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Everyone who has been wondering whether you'll have to suffer through Vulcan vocabulary for the rest of the story, please bear with me for one more chapter, LOL!

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8

Malcolm awoke with a start. Disoriented, he blinked, and a moment later became aware of something hard that was pressing into his back. He'd fallen asleep leaning against the bars that separated their cell from the next one.

He straightened his back, looking around. Trip was still sleeping or unconscious, wrapped in Kin'kur's spare blanket. Next to him on the floor, the evening sun had painted a square of light, patterned with the shadows of the window bars. Malcolm wondered how much time had passed since he had nodded off. Two hours, maybe three? His head was still aching, and his sore body clamored for rest, but Malcolm decided to stay awake for now. Something was going on; there were voices and the clank of metal on metal, as if someone were banging against the cell doors.

The people around him stirred to life, and Malcolm turned around to find that three guards had entered the building. One of them was pushing a wheeled cart while the other two ladled food out of the large container that was sitting on the barrow. The prisoners in the cells closest to the entrance huddled at the bars, watching like hawks as the porridge-like food was distributed into small bowls.

"Platora!"

One of the guards swung a whip at the bars, and the people backed away, their eyes still on the food. The whole scene reminded Malcolm of feeding time at the pound, only without the barking and growling. The first door was unlocked, and the guards pushed the bowls into eagerly outstretched hands. One man dropped some of his food, and immediately knelt down to scrape it back into his bowl. No one spared him so much as a second look.

The cart was pushed to the next cell, followed by many hungry eyes. Malcolm watched, too, wondering if these Vulcans knew or cared that the human body needed more sustenance than the Vulcan metabolism. At least they'd provided water in a bucket. Malcolm had tried to get Trip to drink some of it earlier, but the other man had only turned his head away when Malcolm held the dented cup to his lips.

In the meantime, the guards had reached the cell next to theirs. The whip slapped against the bars, but the prisoners hardly seemed to notice, set as they were on getting their share of the food. All the same, there was no scrambling for the bowls, and Malcolm watched as the adults made room for a little girl and let her have the first portion. For some reason, he was relieved. This would have been a lot worse if the prisoners had turned on each other, as if they really were starved dogs in a pound.

"Fam tu!"

One of the guards raised his whip, pushing back a young man who had come forward to receive his share. Malcolm recognized him; it was the man whose eyes had filled with hate when the guards had entered with him and Trip.

Now the hate flashed up again, mingling with despair. "S'haile-" the man began, and broke off when the whip came up again.

"Hizhuka, pau'kaluk! Fam yem-tukh na'tu!"

The man hesitated, then stepped back. His empty hands balled into fists as he watched the rest of the prisoners receive their food.

Kin'kur, who had watched the incident as well, sighed and shook her head. Malcolm gave her a questioning look, indicating the man.

The blond woman sighed again. "Yonsavas," she said. "Rihagik namtorak. Silak kuhshtorak'la'ak za-gad, eh a'ficak'la fam ak prah yem-tukh."

Malcolm looked back at Yonsavas, who was going hungry on Silak's orders. The young man had retreated to a corner of the cell, where he sat with his face turned to the wall.

The guard sniggered. "Duhik pau'kaluk."

Pau'kaluk. These Vulcans used the word all the time, but Malcolm was fairly sure it had never been mentioned in his Academy course. He looked at Kin'kur. "Ra'tvai pau'kaluk?"

She stared at him, obviously unable to believe that he didn't know the meaning of the word. "Ke'wilat shinahp'tu paktorer'la?"

Malcolm shrugged to indicate that he hadn't understood her question. "Ra'tvai?" he repeated.

Kin'kur brushed her hair back and pointed at her ear. "Kaluk," she said.

He nodded, remembering now.

She traced the round shape with her finger. "Pauk."

And Malcolm understood. Pau'kaluk, 'round-ear'. He didn't need to ask Kin'kur to explain the implications. Humans had similar terms of derogation, some outdated and only of historical importance, some quite new... like "pointy-ears", for instance. There were people back on Earth who used the term quite freely when referring to their Vulcan allies, and although Malcolm himself had never employed it, it was only because the occasion had never presented itself. He had always thought it a harmless word, if slightly disrespectful - all in good fun, naturally.

