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7
Captain Archer was displeased. In her time around humans – and this human, in particular – T'Pol had learned to read the signs. Humans had very individual ways of expressing anger and annoyance. Some, like Commander Tucker, swore and raised their voices, others hid their displeasure behind a rigid smile. Captain Archer, for one, stopped talking. Whenever something angered him, he would say as little as possible, and if he did speak, it was curt and to the point. It was why T'Pol hadn't been able to sense his anger for a long time; she hadn't recognized the absence of "small talk" as an indication that anything was amiss. Among Vulcans, silence was a sign that everything was going well, and that there was no need to exchange unnecessary information.
Of course, as her crewmates never failed to remind her, she was serving among humans, not Vulcans.
The Captain said nothing on the way to the airlock, and T'Pol didn't try to strike up a conversation. Logic was unlikely to convince him to see the situation in a better light, and she was hardly qualified to "cheer him up" as a human might have done.
Schwartz and Hsan from Security had already taken up their positions next to the entrance.
"Open the airlock, Ensign," Archer said to Hsan, offering her no greeting as he would have done under different circumstances.
"Aye, sir." Hsan pressed a few buttons on a wall panel, and the sealing around the airlock opened with a hiss. Archer straightened his back as the bulkhead slid aside.
The gray-haired woman who stepped out of the airlock was small by Vulcan standards, much like T'Pol herself. Like many captains of the Vulcan fleet, she had chosen to wear her ornamented clan robes instead of a uniform; not, as a human might think, out of vanity or self-importance, but to show respect for her people's tradition. T'Pol wondered if the Captain was aware that Khart-lan T'Pyr wasn't trying to intimidate him with her ceremonious attire.
The two men that followed her, a lieutenant and a sub-commander from their rank insignia, kept a respectful distance to their captain.
"Captain Archer," T'Pyr said and raised a hand in the traditional ta'al greeting. Archer hesitated for a second, then, to T'Pol's surprise, mirrored the gesture.
"Captain T'Pyr," he said, looking at the two men as well. "Welcome aboard Enterprise."
"Lieutenant Mevak and Sub-commander Halan," T'Pyr introduced her two subordinates, who inclined their heads. T'Pol noticed that Mevak, the smaller, slighter of the two men, seemed quite young to be serving on a space vessel. Halan looked only marginally older, with light brown hair and a fair complexion that indicated he'd been born in Han-shir, the only continent where the sun hadn't darkened the Vulcans' hair and faces over the millennia.
T'Pyr turned to address T'Pol, her hand still raised in the ta'al. "Dif-tor heh smusma," she said, and T'Pol lifted her own hand in return.
"Sochya eh dif," she replied with the traditional phrase, then looked at Mevak and Halan. "Nashaya'na tu'si isha."
The two acknowledged her greeting with another inclination of the head. A human wouldn't have noticed, but T'Pol could see that the two young men were trying, and not quite succeeding to mask their nervousness. It was probably the first time either of them set foot on a human ship; maybe even the first time they met a human face-to-face.
"Starfleet convey their thanks for your assistance," Archer said to T'Pyr, his tone uncharacteristically formal. He had been reluctant to ask the High Command for help, even after T'Pol pointed out that her people had far greater experience in dealing with spatial anomalies. Finally, he had agreed, giving in to the only argument she knew would convince him: There was a greater chance to rescue Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed if he accepted the Vulcans' assistance. In compliance with T'Pol's request, the High Command had sent the Vuhnaya, Vulcan's state-of-the-art science vessel, to cooperate with Enterprise in the search for the two missing officers.
Archer hadn't mentioned it to anyone, but T'Pol knew him well enough to realize that his pride had taken a blow. He wasn't the only one who resented the Vulcan ship's arrival; she had overheard several... discontented conversations between crewmembers during the past few days. "Hate it that we're running to the pointy ears for help again."
"Thanks are not necessary," T'Pyr replied. "I would appreciate it if Sub-commander T'Pol sent us the data you have gathered so far. Lieutenant Mevak and Subcommander Halan will assist you in aligning your scanning equipment. If you have no objections, they will remain on board your ship for the time being."
Archer seemed less than pleased with her peremptory manner, but he merely nodded in reply. "Of course." He gestured at the corridor. "Please, follow me. I've had my chef prepare a meal for your arrival."
"I appreciate the offer, Captain, but I will presently return to my ship. Mevak, Halan, sailau'a'ak kai. T'Pol..."
