Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

A/N: Thank you for reviewing. It is so interesting to see what different people make of this story.

Chapter 12

Malcolm stood rooted to the spot at the sight of the Klingons.

There were two of them, both huge and bedecked with weaponry - disrupters and bladed weapons. They were speaking, perhaps shouting at him, judging by the accompanying gesticulations, but the soundproofing meant he couldn't hear a thing. Shaking off his initial stunned shock, Malcolm slowly backed away until he was at the rear of his cell. So much for Trent's plans for him! If he had been free and on the Facility, at least he would have had a chance to fight back.

The taller of the aliens gestured at the door and then banged on the door panel, trying brute force in the absence of the proper codes. When that didn't work, he turned to his companion and, as one, they directed their disrupters onto the door and fired. Malcolm flung an arm up to protect his eyes from the brilliant green light. A swirl of acrid fumes from the blasted door panel filled the cell, catching at the back of his throat and making him cough.

One of the Klingons forced open the door, and Malcolm stood with nothing between him and the two murderous-looking aliens and their equally murderous-looking disrupters. He ran his tongue over dry lips and assessed the Klingons standing before him. They were well equipped for hand-to-hand combat. In addition to the disrupters, he could now see more clearly the wicked three-bladed daggers at their belts. Malcolm particularly noted that their hilts were worn through use. He rapidly examined his options, which were... limited. Attack and defence were both non-starters, although he was willing to try if nothing better came to mind. That would be a last resort, though, when there was nothing left to lose. Negotiation? Perhaps... It might buy him time to improve his chances.

The taller Klingon snarled something in his own language and lifted his disrupter.

Malcolm had no idea what the words meant. He waited warily, his eyes flickering to the weapon, but remained silent. He had seen what those disrupters could do. They had no stun setting. Apparently, no true warrior would demean himself with such a function. A sudden incongruous thought popped into his mind that there were some benefits, after all, to being locked up in a nice, safe cell. He stifled the inappropriate laugh that threatened to intrude.

The Klingon spoke again. As far as Malcolm could work out, it was a repetition of the previous words but a lot louder, and he began to suspect that negotiation wasn't on the cards, either. He said carefully, slowly spreading his hands wide, "I don't speak Klingon. I don't understand."

The Klingon stared, then yelled at him, sounding even more enraged, and waving his disrupter about in an undisciplined fashion.

Malcolm shook his head. He said steadily, trying for a calming approach, "There's no point in shouting. I still can't understand you. Don't you have a translator?"

It seemed they didn't. The second Klingon entered the cell and reached Malcolm in two long strides, urging him away from the wall with impatient shakes of his disrupter. He growled out something. It sounded like cursing, but then everything in Klingon sounded like that to Malcolm's ears. It got the message home, however. With a single glance at him, Malcolm complied, hating his capitulation. He wanted to resist but that would be pointless. It would only put them on guard at best, and at worst he could find himself dead.

Malcolm followed the first Klingon through the outer door into the corridor, with the other Klingon at his back. Malcolm's stomach flipped as he saw a grisly sight before him. Just at the threshold, a crewman lay face down on the floor, one arm flung out along the deck, the other folded under him. A still-smoking gash sliced deeply across his back, cutting well into vital organs: a gruesome mix of moist redness and black charred flesh, with blood thickly pooling beneath him. The man was clearly dead. Malcolm had to step over his legs and, as he did so, he looked down at his open-mouthed, open-eyed face. It was the silent crewman who had been bringing him his meals. Malcolm regretted not trying to talk to him. He had never even heard the man's voice. Now his games with Waters seemed trivial, put firmly into context.

The Klingon behind Malcolm shoved him on. Reluctantly, Malcolm trudged along after the leader, noticing the dark marks of weapons' fire scored deep along the walls and deck. The Klingons were almost relaxed, keeping minimal lookout as they walked through the silent ship, and Malcolm surmised that they were in complete control of Enterprise.

