"We're making pretty good time," Brogan said, pausing to glance at Archer, "the settlement should be just beyond those rocks."
Archer nodded; "Excellent. The sooner we can get back to Enterprise the better."
"I just hope my shuttle's up to it," Brogan sighed, picking her way over carefully across a particularly rough area of terrain, "it's only designed for short-distance flight. She's a hell of a lot smaller than the Chanteloup..."
There was a moment of silence as they walked, until Archer asked, conversationally; "How long have you two been working undercover?"
"Too long," Brogan replied, a little distantly, "personally, about six years, I guess. I've had various assignments, but Harris sent me back here about a year ago. It's my third stint on '66 and the longest one yet – I just want out, but Harris won't let me go. He's still pretty pissed that Malcolm left. D'Arcy's been here for about four months and he wants out just as much as I do. Hell, a day in '66 has that effect on anyone, Malcolm would be the first to tell you that."
"He tried to," Archer sighed, "I... I should probably have listened a bit more... So; you and Malcolm - you've known each other for a long time, then?"
Brogan caught his questioning tone and laughed; "Oh, God – yeah, we trained together at the academy, but no, nothing like that – Malcolm's not my type... besides, he seems to prefer straight women. I'm a little more... fifty-fifty, if you catch my drift?"
"Of course," Archer smiled, "But you worked together, here?"
"Yeah, for about eight months on my first stint, and then I came back for another six. Malcolm was here the whole time, one long straight posting. I don't know how he did it, but when I came back he'd managed to set up one of the most powerful gangs on '66 and all without killing anyone or actually committing a major crime in the process."
"Woolf's Pack?" Archer guessed.
"You got it," Brogan nodded, briefly consulting her scanner again, "the Woolf's Paw is recognised all across the Orion Syndicate but there's only a handful of people who actually know what Kyle Woolf looks like – most members who affiliate themselves only do it because of the protection the Paw offers from other members. It's weird."
"How long has it been since you served in uniform?"
"Too bloody long," Brogan laughed; "sorry, I do keep forgetting my etiquette, don't I? Sir..."
Archer quirked an amused grin; "I think under the circumstances I can let that slide, but you'll probably want to brush up a bit back on Enterprise... Malcolm's a stickler for procedure."
"Don't I know it," Brogan rolled her eyes, "we had to do a smuggler's run to a colony a few light years from here to cover for delivering some intel to Harris. We ran into pirates and barely escaped alive. We were smashed to hell, Malcolm had a bleeding head wound and shrapnel in his arm, I'd broken my wrist and a couple of ribs, but he still insisted on completing the mission and filing his soddin' report before we could get medical help."
"That sounds like him," Archer nodded, amused, "do you know, we once got trapped in this alien minefield – a mine attached itself to the hull of the ship. Reed went EV to defuse it, but a spike from the mine impaled his leg and pinned him to the hull... he had to talk me through defusing the mine but I had to bully him into doing it – he was ready to die first..."
"Sounds about right," snorted Brogan, "he's a tough guy to get to know. I had to get him seriously drunk before he'd tell me anything about himself and his family."
"Wait – you managed to get him drunk? I can't imagine it – Trip claims he's done it a couple of times but he's usually been so wasted as well he can't remember anything."
"Many, many times – it's about the only legal leisure activity here on '66," Brogan grinned, "there was this one time, I remember..."
"Sorry, boss," D'Arcy rumbled, from behind them, "I think those are stories for another day – we're almost there."
Archer glanced up; sure enough, there, nestled amongst the rocks, were small, squat, domed buildings, as grey and brown as the landscape around them, no doubt virtually indistinguishable from desert features to anything flying overhead. Brogan holstered her scanner and he weapon and held her hands up in front of her as she walked confidently towards the tiny settlement. Archer copied her example, noting pens containing a collection of hardy sheep and cattle. On the outskirts of the settlement, a few night watchmen noted their presence and a bell rang out along with a sharp, female voice.
"Who's there? Identify yourselves!"
"My name is Brogan!" the lieutenant shouted back, "This is Archer and D'Arcy! We were attacked by bandits, our shuttle was shot down. We want to negotiate borrowing a rover to get back home!"
"Come closer!"
The three of them obeyed and Archer found they were surrounded by half a dozen hardened colonists, all wrapped up in thick layers against the night chill and armed with heavy assault rifles. A grey-haired woman with only one eye appeared to be in charge, as she glared at them appraisingly.
"What are you doing all the way out here?" she asked, suspiciously, "You ain't from these parts."
"We were passing through '66," Brogan replied, vaguely, "my ship had engine trouble and we had to set down in the desert. We were attacked by bandits – I need a rover to get back to my settlement and pick up a replacement shuttle."
"Fuck off! Don't want one of my rovers ending up in bandit hands," the woman spat, "need 'em too much."
"We'll make it worth your while," Archer said, authoritatively, "we'll give you money – weapons – ration packs – medical supplies – whatever you want."
The woman began to look interested, but the rifles did not lower as she ordered; "Show me."
Obediently, Brogan began taking the weapons from her belt and emptied her pack onto the floor. Archer and D'Arcy copied her example; between them there were four emergency medical kits, three rifles, four handguns, half a dozen ration packs, their torch, a scanner, a spare communicator and, finally, Brogan produced a small bag of gold coins.
