Hi! Even if I don't always answer, I very much apprecate you letting me know what you think :)!

As for this chapter, Trip-whumping ahead!

Enjoy!

14

The roar of the machines was deafening. It reverberated in the vast factory hall, ever present, inundating every level, every gangway, every corner. The metal floor and the huge production lines seemed to vibrate with the sound, and the people, dwarfed by the machines they were tending, felt it in their very bones. Most of them never left the production hall, and after a while the noise became part of them, until they no longer really perceived it as a sound. The pounding was the last thing they heard when they fell asleep, and it was the first thing they became aware of when they were woken from their short periods of slumber. Like a heartbeat, it never changed, never altered its relentless rhythm. There was no escaping it.

On his first day, when he had collapsed in a corner of the sleeping area, Trip's head had pounded along with the machines, each throb bringing a new stab of pain. Curled up on the heap of rags that served as bedding, he'd wondered if he would survive another day of this. It seemed impossible. He couldn't linger over the thought as he fell asleep almost immediately, and was roused in what seemed an instant later by the waking call, the overseers' whips driving them back to their places at the production lines. Before he could even wonder how he was supposed to get through another fourteen hours, he was working again, his hands going through the same motions while sweat ran down his back and face, dripping into his eyes.

He was still lucky, all things considered. He'd been assigned to one of the punch presses - not exactly a walk in the park, but still better than the welding machines. Only few of the workers were given protection gear, and even they sported large, red blisters from the flying sparks. In comparison, his job was relatively safe, and under normal circumstances, he knew he would have been able to cope with the work, in spite of the endless shifts and the meager food and water rations. It wouldn't be a problem, if not for the damn foot.

When he had woken up this morning, his ankle had been swollen to almost twice its normal size, as were the stumps of the amputated toes. It hurt merely to move the foot; walking was agony. Jackson, who worked at the press next to his, had tried to support him on the way to their stations, but their overseer would have none of it. His whip had landed on each of their backs, his swears following Trip as the engineer limped, now without assistance, to his place behind the press. Workers weren't allowed to talk, let alone help each other, and the overseer seemed to have internalized the rule. The man was a human himself, and he was quicker to use the whip than any of his Vulcan colleagues, the slow and the weak being his most frequent victims. After only a week, Trip's back and shoulders were criss-crossed all over with welts and cuts.

"If you move any slower, you're going to fall asleep, Fifteen!"

Speak of the devil, Trip thought. The overseer had appeared behind his station again, flicking the whip in his direction.

Ignoring the man, Trip picked up another sheet of metal and shoved it under the punch. He wasn't even sure what kind of weapons component he was punching out of the metal; it looked like a torpedo hull to him, but he couldn't be sure. Malcolm might have recognized it, had he been here.

Trying not to dwell on the thought, Trip pushed down on the heavy controls. The punch came down with the usual thump, the excess metal dropping into the scrap container. As he limped forward to place the punched-out piece onto the conveyor belt, Trip felt the sting of the whip on his back. He bit down hard on his tongue. Showing weakness would only encourage the bastard to torment him even more.

"You're behind schedule, Fifteen! I'm giving you twenty minutes to catch up, starting now. If you're still lagging when the time's up, you're working double shift. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." Trip struggled to keep the dismay out of his voice. His foot felt as if someone had dipped it in acid, and he was beginning to feel light-headed from the fever. He'd never get through another twenty-four hours of this; hell, he wasn't sure he could get through the ten hours that were left of this shift.

"Good." The overseer grinned and left. Trip pushed down on the controls again, wishing it were the man's head under the heavy iron ram. Somehow, the fact that it was a human doing this to him filled him with shame and rage at the same time.

"What an ass kisser," a voice said next to him. Trip looked up. Jackson was standing at the conveyor belt, white teeth showing in his filthy, sweat-covered face. He didn't seem to care whether any of the overseers heard him. "You okay?" he asked. "You're as white as a sheet."

"I'm okay," Trip said. His foot was throbbing as if it were going to burst.

"Yeah, I can see that." Jackson paused, then placed the component he had just punched out on Trip's side of the conveyor.

"Don't-" Trip began, but Jackson cut him off.

"You're never going to catch up with schedule on your own. And I'd love to see the smirk wiped off Ass Kisser's face."

Trip lifted his own component onto the conveyor. "Thanks," he said quietly. Jackson was right; on his own, he might as well volunteer for the double shift right away.

"That's alright," Jackson said in a tone that reminded Trip very much of Malcolm. Malcolm would have done the same thing for him - Malcolm had done the same thing, trying to protect him when Silak came to take one of them outside for questioning. Damn fool Brit.

Trip brought up a hand to wipe the sweat off his face. It had been horrible, sitting in the cell and listening to Malcolm being "interrogated" in the yard outside. When they'd finally dragged him back inside and dumped him on the floor like so much trash, unconscious and bleeding, Trip had wanted to strangle Silak with his bare hands. Now, the thought of the Vulcan filled him with dull fear. There was no telling what Silak had done to Malcolm after Trip was gone. Maybe he had killed him.

