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11

T'Pol entered the messhall, her attention focused on the padd in her hands. It was unusual for her to come here during dinner time; she found the noise level to be distracting. Today, though, straying from her routine could not be avoided; she had been working on the probe for almost twenty-four hours, and logic dictated that she take a brief period of rest before she resumed her duties. Mevak and Halan had left Engineering a little earlier, prompted by Sato and Mayweather to get a "bite to eat".

T'Pol went over to the resequencer and placed a cup in the slot. "Mint tea, hot."

Her eyes still on her padd, she picked up part of a conversation at a nearby table.

"...can't believe they're showing another action flick tonight, it's like the guys get to choose all the movies..."

T'Pol's eyebrow twitched. Since Commander Tucker was gone, it seemed that the quality of the films shown on Movie Night had suffered. Not that it was of much importance to her; she had never understood why her crewmates were so passionate about fictional narratives reproduced on a screen. Although she had to admit that some of the less fast-paced films Commander Tucker had shown had proved to be a diverting, if not exactly challenging, stimulation.

"Subcommander?"

T'Pol turned her head. Sato, Mayweather, and the two Vulcan officers were sitting at a table in the corner, and it was Sato who had called out to her.

"Would you like to join us?" Mayweather got up and pulled out a chair.

T'Pol hesitated. She had been looking forward to the peaceful silence of her quarters, and there was also the fact that she hadn't used her nasal numbing agent for more than ten hours. The combination of human food and human body odor was... hard to ignore.

"Please," Sato added. "We've been saving a seat for you."

T'Pol decided to follow her invitation. She didn't want to seem unkind, especially not in front of the two guests.

As she sat down on the chair Mayweather had offered her, she noted the plate standing on front of Halan. The Subcommander had noticed her look.

"I am trying out a human dish Ensign Mayweather suggested I would enjoy," he said. "It is called... spak'eti?"

"Spaghetti," Mayweather corrected with a smile. He also had a plate standing in front of him. "Spaghetti all'arrabiata, to be exact. My favorite. Hope it's not too spicy for you."

"I shall have to try it to find out." Halan picked up his fork, but he seemed unsure how to proceed. "How do I..."

"Oh, sorry. Here..." Mayweather lifted his own fork and began to wrap some of the pasta strings around it. "Just take a little bit, and roll it up until the bite's got the right size."

Halan tried to mimic Mayweather's actions, not entirely successful in his efforts. He managed to roll some of the pasta onto his fork, but they slid off again as he tried to lift them to his mouth.

Mayweather grinned sympathetically. "Eating spaghetti isn't easy even for some humans. Some say only the Italians really get it right."

"Italians?" Halan repeated.

"Italy is a country on Earth," T'Pol explained. "It is where this specialty originated."

Mevak, who was watching Halan's efforts with a lifted eyebrow, spoke up for the first time. "Would it not be more logically to serve the... spaghetti in a shape that is less difficult to handle? It would not have any difference to the taste."

Mayweather laughed. "They wouldn't be spaghetti if they weren't long and stringy. Some people use a knife to cut them, but that's cheating."

Mevak thought about this, his head tilted slightly to one side. "I see," he said then. "It is a matter of honor."

Both Sato and Mayweather laughed. "Not exactly," Sato said. "It's just... something of a tradition."

T'Pol took a sip from her tea, watching as Halan finally managed to transfer some of the wayward pasta into his mouth. The two Vulcan men were a lot less reserved now, and they seemed to enjoy Sato's and Mayweather's company. Perhaps it was their youth; if one compared their Vulcan age to the average human life span, Mevak and Halan were as young as Mayweather and Sato themselves. T'Pol wondered if Captain T'Pyr had deliberately sent two of her youngest specialists. Maybe none of the older officers had been willing to go to the human ship.

Sato's voice interrupted her musings. "I'm going to get myself a sandwich. Can I get you anything, Subcommander? Mevak?"

"No thank you." T'Pol inclined her head.

"You going to try the spaghetti, Mevak?" Mayweather grinned at the Vulcan lieutenant. "Come on, Halan's enjoying them, right?"

"Yes," Halan said, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "The taste is very pleasant. You should try them, ashalik."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow at the last word, and from the look on Sato's face, the communications officer had caught it as well. Only Mayweather was oblivious, still trying to persuade Mevak to try the spaghetti.

"Come on. They're really good."

"Very well," Mevak gave in. "I shall have a try."

"Great. I'll get you a plate." Sato got up, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Be right back."

T'Pol took another sip from her tea. It was not something she had expected, but in retrospect, some things made more sense now than they had before. It had not been strictly necessary to send two specialists, yet T'Pyr had done so, and the two officers had hardly left each other's side since they had come aboard.

Sato returned and set a steaming plate of pasta down in front of Mevak. "Here you go. Enjoy."

"Thank you." Mevak reached for his fork. "I shall do so."

T'Pol noticed the look on Sato's face and, for once, knew exactly what was going on in the human woman's head. She wasn't surprised when, eventually, Sato failed to contain her curiosity. Humans always did.

"Can I ask you something?"

Halan turned to the communications officer. "By all means."

