A/N: Right, chapter eleven of this saga of love, kidnap and washing machines. What else do you expect? Please tell me what you think!
Disclaimer: I don't own Enterprise, but I do own a set of Star Trek factfiles which only just I rescued from being taken to the car boot sale by my Mum. Trekkers are so misunderstood...
Chapter Eleven – Losing Bearing
It was a beautiful, silent sunrise. Miranda Heron sighed in the quiet peace of it all – for once, there was no smell of grease on her clothes, no clatter of sewing machines in her ears. And she was in good, accustomed company, sitting beside a friend she had known for years and staring out at the sunrise. Yes, she was very much at peace.
Which was why it came as something of a surprise to her when Ryan Tiller cleared his throat, abruptly grabbed her hand, and said;
"Marry me, Miranda."
Miranda had been in the process of taking another sip of her cool, alien cocktail and so spluttered in a most unladylike manner. She gasped and coughed for a moment before she was able to respond.
"I – what? Have you taken leave of your mind, Ryan Andrew Tiller?"
Her companion shuffled uncomfortably and released her hand, his face drawn into a frown as he gazed out at the sea and the red reflection of the rising sun upon it.
"I just thought, M'randa -"
"That's the problem!" Heron interrupted him, standing up to brush herself down. "You don't think!" Whilst she avoided his gaze by glancing at the sea, it struck her that the waves themselves were becoming far more disturbed, and the once-clear waters turgid from sand and stones brought up by the current. Rather like her simple life, suddenly disturbed by this... whim of Ryan's. What she didn't utter, even to herself, was that were she a braver woman she would have been doing the asking. She sighed, and turned to him. He had risen as well, looking bewildered and ever-so-slightly fierce with the sand and salt-spray flecking his bushy eyebrows and grey beard. "Can't we just leave well alone, Ryan? Why d'you need to fix what isn't even broke?"
"Broken." He corrected her, his lips twitching slightly. Miranda had hoped for this reaction; it was strange to think that the burly, introverted repair-man had an abiding love for books and could never bear to hear his precious English language abused; making a deliberate grammar mistake for him to correct was always a sure way to brighten him from any sulk. She laced her arm through his and began to guide him towards the surf.
"Come on now, you. Let's not get silly ideas at our age."
"Silly?"
"Oh, you know what I mean..." But he never had an opportunity to ask her to explain what she meant, for at that moment they were interrupted by running footsteps and they turned to see a gasping Catherine Manning standing behind them.
"Your communicators weren't on!" She exclaimed, at Miranda's slight look of disapproval at being so rudely disturbed. Catherine's eyes raked the pair of them, and her lips parted slightly at the sight of them both in bathing costumes. Ryan removed his hand from Miranda's arm with great dignity and drew himself up as proudly as is possibly when wearing tartan swimming trunks.
"No. And what d'you want, running up to us like the devil's chasin' you?"
Catherine didn't respond for a second, but then it burst out;
"Henny's gone missing! Lieutenant Reed too. She didn't turn up in the morning after we'd been out, and when we told the Enterprise they contacted everyone on the planet but couldn't find the Lieutenant. They checked and his bed hadn't been slept in. Everyone's been called back to the ship." She stopped, then added tremulously, "They think they've been kidnapped!"
Miranda and Ryan exchanged glances. Ryan put out a steadying hand on Miranda's shoulder but at Catherine's steadily paling face put one on hers as well.
"In which case," he said, with a gruffness which did not belie to the younger woman his worry and fear though they were plain to the older, "she couldn't have a better companion, could she? Come on. We'd best get back to the ship."
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He had been waiting for two hours, half-fearing that what awaited when the doors re-opened (and they must re-open) could only be the worst that he imagined. Roughly an hour after Mackie had been taken, a small slot which he had not seen before at the base of the wall by the door opened, and a hunk of blue bread (at least, he thought it was bread; at any rate, it looked better than raw 'digger meat') and a large plastic container of water was pushed through. At the sight of the unexpected water a thirst he had not even been aware of rose up in him and before he knew it he had drunk a third of the surprisingly clean, cool water. After beginning to tip the cup for the second time, however, he stopped, lowered it, and placed it once more on the floor. He then turned around and sat down with his back firmly to it. Henny would need the water.