As he had done so many times before, Trip pushed the thought aside. He refused to believe that Malcolm was dead, that he was left alone in this hellish place. His confidence, however forced, was the only thing that kept him going - that, and the thought of getting away.

He couldn't afford to give up on either of them.

"Krintu."

Malcolm looked up from the bowl of pla-savas he was seeding. Yumur was standing there, hands on her hips, and Malcolm wondered if he'd done something wrong. Surreptitiously, he glanced down at his hands. His gloves were still more or less clean, and he hadn't made too much of a mess on the table, either.

"Yes, First Cook?"

"Go wash up. It's your turn to serve the tea today."

"Yes, ma'am." Malcolm wiped off the seeding knife and dropped his gloves into the laundry basket next to the door. It was customary for the older members of the Family to gather for a jar of Theris tea in the afternoon - not unlike back home, Malcolm had thought when he'd first heard of it. For a moment, he indulged in the strange image of Vulcans in an "Old England" setting, perched in front of a fire place and sipping Earl Grey with their little finger sticking out. Which, he guessed, made him the stern-looking, black-suited butler. Trip would have cracked a rib laughing.

The thought of Trip made his smile fade. He stepped into the small lavatory adjoining the kitchen and scrubbed his hands, then returned to the main room where Yumur was waiting for him with a fresh pair of gloves.

"Here," she said. "The tea's over there." She nodded at a tray waiting on the counter. "Dishes are already in the Tea Room. Now, remember to serve Lady T'Sia first, if she's there. If not, start with the oldest person present, and work your way down. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You can go, then." Yumur gave him one of her rare smiles. "I'll have them prepare a bowl for you when you're done."

"Thank you, ma'am." With Yumur keeping an eye on it, he hoped that this time, his dinner wouldn't consist of vegetable peelings and old breadcrusts, or be left to congeal into an inedible mush. He knew that some of the staff looked down their noses at him since they'd learned where House Intendant Sahriv had picked him up. They made no secret of the fact that 'one like him' didn't belong in the Noble House of Sreman, much less as a server rather than a mere kitchen slave. Malcolm didn't waste much thought on it; it wasn't as if he wanted to make himself at home here. Still, their antipathy could work to his disadvantage if he tried something. And the "something", whatever it was, would have to be soon. More than a week had passed, and Malcolm had yet to discover the opportunity he had been looking for.

As he carried the tea upstairs, he wondered, not for the first time, if he should just try to climb over the garden wall and run for it. The sensors in his collar would alert the guards, but maybe he could manage to outrun them until he was out of range. He doubted the collar was designed to transmit his signal beyond a few kilometers. It might even work, as desperate a plan as it was. The sleeping chamber he shared with four other servants wasn't locked at night, and it wasn't unusual for one of them to disappear, come bed time. Mesya frequently snuck off to visit his girlfriend, and there were the times one of the Vulcans required "services". Malcolm grimaced. He had been lucky so far, but there was no guarantee that it would stay that way. It was another reason why he needed to be out of here as soon as possible.

The Tea Room was on one of the upper floors of the house, a sunny conservatory overlooking the gardens. When Malcolm entered, he found only four members of the Family present, among them Lady T'Var and her youngest great-grandson, Sikar. The Vulcans were sitting on large, ornate floor cushions, each with a small table next to them. The other two, an elderly couple, ignored him as he came in, their heads bowed forward in quiet conversation. Sikar and T'Var turned around immediately.

"Hello, Krintu!" The little boy smiled, oblivious to the reproachful look he received from the elderly man. "Do you have my krei'la?"

Malcolm glanced down at the tray and found a dish with small brown biscuits sitting on it. "I think so." The elderly man's stern look was immediately fixed on him, and he hurried to add the proper address. "Osu."

"I am not certain it is wise to indulge a young child like this." The woman next to the man raised a thin eyebrow. "He should not be given sweets in between the meal times."

Sikar's face fell, but Lady T'Var merely raised an eyebrow in return. "T'Per, surely you do not think that five krei'la biscuits are a sign of immoderate indulgence. In fact, I shall ask my great-grandson to indulge an old woman and share the krei'la with me."

"I will, great-grandmother!" Sikar smiled again, and T'Var's crinkled face grew softer as she looked at him.

"That is generous of you, Sikar'am. Please – " She raised a hand when Malcolm made to pour tea into her dish. "Serve my great-grandson first, Krintu. He has been awaiting his tea with far more enthusiasm than I have mustered in years."

"Yes, T'Sai." Out of the corners of his eyes, Malcolm noticed T'Per's disapproving frown.

"You spoil the child, mother."

Malcolm was surprised to see the old lady smile. "I admit it, daughter. But at my age, I believe a great-grandmother is entitled to such liberties."

