§ 4 §

Trip was striding purposefully ahead, his longer legs forcing Malcolm to walk at an uncomfortable pace. He hadn't said a word after that strange man had finally left, and with every step Malcolm could feel the barrier between them getting higher. Invisible but sturdier than a brick wall. Malcolm knew from experience what an invisible barrier could do to a relationship, and the last thing he wanted was for that to happen between himself and Trip. He had to do something to prevent it. Besides, he already had to worry about possible enemies; he didn't want having to worry about a friend as well.

"Trip," he called warily, receiving a questioning side glance. "You all right?"

Trip snorted. It was a sound fraught with sarcasm. "Twice in the space of a few hours," he commented wryly without stopping. "Are you concerned about me or about my ability to help you in this little mission of ours, Lieutenant?" His voice wavered in rhythm with his steps.

Malcolm felt his chest constrict with guilt. Trip might have a point; why was he finally asking just now? He opened his mouth to say something – what exactly he didn't know – but the other man beat him to it.

"I'm sorry," Trip mumbled, passing a hand over his face.

"No, you're right," Malcolm croaked out. Damn it, but in a way he was.

Trip caught him by an arm and stopped them abruptly, turning Malcolm to face him. "No. Look, I'm sorry, ok?" He blinked, trying hard to hide his turmoil and failing. "Just… don't ask, because I can't --" Trip cut himself off, either unable or unwilling to say more.

There was an awkward pause. "Are we almost there?" Malcolm enquired, deciding a change of subject was for the best. Or perhaps cowering out of a spot he felt was too tight.

Trip heaved a breath, regaining control, and dug his hand in the pocket of his jacket, producing his padd. He switched it on and consulted it. "Almost. A few more blocks."

They resumed walking, blessedly at a more normal pace. The rain had finally stopped, but grey clouds hung low, and the humidity was high. It was almost dark, and lights were coming on in the houses and on the streets.

Trip's communicator suddenly chirruped. Malcolm jerked his chin towards one of those dubious yet conveniently deserted alleys they kept passing, and they swerved into it, stopping a couple of meters inside.

"Tucker."

"Trip, I have a possible buyer," Archer's voice said. "A species called Ferendellians. Short, sturdy, golden skin, blond hair, tattoos on the side of their noses."

"Another bit of info courtesy of our Vulcan friends?"

Malcolm wondered if Trip's sarcasm was a consequence of his bitterness towards T'Pol.

"Soval is only trying to help, Commander," Archer's voice floated back, a shade darker than before. "He's under no obligation to do so. Keep that in mind."

Trip winced under the reproach. "Aye, Sir."

"Ferendellians are skilled fighters, so watch out. T'Pol also tells me they are said to turn virtually blind in dark conditions - mind you, that's not verified."

"Acknowledged, Capt'n," Trip replied, looking at Malcolm, who nodded.

"Everything ok?"

Trip shot Malcolm another glance, this one slightly self-conscious. "Yeah."

"Captain," Malcolm jumped in, "We are almost at the supposed meeting place. Unless something of vital importance comes up, it would be wise to observe comm. silence."

"Understood." There was a pause. "We'll wait for word from you, then."

"Aye, Sir," Trip said. "Tucker out."

Sullivan glanced at the watch. Soon the place would close. Another day had gone by without news from their supposed contact. Great. Clamping down hard on his impatience, he reminded himself that his Starfleet mole had assured him the alien would come. He only had to wait. If at least he hadn't been forced to let Clapton in on the deal, waiting would be much more bearable. The man was a real swine. But he had needed a fast and unobtrusive lift to this damn planet, and Clapton had friends in the cargo-ship business; he had obtained them a free ride in that bucket of rusty bolts that…

Sullivan's muscles clenched as the door opened to let two men in. New faces; he'd never seen them at this bar or in the neighbourhood. His hand went automatically to the hidden pouch, under his sweater, where he kept the padd. with the stolen blueprints. Just beside it, was the reassuring form of a pistol; might not be latest model, but as long as it delivered its pills…

"Those two?" Clapton wondered.

Sullivan shifted his gaze long enough to shoot him a poisonous look. "Keep your voice low, you idiot." He turned to study the newcomers again. "No," he whispered. "Our contact is alien. Those two look like Troxians."

As Troxians went, actually, one was a bit on the short side. The other was blond, which was the right colour of hair, but his complexion was pale, not golden; and he didn't have any tattoos on the side of that funny, sharp-sloping nose of his. He narrowed his eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about the two.

The short, dark-haired man climbed down the few steps of the staircase that lead into the bar, and stopped, looking around. Their eyes met briefly as the man scanned the room, and Sullivan shifted his away, trying not to do so too quickly. He turned to look out of the small windows that gave onto the street, following the two men's movements out of the corner of his eye. After a moment, they made their way to a table in the opposite corner of the room.

