§ 2 §

The shuttlepod dropped from Enterprise's belly into the dark embrace, giving its passengers that moment of weightlessness which invariably made Malcolm's stomach churn.

Shrouded in its characteristically veiled atmosphere, the planet loomed large and bright in front of them, a magnetising view. Malcolm kept his gaze on the milky sphere till his stomach settled again; then turned his attention to his console.

"Shuttlepod Two to the Bridge," Trip said, his fingers tapping away at the commands.

"Archer."

"We are on our way, Capt'n. Be crossing the thermo barrier in approximately seventeen minutes."

"Acknowledged." There was a pause. "Good luck."

Out of the corner of his eye Malcolm saw Trip partially turn to shoot him a look, and shifted his eyes to meet it. "Thanks," the Engineer said, lifting his eyebrows.

For a moment Malcolm felt the old Trip was back. Then the man cut the communication, both with the Bridge and with him, turning back to his instrument panel and returning to the quiet mood that made him such a different man these days.

Malcolm licked his lips to steady himself. "This place we're going to – Troxia," he said casually. "I trust you've read what the Vulcan database says about it and the lovely people who inhabit it."

"Yeah, I did my homework, don't worry," was the wry reply.

"Corrupt, deceitful, ready to turn a blind eye on shady dealings and suspicious characters," Malcolm continued, ignoring his friend's tone. He let out a mirthless huff. "Indeed, just the place where someone might try to sell stolen Warp Engine blueprints."

"We don't even know for sure that anyone will," Trip muttered. "Whatever Soval might claim, the Vulcans don't really have anythin' specific in their hands."

Malcolm bit his lip. What Trip was saying was true. Vulcan Intelligence had no real evidence that the stolen Starfleet blueprints of the Warp-6 Engine under development had found their way to this planet. What they had passed on to Starfleet Command were only inklings. And his own Section 31 contact, Harris, hadn't been able – or perhaps hadn't wanted – to be of any help. But underestimating the mission and lowering their guard was only going to make things more dangerous.

"Certainly the fact that one needs a scanner to tell a Human from a Troxian would make the place appealing to a criminal from Earth who wanted to carry out illicit business," he replied thoughtfully. "In any case, we'll be wise to watch our backs."

There was no reaction and Malcolm frowned. Trip was so damn detached these days. Numb, perhaps, was the better word.

"Are you all right?" he heard himself asking, tentatively. Where that had come from, he didn't know. Or rather, he did: his guilty subconscious. He silently kicked himself. He had had weeks to ask that question. This wasn't exactly the right place and moment to be enquiring after Trip's well-being.

Half-turning again, Trip shot him a look. "Sure," he said quietly, a hint of something entering his voice. "Don't need to worry about me, Malcolm."

Perhaps it was the unexpected warmth in his friend's voice; but Malcolm felt a sudden surge of feeling, which overflowed in an unplanned confession. "I… haven't really been there for you these weeks," he said, the words spilling out haltingly. "I am sorry. But I… well; you probably needed some room."

Trip's back stiffened. "It's ok. There is nothin' anyone could do," he replied, raw pain filtering through the tense words. "No point wastin' time talking."

Malcolm's heart clenched. This wasn't Trip; not the Trip who had gradually taught him to confide in friends. But then again, Trip had a way of dealing with grief that went against his own teachings, he mulled, remembering his friend's reaction to the death of his sister. "Keeping things inside can hurt," he said. This was ridiculous – Trip having to be told something like that, and by none less than himself. "Once we're back, if you ever…"

"Send me those landin' coordinates, Lieutenant," Trip cut him off sharply – in more than one way. "We're approachin' the thermo barrier."

Malcolm heaved an inner sigh. "Aye, Sir."

Archer sat at his desk with his elbows propped up and his face buried in his hands.

I'm sorry, Captain. You are probably right. Probably right...

Malcolm's words were still going through his mind, taunting him. He considered himself a good Captain; a competent Officer who was able to make difficult decisions even when they involved a certain amount of risk for his crew. He still believed it, just as he still believed Trip ought to be on that away mission. He needed him there. But he couldn't shrug off the unease of knowing that, despite his final assurance, Malcolm had had qualms about that decision. The Lieutenant's loyalty to Trip had certainly convinced him against making a case out of his doubts.

There was a chirp. Archer let his hands drop from his face and opened a channel to the Bridge. "Yes."

"I have Admiral Gardner, Sir," Hoshi's voice said.

"Thank you, Ensign. Put him through."

Squaring his shoulders, Archer met rather tired-looking eyes staring back from his monitor.

"Admiral. I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon."

