In one of the reviews, someone mentioned that I'd borrowed some lines and inspiration for part of this story from another source. This is absolutely true, and done by design. As with most of my stories, I'd planned to list my sources at the end of the story, so as not to spoil my own story for my readers. However, since the question came up, I'll list them now (spoiler alert): First, the television series 24, which gave me major inspiration for the first chapter and part of the third, and had some influence on the shape of rest of the piece. You'll see snippets of dialogue in chapters 1 and 3, and even two or three flashes of scenes that should look quite familiar, if you've seen the source. Second, "Nightlife" and "Moonshine", both by Rob Thurman. From these books, I got some inspiration for my snarky version of Trip, and for one scene with Malcolm - but I can't tell you which scene because it hasn't happened yet, and telling now would ruin the impact. I'll repeat this at the end of the story, as I normally do, and there I'll tell you which scene.
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Trip realised that his vision was improving. Either his eyes were adjusting to the darkness of this planet, or else - Ah! he thought as the moonlight pierced through the clouds - there was a very bright moon overhead.
They reached the end of the passage. Malcolm raised a hand to halt Trip, and peered into the street. After a moment, he took a step, waving Trip forward.
Trip stepped out onto a broad road and paused; they were the only pedestrians in a very industrial looking, urban area. There were no street lights - not surprising on a planet adapted to such a low level of illumination.
Enterprise had dropped them as close to their destination as possible. Their pick-up point, however, was some distance away from the city, someplace less populated. Since they couldn't bring their own communicators with them, they'd be unable to contact the ship. Enterprise would be scanning their rendezvous point at the same time every day, and likely he and Malcolm would end up sitting there and waiting - thus the need for a fairly deserted location. Short of actually carrying their communicators, it was the best they could do.
Realising that Malcolm was already halfway to the next building, he hustled to catch up. They walked in silence past a low-lying structure before cutting through another alley and boom, they were out there in the midst of the city, sound and motion surrounding them. He trailed behind as Malcolm lead him past shopfronts, their windows showing slices of the local life, dim lights softening the edges of the darkness just enough to brighten the pavement as he passed. Other than the darkness of the street and the pallor of the bypassers, it could well be a crowded urban area on Earth. Some of the shops even had window boxes filled with plants in deep purples and greens, their oddly shaped leaves reaching upwards as if they'd been designed to capture any possible light.
His breath plumed out in the cold air as a silvery, slinky vehicle snaked by, its high-pitched whirr clearly audible above the voices of the crowd. He peered down the street. With its low stone buildings winding up both sides of the narrow lane, the city felt more like London or Boston than any place truly alien. But still, despite its familiarity, there was a vague sense of the unfamiliar to the architecture. Maybe the angles of the pitched roofs were slightly off. Or the...
Malcolm disappeared around a corner, not looking back. It was as if he expected that Trip would simply follow, or maybe didn't care if he didn't. Trip rolled his eyes, sighed, and in a series of quick steps, met his friend mid-stride. "Where are we going?" he asked, keeping his voice pitched normally. There was no need to draw the attention of passersby by acting anything but ordinary.
"Not far," Malcolm replied, not looking at him.
When Malcolm said nothing else, Trip asked, "Know where you're going?"
Malcolm glanced in his direction. "Yes."
When he didn't say more, Trip stopped trying. Their trip down, and now here on the planet - he wasn't sure if Malcolm's brusqueness was due to the prison experience or to Trip's forcing himself onto this mission. Or - Trip thought this with a shock that almost made him stop walking - to Malcolm's being quite aware of being used by Starfleet, yet again: first as a diplomatic tool in the situation with the Illyrians, and now for his connections here. What was to say that Starfleet wouldn't use him and abandon him like they'd done before? Why was Malcolm even agreeing to do this for them?
What choice did the man really have?
As they walked on, Trip realised that he was really starting to hate this. Here they were, thrown into another situation, him with no idea of Malcolm's original assignment here, and Malcolm... He cast a glance to his friend, then away. Malcolm seemed all right, but Trip wasn't buying it. And yet he didn't see any other options.
They finally had a lead on a person who may have been involved, or known some of the people involved, with the terrorist plot - a person that Malcolm had some vague connection to from his past work here on this planet. But finding the man and getting him to talk, that wouldn't be easy. Even if they knew exactly where he was, which they did not, there was no way they could just waltz in and ask - they'd never be allowed past the door. Breaking in was also an unlikely option - most homes on this planet were heavily secured. They'd have to wait for an invitation - and that's where Malcolm's past work here came into play. But the longer they waited, the closer they got to that date. Trip winced and rolled his neck, trying to drive away the tension. The Xindi had taken his home from him. They'd taken his sister, and millions of other people. He would not let another attack happen; not if he could help it. Jon was right. He wished he wasn't, but he was. There wasn't time for anything - not for a full evaluation of Malcolm, not for nothing. They didn't have another option. With Malcolm's already established connections and their need for haste, this was their only realistic choice.
Malcolm brushed past a pedestrian with a murmured, "Sorry." He stopped at the base of a landing, looking at the door several steps above them.
The building was one of a series lining the street, each with its own set of steps leading up to a door. Although the buildings seemed to be a uniform grey stone, each doorway had been painted with its own unique design, perhaps somehow indicating the address. And this particular door was almost "...psychadelic," Trip murmured aloud.
Malcolm gave him a pointed look, one arched eyebrow raised, before he started up the stairs.
Trip hesitated before proceeding. In that moment, the man had almost seemed like the old Malcolm. Not his friend of recent years, but the original Malcolm, the one who was stiff and formal, guarded and wary, the one who'd existed before they'd become friends. But at least in that moment, he recognised him. Because the man who'd come off the Illyrian shuttle - that man he wasn't entirely sure he knew.
