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For a moment, Malcolm sat perfectly still. Then he got to his feet, ignoring the startled looks from his cellmates. "No. Over my dead body."

"Malcolm, sit down!" Trip's voice had taken on a sharp command tone, and Malcolm would have deferred to it in an instant - under normal circumstances. But there were hardly any circumstances less deserving of the term "normal".

Silak stared at him. "You realize that you will suffer even worse for this, Krintu?"

Malcolm shook with anger. "That's not my name. And you're not going to-"

"Can't you control that pau'kaluk, Silak?" Aylak sounded weary. "This is getting ridiculous. I shouldn't pay you more than one hundred lit for any of these animals."

Silak waved at the guards. "The sand-haired one. Bring him."

"Malcolm."

Something in Trip's tone caught Malcolm's attention, and he turned to see the engineer looking at him with a strange, almost hard expression on his face. "We're gonna get outta here, okay? Don't forget."

Malcolm had no time to reply. The guards came in, and before Malcolm could even step in front of Trip, he found himself lying on the floor, his jaw throbbing from the punch he had received. Through a blur, he watched as the guards grabbed Trip and pulled him to his feet. As his weight came to rest on his injured foot, Trip winced, but he didn't cry out. Half carrying him, half dragging him along, the guard manhandled him out of the cell and pushed him to stand before Aylak.

The Vulcan's eyes traveled over Trip's unshaven face and ragged clothes before they came to rest on the bandaged foot. "What's that?"

"His ankle was broken," Silak replied. "The Healer has treated him with the osteo-restorer. It should not be a problem."

Aylak seemed less than convinced. "He's missing part of his foot."

"Only two toes. The injury will heal in due time."

"How convenient." Aylak grabbed one of Trip's arms, running his thumb over the cloth-covered biceps. Malcolm saw Trip tense, and knew that they shared the urge to smash a fist into the Vulcan's face. "Well, he will have to do, won't he?"

Silak chose to ignore the annoyed undertone. "Indeed. He is yours for five hundred and fifty lit."

"Four hundred."

"Five hundred and twenty-five."

"Four hundred and fifty."

"I will not take less than five hundred, Aylak. He will be worth twice as much once his foot has healed."

Aylak sighed. "Five hundred it is, then. I do not know why I allow you to rob me every time I come here, Zhel-lan."

Malcolm got to his feet, absentmindedly wiping the blood off his split lip. Outside the cell, the guards were fitting restraints on the wrists of Aylak's new slaves, cuffing their hands behind their backs. Malcolm stepped close to the bars, gripping them so Trip wouldn't see the shaking of his hands. Of course they would get out of here. It wouldn't be long until he saw Trip again, most likely surrounded by a rescue party from Enterprise. In a few months - weeks - they'd remember his being "sold" over a cold beer, smirking at the memory. This couldn't be happening for real. Things like that didn't happen for real, not anymore.

"See you," Malcolm mouthed. He was careful not to make a sound so the translator wouldn't pick up the words. "See you soon, okay?"

Trip nodded, smiling very faintly. Then he turned away, and didn't look back as he slowly limped after Aylak to the exit. Malcolm remained standing where he was until his arms began to ache from gripping the bars so hard.

Of course they would.

Sitting in a corner of his cell, Malcolm didn't get up even as the guards came in with the food cart. He knew he would be refused; he had received his meager share this morning, and thanks to Silak, it was all he would be given for the day. The hunger had ached like a sore on the first day and cut like a knife on the second day of his enforced fast, but today, it seemed to have abated a bit. Maybe his body was getting used to the idea of having to survive on half a cup of porridge-like slob a day. Or maybe he just couldn't bring himself to focus on his empty stomach any longer. Trip, of course, would have offered to share with him; he had shared with him, refusing to eat all of his rations until Malcolm gave in and had a few bites to get the engineer off his back. But Trip was gone. Sold.

Malcolm hugged his knees to his chest, watching his fellow prisoners as they crowded at the front of the cell and stretched out their hands even before the guards had arrived with the cart. For one brief, uncontrolled moment, he hated them for it. They should be hurling the disgusting swill back into the Vulcans' faces, instead of accepting the bowls like grateful dogs who would gobble up anything that was thrown into their pen.

He rested his chin on his knees. He didn't understand it, no matter how he looked at it. Why had Silak suddenly decided to sell Trip, after threatening Malcolm that he would use the engineer to force a confession about the Terran rebel group? It wasn't logical, and Malcolm had found that Silak, for all his indifference and cruelty, wasn't a stranger to Vulcan logic. It didn't make any sense.

