"Report, Ensign!"
It wasn't particularly kind, but it worked. He saw Hoshi swallow, and straighten her shoulders. "Sir, it's ... it's not good."
"That was to be expected, but it may not be as bad as it appears. Explain."
"We're all prisoners. Condemned prisoners. We've all been brought here to be ... entertainment."
Malcolm was no longer surprised she was pale. He suspected he was pretty pale himself.
"That person, they were captured with their parent. That's apparently half the fun – prisoners in pairs. They didn't say why."
"'Person'?" he queried. "It sounded to me like a woman."
"I'm not sure they identify as a gender, sir." Her attempt to keep up her courage was heartbreakingly obvious as she added, "I – I think your friend has a strange sense of humour."
"That makes two of us, Ensign. –Who think so," he added quickly, just in case she thought he was claiming to have a warped sense of humour too. "Did you manage to find out anything else?"
"Sorry, sir. They didn't say so, but I think they're injured. Badly injured."
"But they didn't say so."
"No, sir. It was just the way they were speaking. Their breathing's difficult, like they're in pain."
"There could be other reasons for that," he reminded her. "They may have different breathing requirements. Just because this atmosphere evidently suits lungs like ours, it may not be suitable for other sentient creatures who may have evolved elsewhere."
It was uncertain whether she bought his explanation, but she nodded.
"Try not to think the worst until you have to." This from the ship's resident pessimist; his smile felt as forced as hers had looked. Not for by any means the first time, he wished heartily that he had more natural joie de vivre. It was a working certainty that she'd rather have found herself in a pickle with Trip, or Travis, or definitely with the captain... hell, at a guess even T'Pol would have been an improvement.
"I'll try to remember that, sir."
"And I think we might dispense with the 'sirs' for the present," he added. "Shall we say, till we're back on the ship?"
"Yes, s–." Unconvincingly, she turned it into a cough. But his last words had caught her attention. "The ship – they'll be looking for us, won't they?"
"Of course they will." That, at least, could be said with glad certainty. What their chances of success might be were considerably more problematic of course, but that could remain unspoken. "But in the meantime, we should carry out a systematic search to see if there's any way we can escape."
The shortest glance around was enough to convince him that there was none, but it was important to give her some sense of purpose. He stared once again at the narrow window, from which the direct sunlight had now vanished, but it was hardly more than a slit in the stonework. As slender as Hoshi was, even if they could have contrived to get her up to it she couldn't have wriggled out; his first assessment that only a severely malnourished small child would have stood a chance of getting through it had been correct.
Still, it was their duty to search, and so they searched, starting in opposing corners. She ran her fingers across each of the joints in the metal grille, while he carried out an examination of the joints in the stonework. When they'd done with the walls, they turned their attention to the floor, grimly sweeping aside the straw and the rags to check every centimetre.
Carried out in the most exacting fashion, the search turned up exactly what he had expected it to – nothing.
"So what now?" At least she didn't call him 'sir' this time, though there was a sort of hesitation as though she was thinking about it.
"'Now', we do the only other thing we can do – rest, and wait for developments."
Both of their gazes went to the heap of rags with equal reluctance. Its sole selling point was that it was softer than the floor, but on the other hand it was dirty, smelly and probably verminous. And spread out to accommodate both of them at a proper distance, there wouldn't be much of it.
He'd already established that he was wearing nothing under the tunic. Modesty therefore precluded his offering the only garment he had for his junior officer to lie on, though if it had been necessary to protect her from cold he would have done so and damn the embarrassment either of them felt. As it was, she'd just have to brave the heap of rags, probably getting bitten to death by the inhabitants of whatever ecosystem lived in there.
It was unlikely that either of them would sleep, but he made her lie against the wall so that he would be between her and any threat.
Meanwhile, he had to find some portion of the floor for himself in front of the rags that looked even marginally less dirty than the rest of it. It was really not proper for a senior officer on duty to share the sleeping space of one of his juniors, and he silently hoped she didn't think he was expecting to, or hoping to, or ... well, that he had any other motive.
Though the words She'd have to take her chance with me biting her instead then ran serpentine through his mind, and were sternly suppressed.
He didn't need to use the pail, at least not yet. No doubt that indignity would come sooner or later for both of them.