Kin'kur smiled her nervous smile. "Sahris," she said, getting to her feet. "Il prah'si'mun kai fan-yem-tukh."

Malcolm followed her, not so much because he was worried about his share of the food disappearing in someone else's mouth, but because he wanted to talk to the guards. He wouldn't leave Trip without medical attention for another night, if he could at all help it.

The cell door creaked as it was opened, and the throng of people around Malcolm stretched out their hands. The guards all but threw the bowls at them, not caring if the steaming food slopped over as they handed it out. Next to him, Kin'kur grabbed one of the bowls and began to shove the food into her mouth with her fingers, her other hand clutching the small bowl like a lifeline.

Malcolm deliberately waited until everyone had received their share, then stepped forward. He had gone over the words several times, knowing that the guards wouldn't take the time to listen if he couldn't make himself clear right away. He'd have given anything to have Hoshi here right now... or, on second thought, maybe not. He wouldn't want any of the Enterprise crew in this place.

After a moment's indecision, Malcolm addressed the guard behind the cart, the oldest of the three and apparently the one in charge.

"S'haile. Nash sasu..." he pointed at Trip, "namtorak mau hash-bosh. Bolau'ak hassu. Sanoi."

"Hizhuka!" One of the other guards lifted his whip, lowering it again when the man behind the cart raised a hand. The elderly Vulcan frowned at Trip.

"Ke'namtorer'si uzh'u?" he asked, and thankfully, Malcolm understood the question. 'Are you the new ones?'

He nodded. "Ah."

"Silak a'ficak'la nem-tor'ak'si." The guard nodded at one of his younger colleagues. "Zaprah'ak!"

The younger Vulcan didn't seem pleased with the order he'd been given. He wrinkled his nose as he stepped into the cell, pushing the prisoners who didn't get out of his way in time.

"Bath'pa vlau," he muttered as he walked over to where Trip lay. Malcolm watched, tense. He'd only caught Silak's name, and wasn't sure if this was really about getting Trip to a doctor. Always assuming they even had one.

The guard tossed the blanket aside, grabbed Trip under the arms and hoisted the unconscious body over his shoulder. Trip didn't even stir, his arms dangling limply.

Malcolm found himself prodded by a whip. "Tu isha." 'You, too.'

He noticed Kin'kur's eyes on him as he followed the guard, not sure what to make of her expression. Pity seemed to come quite close, and he wondered if it had been a mistake to address the guards. Trip's condition was serious, yes, but he would have survived another night, another few days. Now, however... what if the Vulcans decided that the ill human was nothing but a burden? Malcolm swallowed, hard. They were Vulcans. He couldn't imagine...

"Weh'sahris!"

The guard carrying Trip prodded him again, directing him towards the door, and Malcolm understood that he was supposed to walk in front of the Vulcan. The other two guards stayed behind, moving on to the adjoining cell to feed the next load of hungry prisoners.

Malcolm noticed more than a few eyes following them as he walked past the rows of cells. Dead man walking, he thought, but it wasn't funny. This entire situation seemed like a parody of human-Vulcan relations, a political satire, but it wasn't humorous in the least. The human prisoners' pain and despair were real, and Malcolm had to admit to himself that these Vulcans – rebels, terrorists, whatever they were – frightened him. They seemed so... out of control. That was what unsettled him the most. They laughed, swore, and except for Silak not one of them had tried to suppress their emotional responses. Even their body language was less restrained. None of the Vulcans Malcolm had met back on Earth would have expressed their distaste for the human body odor quite so openly.

They left the prison wing, and Malcolm slowed for a moment as they stepped outside. The yard was flooded with orange light from the evening sun, but that was not what caught his attention. The large iron gate on the other side of the yard had been opened, and outside, he could see a street, and... houses? Not merely houses, he realized; there was an entire city out there, built on a gently sloping mountain area which leveled out into a wide valley. Malcolm saw huge, Vulcan-style mansions, parks, and in the middle of the city, square structures that could only be factories and warehouses. The entire scenery was bathed in warm golden light, and he was surprised how beautiful it was. It looked wealthy and luxurious, like a Vulcan holiday resort... if such a thing even existed.