"Soval has contacted me once more," Gardner came straight out, "It appears Vulcan Intelligence might have gathered another piece of information." The admiral looked Archer in the eye and sighed. "Not that it's one hundred percent certain, mind you. Just like the rest. But Soval seemed inclined to give it credit."

"What kind of information?"

"A species in the quadrant is rumoured to be looking for a shortcut to a higher warp factor than the 4.0 they have achieved so far. They may be close to entering a conflict with a neighbouring planet and want the advantage."

"I see," Archer commented pensively. "Who are they?"

"Fende…" Gardner glanced at a paper in front of him. "Fe-ren-dellians. You'll find them in the Vulcan database."

Archer nodded. "Any progress on discovering who stole the blueprints?"

"No." Gardner pursed his lips. "We are still passing all those who worked on the Warp 6 project through the sieve."

"Why would someone want to sell – or buy, for that matter – a partially developed engine?" Archer wondered.

Gardner lowered his gaze. "For one the W6 is a further development of your father's engine; its blueprints contain a lot of information on its predecessor," he said, lifting his eyes again. "A good engineer would be able to extract that. And…" He hesitated a moment. "This is confidential, Jonathan, but the W6 is at a very advanced stage. Ready to be tested, in fact."

Archer let out a low whistle. "I didn't realise…" he began.

"Not many people do," Gardner cut him off. "As I say, it's confidential information. Keep it to yourself."

"Aye, Sir," Archer replied, regaining his composure.

"Have Tucker and Reed left yet?"

Archer suppressed a grimace of concern. "Yes, Admiral. About twenty minutes ago."

There was a pause.

"Keep me informed," Gardner finally said, before signing off.

Archer watched the Starfleet logo on his monitor for a moment; then blew out a slow breath and pressed the comm. link open.

"T'Pol, could you please join me?"

It had been ridiculously easy. Malcolm smirked, pleased yet annoyed – as any Security Officer worthy of that title should – that no one had bothered to ask them so much as their names. They had settled the pod down in a landing area where vessels of different sizes and shapes were parked, locked it, and walked away without a question from air traffic controllers, authorities or the area's personnel.

"Wonderful place," Malcolm muttered sarcastically under his breath as they went through a low, airport-like building. "A paradise for smugglers. Anyone can get in – and, I suppose, out. No questions asked."

"What are you complainin' about?" Trip murmured back. "Would you rather they threw us against a wall and searched us?" His hand rested briefly though meaningfully on the phase pistol hidden under his sweatshirt.

Malcolm shot Trip a warning look; then returned to visually scan their surroundings. Troxians were, indeed, uncannily human-like. A bit on the tall side, which made him slightly self-conscious; but on the other hand, from what he could see, blond heads were scarce.

"Looks like our choice of clothin' was ok," Trip mumbled.

Dark colours seemed to be the fashion, making Malcolm's black jeans and leather jacket, and Trip's grey pants and brown bomber jacket the perfect camouflage.

"Yes. T'Pol's information was correct," Malcolm absentmindedly replied. The name had hardly left his lips that he sensed Trip tense up beside him.

Malcolm bit the inside of his cheek. He might have not been there for Trip in the past few weeks, but neither, he knew, had T'Pol. The Vulcan Officer's way of grieving had taken the form of lonely meditation; and on duty she had almost returned to be the T'Pol of their early days. Malcolm had watched helplessly as Trip had suffered first the loss of his daughter, and then the loss of the woman he loved. Or he thought he loved. The relationship between the two had never been very clear. Well, so much more the reason to have been there for him.

They came to the building's exit, and with a couple of quick steps Malcolm preceded his friend to it.

"The joint where the deal is supposed to take place is miles from here, Lieutenant," Trip said dryly. "And who exactly are you goin' to protect us from? We have no clue what they look like."

Malcolm stepped outside and scanned their surroundings. "My eye is trained to catch things you'd overlook, Commander," he replied. "Let me do my job."

Trip came up beside him. "Could at least have chosen a planet with better weather," he ranted. "Cloudy eight days out of ten is not my favourite climate."

Malcolm let his mouth curve up in a wry smile. "You'd think people leaving under such overcast conditions would make their society a bit more colourful," he commented.

It was drizzling rain; a very fine sprinkle. The sky was grey, the people were grey, buildings were grey. It made for a depressing sight.

Trip took out a padd and switched it on. "It's that way," he said, jerking his chin in the right direction. "About four miles. A bit of a walk."

"We don't have much choice in the matter, unless you know what public transportation to use, or want to steal one of those hovering vehicles and try flying it without crashing it at the first bend in the road."

Trip sighed. "Come on." He furrowed into his jacket and led the way, stepping onto the sidewalk.

TBC