I love getting your reviews! Okay, time to rescue our boys, I'd say...

19

Malcolm pulled off his serving gloves and tossed them into the laundry hamper next to the door. As always in the early afternoon, the kitchen was bustling with activity, the clanking of pots and pans mingling with shouted orders from the cooks. Clouds of steam hung in the air, and it took him a moment to spot Trip among the chaos. The engineer was standing at one of the sinks scrubbing a large pot, his arms immersed elbow-deep in soapy water. Malcolm frowned, dodging fellow servers and harassed kitchen staff as he made his way across the room. Even at the distance, he hadn't missed the sweaty pallor of Trip's face.

"Hey." Trip raised his head when he saw him. "You done?"

Malcolm nodded, becoming more concerned when he saw the way Trip was leaning heavily against the sink. "Are you all right?"

Trip nodded. "Yeah. Bit hot in here."

Malcolm surveyed the large pile of dirty pots and pans someone had carelessly dumped next to Trip's workplace. A few feet away, two men and a woman were chatting casually, laughing at something. Their sinks were devoid of any dishes and gleaming clean.

Trip shrugged when he noticed Malcolm's look. "S'okay. They were done before I was, so they got to take a break."

Malcolm suspected that dumping half of their load on Trip's sink had something to do with it, but he said nothing. Trip was having a hard enough time as it was.

"Come on." He grabbed a chair and set it down next to the sink. "Sit down for a while. I'll take care of this."

Trip shook his head. "I've got it."

"Listen..." Malcolm rested a hand on his arm. "You shouldn't put too much strain on your foot. You've got to give it time to heal."

"Well, it's not as if the toes are gonna grow back, right?" Trip lifted the pot out of the foamy water and dropped it into the rinsing sink. "These guys already think I'm some sorta lowlife. I don't want them to think that I'm a slacker, too."

Malcolm sighed. "Will you at least let me rinse?"

"Knock yourself out." Trip shook his head. "Your mom and dad musta loved havin' you 'round the kitchen. With us, it was always a fight whose turn it was to do the washin' up."

Malcolm smirked as he reached for the rinsing hose. "Reeds never complain about their duties."

"Right." Trip lowered his voice. "So all those times you were belly-achin' 'bout official meetings and stuff were an exception to the rule?"

Out of habit, Malcolm glared at him, although he was secretly relieved to see the trademark grin on the other man's face. The engineer didn't talk about his time in the factory, but the memories haunted him like a shadow, clouding his expression whenever he thought that no one was watching. It was good to see a bit of his old spunk return.

"I never "belly-ache". If anything, I voice well-considered concerns."

"Sure ya do." Trip resumed his scrubbing, working in silence.

"It's been two days," he said after a while. "They should've picked it up by now, right?"

Malcolm directed a quick glance over his shoulder. "I suppose so," he replied quietly. "They'll need more time, though."

More time to come up with a plan, he added in thought. If they were still there. If the signal had shown up on their sensors. If there was a way they could attempt a rescue mission. None of which Malcolm was going to mention to Trip; it wasn't necessary. The engineer was well aware that the odds were anything but promising.

"You did a great job," he said instead. Fitting an amplifier chip into a fully functioning probe would have been tricky enough; Trip had had to work around charred circuitry with nothing but a few crude tools at his disposal, and yet he had managed to produce a signal in less than twenty-four hours. Malcolm, scraping together what little Morse he knew, had programmed the distress call, encrypting it so it could be picked up on Starfleet frequencies only. Or so he hoped.

"You too." Trip rested his foamy hands on the edge of the sink, sighing, before he picked up his work again. Malcolm lowered his eyes. If it didn't work, if Enterprise didn't come, there were preciously few options left to them. The sensor-equipped collars made it nearly impossible to escape from the house, let alone the colony, and even if they somehow managed to get away, there was nowhere for them to go. They'd still try, of course; better to hide in the jungle than to live out their lives skivvying for a bunch of Vulcans. Talk about Hobson's choice.

