and blinked sorrowfully.

"But there would be more of these – tree people – in other countries? Further south? Where it's not winter?"

"Well, of course. But you could never get her there in time. And even if you could, they probably wouldn't have that kind of tree there."

The first wouldn't be a problem; the shuttle could get them anywhere on the planet in a matter of minutes. The second, however, could well be insuperable. "Are you a doctor?" asked Trip abruptly. Apart from the lack of the ear-to-ear smile, the resemblance between this man's manner and that of Dr Phlox was marked.

"Well – in a very junior way, of course. I'm studying hard. That's why I'm here – Lathaichan Mahé'lanné has allowed me to accompany him to take up my next post, as an assistant with his army surgeons. Incidentally," he added, "it was Lathaichan Mahé'lanné who you have to thank for your rescue. I believe he's quite ... impatient to have words with you. Impatient in his own way, of course. Purely out of curiosity. He's quite willing to wait until you're recovered." He had moved around to check on Malcolm now, listening carefully to his breathing.

"That's mighty kind of him." Trip paused. "Any idea what he ... plans to do with us?"

"Do with you?" There was no mistaking the puzzlement, and it sounded genuine.

"Well. Maybe 'do to us' was more what I was thinkin'."

The head and face opposite rotated anti-clockwise on the flexible neck exactly like that of a puzzled owl. The yellow eyes widened even further. "You do understand that he's the First Warlord? Second only to Emperor Vede'hanax himself? He wouldn't do anything 'to' anyone that they didn't deserve."

Just great. Of all the people we could have bumped into, we get the big boss's XO. Talk about blowing our cover.

"So he's not going to be – surprised by havin' three people from another world turn up here? Like this is somethin' that's happened before?"

"Oh no, I don't remember hearing that it's ever happened before. But we know there are other worlds than ours; why shouldn't there be other people? I'm sure he'll be curious. But if you are here, it must be with the will of the Gods; we have to accept it. You're our guests. The laws of hospitality are very strict."

At that moment there was a gasp from the bed on his right, and Malcolm woke with a convulsive movement. He'd been sleeping on his left side, so he was unaware of the doctor standing behind him; though perhaps it was the feeling of being under observation that had finally awakened him.

"Steady, Lieutenant." Trip spoke soothingly, but used the rank without its playful drawl to warn his junior officer to be careful. A speaking glance directed attention to the fact that they had company.

The grey eyes blinked at him in bewilderment, then turned, widening, to the person who was standing silently so close behind him. Instantly the tactical officer drew into himself like a coiling cobra. It was naturally the first time he'd actually seen one of the bird-people up close, and at this proximity even a relatively small one like this was pretty intimidating. "Commander...!"

"It's okay, Lieutenant. This guy patched us up after they fished us out of the river. He's not goin' to hurt you."

"Certainly not!" Even Phlox couldn't have sounded more shocked and offended. "I'd like to examine your head wound, if you'd allow it, er..."

Memory prodded Trip of something Shiránnor had said. "He's a warlord too," he said. "Warlord Reed."

From the lieutenant's expression as he stared at him, he was obviously wondering who'd sustained the head injury. 'Warlord Reed?' he mouthed in silent, incredulous British disgust.

The information had a quite unexpected effect on their physician. He stepped back a little and bowed slightly, placing his left hand on his right breast in what was unmistakably a gesture of respect. "My name is Atio'annan. I am a Healer of four years' training. Your pardon for touching you without permission, Lathaichan Reed."

"Don't mention it, I'm sure." However disconcerted he might be, his manners never deserted him.

In different circumstances Trip would have laughed aloud at the dazed look on Malcolm's face. The tactical officer had ended up in Sickbay often enough, but it was singularly unlikely that Phlox had ever apologized for treating him without permission while he was unconscious; that was the only time that the Denobulan could ever count on his full co-operation, since the speed and determination with which Malcolm would usually extricate himself from the place once awake would rival Lucifer escaping from a baptismal font.

"With your permission, lord, I will check your head wound now." His tone was definitely several shades more respectful, and he waited for his patient's cautious nod before stepping forward again and unpinning the bandage. This had held a thick pad of clean linen against the site of the cut in the right side of the scalp. Craning forward apprehensively, Trip saw that some blood had oozed through and dried, but not much. Reassured on that score, he found a smile playing at his mouth. 'With your permission, lord'. Oh, if they ever got out of this OK, he would never let Malcolm live this down.And to judge by the embittered glance sideways as the officer submitted to the treatment, he was well aware of his impending doom.

Atio'annan produced another square of linen from a pouch hanging at his belt, smeared it with ointment from a small vial, and carefully replaced the original one with it before re-winding the bandage and securing it in place. "Another day, I think, lord, and then we will leave it off."

Reed looked across at T'Pol, still soundly sleeping. "Has she woken at all?" he asked in a low voice.

"We should not look for it, lord," the Healer answered. "While she sleeps the poison will act more slowly. Now I will bring you both something to eat and drink. You should both try to rest for a little longer." And with another respectful bow he bustled out of the tent.

"Don't say a single word, sir," said Malcolm through gritted teeth as soon as they were alone. "What the f... what the bloody hell did you tell him I'm a warlord for?"

"How'm I supposed to explain if I'm not supposed to say a word?" complained Trip, injured, although a grin of almost Denobulan proportions had broken out on his face at his friend's crimson discomfiture. "Don't blame me, Malcolm. It was what Shiránnor called you, the last time."