They entered a turbolift, which meant much too close proximity to the Klingons for Malcolm's taste. One of them said something to his comrade, who laughed, then pulled at Malcolm's left arm. The alien twisted it to show the Headquarters shoulder patch to his fellow. Malcolm winced, but managed to suppress any noise that might reveal his discomfort. There was some more unintelligible discussion but then they grew quiet, and Malcolm had plenty of time to worry about what the Klingons had in store for him.

Malcolm was taken to E Deck. Outside the mess hall, three Klingons stood around, exchanging ritual-sounding exclamations and vigorous slaps on the back, their good spirits in sharp contrast to Malcolm's feeling of foreboding. Malcolm added them to his running tally - five, so far. One of his escorts opened the door, seized Malcolm's arm in a vice-tight grip and propelled him into the room.

The mess hall was filled with Starfleet personnel sitting on the floor with their heads bowed. Sweeping his gaze across them, Malcolm made a rough count. From the numbers here, it could be most of the crew. Four Klingons - that made nine - stood guard with their disrupters raised, continuously monitoring their captives and ready to fire at the slightest provocation. Archer, Trip and Trent were held separately from the rest of the crew, over to Malcolm's left, on the floor near the serving hatches.

A sudden blow from behind thrust Malcolm forward and over an outstretched Klingon foot, sending him, reeling, amongst the main body of the crew.

"Sorry," Malcolm muttered as he pulled his hand away from a woman's face and rolled off the man he had landed on.

One of the guards took an aggressive step toward him and jerked his muzzle in the air. Malcolm sighed heavily and wrapped his hands around his knees like the others. The only good thing about this was that he hadn't been singled out. Perhaps he wasn't the target, after all?

"Head down," grunted the Klingon via a translator somewhere on his person, and Malcolm had no choice but to obey. He kept his eyes lowered to the floor for long minutes, waiting a fraction more to be certain. Cautiously, he looked up under his eyebrows. He could see Waters ahead of him and to his right, also apparently scanning the room for possibilities. If they were to make a move, it had to be soon, before any more aliens turned up. At present, there were five in the room and four outside.

Malcolm covertly observed the Klingons' disposition. And realised that it couldn't be done. Any attack against the Klingons would be doomed. By the time the humans had got to their feet, half would already be dead. Most of the rest would manage a few steps before succumbing. Those disrupters were too deadly. The Klingons could stand their ground and spray them across an attacking crowd, and that would be the end of it. And that didn't even take into account those standing guard outside. Malcolm scowled at the Klingons, furious at being so helpless. He hoped Waters had reached the same conclusion as him, but readied himself, just in case.

One of the Klingons - possibly their captain, judging by the others' deference to him - went over to Archer, Trip and Trent. He gestured to Archer to get up. The Klingon's body hid Archer from Malcolm's view and, to his frustration, he couldn't make out the words of the conversation. However, he could clearly see Trip's face, tipped upwards to follow what was said.

At first, Trip seemed curious, if a little apprehensive. Then he blanched, with horror etched on his face, and said loudly, "No! Captain!"

Archer's voice carried back as a murmur, then he reached down to touch Trip lightly on his shoulder. Trip shook his head. Bending low, Archer said something else and then walked towards the door followed by the Klingon captain.

Everyone's head was raised to watch Archer, their captors' instructions ignored.

Archer stopped, then turned and slowly looked around at his crew. He said, "The Klingons only want me. If I go with them willingly, they won't harm Enterprise or her crew. Please, do what they say, and Enterprise and the mining Facility will be safe." He faltered, then his mouth quirked upward in a smile. "It's been an honour to serve with you all. You are all remarkable people." He held his head high and strode out of the room, his Klingon shadow close behind.

Archer's dignity impressed Malcolm. That showed the Klingons what humans were made of.

As the door shut, whispers ran through the crew, seasoned with a few expletives. Malcolm saw Waters' shoulders slump, thoughts of rebellion seemingly fled. A Klingon shouted for quiet and the restlessness faded, to be replaced by glum silence and resignation.