Reaching for the next pot to rinse, Malcolm suddenly became aware of a hush in the conversations around him, the usual loud chatter fading into quiet whispers. He turned around, and found the entire kitchen staff diligently bowed over their work; even Trip's fellow dishwashers were suddenly were very busy wiping their already sparkling sinks.

"S'hailu," Yumur greeted the two uniformed members of the house guard who had just entered the room. "How may we assist you?"

"House Intendant Sahriv wants to see two of your workers," the taller of the two Vulcans replied. Malcolm could feel the atmosphere around him tense.

Yumur took a deep breath. "May I ask why, Osu?"

"None of your business." The guard raised his voice. "Krintu, Mazhiv, step forward!"

Malcolm froze.

"Step forward, now! Move!"

A hand touched his arm, squeezed it lightly. Malcolm looked at Trip, who nodded once. Together, they slowly began to walk towards the waiting guards. Every pair of eyes in the room was on them, a fact Malcolm was only too aware of as he came to stand in front of the two Vulcans.

"Hands," the taller guard ordered, and it was only then that Malcolm saw the restraints. He hesitated. It wasn't standard protocol to shackle the servants who were taken to Sahriv for punishment.

A second later, he received a knock on the side of the head, and stumbled. "Now!" the guard barked, and this time Malcolm held out his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trip doing the same. The Vulcan quickly fitted two pairs of metal restraints on their wrists, the devices locking themselves automatically.

Malcolm's arm was grabbed hard enough to bruise. "Move!"

"Osu..." Yumur stepped forward again. "May I expect Krintu back for the evening meal? I'll need a server."

The shorter guard pushed her aside. "What you need is to keep your mouth shut, pau'kaluk. Get back to work."

The kitchen staff stared as they were marched towards the door. Malcolm caught Yumur's eyes and thought he'd seen a flicker of sympathy there, but he couldn't be sure. Maybe she was just annoyed that they would be a server short tonight.

He expected that they would be led upstairs to Sahriv's office, and so he almost stumbled when the guard roughly jerked on his arm, pushing him into a different direction.

"Over there."

"I thought you were takin' us to Sahriv," he heard Trip's voice behind him.

"Quiet!" the guard snapped.

Malcolm's heart was pounding as they were herded down another corridor and towards the stairs that led to the basement. Down there was nothing but a wine cellar, a row of holding cells and the Correction Room, and he seriously doubted that Sahriv was inviting them down for a nice glass of Vulcan vintage.

So they'd found out. In a way, Malcolm had known that from the moment he had seen the two guards enter the kitchen, but until now the truth of it hadn't really sunk in. The taller guard opened the door to the basement, revealing a flight of stairs lit only by a few weak, electric lamps. Malcolm felt something hard and knotty settle in his stomach.

Door to Hades, he thought, but it wasn't funny. The stone steps felt cold under his sandaled feet, and he could see his own breath forming a white cloud in front of him. Was there any way he could convince them that Trip had had nothing to do with it? He supposed that he could, if the engineer went along with it and kept his mouth shut. Which, of course, Trip would never do.

The hard thing in his stomach tightened. Could T'Var have anything to do with this? He refused to believe it. He had trusted her. She couldn't have played a game with him through all those weeks, only to frame him for an offense she couldn't even be sure he would commit. No, it couldn't have been her.

The guards led them down a dimly illuminated corridor, past the wine cellar and towards the row of barred holding cells. At the very back, there was a heavy metal door, and even though Malcolm had never been here before, he knew that this was the place euphemistically referred to as the Correction Room. From what he had heard, "torture chamber" might have been a more accurate term.

Trip's face was half-concealed by shadows, but what little Malcolm could see was pale and taut with fear. There was a thin film of sweat on the engineer's face, a painful reminder that Trip was far from recovered. There was no way he could go through this.

The guard pushed a panel on the wall to open the door. "Move!"

