Disclaimer: see Chapter 1

A/N: Once more, appreciative thanks for all the encouragement from my reviewers. I'll keep on trekkin'!

Chapter 6

The quarters that the Thraxians had allocated to Trip and Travis were spacious and comfortably furnished. There was no window, so they had no idea what lay outside. Did this room form part of an outer wall or were there yet more accommodation rings beyond it?

One thing was for sure, Trip discovered, it was not possible to simply stroll out through the front door. That stayed stubbornly closed. He puzzled at it. He guessed he understood it. He would not like to see aliens casually roaming around Enterprise. But if Strixam had been telling the truth, what harm would there be in letting the humans see for themselves what the aliens' study consisted of? They might even be able to throw some light on strange Earth customs for them. He gave an amused snort as he recalled those unaccountable misapprehensions a bunch of Vulcans had had about them. Football as some sort of fight to the death!

"Let's eat. We need to keep our strength up," said Trip, selecting some bread and cheese. He wasn't hungry, but it was important. At least they had Earth food available to them. No need to worry about unfortunate consequences or anything too... alive.

Travis dropped down besides him. "I've never heard of Thraxians before. I wonder how they ended up in Earth's part of the galaxy."

Trip shrugged. "There're lots of races we're new to. The Klingons aren't that far from us at high warp drive and a few years ago we had no idea they existed."

"Yeah, but there are always stories. You know how Boomers like to weave tales!" He laughed. "Oh well, they're making up for stunning us." He grabbed an apple.

Trip smiled at Travis. This wasn't too bad - Travis was right. But still, they were prisoners, technically. He had been careful not to give too much information away. He worried about what might happen when Enterprise came looking. Who knew what level of technology these aliens had? From what he'd already seen, it was more advanced than their own.

It was time for action. Trip picked up the communicator. This would come in most useful. It was amazing what a good engineer could do when he needed to improvise.

Trip's 'magic fingers', as Malcolm had once so irritatingly dubbed them, pried the back off the communicator using one of the eating utensils as a lever, shielding his actions with his body from any potentially prying eyes.

Travis got up and nonchalantly lounged by the door, alert for anyone who might approach.

Mindful of possible surveillance, they spoke of inconsequentialities. Travis said," You know, that was a beautiful sunset we saw last night."

"Yeah, it was impressive."

"It was hot wasn't it?"

"Uh huh."

The weather related topic had not lasted long. They really needed Malcolm or some other Brit to give that one legs.

They turned to chatting about Trip's comic book heroes. That went much more fluidly. Trip replied with little thought, concentrating on the circuitry he was modifying.

"All set," Trip said finally. Travis nodded in understanding and he took off on some long convoluted theory regarding Clark Kent and Lois Lane. Casually getting up, Trip made a circuit of the room and the adjoining bathroom facilities.

To his surprise, there was no telltale whine of feedback. He made an adjustment and went around again, repeating the procedure several times.

"I'm pretty sure it's clear, " he said eventually, glancing around.

Travis breathed a sigh of relief, pleased at being able to talk normally once more. "That's strange isn't it, Sir?" he said. "Why aren't they keeping tabs on us?"

"I get the impression we took them by surprise. This seems to be one of their own living quarters. I don't think they're set up for visitors."

"Why do you think they're here - really?"

Trip shook his head as he concentrated on re-setting his communicator. "I don't know. Perhaps they are merely interested in human society? What I'm more interested in is how we ended up on their planet and more importantly, how we get back to Earth." He rubbed his head. He was beginning to feel tired. That would never do, not before they had made some progress.

Trip moved over to the door and gave it a thorough inspection.

"What do you think?" asked Travis.

Trip was gazing pensively at the door. "Hmm. Y'know, I think this just might be possible. I can use the communicator to cycle through the permutations."

"That seems too easy, Commander."

"Yeah, but security is lax around here, Travis, so it seems. What do you think? Should we take advantage of it? Do some exploring?"

"Absolutely," confirmed Travis, a broad smile lighting his face.

"I think so too," replied Trip grinning in reply. Anything was better than sitting here wondering what was happening.

Trip moved back to the couch and set to work again on the communicator, playing with the frequency settings. "All ready," he announced. "I'll start with a chirp signal and go from there."

Moving over to the door, Trip took a deep breath and offered a silent prayer.

Travis leaned over Trip's shoulder, eager to see what happened. Trip tweaked the device. To their gratification, the first attempt was successful. The door slid open without a sound, and they found themselves free to see the sights.

Trip gave a pleased smirk. "Shall we?"

"Why not?!"

---------------------

Malcolm somehow managed to keep an impassive outer facade as he walked between his escort of two MPs, one in front and the other behind him. Inwardly he was most apprehensive for both his own sake and for T'Pol's. They did have their emergency beacons but it had been agreed they were to be used only as a last resort. The people here should not see them transporting. Who knew what problems that might bring down on Trip and Travis?