With another slight bow of her head, T'Pyr turned around and left. T'Pol suppressed a sigh. She knew that Archer considered himself "snubbed", and naturally so; by human standards, T'Pyr had been downright rude. T'Pol suspected that much of T'Pyr's bluntness originated from her unfamiliarity with spoken English; many Vulcans learned the language through a computer program, and perfected their accent by following phonetic instructions without ever having spoken to an actual human. The results, as T'Pol knew of her own experience, ranged from slightly amusing to disastrous.
Mevak and Halan were still standing in the corridor, looking somewhat lost with their captain gone. T'Pol stepped forward.
"Captain, I am sure that our guests will appreciate the refreshments Chef has prepared."
"Indeed," Halan said quietly. "We will have much appreciation for the offer of a meal."
Archer seemed surprised, both at his reaction and the noticable accent in the young Vulcan's stilted English.
"It's my pleasure." He nodded at the two small traveling bags the Vulcans were carrying. "You can leave your things here; Ensign Schwartz will take them to your quarters."
"Aye sir," Schwartz said, taking the bags from the Vulcans.
Halan hesitated, obviously trying to remember the right phrase. "I thank you."
"You're welcome," Archer answered. His posture had relaxed, and he seemed to have forgotten about the Vulcan captain's perceived rudeness. "If there's anything you need, please let me or the quartermaster know."
The sub-commander bowed his head. "We will."
Archer smiled, and T'Pol was surprised in spite of herself. T'Pyr's departure from common human conversational patterns had irritated the Captain, but the same didn't seem to be true for his reaction to Halan and Mevak.
T'Pol raised an eyebrow as she followed Archer and their two guests down the corridor. Humans were hard to understand at times.
"Trip."
Malcolm laid a hand on Trip's shoulder. The sleeping man stirred, and Malcolm tightened his grip.
"Trip." He kept his voice down to a whisper. "Wake up. We're there."
This time, Trip opened his eyes. For a moment, he didn't seem to remember where he was, his fever-glazed eyes traveling aimlessly over the metal wall plating and the force field before they finally settled on Malcolm.
"What-"
Malcolm shook his head and laid a finger on his lips. He didn't want to risk being overheard.
A shudder ran through the deck as the thrusters were deactivated. On the other side of the force field, the Vulcans got to their feet, the two subordinates following the commander to the hatch. Malcolm noticed that they had slipped their weapons back into the holsters, and for a moment he entertained the idea of trying to grab one of the guns. He shouldn't have given his phase pistol up so easily, he thought, although he knew that he'd had no choice. If he had fired at the Vulcans, he might as well have signed Trip's death warrant.
Escape would be almost impossible under the circumstances.
The hatch was opened, and Malcolm instinctively reached back to grasp Trip's shoulder. Outlined against the bright sun, he could make out the forms of the Vulcan commander and another man.
"Sasarlah'a," the commander ordered, drawing his weapon when Malcolm didn't obey immediately. "I'sasarlah'a."
Malcolm helped Trip into a sitting position. The engineer was trembling, burning up. Trip's condition had worsened considerably since the morning, and the repeated kicks in the ribs hadn't helped. Very aware of the weapon trained on them, Malcolm climbed through the hatch, supporting Trip who could hardly stand up straight.
One arm looped around Trip's waist to keep him steady, Malcolm looked around. A prison was the first thing that came to his mind as he surveyed the large paved yard, the high walls and the elongated brick building in the back. Next to another, smaller building, several aircrafts were parked along a wall, each of them bearing the weapon symbol he had noticed before. On the other side of the yard, there was a huge, iron-enforced gate. Two uniformed Vulcans were standing guard next to it, their energy rifles slung over the shoulders.
This wasn't a pirate hideout, Malcolm realized. If anything, it looked like the headquarters of an old POW camp.
"Muhl torer'si," the man next to the commander said. Malcolm looked at him. He was tall, clad in the same austere green uniform as the commander and his crew. A well-trimmed beard hid part of his angular face, and his long hair was tied at the nape of his neck, the black interspersed with the occasional silver strand. Two sharp lines framed the thin mouth.
Dangling from the man's hand, was a short whip.
"Namtore'mu ac'ruth wilat strontorak'si'la, Osu," the commander said. "Ak"- he pointed at Malcolm – "pi'varibenak V'tosh lakh.."
Malcolm caught the second part - 'he speaks a little Vulcan'. The man with the whip raised his eyebrows with an air of mild contempt.