"She never even bloody met me!" exploded the lieutenant.

"I know that. But she knew about you, okay? She told the cap'n you were gettin' worried about us."

"I never heard about that!" Far from looking inclined to rest, he was sitting bolt upright with an outraged expression on his face. "What else did this ... person see fit to tell the captain about me that he didn't already know?"

"Well, apart from the explicit details of your love life..." Seeing his friend pick up a pillow and raise it in a distinctly menacing manner, he capitulated, laughing. "No, there wasn't anythin' else. Just that. Nothin' to worry about."

"Bad enough, anyway," muttered Reed. "It comes to something when I can't even worry in private up on the ship without having some alien telling tales on me to the captain."

"She was just worried about you." The smile died, and he looked back at the occupant of the third bed, heaving a sigh. "And the news about T'Pol isn't too good either."

"He told you something?" He replaced the pillow and sat forward anxiously.

"Enough." Briefly Trip outlined the facts of what he had learned so far, adding the information about the person in charge of the camp, who had yet to put in an appearance. "So there is a cure, but ... we may be too late to get hold of it." The last words were spoken through a constriction in his throat, a fact that the other man evidently didn't fail to notice.

"It's too early to say that. Don't give up yet, Trip, it's not like you. I'm the Grim Reaper around here, remember." Reed's smile was a little twisted.

"I don't do 'givin' up' where she's concerned." At that moment he didn't care whether the double truth in the words was evident. "They have other doctors. Maybe one of them can help her. When we get to talk to this Mahé'lanné guy I'm going to ask him. Shiránnor told us the Emperor controls the whole planet, so his XO must have some power. If the doc's anything to go by, then these people seem decent enough; he might be willing to help. I don't know, but if worse comes to worse maybe Phlox could wake one of those tree-people up. Denobulans hibernate. Maybe he'd know things these people don't."

"It's possible. At least we're better off now than we were before – we know a cure exists." The normally reserved Brit leaned forward to pat his arm, a rather shy gesture that tied in with his sudden use of 'Trip' instead of 'sir', even though officially they were both still on duty. "We'll save her somehow. The ship wouldn't be the same without her."

"Sure wouldn't." But at that moment Atio'annan returned, bearing a large tray on which rested several bowls containing various sorts of food as well as a squat terracotta flask and two goblets; and the unmistakable smell of fresh bread made them both aware that they were hungry.

Part way through the meal, Malcolm suddenly stopped eating and looked up with the expression of someone who has suddenly remembered something extremely unpleasant. He swallowed audibly, and his shoulders straightened. "Sir –."

"What's up, Malcolm?" Trip had been enjoying a piece of some kind of fish, and while it was poached as opposed to fried, it was still extremely tasty. He put down the wooden fork which was the only utensil that had been given to him, and looked worriedly across at his friend, thinking he might be ill.

"At the river. I panicked. I could have killed both of us." The grey gaze was blank with horror at the realization. "I failed in my duty."

"You'd nearly drowned," Tucker said mildly. "Give yourself a break. Most guys I know would have panicked a little in those circumstances."

"My job doesn't have 'breaks', Commander. My task's to protect the officers and crew. No more – no less. And I lost it completely." He looked down, blinking. "When we return to the ship, you'll have to put me on report."

"Malcolm." Where the heck did the man's ceaseless self-flagellation come from? "It was just one of those things. Shit happens. We're okay. Forget it."

"I can't forget it!" He dropped the plate, which was fortunately also wooden; the bread spilled on to the floor. "I could have killed you."

"But you didn't." Trip reached across and took a firm hold of one of Reed's wrists. He could feel the nervous tremors running through it.

"Not for want of trying, though!" The lieutenant's head jerked up again; his eyes were wild and desperate. "I failed in my duty, don't you understand that?"

"I understand that you were afraid, Loo-tenant. 'Afraid', that's all. You'd had a knock on the head and just swallowed half the river. Hell, you'd stopped breathin'! 'S far as I'm concerned, you didn't do a thing that wasn't natural in the circumstances."

"Natural for a bloody coward." The clipped English accent had dropped to a growl; his face twisted with self-loathing as he looked down again, unwilling to meet his superior officer's gaze as he made the shameful confession. "I – I'm afraid of drowning, sir. Aquaphobia. The – the captain knows."

"'Aquaphobia'?" Tucker sat back and stared at him, trying to fit this discovery into the picture. "And you crossed a river with us?"

"I wasn't exactly planning on going for a swim, sir." He swallowed again. "I'm sorry." And after a slight pause, he added, "You saved my life, sir. Thank you."

"Malcolm. In my book, a brave man is the one who's shit-scared but doesn't let it stop him doin' what he needs to. And that was you yesterday. 'Specially if you're that afraid of drownin' in the first place. So quit tellin' me to put you on report, and that's an order. Or I'll put you on report for disobeyin' orders."

A reluctant grin appeared. "Yes, sir."

"And the next order is, pick that plate up and finish eatin'. We've gotta keep our strength up. The next time it might be my life needs savin', and then it'll be your turn. Okay?"

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant repeated with suspicious meekness, picking up the plate and retrieving the bread, which he put tidily with the bones of his own piece of fish.

"Yeah." Trip nodded, enjoying the sensation of being a tyrant and wondering how far he could push his luck. "And the next order is, quit criticizin' my shirts."

"You should quit while you're ahead, sir."


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