It was obvious that both T'Per and her husband didn't agree. They said nothing, however, and merely watched in rigid silence as their own tea was served. For some reason, the stern couple suddenly reminded Malcolm of his own parents. The "no sweets between mealtimes" rule could have come straight from his father's mouth.

"Thank you, Krintu," T'Var said after he had filled the last dish with sweet-smelling tea. This drew another sour look from T'Per's husband and a raised eyebrow from T'Per. Malcolm inclined his head and retreated into the background, having no wish to be caught in the family crossfire.

"Now, daughter," T'Var said, taking a sip from her tea. "I heard you were telling Skon about an interesting find one of your search parties brought back to the institute. What was it, a satellite of some kind?"

"We are not sure yet," T'Per replied. "The object was found on a beach in the South Country. Research Leader Sokar has asked me to examine it in greater detail."

"Ah!" T'Var's eyes came alive with interest. "So you have it here?"

"It is in my study, yes."

"I would like to have a look at it, if you have no objections."

T'Per didn't seem very enthusiastic. "Of course, mother."

"I do not believe it has anything to do with the... phenomenon, T'Var," Skon said. There was a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "Not that I believe in its existence, of course."

"I know you do not," T'Var said calmly.

Malcolm bit down on the inside of his lip. The South Country. It was where he and Trip had set up camp before their Vulcan captors showed up. It seemed unlikely that any of this should have to do with them, and yet his heart picked up a beat. What if it had to do with them? What if the object, whatever it was, had come from... the other side?

"What is a phenomenon, great-grandmother?" Sikar asked.

T'Var turned to him. "It is something unusual, something we do not see every day. There's an area in the South Country where unusual things have been known to happen."

"What kind of things?" Sikar had forgotten about his biscuits, his eyes glued on his great-grandmother's face.

"Transports have disappeared, electronic equipment has been known to malfunction," T'Var said, and Malcolm had the distinct impression that she was talking to the boy as well as to T'Per and Skon. "Once, about fifty years ago, some humans working on the fields close to the coast reported that they had seen a ship appear in the sky and fall into the sea. Unfortunately, the incident was never investigated."

"Why not?" Sikar asked.

Skon joined the conversation, arching a condescending eyebrow. "Humans, like children, have a fertile imagination," he said. He, in turn, was addressing T'Var rather than Sikar. "Those field workers may have seen a flash of lightning or a fast-moving cloud, and became agitated because they did not recognize it for what it was. One is wise never to take anything a human says at face value."

"Is that so?" T'Var's voice was almost amused. "You will forgive me, son-in-law, but your gift of imagination must be quite strong as well, if you can envision a cloud that suddenly appears and falls into the sea." Ignoring Skon's sour expression, she looked back at Sikar. "I have been gathering information about the phenomenon for quite a while, and I shall be very interested to have a look at the object your grandmother's team found on the beach."

Same here. Malcolm had been listening to T'Var's account with growing excitement. He had to get his hands on that "satellite" as soon as possible. The ship the field slaves had seen... it must have crashed into the sea just like their shuttle. So this wasn't the first time someone had crossed the barrier. How often had someone found themselves in another universe all of a sudden?

"You, what was your name... Krintu!"

Malcolm blinked. Skon was holding out his tea dish, a thin line of disapproval appearing between his eyebrows. "Have you fallen asleep? Humans," he said to T'Per while Malcolm hurried to pour him some more tea. "Sometimes I wonder how their race managed to survive until we came."

T'Var turned to him, and this time there was no amusement in her dark eyes. "Maybe the humans were luckier than we were, Skon. Think of Vulcan after the Two Hundred Years' War. Would we not have benefitted if another species had come to take over and rule our world? All the rebuilding, the struggle for a balance of power... it would have been done for us. Of course, they might have decided that we weren't fit to survive on our own and kept us in slavery and dependence. But that is a small price to pay for a comfortable living, is it not, son-in-law?"

Skon exchanged a long-suffering look with T'Per. "T'Var... you cannot compare our own people to the humans. Humans are weak in mind and body, they let their emotions run free and rule their lives. A species like that is best off in servitude."

"No species is best off in slavery," T'Var said quietly. "They are different from us, yes, but difference does not necessarily imply inferiority. 'Cast out fear. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear'."

"Please, mother." T'Per let out a tiny sigh. "Can we, for once, finish our tea without you quoting Surak?"

T'Var seemed unwilling to leave it at that, but after a glance at Sikar's anxious expression, she gave in, silently sipping her tea. Malcolm knew that under any other circumstances, Skon's arrogance would have infuriated him to the point where he might have said something, at the risk of being sent to Sahriv for punishment. Right now, however, he couldn't bring himself to care; all he wanted was for the Vulcans to finish their tea and leave. T'Per's office was on the second floor in the north wing of the building. It would be child's play to get inside.

TBC…

Please leave a review and let me know what you think!