"Os-shidik," he said, and although Malcolm didn't recognize the word, he could pretty much guess what it meant.
"Ak," the whip was pointed at Trip. "Sadau'ak has-bosh."
The commander moved his chin, expressing indifference. "Ash'ya akre dashtorak'la."
In spite of himself, Malcolm was beginning to get angry. The way the bearded man looked at them, they might as well be two exotic animals caught on a foray in the jungle.
He took a deep breath. "Ak'shlze," he said. "Ere besu... bolau'ak hassu. Sanoi," he added reluctantly. 'Please.' He hated to say the word, but Trip really needed the medical attention he was asking for.
The bearded man's face had twitched a little when Malcolm spoke, but he quickly smoothed it out again. He lifted the whip, and Malcolm instinctively raised a hand to fend off the blow. Instead of hitting him, the man brought the metal tip of the whip's handle to Malcolm's chin, forcing him to raise his head.
"Wimishtorer'e kai S'haile, komihn," he said. His voice was calm, but Malcolm didn't miss the dangerous undertone.
'You will call me S'haile.' Malcolm remembered enough of his Academy course to know the implications of the word. S'haile, 'lord' or 'master'. He stared back at the Vulcan, lips pressed together.
The silence continued for a second or two. Then, with a movement too fast for Malcolm to anticipate, the bearded Vulcan raised the whip and brought it down hard on Trip's injured foot.
Trip gasped, a scream dying on his lips as he passed out with pain. Malcolm managed to grab him just before he collapsed. Blood was pounding in his head as he lowered the unconscious man to the ground.
"You-"
The Vulcan raised his hand again, and Malcolm fell silent. Another blow like that, and the damage to Trip's ankle might be irreversible.
The whip hovered in the air. "Bektore, komihn."
Malcolm held the cool gaze for another second, then lowered his eyes. "S'haile." The word left a bad taste on his tongue, and he couldn't bring himself to look at the Vulcan again. Instead, he knelt down on the ground next to Trip. The engineer moaned faintly when Malcolm rested a hand on his shoulder, and Malcolm tightened his grip in silent reassurance.
Bloody bastards.
The commander chuckled. "Skasau'er yeht kohminu, Zhel-lan Silak."
The man addressed as Silak didn't laugh or react in any way, almost as if he resented the amusement. Ignoring the commander, he turned around and called to two passing guards.
"Katau'a au svikel komihnu!"
"Ah, Osu." The guards hurried to obey. One of them picked Trip up as easily as if he were a small child and slung him over his shoulder; the other one prodded Malcolm with the tip of his boot.
"Lamtora, pau'kaluk!"
Malcolm got up, slowly following the guard who was carrying Trip. He felt Silak's eyes on him as they crossed the yard, and forced himself not to look back.
As they approached the brick building, Malcolm noticed that there were bars in front of the small windows. Obviously this was a prison of sorts, although he couldn't imagine who the Vulcans were keeping here, and why. He couldn't see over the high walls that surrounded the yard, so there was no way to find out whether this was some sort of military base, a camp or something entirely else. He routinely checked the place for security gaps, but there were none. Except for the gate, there was no way out, and the security cameras placed on the walls made sure that no one would get even as far as that.
The guard nudged him in the back. Malcolm climbed the few steps that led to the entrance of the building, watching out of the corner of his eye as the other guard entered a combination of numbers into a panel next to the door. Even if he'd been familiar with the characters, he couldn't have memorized the code; the guard's fingers moved too fast.
The door slid aside, and Malcolm received a push into the small of his back that made him stumble. His eyes were still adapted to the bright glare of the sun, and so for a moment he could see nothing at all. As his vision slowly adjusted to the dim light, he saw that they had entered a long hallway, stretching from one end of the building to the other. Bars lined it on either side, and behind the bars Malcolm could make out the outlines of people; sitting, crouching, hunkered under blankets, stretched out on the floor. Only few of them raised their heads as the guards came in; most didn't even seem to notice. Some of them, Malcolm noticed, were children.
All of them were human.
"Haltora!"
The guard pushed him again, and Malcolm resumed walking, unable to look away from the prisoners on the other side of the bars. They were dressed in old, often ragged Vulcan-style clothes, lowering their heads and whispering quietly among themselves when the guards walked by. Here and there one of them glanced up, and once Malcolm thought he had seen a glimpse of hate in the eyes of a young man. The eyes were quickly averted, though, and the man's face disappeared again in the cowering crowd. Even the air in the room was stale, as if it had absorbed the general atmosphere of desolation and fear.