He remembered that Silak had mentioned factory work when talking to Aylak. That could mean a lot of things. Malcolm had seen quite a number of factory buildings downtown, that time he had gotten a short glimpse of the colony outside. Was Silak aware that Trip was in no way up to physical labor, let alone many hours of it? Malcolm suspected so. But why would he sell Trip to man who would work him to death? Even from a strictly logical point of view, it was a waste of resources to do so.

Maybe he should have just told him about Enterprise. Offered the information in exchange for Trip. If he had only stopped to think for a single second, instead of losing control like a bloody fool.

Right. And Silak would have believed you, of course. He would have bought the story of a parallel universe, a rift in time and space or whatever this is in an instant.

And if Malcolm had invented something about a rebel group, he and Trip would have been killed.

He raised his head when the cell door was opened. The guards had arrived with the food, and over the noise of the crowd, Malcolm could hear their short, barked orders and the occasional crack of a whip. The smell of the food drifted over to where he sat, and while it wasn't very appetizing, it stirred the ache in his empty stomach back to life. He closed his eyes, remembering his earlier thoughts about dogs and food.

Hypocrite. Had there been the slightest chance of getting some of the food, he would have been right there with the crowd, panting for a bowl and all but drooling with greed. Maybe Silak had picked the right name for him, after all.

"Krintu."

Malcolm opened his eyes again. Silak was standing outside the cell, flanked by two of his guards.

"Get up," the Vulcan ordered. Malcolm knew that there was little use in disobeying. Slowly, he climbed to his feet, and had to grab the wall for balance when a sudden dizzy spell washed over him. Of course Silak would take him outside for questioning now, when he had just been made painfully aware of the hunger gnawing away at his intestines. For a Vulcan, the man seemed to have an astute understanding of human psychology.

Malcolm didn't resist as the guards grabbed his arms and began to lead him down the aisle between the holding pens. His head swam, and he found that he could hardly muster the energy to be afraid of what was going to happen. Walking the plank, he thought, remembering the pirate stories he had read as a boy. Only that there are no sharks waiting for me, no Captain, sir. It's bats. Pointy-eared bloodsuckers. The thought was suddenly funny, and he caught himself just before a giggle escaped. He must be going mad... or maybe it was the hunger doing strange things to his brain.

The light outside was even brighter than last time. Tiny, red spots flecked his vision, dancing at the periphery of his eyes until he blinked and the world slid into focus again, transforming into the sun-flooded yard. The iron gate was open, allowing a view of the city outside; houses, mansions, factory buildings. Somewhere out there was Trip. Somewhere out there with the bats. He almost laughed at that. He must really be going mad.

At a nod from Silak, the guards dragged him to the post in the corner. Several of their colleagues had already gathered there, grinning, obviously looking forward to the entertainment. Malcolm watched them out of bleary eyes. Did Vulcans bet?

Five lit that he passes out after half an hour. You think he's going to scream this time? Ten lit that he does.

Finally they let go of his arms and he stood, swaying. One of the guards called something, but he didn't catch the words. Maybe they were really making bets.

Fifteen lit that he'll talk, now that his little friend is gone.

They might even win that one.

"Krintu."

Malcolm raised his head. Silak was standing in front of him, staring at him, and for the first time since he had been brought out here, Malcolm felt a stab of real fear.

A hand grabbed his jaw, stopped him from looking away. "You do not look well, Krintu. Are you missing your t'hyla already?"

Fucking bastard. Somewhere, Malcolm found the strength to wrench his face out of the Vulcan's grip.

Silak seemed to have expected his reaction. "Yes, I can see that you are." He pulled out his whip and Malcolm tensed, but the Vulcan didn't move to strike him. Instead, he began to walk around Malcolm, talking as if they were having a casual conversation between friends. "I'm sure you have wondered where your friend is now. Wondered if he will be able to cope with the work, injured as he is."

The Vulcan came to stand in front of Malcolm again. Lifting the whip, he pushed it under Malcolm's chin so that Malcolm had no choice but to meet his eyes.

"Aylak is the administrator of an armaments factory. Do you know what that is, Krintu?"

Malcolm said nothing.

"The factory produces weapons, and Aylak comes here because he needs strong, healthy workers. Our weapon industry cannot afford to take your delicate human constitution into consideration. The slaves work fourteen hours at the assembly lines every day, every one of them, until they die. Then, Aylak comes here to buy new ones. It is the logical approach."

Malcolm stood very still. If Silak was telling the truth, he had signed Trip's death warrant by selling him to Aylak. In his weakened state, the engineer wouldn't last two months under such conditions.

Silak continued. "I believe you are fairly intelligent for a pau'kaluk, Krintu. Your friend won't survive in Aylak's factory. I assume you are willing to do everything to save him?"