"There's more," she added, tossing the bag onto the ground with a heavy clinking sound, which clearly aroused the grey-haired woman's interest, "if you kill us, you only get this pathetic pile. But if you lend us a rover, you can recover the car later and there'll be another bag of gold stored in the safe box. I'll also give you co-ordinates for my downed ship, and the location of a secret weapons stash I've been keeping. I've gotta get off this rock in a hurry and I ain't ever coming back, so you're welcome to the lot. At least a dozen rifles, more disruptors than I'd care to count, three Klingon shock sticks, a couple of crates of grenades, and a low-yield ground plasma cannon. There's also three localised shield generators. You'd have the best armoured settlement this side of Outpost 12."
"That's a hell of a lot to pay to borrow a rover," the woman's suspicions were not allayed, but the rifle was being lowered.
"I'm pretty fuckin' desperate," Brogan said, with just the right amount of honesty and reluctance, "I screwed up a job for Hammerhead and now I gotta get the hell outta here before he skins me alive and puts my head on a pike outside the main gates of '66. You gonna take the offer?"
The woman hesitated, and then nodded, shouldering her rifle.
"Joey, fetch rover 4," she ordered.
One of the men nodded and disappeared. Archer waited silently, watching the cold, hard expressions on the faces around him, and he wondered why these people would have wanted to leave the safety and comfort of Earth to scratch out such a dangerous, meagre living on this barren rock. Nearby, an engine coughed, stalled, coughed again and then rumbled to life, and within minutes a four-wheeled car drove into sight. The driver jumped out, leaving the engine running. Archer eyed it doubtfully; it was dented and worn; barely rusted, thanks to the lack of moisture in the desert, but it was literally being held together by tape, wire, and sheer desperation from the looks of it.
"It'll do," Brogan nodded, and took a data chip from one of the many pockets on her utility belt, "this gives you the location of my stash. Help yourselves. I'll activate the rover's beacon when we're done with it. You can collect it when you want, and you'll find gold in the safe box under the driver's seat, along with my account details to access more. Are we done here?"
"Fine," the woman nodded, waving her rifle carelessly, "get gone, before I decide to kill you all and cut my losses."
Archer did not need telling twice; he climbed into the gunner's seat as Brogan took the wheel, obviously more familiar with the design of the archaic vehicle than Archer was. D'Arcy clambered into the back seat, looking slightly bereft at the loss of his rifle as he toyed with his knife instead. Brogan gunned the engine and took off at speed, hurtling into the desert.
Hanging on for dear life, Archer marvelled at the way the vehicle skipped over the uneven terrain – as shoddy as it looked, it had large, thick, studded tyres that gripped the ground and kept the car on course, with high suspension and a wide wheelbase. Once clear of the settlement, Brogan slowed to a more reasonable speed. After driving for some time, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder, confirming that they were not being followed, and then used one hand to unclip her scanner from her belt, consulting it with her left hand as she steered with her right.
"I marked their position on the map," she said, punching a couple of buttons, "hopefully this won't take... aw, shit!"
The last expletive was as the result of a loud bang as the rover backfired loudly, an explosion of noise, and then the engine cut out completely. Smoke puffed out from beneath the bonnet as the rover slowed, and rolled to a gradual stop. For a long moment, the only sound was the tick-tick-tick of cooling metal from the bonnet. Brogan swore again and slapped the steering wheel.
"Piece of shit," she muttered, and climbed out of her seat.
Archer followed, and walked around the front of the vehicle. D'Arcy remained in the back seat, though he stood up to see what was going on. Between the two of them, they managed to get the hood open, and Archer waved his hand to dissipate the cloud of smoke and steam that rose up to meet them. He stared at the blackened, oily, archaic engine with dismay.
"Damn," he said, softly, "we could really do with Trip's help..."
"Eh, hopefully I can rig something – just need to work out what's wrong with this piece of crap. Bear with me..."
Brogan prodded around in the engine, pulling various bits out, examining them and then putting them back. Climbing onto the front of the rover she was just able to reach the back of the massive engine, and swore again. Archer suppressed a smile; clearly Brogan had an extremely colourful vocabulary when things were not going well.
"The engine's overheated," she reported, at last, wiping oily hands carelessly down her jeans, "there's no bloody coolant in it; we're lucky we didn't blow out the head gasket. We'll have to wait until it cools down and hope it restarts. It's going to slow us down though..."
"Damn," Archer said, again, "anything we can do?"
Brogan shook her head; "If we try pouring water over it we risk cooling it too quickly and cracking the casing. It's cold enough out here – give it fifteen minutes or so and then we'll see where we're at."
Leaving the hood open to increase the flow of cool air over the cooked engine, Brogan sat down on the floor and leaned back against the bumper of the rover. Archer sat down next to her, casting a glance up at the clear, starry desert sky. The beauty of the heavens was a stark contrast to the gritty, hard life lived out on this planet, he reflected. He sighed, shivered and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He was cold to the core, exhausted, and sore. His whole body ached after the crash and he wanted nothing more than a hot meal, a long shower, clean clothes and a comfortable bed to sleep in. He just hoped that Trip and Malcolm were holding up.