"You called him ashalik..." For some reason, Sato blushed a little. "Are you two a couple?"

"We are t'hyla," Halan replied. "In human terms, I assume that makes us a... couple?"

He directed his question at T'Pol.

"Indeed," she said. "Humans do not employ the concept of t'hyla, but they have relationships that work in a similar way."

Mayweather seemed dumbstruck. "Oh. I didn't know..." He trailed off. "So, you're married, or...?"

"We aren't bonded yet," Halan said. T'Pol had known, of course; the two men were far too young to have experienced their first pon farr. It was not unusual for t'hyla to live together even before their first Time came.

"I thought Vulcan marriages were prearranged in childhood?" Sato ventured, and immediately raised her hands as if to hold off the answer. "Sorry if I'm prying."

"Not at all," Mevak answered. "Not all Vulcan parents follow the tradition of... arranging marriages. Some consider it..." He frowned. "Vesh-nartauk."

"Outdated," Sato supplied the English word.

"Yes, outdated. They allow their children to choose their own mates for life."

"Oh." Mayweather hesitated. "This t'hyla... is it only for, I mean..." He seemed embarrassed, and T'Pol allowed herself a moment of amusement, even though she wasn't entirely comfortable with discussing such personal matters in public. Humans, for all their permissiveness, could be surprisingly prudish.

"It can occur in a prearranged marriage, although most t'hyla choose each other," Halan said, obviously trying to be helpful.

T'Pol took pity on the ensign. "I believe Ensign Mayweather wants to know whether only same-sex couples refer to each other as t'hyla."

The two Vulcan officers were visibly surprised. "No," Halan said. "It has nothing to do with the gender of the participants. It is... a matter of the mind. Kator-dva'n."

"Spiritual," Sato said.

"Yes. T'hyla discover a spiritual closeness when they choose each other. The physical bonding is only a logical consequence."

Sato smiled. "Soulmates."

Halan considered. "An appropriate translation," he said then. "I take it humans have t'hyla... soulmates, too?"

Sato nodded. "Yes. We do."

"So," Mayweather said after a small pause, and grinned at Mevak. "Enjoying your spaghetti?"

T'Pol found herself sharing a look with Ensign Sato, and surprised herself by allowing a very small smile to touch her lips, only for the split of a second. Sometimes, she thought, even a human and a Vulcan woman could agree that men would be men, as self-evident a statement as it seemed.

She returned her attention to her padd. The Captain would be pleased to learn that the probe was almost completed.

"Your back is healing well, Krintu. I do not believe that I will need to use the derm restorer again."

Malcolm, sitting on the floor of the cell, his new tunic pushed up to his shoulders, didn't react. Had it been Silak or any of the guards, his lack of response would have earned him a blow to the head, but T'Lys merely sighed and got to her feet.

"We are done here."

Malcolm shrugged down the tunic, still not looking at the Healer. It was three days ago that he had been dragged back to his cell, bleeding and unconscious, and he hadn't been able to look at any of them ever since. His back was healing; T'Lys had made sure of that. A few doses of therapeutic radiation from her derm restorer, and all that was left of the bloody mess was a pattern of red, healing scars. They didn't even hurt that much anymore. But Malcolm found he still couldn't look at her.

He stayed where he was after she'd left, doing his best to avoid Trip's eyes. Everyone else, he knew, would carefully avoid looking at him; after his interrogation by Silak, most of their cellmates seemed to have decided that he wasn't worth the risk and would no longer acknowledge his presence, let alone talk to him. Marked man. He'd become one in more ways than one. Silak had ordered that, like Jackson, he was to receive only one ration of food a day, and was to be taken out for another round of questioning as soon as his wounds were healed. The prospect filled him with mind-numbing dread - which, of course, was Silak's intention. The Vulcan wanted him isolated, hungry, desperate and afraid; ideal conditions for breaking a prisoner, as Malcolm very well knew. And it was working. He supposed that he would be able to go through another one or two sessions at the whipping post without letting slip about Enterprise, but he knew he couldn't hold out forever. And he would not be able to stand by and watch as they tortured Trip. That was the one thing Malcolm knew Silak was keeping up his sleeve, to use against him when all other methods had failed. He had said as much, shortly before Malcolm passed out with pain and exhaustion. "Do not believe I won't bring your friend out here, if you do not cooperate. It is your choice, Krintu."

His choice. Another interrogation tactic, of course - the interrogator tried to make the prisoner feel responsible, instill the notion that he was free to choose his fate.

"Malcolm?"

Malcolm turned his head. Trip was leaning against the nearby wall, his injured foot propped up on a blanket. Thanks to T'Lys and her medications, he was no longer wracked by fever and pain these days, and Malcolm dreaded the moment when Silak would notice how much the engineer's condition had improved. As long as Trip had appeared to be at death's door, the Vulcan hadn't been able to use him to force Malcolm's cooperation. Now, however...

"Malcolm, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Malcolm replied repressively. He recognized the question for what it was, a prelude to conversation, but he had no wish to talk.

"Right," Trip said, ignoring the silent hint. "Look, Mal, I'm sure this isn't it. You know that, don't you?"