Malcolm sighed heavily and dropped his head, knitting his fingers tightly together to settle in for what might be a long period of time. Much as he disliked Archer, he wouldn't wish this fate on anyone. The only hope would be to hunt down the Klingons after they had had their fun on Enterprise, but, somehow, he imagined the Klingons would have planned for that. Out in open space, Enterprise would be a much more formidable opponent. Perhaps these Klingons were planning to meet up with others.

There was another disturbance as the Klingon who had accompanied Archer returned. He made straight for Trip and Trent. Trip was slumped against the wall, his face covered by a hand. Trent seemed much more composed. That didn't surprise Malcolm one bit. He half-hoped that the Klingons would take Trent, too - he was a commodore, after all. But no, he couldn't wish that even on Trent.

Trent got to his feet, words were exchanged and he, too, was taken from the mess hall. Malcolm caught Trip's eye and gave an encouraging jerk of his head. Trip answered with a brief nod, and then covered his face once more.

More minutes passed. Malcolm wondered how long they would be kept prisoner. What more did the Klingons want from Enterprise?

A Klingon came in and talked to one of Malcolm's liberators. He responded with a jab of his weapon, followed by a more careful indication - straight at Malcolm. The Klingon growled a reply and advanced on the crew. Glaring at Malcolm, he said, via a translator unit, "Get up!"

Malcolm couldn't disguise his shock, which seemed to amuse the Klingon. Annoyed, Malcolm grimaced and scrambled to his feet, determined not to provide any more entertainment. Quelling uneasy thoughts, and on the alert for any advantage, Malcolm followed the Klingon out into the corridor.

Trent was there, surrounded by four Klingons, but there was no sign of Archer. Held fast by a steely Klingon hand clamped on his collar, Malcolm was shoved into the middle of the group, feeling dwarfed by the aliens, each of whom was at least a couple of heads taller than he was. He consoled himself with the thought that the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Crashing to the ground from that height couldn't be much fun. He gave a small grin, but let it slip away when he noticed Trent watching him.

It was his first opportunity to see Trent at close hand since the explosive finale to his meeting with him and Archer. Trent still carried considerable bruising around his upper jaw and left eye, bringing the right hook vividly to mind. Malcolm reflexively massaged his knuckles. The soreness he felt there was nothing compared to what Trent had gone through, but then Trent probably had had the luxury of medical treatment. More interesting were the dark marks around his neck - the results of the chop and a crushing attempt at strangulation.

Malcolm's attention was wrenched away from this professional, and enjoyable, appreciation of his previous handiwork by the most senior Klingon.

"You! Go with my men to shut down the forcefield apparatus on the station." The Klingon captain glared down at Malcolm.

Malcolm decided on a combative approach. He folded his arms, rocked back on his heels and sneered up at the Klingon. "No."

The Klingon let out a bellow and cuffed Malcolm around the side of his head, sending him flying into one of the others, who pushed him upright again. His head still ringing, Malcolm considered the advisability of further resistance. But then, if they beat him into a pulp, he wouldn't be able to help them, would he? He assumed they were smart enough to realise that. But… possibly not. The Klingon raised his fist and Malcolm braced himself for another blow. Instead, the Klingon lowered his hand and said to Trent, "Tell him."

"Do what he says, Lieutenant Reed," Trent said, rubbing a hand across his throat. His voice was abrasive - harsh on the ear and verydifferent now from the notable smoothness displayed during their previous meeting.

Malcolm frowned at Trent. Hadn't Trent been absolutely adamant that the technology should stay with Starfleet? If not, what had all the earlier shenanigans been about?

The Klingon said, "Obey, unless you want Enterprise destroyed. And this station." He leaned closer to Malcolm to emphasise his point, sending an exhalation of foul breath wafting over him.

"That's an order, Lieutenant," said Trent.

Malcolm looked at Trent, then at the Klingon, leering down at him. "Okay. I'll do it," he said bitterly, feeling sick to his stomach at this surrender and resenting the Klingon's expression of arrogant triumph. But what alternative did he have, with Enterprise and the Facility at risk?