But he had to remain in place until he had found out what had happened to them. Giving up was not an option; otherwise they would be lost for ever. The worst of it was he was in no position now to do anything to find his friends. He bit his lip and marched doggedly on.

They reached the rear of the building. The lead MP pushed open a door to the outside and they exited into a compound. Malcolm paused to look around, blinking in the unexpectedly bright sunlight.

The MP bringing up the rear gave Malcolm a sharp shove in the back with his baton, causing him to stumble. Taking the hint, Malcolm trudged after their leader, sharp eyes taking in as much as he could. A number of buildings were located around the periphery to define a large central square. They crossed the open ground, passed between two buildings and emerged into another square.

Ahead was a dark three storied building. It had few windows, most of which were barred, and guards posted outside its entrance. When Malcolm had made his preliminary scans of the complex, he had suspected this building was a detention center. It seemed he would soon be making a more intimate acquaintance with it. A daunting prospect.

They walked across the square. Malcolm was darting glances around, memorizing the layout. Suddenly he caught a glimpse of something - a shimmer. 'No... it can't be!' he thought astounded, coming to a full stop. A push to his back was followed by a heavier blow when he failed to respond immediately. Unable to keep his feet, Malcolm crashed to the ground. With his hands restrained behind his back he could do nothing to cushion the impact.

He heard the lead guard say, "Watch it, Joe!"

The other replied, "He tripped!"

"Yeah. I guess. Be careful though. The Colonel said he might be legit."

Malcolm was listening to this with only a part of his attention. Mostly he was gazing in rapt astonishment at the large domed structure now dead ahead from his vantage point on the ground. There it was again... and again... Incredible! It was unmistakable - that occasional shimmer around the building. Here he was in a world that still relied on manual typewriters and on light bulbs for illumination, and yet they also had acquired forcefield technology. How could that be?!

Strong arms grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. He staggered again, playing it up a little.

"Damn! He hit his head. Look at him."

"Oh - he'll be okay, won't you, Bud?" said Joe, in anything but a friendly tone. Malcolm looked coldly at the man but kept quiet.

The other MP said nervously, "Come on, Joe. Not out here. Let's get moving."

"Sure thing," replied Joe, hauling Malcolm along by his arm towards the detention center.

The other guard muttered, "You don't want to get into trouble because of him."

"I know, Mike. But look, he's not gonna say anything to anyone. And if he does, who'll listen?" He gave Malcolm's arm a tight squeeze and shake to punctuate his assertion.

The entrance lobby of the prison was forbidding. Floor to ceiling bars divided it in two. A guard stationed in the lobby rotated a lever to cause part of the barrier to slide to one side. Malcolm was led through into the next area and the bars shut with a heavy clang behind him. They went through into another room via another set of locked and guarded doors.

This room was presumably where detainees were processed, thought Malcolm, gazing around. A long table was placed in front of a bank of bottle green filing cabinets. An older, heavyset man sat behind the table writing in a ledger. He looked up at the new arrival.

"Name?" he asked, pen poised.

"No name," said Joe. "We just need somewhere to stash him."

"Well," huffed the warden, "I still need to book him in. Regulations."

"This comes from the Colonel, Collier."

The warden shook his head, "This is most irregular," he muttered. "I will check this with Colonel Jones later."

"You do that," said Joe.

Mike proceeded to search Malcolm, doing a reasonably thorough job - but not thorough enough. The search produced nothing.

"No belongings?" said Collier surprised, "Nothing at all?"

"No. Funny that, ain't it?" said Joe, leering at Malcolm. "Not even a bunch of keys."

"What about his papers... ID?" asked Collier.

"He's carrying nothing," said Mike with a shrug.

Malcolm said quickly, "The Colonel has all my documents." Surely that would give him some credibility?

The warden's concerned manner changed as soon as he heard Malcolm's accent. "English are you?" He flicked through his ledger. "D 32 is unoccupied. Put him in there."

"Thanks," said Joe. He grabbed Malcolm by an arm and propelled him through one of the doors into yet another long corridor. It had a low ceiling and was dimly lit. Substantial steel doors painted a pale green ran along both sides. Malcolm noticed that some of the cell doors had a metal tag slid across to reveal a red panel beneath, probably to indicate which were occupied.

Malcolm was under no illusions as to his own status. If he were 'legit', as they put it, then there would be no official record of his incarceration, so no one to point the finger at. If he were found to be a fraud, then, well... the Colonel would have a totally free hand - no need to follow any inconvenient regulations.

Their steps echoed as they continued to the end. Then a sharp right, a left, another corridor and Joe pulled Malcolm roughly to a stop before a door. Malcolm looked up to see '32' stenciled above it. Home sweet home, he thought cynically.

Mike opened the door and Joe shoved Malcolm in. The small white-tiled cell had a window high in the far wall, a low bunk and a bucket. That was it. It stank to high heaven. Malcolm almost gagged at it.

"Nice here, ain't it," laughed Joe. He spun Malcolm around to face him. "The Colonel's son was killed two weeks ago, fighting the English," he said, watching for his prisoner's reaction.