It was certainly no quickly assembled rebel colony.

"Haltora!"

He was prodded again from behind, the guard's voice startling him.

"Tra'abru." The Vulcan pointed at the smaller building across the yard. Malcolm resumed walking, still troubled by what he had seen. T'Pol's sensors wouldn't have missed a settlement of that magnitude, even if the Vulcans were using stealth technology. So what was this place? He wondered if he should simply ask the guard, but dismissed the idea a moment later. He wasn't sure yet how much he wanted to give away about himself and Trip; knowledge that the Vulcans didn't have might work to their advantage at some point.

The guard didn't seem to have noticed his reaction. Nudging Malcolm occasionally with the whip, he herded him across the yard towards the smaller building.

"Kup'haltorer svi'udish," the guard at the entrance said.

The other guard inclined his head in acknowledgement, and pushed Malcolm through the door and into another corridor, this one lined with doors on either side.

"Abru." The guard opened a door to the left.

Malcolm almost stopped walking when he saw who was inside the room. Sitting behind a desk, there was an elderly Vulcan woman in a long red robe, and next to the window stood the man who had beaten Trip unconscious without so much as a batted eye. Silak.

"Na'shaya, Zhel-lan," the guard said respectfully, then, looking at the woman, "Hakausu."

So this must be the doctor, the Healer. The dark-haired woman rose from her chair, indicating a narrow, battered-looking examination bed in the corner.

"Tra shitauer'ak," she said, and the guard obeyed, dropping Trip on the bed as if he were only a sack of rags.

"Kup'trasha, Ask'ersu," Silak said curtly.

"Ah, Osu."

The guard didn't seem to be feeling too comfortable in the Zhel-lan's presence, either, for he was gone a moment later, the door closing behind him.

"Mesukh'ya," Silak said to the Healer. Malcolm had no idea what he was talking about, and involuntarily backed away when she approached him. A slight frown appeared on her face.

"Lamtora," she said. Her voice was not unkind, and her dignified presence reminded Malcolm vaguely of T'Pol. He remained where he was, watching as she pulled out a device that looked like a hypospray.

She took his arm. "Koltah'a'mu."

Malcolm tried to pull away as she raised the hypo, but she merely tightened her grip and pressed the device against his neck.

A lance of pain went through him, as if she had stabbed him with a screwdriver. Gasping, Malcolm clawed at the place where she had injected him, and brought his palm away smeared with blood. There was something under his skin, he realized; a small bump under his ear like a swollen mosquito bite.

Silak had watched the procedure with no discernible expression on his face. Now, he slowly came closer, eyeing Malcolm as if he were an insect under a glass casing.

"Can you understand me now, human?"

Malcolm stared at him. He'd heard the words in Vulcan, but at the same time they were being translated into English; a sound effect much like the "echo" Hoshi still hadn't quite filtered out of the UT's translations.

Silak had come to stand in front of him. "I do not like having to ask the same questions twice. Do you understand me now?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes. S'haile," he added at the Vulcan's look, the incident with Trip still vividly in mind.

"Good." Silak turned to the Healer, who had started to examine Trip's foot. "Inject the other one, too."

"Yes, sir."

Trip moaned faintly as she pushed the hypospray against his neck, his eyes moving under the closed lids. In spite of the thin trail of blood that trickled down Trip's neck, Malcolm was almost relieved to see it; at least Trip wasn't too far gone to acknowledge outer stimuli, painful as they might be.

"So," Silak said. "You're obviously not from the colony; our round-ears can speak proper Vulcan. Where did you run away from?"

"We didn't run away," Malcolm said slowly. "We... we had to make an emergency landing close to the coast. Our engines were malfunctioning."

Silak's eyes darkened. "You will tell me the truth, human."

"I am telling you the truth. My friend was hurt in the crash-"

Silak slapped him across the face, and Malcolm stumbled back, tasting blood. "No more lies. It doesn't matter; you will tell the truth, eventually. Now strip."

Malcolm stared at him. "No."

Silak reached out, his fingers closing around the whip that was lying on the desk. "I can see that you're not properly trained. You're definitely not from here. I will say this only once, human..." He raised the whip. "You do not want to make this difficult for yourself. Or your friend."