More bars divided the two areas into smaller cells, each equipped with a separate door. The guard carrying Trip opened one of them with an electronic key.
"Svi'abru!" Prodded by the other guard, Malcolm stepped into the cell and turned around just in time to catch Trip before he crashed to the floor. The guard had simply let go of him. Malcolm helped the semi-conscious man to the floor, careful not to jostle the injured foot. The barred door was slammed shut behind them, the loud noise reverberating in the oppressing silence like a gunshot.
The guards left, and Malcolm looked around for something to make Trip more comfortable on the tiled floor.
"La." One of their cellmates, a blond woman who was about Hoshi's age, held out a frayed blanket. "Na'ak." She nodded at Trip.
"Thanks," Malcolm said quietly. The woman's eyes widened and flickered to the guards next to the entrance.
"Duhsu," hissed one of the other occupants of the cell, an old man wrapped in a black cloak. "Kuhshtorak'si'etek kai!"
Malcolm stared at them. He hadn't noticed this before, but now he registered that the quiet hum of conversation in the cells around him wasn't English, but Vulcan. Obviously, the "human language" the commander and his crew had taken exception to was officially banned in this place.
He turned away from their cellmates' hostile stares and began to wrap Trip in the blanket. The engineer's eyes were half-closed, and there was a thin film of sweat on his face, droplets of it trickling down his temples and into his damp hair. Malcolm carefully wiped them away, wishing he could have done more. At least the bandage was still more or less in place, although some blood had soaked through the gauze. At a closer look, Malcolm saw that a few of the red stains were circled with yellow. So the wounds had become infected. No wonder Trip's condition had deteriorated so rapidly.
"La." The woman was back, holding a bundle of fabric that looked like an old, crumpled jacket. "Na'akre patam." She indicated that he should slip the bundle under Trip's head.
Malcolm hesitated, then took it from her outstretched hands. "Shaya tonat," he said. Her face relaxed.
"Fam bolayatik."
He slid the makeshift pillow under Trip's head, then leaned down and whispered into Trip's ear, very softly so that only the engineer would hear him. "You okay?"
Trip nodded weakly.
"Don't say anything." Malcolm glanced back at their cellmates, who didn't seem to pay him any attention. "They don't seem too keen on English here."
Trip nodded again, and Malcolm was relieved to see it. For a moment, he'd feared that Trip was too far out of it to get the warning.
He straightened up again, and met the woman's eyes. Obviously, she'd been watching the exchange and knew that Malcolm hadn't spoken Vulcan. Her face was a mixture of curiosity and distrust.
"Malcolm Reed namtore," Malcolm introduced himself
The woman flinched. "Ke'por shinsarat?" she hissed. "Kup'mu tar-tor komihnu ahm'ture la!"
'You can't use your human name here.' Malcolm stared at her. "Komihnu ahm?" he repeated.
She nodded jerkily. "Tartora V'tosh ahm'ture."
His Vulcan name. Malcolm slowly shook his head, lacking the vocabulary to tell her that he didn't have a Vulcan name, and that he had no idea what this place, this entire world was all about. It was as if he'd tumbled down the rabbit hole, only that the rabbits down here had pointy ears and punched you if you uttered a single English word in their presence. Why the hell hadn't T'Pol's scanners picked up any biosigns? This place should have been crawling with them, from the looks of it. And while he was at it... if those biosigns hadn't shown up on Enterprise's scanners, maybe their ships hadn't either. Maybe they'd lurked somewhere, hidden by whatever stealth technology they were using, waiting for the komihnu ship to come close enough to destroy her with a single shot...
"Kin'kur namtore."
Malcolm looked up. The woman smiled a small, nervous smile and pointed at her hair. Kin'kur, 'yellow'. So she'd named herself after the color of her hair.
Or rather, had been named.
"Kin'kur," he repeated.
She nodded. "Ah."
"Wilat namtore'si?" he asked, gesturing at their surroundings. "Nash'ra?"
Kin'kur frowned, the distrust returning to her face in an instant. She apparently found it difficult to believe that he didn't know where he was.
She moved slightly away from him. "Jasif Sashila," she said. "Kroykah ni'droih duhik deshker'lar. Mihrsh namtorak'mu."
He only caught "stupid questions" from the second part of her answer, but he understood the first part, and it filled him with an unease he could not have explained.
Jasif Sashila. The Jasif Colony.
He had never heard of such a place before.
TBC...
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