Malcolm knew very well that Trip was referring to Enterprise and Captain Archer, names they had agreed not to mention even when none of the guards were in sight. Kin'kur wouldn't have betrayed them, but she was gone, back with her T'Sai, and Malcolm wasn't so sure about the rest of their cellmates. Some of them did give the impression as if they would do pretty much anything in exchange for a meal and a few warm blankets.

"Yes," he said when it was obvious that Trip was waiting for an answer. "I know that. But..."

He left the sentence unfinished. Trip knew as well as he did just how many "buts" there were; there was no need to spell them out for him.

One of their cellmates, an old man who hardly left his corner under the window all day long, glared at Trip. "Do you have to use human names all the time? You'll get us all whipped."

From the look on Trip's face, he was about to tell the man to mind his own business. Before he could say the words, though, something in his expression changed, and he merely nodded once.

"Sorry. I'll try to remember."

"Make sure that you do," the man grumbled before he returned to his contemplation of the empty space in front of him. Trip said nothing, and Malcolm thought he understood. He might not have three days ago, but things had changed since then.

There was a clank as the entrance door was opened, followed by the sound of voices. Recognizing Silak, Malcolm tensed. Had the Zhel-lan decided that it was time for the next interrogation session? And if he had, he would see that Trip was no longer weak and feverish. He would have him taken outside.

Malcolm pushed one of the blankets towards Trip. "Here, lie down. And pull that over your face."

Trip frowned. "Why?"

"Quick, do as I say!"

Trip stared at him for a long moment, and Malcolm wished the engineer didn't know him as well as he did. It was difficult to hide any of his thoughts and intentions from the other man.

"No."

"Trip-"

The engineer shook his head. "I'm not sendin' you out there again."

Malcolm remembered how angry Trip had been when he had first come to after Silak had whipped him unconscious. Face white, the engineer had stared at the guards with an expression as if he were visualizing their intestines dripping from the walls of the room. Malcolm suspected that if push came to shove, friendly, good-natured Trip Tucker could be driven to murder, and he had no intentions of letting the man try anything stupid. When Silak came to take him outside, he needed Trip well hidden under the blanket and quiet.

"Trip, listen-"

Trip shook his head. "I'm not playin' sick, Malcolm. You could deal with it, and so can I."

Malcolm opened his mouth, about to give Trip a piece of his mind when he saw that the man with Silak wasn't one of the guards. Stocky, broad-shouldered, pot-bellied and clad in embroidered robes that were flecked with food stains, the man looked like the caricature of a Vulcan dignitary. Slowly, he walked down the aisle between the holding areas, followed by Silak who pointed at prisoners inside the cells as if they were cattle on display – which, Malcolm thought, was essentially true.

"This one," the fat Vulcan said after a few dismissive waves, and Silak's guards hurried to drag the human in question out of his cell. The man kept his eyes downcast and didn't resist as the Vulcan felt his arms and turned his head from side to side.

"He's well trained, Aylak," Silak said. "He hasn't given us any trouble since he came here."

"Except that he's here because he ran away in the first place." The man called Aylak raised a derisive eyebrow. "I come here instead of going to the traders because their prices are outrageous. Not because of the quality of your merchandise."

Silak wasn't deterred. "Or this one. He can work hard."

Malcolm followed Silak's eyes, his dismay growing when he saw who the Vulcan was pointing at. Unlike his cellmates, Jackson stood with his chin raised, refusing to cower under Silak's gaze.

Aylak grunted non-committally, and the guards took it as a cue to open the door to Jackson's cell. Jackson let himself be pulled outside, but when Aylak reached out to feel his arm muscles, he twisted away and spat at the Vulcan.

"Fuck you."

Aylak's mask of condescending indifference slipped, revealing genuine surprise. "What? What did he say?"

Silak's face hardened. "Do not pay him any mind. He is little more than an animal. They all are." The words were followed by a hard blow that sent the young man sprawling on the floor. As the guards hauled him back to his feet, there was blood trickling down the side of his mouth.

Aylak took one of his arms and squeezed it. "He is strong, though. I'll take him." He turned to Silak, his round face smoothing into the studied arrogance of before. "Surely you won't demand too much for a barely trained beast."

"Eight hundred lit for each of them," Silak replied. "The usual."

Aylak let go of Jackson's arm as if he had suddenly become aware of a disgusting smell. "You cannot be serious, Silak."

"I most certainly am. It is a cheap price for two healthy young males, as you well know."

Aylak's mouth twitched angrily. "They're not trained at all."

"They do not have to be trained much to do factory work, do they?"

"Six hundred each," Aylak said. "And it will still be too much."

"I am afraid you will have to visit the traders in town then, Aylak. I cannot afford to give away my slaves for free."

Aylak sighed angrily. "At least give me a third one cheap if you are set on ruining me today."

Silak raised an eyebrow. "Why should I?"

This time, Aylak managed to sound smug. "Good business relations should be preserved, do you not agree?"

"Very well then." Silak turned around, waving a casual hand. "That one. Not in perfect health, but I believe he will suffice."

It took a moment before Malcolm understood that he was talking about Trip.

TBC...

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