Sadly, my stats page hasn't been working for days, so I can't tell if the 70 odd people who are reading this have caught up with chapter 7. I hope they have.

§ 8 §

The Mess Hall was empty, but it wouldn't be long before it filled up with the hungry evening crew. Chef was already starting to place his dishes in the serving cabinet, and tantalising whiffs drifted towards Trip's table. Soon, indeed, the place would be too crowded and noisy, but Trip hoped to have cracked his problem by then.

As he pored over the transporter's specs, images of Archer kept piercing into his calculations, interrupting his work flow. He couldn't help but wonder how small the Captain would have become in the meantime, and where he had ended up. Concern was slowing him down, damn it. Trip passed a hand through his hair. He had a chance to set things right, and the hell if he'd botch it.

With a few modifications… He focused back on his job, and became so absorbed that he was aware of nothing else until a glass was placed on his table. He hadn't even realised someone had entered the Mess. As he shifted his gaze from the padd and its specs to the glass and its milky content, a slender hand placed a saucer with a piece of pecan pie beside it.

"I believe you mentioned that this type of nutrition was… beneficial," T'Pol said.

"I said it was good for the soul," Trip corrected her with a tired smile. He sighed. "Exactly what I need. Thanks." He picked up the fork, cut a morsel of pie, and shoved it into his mouth. He hadn't realised how hungry he'd become, either.

He looked up at T'Pol, who was standing there, not making any move to sit down.

"Have you made any advancement?" she asked, meeting his gaze.

Trip grabbed the glass of milk and downed a large sip, helping the pie towards its destination. "Almost there," he choked out, eager to resume his calculations. "I think I've found the way to boost the transporter's range and better its efficiency enough for the job, without making it blow up in my face. Tricky, but it should work."

"How soon can you implement your modifications?"

"Just need to smooth out a few creases. Give me half an hour," Trip said, and took another large bite of his favourite pie.

Archer felt his blood turn to ice. He clenched his fists tight as a new moving corridor took him down a gallery of horrors. He wanted to close his eyes, but they had frozen wide open, the disobedient little bastards, as if they had rebelled and disconnected themselves from his brain.

He was travelling down an aisle with exhibition cases on both sides, and for a moment he was transported back in time, to the Natural History Museum where his dad used to take him as a kid. He'd never thought one day he might end up behind the glass. But that's what it looked it was going to be, saving for a miracle that didn't seem very likely.

He passed a tall Klingon, a powerful male who in this miniature world still towered over him by a good span. The man was frozen in an expression of anger and in a pose worthy of the warrior he must have been in life, brandishing a bat'leth. He wondered if the man had considered it a good day to die, the day he'd been captured and embalmed. It didn't look like it. Next to him was an alien of a species Archer didn't recognise, a curved thing with a smooth, hairless head of exaggerated proportions on which thick veins crisscrossed forming confused, intricate patterns. All that brain hadn't saved him from becoming an exhibit in a museum, Archer mused grimly. He'd seen a Xyrillian, and an Andorian with a damaged antenna – and Shran's outraged face had flashed through his mind. He'd even caught a glimpse of one of those fellows with the huge ears, those greedy hoarders who had sneakily put the crew to sleep and almost succeeded in stripping Enterprise bare.

They turned into another long hallway, this too lined with cases. How many exhibits had these monsters collected? How long had they been at it? It seemed just about everyone had fallen in their net. All the hapless beings put on display had diagrams explaining their physiology, and a map behind them that showed the part of the quadrant they came from, their planet a lit dot in it. So that's what the map in that room had signified, Archer suddenly realised with dread: it was like a picture-card album, showing what specimens they had, and which still needed collecting! And how had they known he was from Earth? They must have got into Enterprise's data banks.

Suddenly the moving corridor slowed down, and Archer realised they were coming to an empty case. Nausea roiled in his stomach; his breath hitched. Was that to be his "place"? The place they had so kindly prepared for him? Was that where he was going to spend the rest of eternity, an object of curiosity for school children and scholars? He suddenly felt a wave of sympathy for the animals that, as a kid, had filled him with wonder.

The corridor stopped. He vaguely noticed the Nausicaan and the fat, blotchy being that were on either side of the empty case; but his eyes couldn't shift from the lit dot on the map in front of him: Earth. There wasn't a drop of saliva left in his mouth. He, Captain Jonathan Archer of the Starship Enterprise, was going to end up as a museum exhibit. And he was powerless to do anything about it.

And these midgets expected him to be happy about it? Proud?

"Commander, we're losing him," Malcolm growled through the comm.

"His lifesigns are faint," Phlox added, uncharacteristically agitated. "His pulse has accelerated. I recommend you transport him out as quickly as possible."