Just as he thought he was going to mad from the thirst, the uncertainty, and the carafe of water just behind him, the door swung open and some, if not all of his fears were realised. Henrietta Mackie was pushed into the cell and she fell to floor at once, her face down turned. Malcolm was surprised, however, for before the door clanged shut once more two objects were thrown in after her – a roll of bandage and a plastic bottle filled with, by the smell of it, antiseptic.
"Oh, God," he murmured, kneeling on the floor and pulling the crewman up to a sitting position beside him. He was concerned to find that she leant against him with her eyes half-closed rather than holding her own weight, but after a moment she looked up and gave him a tremulous glance.
"I'm sorry, sir." She said, and he let out a laugh which, even to his own ears, sounded dull and flat. Her hair was matted with dried blood and there were bruises on her cheeks, which were white.
"You're sorry?" He knew well enough from his own experience that guilt was a frequent response to events over which one had no control – even torture – but that did not make the sensation of the girl by his side apologising for the beating she had been given any less cold a one. Unless, he thought, she had something to apologise for. He pressed his lips together. He had to ask. "Crewman... did they... ask anything?"
She breathed out shakily, then shook her head with a cough. He noted with a shudder of revulsion that the jagged, weeping scar on her forehead had clear, precise edges; it had been cut surgically and carefully. But why?
"They did, but... I didn't..." She opened her mouth to continue further, but he squeezed her arm.
"Alright. I'm sorry. Where does... it hurt?"
She shot him a look, though Malcolm sensed that even though they were locked in a cell god-only-knew-where, there was amusement beneath the exasperation. She gave a small, if shaky, smile.
"Mostly everywhere. But... my arm..."
Malcolm nodded. He had noticed that she was holding her right arm fairly gingerly, and he suspected he knew what the matter was. Hoping nonetheless that he was mistaken, he reached out and gently pressed at the shoulder joint, feeling at the tips of his fingers the loosely-hanging bone and inflammation which he had expected. His unfortunate patient winced, but made no complaint, and he felt a growing respect for her. Why the hell hadn't she been given a better role than crewman in the Quartermaster's store?
"Tell me about your family." He said abruptly, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour in this case. The dislocated shoulder needed to be pushed back in, and as far as he was concerned it would be far better for Henny Mackie if she was not aware of the fact until the very last minute. As he took her hand and straightened her arm he heard her chuckle.
"Odd conversation starter for a man who never talks about his."
"I beg your pardon?" Though he was concentrating on the shoulder, this statement made him start. She spoke as if she knew him as well as Trip, or the Captain did. She gave another short laugh. Odd, that she should spend so much time finding humour in situations where there really was none.
"As I believe I've said before, we do talk about you lot. Most of the downstairs lot heard all about your birthday cake fiasco – you know, Phlox being the one to figure out your favourite food from your bromilin allergy." She paused. "On the other hand, you're lucky to have a Captain like Archer. I haven't met many who'd go to such lengths just for a crew-member's birthday."
"He's your Captain too." Malcolm murmured, deciding it was safer not to reflect on what else the 'downstairs lot' knew about him if they knew the very name of one of his allergies. He stiffened his arm and began to count down from five.
"Yes, I know, but there isn't the same sort of -"
Malcolm pushed the arm with as much force as he could muster and this time, Henny did not remain silent. The arm, however, was back in place, and though she was now paler than ever and shaking, she shot Malcolm a relieved look.
"Thanks. I was waiting for you to get on with it."
Malcolm shook his head.
"You knew?"
"Of course. You got a terribly guilty look on your face when you asked me about my family."