The Klingon captain gave a derisive bark of laughter and grunted an order. Klingon hands snatched at Malcolm, pulling his arms in front of his body to receive solid handcuffs, which were tightly clamped around his wrists. Then he was marched away between three of the aliens, leaving Trent and the Klingon captain outside the mess hall.

As he was dragooned along, Malcolm considered the position. Would the Klingons really follow through on their threats if he didn't co-operate?

The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that the Klingons would not blow up Enterprise, or the Facility, while there was still a chance of them getting something out of the situation - like Archer and the forcefield gear. Him as well, most likely, but he guessed Archer had been the real prize. As he re-evaluated Trent's order, he concluded that Trent hadn't meant for him to roll over and unconditionally submit. That was not the Starfleet ethos. That order had been for show - providing any action - or inaction - didn't endanger ship or Facility.

What possible options did he have? The Klingons would have to free his arms so he could work on the forcefield equipment - that could give him a chance to escape. What exactly-?

His thoughts were jerked away from strategising as the Klingon to his left dug his elbow into him and shoved. Malcolm cannoned against the alien to his right, and was thrust back again. The Klingons laughed, enjoying their victory and the chance to toy with the human, jostling him between them.

Malcolm gritted his teeth and ignored the provocation, reverting back to thoughts of tactics. He decided to work very slowly on the forcefield generator. One never knew what a little extra time might do. Waiting for rescue by the cavalry - that smacked of desperation. He made a pessimistic face. And there wasn't always cavalry to be had. Much better to take matters into one's own hands.

All too quickly, they had reached the docking port, and Malcolm's options had still not expanded. He plodded onto the Facility between his escort - and pulled up short. Archer was there, standing against a wall and flanked by two Klingons. Archer's expression mirrored his own surprise. He was also graced with handcuffs, his arms fastened in front of him. A trickle of blood snaked down from the corner of his mouth, which was already starting to puff up.

Malcolm let out a small sigh. Now there were five Klingons to contend with. Then he brightened. Perhaps they would split up. Wouldn't Archer merit a larger contingent of guards, which would leave better odds for himself? The Klingons spoke amongst themselves. With no translation, Malcolm had no clue what they were talking about. The conversation could have been centred on slitting their captives' throats or what was for dinner. Whatever the topic, it always sounded fiercely belligerent in Klingon, whatever the dialect. How many did Hoshi say there were?

The discussion ended with a rush of guttural exclamations. The largest warrior brought out a translator unit. He spoke to Malcolm. "You work fast to disable the forcefield and we let you go free."

Malcolm gave a disbelieving half-smile. He rather thought they wouldn't miss out on the chance to grab the designer of the equipment. However, he could play along, perhaps encourage them to relax their vigilance. He nodded at Archer. "What about Captain Archer? Will you let him go, too?"

"No. He leaves with us, but if you co-operate, he will not be harmed."

Archer gave a sceptical snort at that, and then stared challengingly back, chin defiantly lifted, at a Klingon who raised a threatening hand. A brusque order from the leader made the Klingon stand down with a growl.

Malcolm agreed with Archer's assessment, but he had to sound like he believed them. He said firmly, "Very well. It's a deal. I turn it off as quickly as possible and you let me go. Sounds like a fair trade. I have to warn you - it will take some time, even so. It's not as easy as flicking a switch. This isn't even a prototype. It's experimental, complicated."

The Klingon said unwaveringly, "You work quickly! You delay and Archer suffers!"

"Okay! I've got it," said Malcolm, rolling his eyes, which elicited an angry snarl from the alien as his intent crossed language and species barriers. "I understand," he added sincerely, to soften his insolence, realising that if he got the sense knocked out of him, it would certainly be a drawback to any escape attempt.

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

The Klingons prodded their two prisoners through the Facility's maze. Sandwiched in the middle, behind Archer, Malcolm moved willingly enough, hoping it would make their guards lax. The workroom was some distance away and his mind was still on the possibility of escape.