Malcolm stumbled as the Vulcan pulled him forward, and as a consequence was almost dragged the few steps across the threshold. Regaining his balance, he took a look around the windowless room. Its walls were bare and splattered with brown stains, as if the liquid had hit the surface with great force. He quickly drew his eyes away.

"Finally."

Malcolm raised his head. Sahriv was there, flanked by two Vulcans in official robes, a man and a woman Malcolm had never seen before. Their faces were set into hard lines. Next to them, on a small table, lay the probe; or rather, what was left of it. It seemed to have been all but ripped apart, its interiors turned inside out and broken into pieces.

Sahriv never even looked at him, speaking to the guards instead. "Where is the third one?"

"We've sent someone for him, Osu. He's being brought here as we speak."

Sahriv inclined his head. "Good. Have him taken to one of the cells. We are going to question these two first."

"Yes, Osu."

The guards left, the door closing behind them with an audible click. Before Malcolm even had a chance to assess the situation – three against two, with the additional hindrance of the restraints – the woman had stepped behind him and pushed him to his knees. Next to him, Trip was made to kneel down as well, held down by the Vulcan man who had his shoulder in a firm grip.

Malcolm tried to struggle to his feet again, only to receive a sharp blow between the shoulder blades that almost sent him sprawling on the floor.

"Computer, activate recording," Sahriv said, quite calmly and still not taking any notice of the two humans kneeling before him. "Interrogators present are Sahriv, House Intendant, as well as Officers Skonik and T'Mai of Colony Security. The two suspects are the legal property of the House of Sreman; ownership rights have been rescinded for the duration of the hearing. The suspects will be considered property of the colony until legal proceedings are over."

Sahriv came to stand in front of Malcolm and looked at him for the first time. "Do you understand what that means, human?"

Malcolm fought for his voice to sound calm. "My friends have got nothing to do with this. They didn't even know I was hiding something."

"Malcolm!" Trip sounded furious, but his protests were cut short by a blow to the head.

"How dare you!" Skonik gave him a push, and Trip would have fallen on his face if he hadn't caught himself with his bound hands. "Human speak," the officer said to Sahriv, ignoring Trip's struggles to get back into an upright position. "I thought you had your pau'kaluku trained better than that."

"We do," Sahriv replied. "But these two are obviously not the sort we usually purchase. A rather unfortunate choice on our part, I admit." He stepped in front of Malcolm. "So you are saying you stole this device and hid it in your sleeping chamber, and your two bunkmates knew nothing about it?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes."

Calmly, Sahriv turned to Trip. "And can you confirm this?"

"No," Trip said forcefully. "He's just tryin' to protect me."

"And your other bunkmate?"

"He didn't know what we were doin'," Trip replied, and Malcolm nodded. At least Jackson would be left out of this.

"They are lying, of course." The female officer, T'Mai, spoke for the first time. "We are wasting time, House Intendant. Humans will never tell the truth unless they have the proper motivation." She looked down at Malcolm, and the hate in her eyes was a stark contrast to the men's cool but controlled demeanor. "I've yet to meet a pau'kaluk that didn't lie with every word coming out of its mouth."

"We shall see." Sahriv took something from the table, and Malcolm recognized the amplifier chip, scratched and bent as if it had been forcefully removed from its makeshift haltering. The House Intendant held it so they could both get a good look at it. "Did you install this in the device?"

"I did," Trip said before Malcolm had a chance to speak. "It was me."

"To what purpose?"

Silence followed. Malcolm fixed his eyes on the opposite wall, trying not to look at any of the stains. So the Vulcans hadn't picked up the signal; they'd merely found the probe and discovered that it had been tinkered with. One small bit of luck; at least they hadn't been able to decipher the distress call.

"To what purpose?" Sahriv repeated. "Tell me now."

Neither of them spoke, and the House Intendant straightened with a small sigh. "Very well then." He nodded at Trip. "Start with this one."

"No!" Malcolm tried to climb to his feet. "Could you ask Lady T'Var to come down here? She... she can explain."

He hadn't wanted to bring T'Var into this, and he had no idea how she would explain anything, but there was nothing else he could think of to say.