Malcolm said nothing, did nothing except warily look at this angry man. Joe scowled. "I gotta watch out, in case you are legit, but somehow, I don't think you are." He took a step closer to Malcolm. "Too many good men have died. My kid brother was killed in Canada by the British Brigade."

Malcolm could see the anger in Joe's eyes turn to unutterable grief and sorrow. His heart went out to the man. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Face twisting in fury, Joe gave a bellow then drove his fist into Malcolm's stomach. As Malcolm doubled up, his assailant followed it with another pounding blow landing in the same place, then a chop to the base of his neck. Malcolm fell poleaxed.

Through the pain, he heard Mike warn, "Be careful!"

"It won't mark him," said Joe, kneeling down next to his victim. "Not where it shows, anyways."

Malcolm couldn't gather the strength to move away as he fought to breathe, aware of Joe's bulk leaning over him. He tensed, waiting for another punch but Joe didn't go to hit him. He seized Malcolm's wrists and removed the handcuffs.

Malcolm shakily drew his arms under him, gulping for air. He couldn't see very well through the tears of pain that filled his eyes but he heard with relief the soldiers leave the cell. The door slammed shut and was locked with a rattle and clunk. Echoing steps faded as the men left Malcolm to his own devices.

All he could think was, 'That could have been worse.'

----------------------

"So - now you are feeling better, yes?" asked the alien officer, sitting in a casual pose next to Archer. He held a clipboard in one hand but at the moment it remained unconsulted.

Archer gazed up at him. His chair was lower and reclined back a touch. "I think so," he replied. Then angry at his indecision he said, "Yes. I am." He looked around the room. There were posters showing heroic young men and women. One depicted them, marching forward into a bright light, a smiling alien showing the way ahead. A slogan splashed across it in stark red and black, but he didn't understand its meaning. The posters livened the place up, relieving the uniformly dull light gray walls.

Archer's attention wandered down to his clothing. He had been given fresh things to wear: baggy pants and a clean white shirt. Smoothing his hands over his thighs, he noted the coarse texture, the heavy weight of the cloth. The floor was covered in black and white tiles. The pattern was regular... repeating.

He jerked his head up with a start. Turning guiltily to the watching alien, he shrugged. "Sorry. I keep losing concentration."

The alien nodded sympathetically. "It is only to be expected. You have been through some great trauma."

Archer frowned at him. Some memory skittered by his thoughts before he could latch onto it and seize it. If only he could remember. He had a feeling that something exceedingly significant had happened - there was something it was imperative he recall - but it was impossible. He rubbed a finger over the bandage encircling his head.

"Careful!" warned the alien. "Don't touch those injuries. It is important to allow them to heal."

Archer gave a weak smile. "Sorry. I forgot," he said. At least he had heard that warning before though. That was progress, wasn't it?

"There was an explosion!" Archer's words surprised himself. Where had that come from? He closed his eyes. "It was dark. Then a blast. It knocked me over... and then noise..."

"Was anyone with you?" The voice was neutral, encouraging.

"I don't know."

"In your mind, you see the explosion. You experience it. Look around. Who else is there?"

Archer grimaced, his eyes still shut. "I'm alone! I told them to leave me."

"And they did?"

"Yes." He smiled.

"All of them?"

Archer nodded slowly. "They got out. There was only me left."

"Who were the others?"

Archer teased at the thought, and then gave an exasperated exhalation. "I don't know!" he cried out in frustration.

"Don't worry. This is good. Very good." The alien's voice was comforting. "You will remember. Don't force it."

Archer opened his eyes again, and took regular deep breaths, using the technique the alien had shown him in their previous session.

"Excellent," said the alien. "Relax." He picked up a pen and wrote on his clipboard.

Archer lay back, listening to the pen nib scratching its way across the paper. An incongruous sound, he thought. Why? Why was it incongruous?

"Let us try something else." The alien pocketed his pen and placed the clipboard on the low table next to him. He stood and moved to a filing cabinet set against a wall. He picked up an object from its surface. Returning to his seat, he held the silvery object up in front of him.

Archer gazed at it.

"Do you recognize this?"

Archer shook his head. "No."

"It was on your person when you were found. Do you want to touch it?"

Archer looked fearfully at the thing. What if he couldn't remember? Ever? This object was his but it was so strange.

The alien seemed to understand. "Touching it will help. Here - take hold of it."

Archer bit his lip, scowling at the proffered item. He tentatively reached out, and then closed his fingers over it and took it from the alien.

It felt light in his hand. It also felt familiar. He ran his thumb along its edge, then, instinctively, gave a quick flip to open it.

"It isn't working," he said immediately.

"How do you know that?"

"It should make a noise. A chirrup." He inspected it.

"What does it do?" asked the alien.

Engrossed in his inspection, Archer replied without thinking, "It's a communicator. For contacting my ship." His eyes widened as he realized the implications of what he had said.

"And your ship is...?"

"Enterprise. She's called Enterprise," breathed Archer.

TBC