The party reached a three-way junction and the Klingons paused, uncertain as to which direction they should take. They had already gone wrong once and ended up at the kitchen's hydroponics beds. Malcolm kept a straight face. If they decided to go left here, it would afford a nice tour of the gym facilities.

An unmistakable light tremor rippled beneath Malcolm's boots. Knowing at once what that meant, Malcolm plucked at Archer's sleeve, awkwardly because of the restraints. "Get ready," he hissed, bracing himself as the first vibrations gave way to the main action. A low rumble powered through the Facility structure, immediately followed by the immense, alarming thump of the refinery machinery.

Malcolm gave Archer a nudge and shouted "Now!"

The station leaped in its customary dance. With shouts of confusion, the Klingons grabbed at bulkheads to steady themselves, no doubt fearing they were under attack from another ship or that the place was disintegrating

Malcolm jinked left, right and took off at a dead run down the corridor to their right. Archer needed no second command from Malcolm. He shouldered one of the Klingons to the ground and sped after him.

Malcolm didn't look back as he pounded along. He heard Archer's quick tread close on his heels. Not having any definite plan, Malcolm's first goal was to put distance between them and the pursuing aliens. He could hear guttural shouts now - they were on their tail - but humans were quicker than Klingons, he was pretty sure about that. He hurdled the raised threshold of a doorway, then vaulted over a container left abandoned on just the other side. He could hear Archer following suit, a stumble but then a recovery, accompanied by a panting curse.

Another door was ahead. Malcolm jumped through then darted to the side and skidded to a halt. As Archer reached the door, Malcolm jabbed the 'close' button. Archer slipped through sideways as it shut. Malcolm took a fraction of a second to spin the backup manual control wheel, swearing at the restraints biting into his wrists. The manual control was effortless - finely balanced for rapid emergency use if the power went down. Opening it took longer than the quick spin he had put on it and would slow the Klingons down a bit.

Malcolm ploughed on, Archer following. As Malcolm closed the next door and spun the control wheel, he began to have an idea for their next steps. They ran on until Malcolm suddenly braked to a full stop at the next T-junction. Archer ran into him and almost knocked him over.

"Go right," gasped Malcolm, staggering. He himself went left to the door about twenty metres away. He didn't go through this one, but shut it also. He spun the wheel then sprinted back towards the junction, passing Archer, who had waited for him, and taking the lead once more. They ran down the corridors, leaving the doors open now as they pelted through the warren. The sounds of the pursing Klingons had faded to nothing. A breathing space at last!

In his early days at the Facility, Malcolm had spent some time memorising its layout, including its service ducts and so forth. He had intended to gradually build up his knowledge, but had let it slide as other things took precedence. Some parts were not as clear in his mind as he would have liked. He slowed to a walk and peered at the designation signs on the walls.

"Malcolm?" said Archer.

Ignoring him, Malcolm ran on to the next section. This was what he was looking for. He checked the signage, rolling his shoulders as he paused. The restraints were digging in and their fixed nature was causing spasms in his muscles. Stepping up to the service door in the wall, he pressed the release button to pop the door outwards into the corridor. Malcolm pulled it to the side. "Go in there," he panted, allowing a look over his shoulder. Still no Klingons.

Archer gave him a quick glance, then stepped in, hunching over to get through the small opening. A light flickered on as movement was detected, revealing the cramped wall space - just over a metre deep and filled with pipes, boxes on the walls and cabling. Some miscellaneous junk took up part of the floor.

Malcolm followed and turned around with difficulty in the restricted space to pull the door shut, poking an unintentional elbow in Archer's side. He tried to close the door quietly, but the last part of the motion overtook him and it shut with a ringing clang, accelerating the last few centimetres under its spring bias. He grimaced, hoping that the aliens were still hunting them in the wrong direction. He put his worries to one side - after all, he couldn't do anything about that now.