Malcolm raised his eyebrows.
"You're braver than I am, then." She flushed at his words, and for a moment he felt that his bluntness had been inappropriate – she was still his subordinate, after all – but then he remembered where they were, and what they were doing there. Or not doing there, to be precise. They weren't escaping. And, if the injuries that their captors had inflicted on the young woman beside him were anything to go by, nor were they entirely safe.
"They told me this was revenge." She said suddenly, and he looked up from examining the plastic bottle which the aliens had thrown in after her.
"I beg your pardon?" Whilst she spoke, he slowly began to unwind the length of bandage, mentally assessing where it would be best put to use. Her cut forehead was the first priority; then her arm, which ought to be secured in some way to prevent further damage, and he really ought to check her ribs in case any were broken...
"The – the one in charge," Henny started, and Malcolm (who had been momentarily distracted by the half-mortifying, half terribly tempting thought of having to examine the crewman's torso for cracked ribs) pulled together his tattered concentration to listen, "said that these -" with her good arm she indicated the cut on her forehead and the dislocated arm "- were the injuries he received when the rocks fell on him and knocked him out. He said -" at this she let out a sob, which she quickly swallowed with a shake of her head as Malcolm moved convulsively to comfort her "- he said that the injuries suffered by his two – companions – would be... awarded at a later date."
Malcolm leant back on his heels, horrified. This was no random torture; this was planned, mechanical punishment. And he was afraid that the shaking body beside him could only take so much of it. He looked at the bandage in his hands, suddenly disgusted to be handling anything given to them by their captors.
"So why have they given us – this?"
Henny looked at the bandage, biting her lip.
"He – he also said that he wanted... not to mis-treat us." Her face contorted with anger and Malcolm was sure she had lost any sympathy she had once had for the three Clendavin men for whose death she had thought herself responsible. "He said I should treat my injuries whilst I could in order to – prepare for the next time." Then, to Malcolm's amazement, her voice took on a wry tone. "You might find it comforting that he said they didn't actually want to kill us."
Malcolm shook his head. There were too many questions in his mind to ask Henny right now; more than anything she needed rest. But why – apart from revenge, which seemed a fairly trivial cause – had the Clendavin's taken then captive? And how had they made their way here when, according to all of Enterprise's records, the Clendavin's had no warp drive and, more importantly of all, no ports at which non-native vessels could land? There was one last question, however, that he had to ask before bandaging her injuries and seeing that she took as much of the food and water that she could muster.
"Do your... ribs hurt at all?"
His hesitancy must have shown on his face, for she laughed, albeit weakly. (He pushed away the thought that her laugh was surely one of the most comforting things he had ever encountered in the midst of a hostage situation, deeming it an irresponsible one to have locked up alone in a small room).
"No, Lieutenant. They were very methodical with their... ministrations."
He nodded. It gave him no comfort at all to think that even if she had escaped this time with 'ministrations' affecting only her arm and her forehead, there was every possibility that she would not be so lucky the next times. Unless he could prevent those 'next times' from occurring, of course.
"Henny," he said, an entirely different thought occurring to him, "I really think that in a situation like this we can drop the formalities, hmm?"
Henny smiled, the edges of her eyes crinkling slightly.
"Alright – Malcolm."
A ridiculous suggestion, of course, and one that the Malcolm Reed of three years ago would never have dreamed to suggest even with a fellow lieutenant, let alone a vastly younger crewman. On the other hand, the Malcolm Reed of three years ago had not experienced what he had. And if his time in the Expanse had taught him anything, it was that survival recognised no such thing as rank or formality.
He did not, however, say these things to Henny – he was not quite so changed as to communicate his emotions in such a candid manner, but instead said, in a tone rather rougher than he had meant to;
"Come on. I need to clean your forehead."
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A/N: Well, Lieutenant Reed and Crewman Mackie seem to be in quite a pickle! I have the next chapter all ready... if you want it, that is? Purple button!!