Malcolm stared at the cool, indifferent face. The Vulcan wasn't even mocking him; he was simply stating facts, laying out the conditions for the offer that was about to follow.

"Well?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes," he said quietly. "I am."

"Yes what?"

"Yes... S'haile."

"Good." Silak sounded satisfied. "I am willing to have your friend retrieved from the factory today. In exchange, you will tell me everything about the Terran rebel group."

Malcolm would have told him everything, whatever the Vulcan wanted to hear, but he knew that it would lead to nothing. If he invented a rebel group, he and Trip would be executed, or, more likely, he would be killed and Trip would be left to die a slow death in Aylak's gulag factory. He wasn't fool enough to believe that Silak would even bother to buy Trip back. And if he told the truth – which Silak wouldn't believe - Trip would die anyway.

"Do you understand, Krintu?"

Malcolm met the Vulcan's dark eyes. "We weren't part of a rebel group," he said, forcing himself to sound calm. "There's nothing I can tell you."

Silak raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you aren't as intelligent as I thought. You do realize that your friend will die if you continue lying?"

"I'm not lying!" Malcolm hadn't intended to shout. The words seemed to come out of his mouth on their own, as if someone had flipped a switch inside him. "We... we stole a ship! We were trying to escape... but we never met any Terran rebels!"

The Vulcan grabbed him by collar of his tunic, sudden anger flashing in his eyes. "Then why do you have uniforms with Terran insignia? Why do you call each other by human names? You're lying!"

Malcolm only stared at him. There was nothing he could say to this; nothing that wouldn't make things even worse.

"Very well." Silak let go of him. "It does not matter. I will find out the truth, and I do not care if I kill you in the process. But you could have saved your friend. Remember that." He signaled to the guards. Two of them stepped forward and grabbed Malcolm, pulling off his tunic. He was pushed towards the post, his hands shackled over his head. This time, Silak didn't intervene, and the onlookers jeered as Malcolm's pants and undergarment were pulled down as well.

"Why don't we take him to the bunkhouse later on?" one of them called. ""Interrogate" him some more."

Laughter followed.

"You may do as you please when I'm done with him," Silak said, his voice hard and untouched by the guards' amusement. "But I doubt he will be alive by then. I will not release him until he tells the truth."

Malcolm pressed his face against the wooden post. Part of him, and maybe it wasn't even the coward, wanted Silak to make true on his threat. If he had to die, he wanted to go without paying a visit to the bunkhouse first. He only wished he could have done something to help Trip.

He heard Silak move into position behind him, and closed his eyes. Last time, he had seen his blood fly from the end of the whip and spatter on the ground. This time, all he wanted to see was the darkness behind his eyelids.

The first lash took his breath away. The pain was worse, a lot worse than the first time, maybe because of the fresh scars on his back.

Smack. Was this really how he was going to die, chained to this post and whipped like... like a dog? The thought filled him with a sudden hatred.

Smack. He bit down on his tongue to hold the scream inside. His arms were beginning to tremble. So this was really it-

"The truth, Krintu. Or you will suffer a lot more before-"

"What exactly is going on here, Zhel-lan?"

A sharp, male voice had spoken, his words followed by a sudden silence. The guards' laughter and taunts had broken off as if they had been silenced by a single look. Trembling with pain, Malcolm turned his head. He wanted to see who would cut Silak off in mid-sentence like that.

The man looked like the Vulcans Malcolm remembered from Starfleet Headquarters. Tall, his hair flecked with gray, his face stern and fine-featured, he could have been one of Soval's aides. Even his clothing – heavy, ornamented robes – reminded Malcolm of a Vulcan dignitary.

"Ekhartausu Sahriv," Silak said, greeting the man. Malcolm listened to the translation of the Vulcan word, but it didn't make much sense to him. House Intendant Sahriv. Maybe he really was some sort of dignitary.

The tall Vulcan glanced at him with no discernible emotion before he turned back to Silak. "Why is this man being punished?"

Silak didn't seem very pleased, but he obviously wasn't in the position to refuse an answer. "I have reason to believe that he was part of a Terran rebel group."

"Ah." The man called Sahriv walked closer, his mouth thinning slightly as he became aware of the dried blood on the post and the ground. "Another one, if I may say so. Of course, it is only logical that you would pursue your suspicions and torture these wretched creatures until they confess to about anything you want to hear. Is it not, Zhel-lan?"

"Osu, I have brought you a rebel-"

"Indeed." Sahriv eyed him contemptuously. "One in ten years, Silak. And how many have you lost since, because you insist on forcing "confessions" out of them?"