"This way," Malcolm muttered with a jerk of his head. He eased past Archer - a tight squeeze - and cautiously made his way along the wall space, watching the placement of each footstep and ducking to avoid low pipes. It was slow work. The area was not designed for good accessibility. It was unusual for workers to have to spend much time in the wall spaces, so why give much consideration to it? And room was always at a premium in any space structure, whether ship or station.

Without both hands free to steady themselves it was difficult going, but eventually Malcolm was satisfied that they were far enough away from the service door they had entered. He slumped against a wall, finding a comfortable position amongst the obstructions. "We wait here," he announced.

Archer looked at him questioningly but remained silent. He turned around and half-lowered himself into a suitable space, facing the opposite way to Malcolm. His limbs were positioned at odd angles to fit around the systems components and Malcolm couldn't help smirking at his quandary. Sometimes it paid to be more compact.

"Comfortable?" asked Malcolm innocently, as Archer finally settled down.

"Yeah," Archer confirmed with a doubtful wince, already wriggling to seek a better position.

Malcolm reached up and fiddled around with some cabling. With a grunt, he yanked a plug from its socket and the lights went out. "In case the Klingons think to look in here," said Malcolm.

"Of course," muttered Archer into the dark.

Unbending a touch to let Archer in on some details, Malcolm explained, "There's a lot of power running through several of these conduits - part of the feed for the refinery. It should throw off any handheld scanners if they come this way. Possibly even scans from their ship. I'm hoping they think we're hiding in the refinery section - it has plenty of dead spots."

"So - we wait."

"Yeah. For now. Until they imagine we've had enough time to reach the other side of the Facility and concentrate the search there."

In the still darkness, Malcolm wondered how to tackle the next part. He squeezed his fists open and shut, pushing against the restraints. They really had to find some way to get them off. The cutting gear in his workroom would do the trick. He shifted a little, knocking against Archer. "Sorry," he said automatically. He gazed into nothing and thought about their chances of evasion. With Archer tagging along, it made things worse. If he were on his own, perhaps the Klingons would give up in time, but where Archer was concerned - never. They would never stop searching. That meant Archer and he had to find some way to fight back, to persuade the Klingons to leave.

They half-sat, half-stood, without speaking for a while, the only noise coming when they stretched a limb or caught a foot against a pipe. Malcolm listened out for the Klingons. He tried to remember what the acoustics had been like on those few occasions he had ventured into any of the wall spaces. Had he been aware of people passing by in the corridor on the other side of the wall?

Archer cleared his throat. "Uh, thanks, Malcolm."

Malcolm tensed at Archer's continued use of his name. It was so bloody typical of Archer to blithely assume that entitlement, despite all that had transpired. He curbed his annoyance and said, "Thanks for what?"

"For including me in on your escape."

Malcolm inhaled sharply. Did Archer really think he would have left him at the mercy of the Klingons? Or was he just being polite? Malcolm looked incredulously into the nothingness from where Archer's voice had originated. "Did you think I wouldn't?" he said, keeping his tone level.

"Of course not," said Archer, but Malcolm thought he hesitated before he replied. Then he added, "We need to plan our next move."

Malcolm put his irritation with Archer to one side and considered tactics. First of all, he needed intelligence. "How big is the Klingon ship?"

"It's small but well-armed. A scout ship, possibly."

"Crew complement?"

"We detected twenty three biosigns." Archer grunted and shifted his position again. "Thinking about numbers - some must still be on their ship. If we had weapons, we could pick off those on Enterprise and the Facility one by one."

"Hmm. If we had weapons. And we'd need to do it without their vessel knowing. A couple of well-placed shots before Enterprise is re-taken and under way, and she'll be history." Malcolm thought it was all sounding like a very tall order indeed.

Archer said heavily, "I don't think they'd stop at that. There were several mining vessels nearby, not to mention the Facility itself - all potentially at risk. And they might resort to using hostages against us. This is going to be difficult. The first thing we need to do is get some weapons. You know your way around here. Any suggestions, Malcolm?"

Malcolm had had enough! He said icily, each syllable meticulously present, "I know I am officially part of Starfleet again, and that you outrank me, but stop calling me that. Reed will do, or Lieutenant if you want to annoy me." And there was no way he was going to call Archer 'Sir'. He wondered if he'd noticed that yet.