Something bothered him. He didn't like the way the short man had looked around. He glanced at the watch again; only half an hour now till the bar closed.

"Come on," he said in a low voice to his partner. "We'll come back tomorrow."

Before the man could say anything in reply, he got up and went to pay for their drinks. Then he left the place at a studiously leisurely pace, followed by Clapton.

"What can I get you?" the barman slurred, shuffling up to Trip and Malcolm's table.

He looked as run down as his locale, and the idea of drinking anything in this place set Malcolm's stomach roiling.

"What d'ya have?" Trip enquired, sliding forward in his chair. Malcolm leaned back in his and passed a hand through his damp hair. It was good to be sitting down after walking miles, mostly under the rain.

The man looked at them as if they were, indeed, alien; then gave a sigh. "Te-kara, Gwa-kara, Reed-kara, Ale…?" He smirked. "Unless you guys prefer an herbal infusion..." Breaking into a mocking smile, he bared two rows of yellowish teeth.

"I would be tempted to try the Reed-kara…" Trip began.

Malcolm shot him a warning look and watched as a ghost of the old Trip flashed across his friend's features.

"But I think I'll go for a glass of Ale," he concluded.

The barman shifted his gaze to Malcolm, who nodded his assent. "One for me too."

After the man had shuffled away, Trip let out a soft snort. "Didn't know your family distilled kara – whatever that is," he commented in a quiet voice.

Malcolm let his mouth curve up. He welcomed the teasing; anything but those long silences which didn't suit Trip in the least. While he reached for his scanner he replied just as quietly, "I wouldn't be surprised if some Reed distilled some liquor at some point in history. But I seriously doubt any Reed would ever want their liquor sold in such a hovel."

The place was fairly large but shabbily furnished, dimly lit and dirty. And it obviously attracted a clientele that went accordingly.

Trip's eyes made a tour of the room. "Looks like the ideal place for carrying out shady business," he replied.

He looked about to add something, when the barman came back with two rather large tankards, which he put down on their table with as much grace as an elephant. Malcolm hid his scanner from view.

"It'll be sixteen drucks," the barman said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Trip's pissed-off expression came over his face. "What – are you afraid we'll run out without payin'?"

The man, a broad-shouldered fellow, uncrossed his arms and leaned with both of his big hands on the table, looking Trip straight in the eye. "Wouldn't be the first time," he murmured darkly. "I've never seen you guys before. I do not trust strangers. It's a policy that has served me well."

Without shifting his gaze away from the cold eyes boring into him, Trip reached into his pocket for some bills, and Malcolm crossed his fingers that the counterfeit money wouldn't arouse the man's suspicions.

"Sixteen drucks," Trip said deadpan, slapping two ten bills on the table.

The barman straightened up and smiled his heinous smile again. "I'll get you your change."

"Why don't you keep it?" Trip replied mellifluously. "As down payment for the next round."

A colourful curse of Royal Navy fashion went through Malcolm's brain. No way was he going to have a second drink in this pigsty. He wasn't even sure he wanted to taste the first one.

"The bar closes in half an hour."

Trip smiled. "We might come back again tomorrow, provided we like your Ale."

The man looked at them for a moment; then shrugged. "As you wish. My Ale's as good as anyone else's."

No questions asked. Indeed. After he had left, Malcolm dared cast a quick look inside his tankard. "I hope the scanner pronounces it unfit for consumption," he muttered, returning to look around.

There was a moment of silence, as Trip got his own scanner and unobtrusively checked. "Sorry," he eventually drawled. "The other good news is that it doesn't seem to contain very much alcohol."

"Do you consider that good n…" Malcolm cut himself off. His attention had been drawn by a couple of blokes who had suddenly got up and were leaving. He had briefly met the gaze of one of them as they had entered, and thought the man had averted his eyes a bit too abruptly.

"What is it?" he heard Trip enquire, voice tense.

"Probably nothing." He switched on his scanner and pointed it in the direction of the two, but they were already stepping out. "Two men just left, moments after we'd arrived."

Trip pulled his mouth in a lopsided smirk. "Aren't you being a bit paranoid?" he commented flatly. "The place is about to close up. Of course customers will be leavin'."

"Perhaps." Malcolm unobtrusively turned his scanner around. "No human biosigns," he muttered.

Paranoid – he mulled with an inward sigh – always the same story. Wincing, he put the instrument away and picked up his tankard. He supposed he'd have to drink at least a sip or two, if he didn't want to arouse suspicions. He hated to think how well they washed things in this place.

"Drink up, Lieutenant," Trip murmured, putting his Ale down. "It's not that bad."

TBC