Silak's eyes had grown dark with anger. "He was wearing a uniform with Terran insignia when we caught him. It must be some sort of secret organization-"

"But of course." Sahriv had come to stand next to the post. He looked at Malcolm like a trader might inspect a horse on offer, reached out and ran a hand over Malcolm's bare shoulder. Tied up as he was, Malcolm couldn't pull back from the touch. "It is a pity that you chose this one for your "investigations". He would be worth quite a sum if you didn't insist on ruining his appearance."

"Is there anything I can do for you, Osu?" The dislike in Silak's voice was audible, but Sahriv didn't seem to notice or care.

"In fact, there is. Lady T'Sia requested that I replace a servant we lost the week before last, and I was told you had new slaves on offer. Of course, I wasn't aware that you had new information about the Terran underground as well."

Silak ignored the sarcasm. "Surely Lady T'Sia did not have one of my slaves in mind when she gave you the order? They are hardly fit to serve the noble House of Sreman."

"I could not agree more." Sahriv looked around, his lips curling in badly concealed disgust. "Yet Lady T'Var insisted that I come to you. She seems to think that the fewer humans remain in your care, the better."

"Is that so." Silak didn't sound as if the news particularly disturbed him. "Shall we go inside so you can examine our current stock?"

"I would rather you had them brought outside. The odor in there..."

"Of course." Silak called out to the guards, who slowly got to their feet. They seemed disappointed that the show had come to an end so soon.

"Move!" Silak snapped at them. Malcolm watched as they trudged towards the brick building. He knew he had merely been given a respite.

"In fact, Silak..."

Malcolm turned his head. Sahriv was staring at him again, his slanted eyebrows pulled into a frown.

"Yes, Osu?" Silak asked.

Sahriv inclined his head, as if he had come to a decision. "Untie your rebel here."

"Osu, you cannot seriously-"

"I can do as I wish, can I not, Zhel-lan?" Sahriv's voice had taken on a sharp tone. "Release him this instant."

This time, Silak obeyed. As soon as his hands were free, Malcolm bent down and pulled up his pants. It stung as if something hot and acrid were trickling down his back, and he swayed a little as he straightened up again. His head suddenly felt very light.

A hand gripped his arm. "Open your mouth," Sahriv ordered. Malcolm was too dumbfounded to do anything but stare at him.

The House Intendant looked at Silak. "He does speak Vulcan, doesn't he?"

"We had him fitted with a subdermal translator. He is just being difficult, as usual. I would advise against having him serve the Noble Family. He does not have any training at all."

Sahriv raised an eyebrow at Silak. "I believe that decision is mine to make. And I am not surprised he doesn't respond to your... training." He looked back at Malcolm. "Open your mouth."

Malcolm knew he would do anything to get away from here. Get away, and find a way to help Trip, even if it meant playing along in their humiliating sales talk. Slowly he opened his mouth.

"Good teeth," Sahriv said after a short examination. "In fact, this one looks better than most of your runaways, Silak. He should be acceptable to the family once his face has healed. I trust he is healthy?"

"Osu..." Silak seemed to struggle for a calm tone. "I really think we should try to find out where he came from. The potential danger..."

"Be assured, Silak, if he tries to murder his masters or take over the colony, we will call for your assistance. I doubt our guards can handle a threat such as him on their own."

Malcolm had never seen a Vulcan blush, but there was definitely a green hue on Silak's bearded cheeks. "Osu, I am merely saying..."

"Yes, yes. I remember asking you whether this slave is in good health?"

Silak's tone was flat, as if he knew that any of his warnings would only meet with more ridicule. "He is in good condition."

"You mean he will be, after he has recovered from your... investigations. How much do you want for him?"

"Nine hundred lit."

Unlike Aylak, Sahriv didn't bargain. Casually, he pulled out a chip and handed it to Silak. "Your money will be transferred to your account."

Silak took it with obvious reluctance. "Osu," he said stiffly, then turned around to the guards who were herding a small group of prisoners down the steps at the entrance, bringing the slaves Sahriv had requested to see.

"Take them back inside!" He marched towards the prisoners and pulled out his whip, beating them as he drove them back up the stairs. "Move it, there, nirak'u!"

"Kick the sand if you cannot kick the chorka," Sahriv murmured, and Malcolm thought he saw a thin, scornful smile playing about the Vulcan's lips. The House Intendant turned to him.

"What is your name?"

Malcolm hesitated.

Sahriv raised an eyebrow at him. "Well? Or do you not have one?"

"My name's Krintu," Malcolm answered quietly. He had sworn to himself he would never use that name, but that had been before they had taken Trip away.

"Ah. Well, get yourself dressed, Krintu. The... atmosphere of this place may be refreshing for some, but as for me, I would rather not remain here any longer than absolutely necessary."

Malcolm could only agree.

TBC…

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