Archer said, flustered, "Uh, I'm sorry. I guess I… Uh, about the Starfleet part…"

"There is nothing to discuss," Malcolm snapped back, rocking around to face in Archer's direction and fighting down his anger. He would work with the man to deal with the immediate situation, but that was as far as it went. He certainly didn't want to listen to any lame justification Archer might have concerning him being shanghaied.

"There is. It's a-"

The man never gave up! "No. I absolutely refuse," Malcolm spat out, "and, at the moment, you are not best placed to order me. So let's just concentrate on our current predicament, shall we?"

Archer said tightly, "If you insist."

"I do."

The silence closed in on them, stretching uncomfortably long while they both took stock.

Archer was the one to break it. He said calmly, "This is a good hiding place, but we have to make a move, take the initiative - and soon. We need to find somewhere else from where it's easier to hit back at them. You said something about dead spots in the refinery section. What about there?"

Malcolm had cooled down and was ready to focus again on the immediate problem. "The refinery is on the other side of the station. I don't think we'd make it. And that's where they'd expect us to be, as I said." He chewed at his lower lip, deep in thought.

"Damn."

"There is another possibility. We're very close to part of the accommodation section. We could get into a room there. Our biosigns would show up, of course, but the Klingons might ignore them. We'd look like a couple of the normal residents, staying in our quarters."

"Interesting," murmured Archer. "Would there be weapons there?"

"Not officially, no, but we might strike it lucky. There could be cutting gear, as well. It's a long shot, though."

"Let's do it."

Malcolm nodded. "Okay. There should be another service door a bit further along from here, in the other wall. If I'm right, it opens opposite a set of living quarters."

They scrambled the few painful metres to the next service door, feeling their way in the dark. Malcolm was beginning to fear he had made a mistake, but then, at last, he detected the outline of the door under his questing fingertips. "We're there," he whispered, listening for movement in the corridor outside. "I can't hear anything."

"Me neither," said Archer. "Go ahead."

Malcolm felt for the release and popped the service door open. They were safe - the corridor was empty. And he had been correct - there were living quarters along its length. They made for a door directly across from the service door. Archer gave it a sharp knock. There was no response.

"Empty, I would imagine," Malcolm muttered as he began fiddling with the lock. For all their cautiousness, most miners used old spec security and it took mere moments for him to gain access. The two men slipped in and slumped back in relief against the wall as the door shut behind them.

"Who lives here?" asked Archer, poking around the cramped room. There wasn't much to see. It was sparsely furnished - a bunk, a desk with its terminal and a chair, and that was about it.

Malcolm looked about for clues. The few personal items on the shelf over the bunk meant nothing to him. "I don't know. Probably someone who crews on one of the mining vessels most of the time."

"They don't seem to have left any weapons or useful tools lying around. Looks like we'll have to put up with these restraints for a bit longer." Archer raised his arms and gazed at them in distaste.

"If we could get to my workroom, I could do something about them - and get weapons - but …" Malcolm shrugged.

"But it'll be crawling with Klingons." Archer finished the thought.

Malcolm grimaced. The idea of Klingons messing about with his things was unpalatable. He hated to think what a state they would leave everything in. Collapsing onto the chair next to the desk, he pulled a face at the barren room. "We could try the other living quarters around here for tools or weapons, but we'd only have an outside chance at best, and we run the risk of being noticed if we work our way through them. We'd do better concentrating on the work areas, but it's going to be a problem getting to that part of the Facility without the Klingons spotting us."

Archer dropped down on the bunk, finally able to stretch out properly. As he worked his limbs to get rid of the kinks, he said, "We can't stay here forever and let the Klingons have a free hand."

Malcolm nodded. "I know. But it won't do any good to let them catch us, either." He let out a heavy sigh. How could two men - weaponless and partially restrained - go up against a ship-full of heavily-armed Klingon warriors… and win?

TBC