"Silence!" T'Mai grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back to his knees.

Sahriv eyed him coolly. "I see no reason to disturb Lady T'Var over this matter, and I doubt she has anything to say about it." He looked at T'Mai and Skonik. "Begin."

Malcolm tried to get to his feet again, and was backhanded across his face so hard that he fell onto the stone floor, blood trickling out of his mouth and nose. Through a daze, he saw them pull Trip to his feet and drag him over to the far side of the room where a chain hung from the ceiling. Skonik attached one end of it to Trip's restraints, then jerked sharply on the other end. Trip's arms were yanked up and over his head. Skonik kept pulling until Trip's toes barely touched the floor, then fastened the chain to a hook on the wall. Trip was dangling, his entire weight on his arms.

Malcolm wasn't sure how, but somehow he managed to struggle to his feet and towards the Vulcans. "Please," he said, aware that he was begging. He didn't care. "Please, he's been sick. Don't do this. I can-"

"Yes?" Sahriv looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "You can do what?"

"Nothing," Trip said in a strained voice. He turned his head, an effort in his suspended position, and caught Malcolm's eyes, and what he saw on the pale face made Malcolm stop short. There was fear and pain in Trip's eyes, but also something else. Trip was trying to tell him that it was okay. "He's not gonna do anything."

T'Mai brutally drove her fist into his side. "Shut your mouth, idiot!"

"Leave him alone!" Malcolm knew that he was being stupid, didn't care. He stepped towards them, hands raised. "Let him-"

Something flew at him and connected with the side of his face, and this time he did pass out. As he came to, he was lying on the cold concrete again, his bound hands shackled to a ringbolt in the floor. His head felt as if it had collided with a sledgehammer. Blood was in his mouth and on his face, and he spat, leaving a foamy red puddle on the floor in front of him. There was something broken and white among the blood, and it took him a moment to recognize it as a tooth.

A sound like fabric being torn apart caught his attention. He tried to raise his head, which was difficult as his vision blurred with the movement. Trip, they were doing something to him, but he couldn't make out what it was. Blood was trickling into his eyes. He opened his mouth, wanted to tell them to stop whatever they were doing, and found that he couldn't talk. There was something in his throat, blood or saliva or maybe just the hard lump he'd first become aware of on the way down here, and it prevented the sound from coming out.

His surroundings slid into focus again, and now he saw that they had torn off Trip's tunic. The tattered garment was on the floor at the engineer's feet, looking of all things like a small, dead animal. Trip's skin stretched tautly over his ribs, every one of them clearly outlined, and the Vulcans said something about his old cuts, something about another dose of the same. Skonik was holding a whip in his hand.

No, Malcolm wanted to scream, but the obstacle in his throat was still there, and a dry, anguished sound was all that came out. The Vulcan swung the whip back, and there was a loud smack followed by a pained gasp. The force of the blow made Trip's body swing forward on the chain.

"... do not assume that you..."

Sahriv's voice, but Malcolm had no idea what he was saying. Skonik pulled back for another lash, and another, and each one reverberated in Malcolm's ears as if he'd been physically struck himself. He still couldn't talk, could hardly move. They were going to beat Trip to death in front of his eyes, and there was nothing he could do.

"Why did you steal the device?"

Another blow, and this time, Trip cried out.

"Are you rebels?"

Blood was beginning to flow down Trip's back, soaking his pants.

"Were you going to contact them?"

Malcolm closed his eyes. He couldn't do this.

"The device, what did you need it for?"

Trip screamed again, more like a tormented animal than a human being, and suddenly the lump in Malcolm's throat was gone. His voice was rough, tears beginning to mingle with the blood on his face.

"Stop it. He's... he's not a rebel. Stop. I'll tell you."

The Vulcans turned around, looked at him. Malcolm took a deep breath, and began to speak.

TBC...

Okay, you probably didn't believe me, anyway –ducks away from the rotten vegetables- ... please let me know what you think :)!