When they reached the door, Malcolm lifted his right hand and, holding it up to one of the more densely patterned areas of the door, placed his palm against it. Trip heard a soft click and Malcolm pushed the door open.
Trip followed Malcolm into a dark corridor, so dark that he didn't see the person who was there until he moved.
"Been a while," the man said to Malcolm, his voice loud in the otherwise empty hallway. He stepped away from the wall, and the dim light from a nearby room broke against his back, casting his pale face into shadow.
"You didn't change the lock," Malcolm replied, tone gone icy.
The man shrugged. "They have me," he said, as if that were reason enough. He turned dark eyes on Trip. "Who's this?"
Malcolm crossed his arms. "A friend," he said bluntly.
"What kind of friend?" the man asked, more than a hint of suggestion in his voice. His long, dark hair swung forward as he moved a bit closer. Eyes shadowed by the dim light, he looked Trip over.
Trip stood still and tried to appear composed, although his instinct was to cross his arms over his chest. He fought the urge to step away.
When Malcolm didn't answer, the man gave him a knowing look. Lips twisting into a hard smile, he stood back and let them pass.
Trip could feel the man's eyes burning into his back, but he didn't turn. Nerves on edge, he followed Malcolm down a hallway of crumbling walls smelling of damp, earth and mildew.
Malcolm pushed through a door and, surprisingly, outdoors. They stepped out onto the muddy ground of a dark courtyard in front of a row of what best could best be described as shotgun shacks - a series of low, scrappy buildings with pointed roofs. Despite their lack of repair, there were obviously people living in them, although no one seemed to be outside. Trip looked beyond the houses and into the gloom and realised that they were surrounded on all sides by a fairly tall, solid wall. This was some sort of compound.
A woman stepped from one of the doorways and made her way toward them. As she got close, she said, "Malcolm," brightly, breaking into a wide grin. "Zorna buzzed me and said you were back."
"Trina," Malcolm replied with an open smile that shocked Trip into stillness.
"You've been gone for a while," Trina said, touching Malcolm's arm once, twice, three times, starting at his shoulder and ending on the back of his hand. "Too long."
"Yes," Malcolm said, almost shyly. He returned her ritual greeting, and added, "I had a few things I had to deal with."
"You look..." she let her voice trail off, obviously taking in his thin frame. Eyes suddenly guarded, she reached a cautious hand up to his cheek, trailing a finger along the scar, her eyes moving up to the other one at his temple.
Malcolm tensed. His hand grasped hers and pulled it away.
Trina's eyes flashed to Trip. "Was he -?"
"No," Malcolm said firmly. He squeezed her hand, then let it drop. "It wasn't him," he added, his voice softer now.
There was silence as Trina, arms crossed over her chest, evaluated Malcolm quite frankly.
"Do you mind if we..." Malcolm let his voice fade off. He shifted, seeming uncomfortable. "I mean, we'll do the work." Again, Trip noticed the uncharacteristic uncertainty. Malcolm was definitely playing a role.
"Not an issue" Trina said. She patted him on the arm. "Stay as long as you'd like. We can use trustworthy help." She looked at Trip, piercing him with her dark eyes. "So who is your friend?"
"Trip," Malcolm said.
She gave him a smile that said a lot more than it should have.
"It's not what you think," Malcolm added, words coming fast. Trip wasn't sure, but he thought Malcolm was blushing.
"You trust him?" Trina asked frankly.
"With my life," Malcolm replied sombrely. Trip looked at him in surprise - he'd sounded like himself there for a moment.
Trina nodded. Waving for them to follow her, she went back into the house.
The first room they hit was obviously a kitchen - there was a stove of some sort, although from the sharp chemical smell coming from the pots on top, Trip sincerely hoped they weren't making dinner.
Her back to them, Trina picked something up off a nearby counter. "Crowl House," she said, turning to face them. "You remember where that is?" In one hand, she held out a clear packet of something brown and powdery. The other held a sheathed knife.
Malcolm palmed the packet and nodded. Grabbing the knife, he left without a word.
Trip stood there a moment, hesitating in his shock. A pointed look from Trina sent him scurrying after Malcolm.
Trip went out through the main building, only changing to a casual pace when he hit the busy street beside Malcolm.
"What's the knife for?"
"Protection," Malcolm said, still moving.
"What's in the package?" Trip asked sharply.
Malcolm cast him a pointed glance. "Drugs," he said quickly.
Despite having already really known the answer, Trip felt his gut clench. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Malcolm stopped, and Trip nearly bumped him. "Is it a problem?"
"Yeah, it's a problem," Trip replied, incredulous.
Malcolm's brow wrinkled in confusion. "They're legal here," he said. "It's the..." He cast a suspicious eye on the crowd flowing around them, and with one hand, pulled Trip against the nearest building. "The manufacture and distribution is strictly controlled by the government. The people Trina is working for undercut -"
"I don't care," Trip hissed. He rubbed a weary had across his eyes. Drugs. By all that was holy.
"It's how we'll meet our -"
"Jesus, Malcolm." When he realised that Malcolm was staring at him impatiently, neither guilt nor concern in his eyes, Trip felt a part of himself give in. "What kind of drug is it?" he asked quietly, staring off into the crowd.
"Casei. It's an hallucinogen."
Trip watched a young woman pass, arms full of shopping parcels. "Have you tried it?"
"What?" Malcolm said, sounding surprised. "No."
Trip nodded, still not looking at Malcolm. "Good," he said brusquely, moving off in the direction they'd been heading.
Let Malcolm follow him for once.
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