His eyes flickered meaningfully to Trip. Malcolm thought he had seen a trace of disapproval on the Healer's face, but she said nothing and continued her examination as if Silak and Malcolm weren't there.

There was a sharp smack, and Malcolm cried out, grabbing his leg where Silak had hit him. The Vulcan raised an eyebrow at him. "You do not want me to do that to your friend, do you?"

Breathing heavily, Malcolm stood there for another moment, then reached up to pull down his uniform zipper. Silak would do it; he could see it in the Vulcan's eyes. The Zhel-lan didn't give a shit whether the Healer approved or not.

Malcolm's sore limbs protested as he slipped out of the jumpsuit, then the black undershirt. He stepped out of his boots, too, and was about to pick them up when Silak stopped him with a movement of the head.

"I said strip."

This time, Malcolm didn't protest, and simply pulled off his blue tank top, then let his briefs fall around his ankles. He wasn't going to add to his own humiliation by offering futile resistance. Naked, he stood in front of the Vulcan, who slowly looked him up and down. "He looks healthy to me. Healer?"

The woman didn't glance up from her work. "I will examine him when I am finished with this one."

If there was a note of resentment in her voice, Silak chose to ignore it. In the meantime, the Healer had peeled off the dirty bandage, and the smell of dying flesh and infection filled the room. Malcolm stared at Trip's foot. Where once two healthy toes had been, there were now two blood-caked, deformed lumps of something that no longer looked like human flesh. The discarded bandage was soaked with pus and old, dried blood.

"What is your estimation, Healer?" Silak asked, and there was something in his tone that suggested he wasn't only requesting a medical statement. Malcolm swallowed to get rid of a sudden bad taste in his mouth.

What happens to sick dogs at the pound? a familiar voice suggested before he could silence it. And we're not talking one of those mollycoddling, expensive dog homes here. This is the real deal.

"The infection has spread into his leg," the Healer said. "That is why his temperature is elevated. He's slightly dehydrated as well. I will have to replenish his fluid supplies."

Silak stepped closer to the examination bed and regarded Trip's foot, indifference mingling with mild disgust. "Will it have to come off?"

"The three toes, yes," the Healer replied. "The ankle is a clean fracture, so I should be able to use the osteo-restorer on it."

"Please," Malcolm spoke up, not caring whether Silak took it as a cue to exercise his whip-cracking skills some more. "His great toe is just broken. Maybe there's a way to save it."

The Healer looked at Malcolm for a long moment before she answered, "I will see what I can do."

Silak didn't seem pleased to be left out of the exchange, and moved his chin at Malcolm. "What about him, T'Lys?"

T'Lys hesitated, looking down at her unfinished work on Trip's foot. Then she let out a small sigh and turned around.

"Come here," she said to Malcolm. Reluctantly, he obeyed. Very aware of his exposed body, he kept his eyes straight ahead as she ran a small handscanner over him.

"He's recently suffered a concussion, but it seems to be healing. Other than that, he is healthy, except for the cuts and bruises."

She glanced pointedly at the angry red welt on his leg, but Silak pretended not to have noticed. Roughly, he grabbed Malcolm's arm and felt the muscles, tightening his grip when Malcolm tried to pull away.

"Do not try my patience, human." The Vulcan's hand closed around his jaw and forcibly turned his head from side to side. "He'll look acceptable once the bruises have faded. Better than average, I'd say. A bit small, maybe, but they all are. He should sell well."

At that, Malcolm twisted out of the man's grip. This couldn't be happening, had to be some sort of ugly, sick joke. "What the bloody hell is going on here? Are you-"

The world grayed out for a moment. When Malcolm came to again, he found himself lying on the floor, his face throbbing from the blow he'd received. Silak was standing over him, the dark eyes appraising him coldly.

"And some training will be needed, as well. What is your name, human?"

"Malcolm Reed." Malcolm raised his chin, refusing to lower his eyes or use the word S'haile again. "My name is Malcolm Reed."

For the first time since Malcolm had met him, a thin smile appeared on Silak's face. "That is where you are wrong, pau'kaluk. Your name is Krintu now, and you had better remember it." The smile grew even thinner. "Krintu, as in... dog."

TBC...

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