There didn't seem to be anywhere that looked cleaner than anywhere else, so with an inward sigh he simply steeled himself and lay down along the edge of the bed, his back to its occupant so that he faced the door. Hopefully, Hoshi would feel his proximity as protective rather than intrusive. "Try to get some rest," he advised, and she murmured assent.
It wasn't particularly warm in the cell, however. After a few minutes she admitted she was a little cold, and asked hesitantly if it might be a good idea if they got a bit closer to share body heat.
If Malcolm's eyes hadn't been already shut, he would definitely have closed them at this suggestion. Nevertheless, he congratulated himself that his 'Whatever you need. I'll come back a bit, and then you can move as close to me as you like' was delivered in a perfectly neutral tone, devoid of any inappropriate undertones whatsoever.
This was comforting, until he remembered that he was talking to the best comms officer in Starfleet.
It was the work of moments for him to slither himself awkwardly onto the rags and lie still. The suggestion that she should do the moving ensured that she would be the one to set their proximity at one that she was comfortable with. Even so, the specific areas of pressure the top half of his back presently registered required him to remind himself urgently and repeatedly of the codes of conduct becoming an officer, and her upper arm shyly coming to rest around his ribs didn't help one little bit.
They had shelter (however basic), warmth (some), air (however malodorous) and sanitation (of a sort). Survival training dictated that their other most important requirements were water, food and rest. Since there was no water or food, they should rest, conserving their strength.
This was the idea. Normally Malcolm was able to force himself into some kind of a doze even in fairly comfortless conditions, a carry-over from his years in the Section where you sometimes took rest when and as you could snatch it. He could sleep so lightly that the first step outside the room would have woken him. Now, however, he was too aware that Hoshi was not asleep, but listening intently, and there was no doubt that she could hear far more than he could.
Talking would merely keep both of them awake. He pillowed his head on his arm and tried to relax.
With neither of them wearing chronometers, it was difficult to judge the passage of time. However, he suspected that little more than half an hour had passed before she suddenly raised her head. The sudden movement brought him instantly tense, wide awake and ready for action.
"There's noise. A lot of noise."
He listened intently. When both of them were absolutely still, he could hear what she had done – the background buzz of many distant voices.
"Has that just started?" he whispered.
"No. But it's been getting louder. And there are people shouting now."
His brain filled in the image of a gathering theatre crowd. The cold sense of threat breathed down his neck, making him shudder. Entertainment.
The atmosphere in the prison had changed. Presumably others had heard the growing noise too, and understood its significance. As he got to his feet and moved towards the barred wall he could hear the other prisoners, and their reaction confirmed his worst suspicions. For all that he didn't speak the language, the invective of fear is easy enough to recognise.
Hoshi had stood up too, and followed him. "Malcolm, your– the person who put us here–"
"I don't know, Hoshi." He swallowed the nausea of absolute helplessness. "I don't think he'll let you get hurt, but I just don't know."
"Why did he do this to us?" she demanded in a sudden rage. "This 'experiment', why choose us?"
For 'entertainment'. Because he was a fucking arsehole. Because he could. But he couldn't say any of those things, couldn't give her information that would make things even worse for her. Above all he couldn't say that she was the hapless victim of a cruel joke played chiefly on him by a seemingly bored entity with seemingly unlimited powers, who'd made her the Beauty to her superior officer's Beast; for if he failed to protect her and this damned 'Q' chose not to intervene, there was every possibility she could die because of his own failure to control himself as befitted an officer.
Guilt momentarily blocked his throat. If he'd only he'd fought harder, if only he'd managed to resist the fascination she exercised over him. This danger she was in now was solely his fault.
He despised himself. Weak, just as his father had thought him.
"The reasons are hardly important," he made himself say, his voice properly cool and impersonal, and sounding pompous even to his own ears; hopefully she'd be too annoyed by his condescension to notice he'd avoided answering. "What matters is that we conduct ourselves as Starfleet officers. We must hope for an opportunity to put our case to some person in authority."
There was no mistaking the glance she shot at him. She must think him about as sensate as a sodding block of wood.
"And failing that," he went on in a somewhat grimmer voice, "we deal with whatever they throw at us."