"Commander?" T'Pol enquired from the Bridge, her calm voice overlapping the Doctor's.

"Yes, yes!" No stress, right? Trip licked his lips, connecting the last wire. He rolled out from under the transporter, not bothering to replace the front panel.

"Mike, we're ready," he called to Rostov in Engineering. "Start giving me power. Make sure it's a gradual thing, check the flow on your end, don't let it go past the four mark."

"Aye, Commander."

At the machine's controls, eyes fixed on his own readings, Trip mentally crossed his fingers. He'd worked fast and hadn't had time to double-check his calculations. He just hoped… Levels in the gauges started to climb. He held his breath, letting it slowly out as the indicators evened out.

"Range and power have increased by thirty-two percent," he said excitedly for the benefit of the Bridge. "It's more than I'd expected. T'Pol, it's now or never. I don't know how long the transporter can handle this much power." Without waiting for a reply he went on, "Malcolm, coordinates?"

"I'm uploading them right now," the Lieutenant promptly answered.

Just then T'Pol entered his peripheral vision. So that's why she hadn't acknowledged his words. She'd been on her way, wanting to be present. As she joined him at the console, Trip spared her but a quick glance. She had probably come to give him support in case things didn't go the way they all hoped, and he was grateful. He felt nervous about this. It was the life of his friend and Captain in the balance.

"Can you bring back Lieutenant Reed and Doctor Phlox at the same time as the Captain?" she enquired. "The beings that seem to inhabit this planet might take the Captain's removal as a hostile action."

"Already thought of that," Trip said. "I've locked on to them, and will bring them back a second after the Capt'n is safely on board."

Malcolm's info came in. He had everything he needed: he had loaded Archer's full-size pattern sequence and now proceeded to put in his coordinates. All that was left to do was…

Trip grabbed the levers and pulled them gently down.

Archer wasn't going to make it easy for these creeps to turn him into a stuffed animal. He looked around for a way to escape, but could see no exit signs – not that he would've recognised them. Any direction would do.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing to a thin, tall, hairy being two cases further. As the aliens – bless their naivety – turned to look, he took off the other way. He took but a few steps, and found his muscles wouldn't respond. It was as if he had suddenly started to move in slow motion. Casting a look behind him, he saw that Red Alien had six hands wrapped around a device of some sort, which he was pointing at him.

"Your place is ready," he said, unperturbed; almost kindly. "This way."

Cold was snaking through Archer's veins. His very mental processes were slowing down.

Malcolm watched Archer's lifesigns move and cursed under his breath. "Quick, Commander, or I'll have to give you new coordinates!"

A tingling sensation. The transporter? Archer could barely form the word in his benumbed mind. His breathing had become shallow; his limbs rigid. He watched the gallery of horrors disappeared before his eyes and couldn't even feel relief. Next he knew, he was looking at Trip and T'Pol; the one was biting his lip to repress a smile, the other blinked.

Archer blinked too. Everything seemed the right size, and his heart leapt. Back and his old self? The numbing sensation had vanished. He wiggled his fingers: they moved. Too good to be true. Stunned, he brought a hand to his chest, and touched skin. As in bare skin. Next he looked down at himself. Oh, damn! Was the humiliation ever going to end?

Clamping once again his hands in front of him to hide his nudity, he looked up as Trip cleared his throat.

"Mind stepping off the transporter pad, Sir?" the man asked, still fighting that smile. Archer stumbled obediently, if awkwardly, down the few steps, while Trip worked the levers again, with a muttered, "Sorry." Archer feared he knew why. No, the humiliation wasn't finished yet. He kept his back to the transporter platform.

"Ah! Captain!" Phlox's unmistakable voice said a couple of seconds later, from behind him. "You appear to be in…" Archer turned slightly to see the Denobulan's mouth stretch into that smile of his. "...good shape," the Doctor concluded. Malcolm, eyes carefully focused at a certain height, mumbled an uncomfortable, "Indeed."

"It is agreeable to see you," T'Pol echoed.

Archer turned again. This was too much.

"Yes, well, it's great to see you all," he said with a mirthless smile and as much dignity as he could muster. "And now, if somebody could kindly get me something to put on... I'd rather avoid parading in front of the entire crew in my birthday suit."

T'Pol took a few unhurried steps towards him, and Archer saw that she was holding out his robe.

"I thought you might require some apparel, if, as the Commander thought you might, you reacquired your stature," she said, with the same calm detachment she would use to hand him a padd.

"My stature is something it will take me very long to reacquire," Archer commented, gratefully accepting the offer. He quickly slipped it on and knotted the belt. He checked the hem: it barely covered his knees – thank God.

"Welcome back, Capt'n," Trip said.

The engineer had finally lost his fight with that smile.

TBC

There, back to his original self! An epilogue will wrap this up.