Chapter One
Escape

Elizabeth Cutler

We escaped by a hairsbreadth, heading for Earth at maximum speed. The approaching starships under Hernandez's command were already visible on the station's sensors when the shuttle left – permitted, no doubt, by Austin Burnell.

It was always a working certainty that if Trip's rule over Jupiter Station came to an end the existence of the Bunker would also – if not already known – soon be revealed. A separate strike by the Imperial forces could have taken it out before we got there, but we found to our relief that it was still intact, though the personnel were already gone, no doubt fled to safety within minutes of Trip receiving the warning. I know a couple of them were friendly with the mad old homeless man who lingered around the place, and I suppose one of them must have got him out, too, because he was nowhere around. Then, with one eye on the scanners for the attack that must surely come, we worked for twenty-four hours straight, packing up what we could take with us, and destroying some (mostly Defiant-based technology) of what we couldn't. We had to leave the rest – mostly foodstuffs and surplus clothes and blankets – for the Imperial troops to find and do with what they chose.

For all that we never stopped moving, it seemed that Malcolm and I were arguing the whole time.

First, it was Trip's lab. He liked to tinker whenever he visited the Bunker, and over the years, he'd designed a few really serviceable items. I particularly wanted to save the dermal regenerator, a sort of chimera of Defiant technology and something the other Phlox had described in the logs of the other Enterprise, but at over a meter tall and a meter in diameter, Malcolm insisted it was just too big.

"Besides, what do you expect to do with it after we get it out of here?" he demanded.

"Well, we can...we can give it to a doctor somewhere," I flailed. I knew he was right, but it wasn't the dermal regenerator I wanted to save. It was the connection to Trip, to the good that he had done.

"Just some random physician?" he scoffed. I already knew as well as he did that for such an item to suddenly mysteriously appear anywhere near Miguel's old hospital would cause far too many awkward questions, even if we could by some miracle have gotten it there undetected.

"Why not?"

"Because in nought point two seconds, he'll twig exactly who we are, and turn us in for the reward! Bloody hell, Liz!"

"But it could do so much good!" To my eternal embarrassment, I started crying.

"I'm sorry, love," he was quick to apologize. "I shouldn't have got angry, but we don't have time for this."

He was right, again. I took a deep breath, scrubbed away my tears, wiped my nose on my uniform sleeve, and got a grip. "No, we don't, I agree. I'm sorry."

Trip always had an abundance of grease pencils lying around. I didn't even have to stir a step to find one. Dermal Regenerator! I scrawled on the outer casing. Prototype! Learn to use. Replicate. Install in all Fleet sickbays and civilian hospitals. Courtesy of Commodore Tucker.

I gave Malcolm a defiant look. He returned it with a hard grin and nodded.

Later, we argued about him pushing himself too hard. I was perhaps the only person in the Empire in a position to know that he still hadn't fully recovered from the drugs Phlox had given him, and the stab – what I did to him certainly did him no favors. When he became overtired, as he was now, occasionally he started ... drifting. When we had access to the Empire's medical supplies, he kept in reserve a pen hypospray that contained glucose, a small dose of vitamin B and a mild stimulant to boost his energy and improve his focus, but now that's gone like everything else – he didn't have it with him when Burnell came to him with the warning. I didn't even dare risk returning to Sickbay to fetch the ones we kept there, or to the Fortress for theirs, and I certainly don't have the time to synthesize new stocks here and now.

"I can't just stop for a rest," he insisted. "There's too much to do. I'll rest when we're safe or I'm dead, whichever comes first."

"Well, at the rate you're going, it'll be 'dead'!" I snarled. "If you don't take a break soon, you're just going to drop, and we can't do this without you."

And then, I started crying again. I guess I'd gotten so used to deliberately using the waterworks on Trip that I couldn't prevent them now, though I'd like to think that the shock and horror of the past twenty-four hours made me more fragile than usual. "I can't do this without you," I sniffled.

I'd also like to think I don't do it intentionally, but I'm aware that it's a tactic I definitely shouldn't over-use. Malcolm isn't like Trip, and he's quick to suspect he's being deliberately manipulated; he'll react far better to reason than tears. Still, he reluctantly agreed to spend an hour sitting, drinking pineapple juice from a carton I found in the bunker's stores, but he wasn't idle even so; he made a start on erasing the logs. And it was he who picked up the early warning of inbound hostiles, fully armed. We'd had our day of grace – more than I'd dared hope for, but possibly it had taken that long to uncover the existence of the Bunker. Now they knew, and they were going to destroy it; so it was time to run.

We'd just finished a last sweep of the place and were on our way out the door when we were arguing again. I'd set Beans up in a closet with food and water and her litterbox, and now he opened the door and picked her up. I thought he was going to say goodbye and turn her loose when he asked me to open the carrier Julie Massaro had made for her, and which was sitting on top of a nearby cabinet.

"What in the world for?"

"We're taking Beans," he answered, looking stubborn.

"Wh-Where?"

"With us."

"Malcolm, we can't!"

"There's room in the shuttle," he said, cradling her to his chest. "I made sure of it."

But not for the dermal regenerator, I wanted to say, but I stopped myself. For one thing, that would have taken up more space than a dozen cat carriers, and for another, he was still right that we couldn't have done anything with it once we got it out of the Bunker. More importantly, it didn't purr or love you back. Still...

"Malcolm, we can't keep her," I said. Belatedly I understood why he wouldn't want her left locked in there: she'd probably be found, but there's no saying what would happen to her then. Depending on who it was, they could as likely just stomp her to death or use her for target practice as let her go or find her a good home. "We're going on the run. Underground. She's more responsibility than we can handle.

"She's a good hunter. There's water in the arroyo not a kilometer from here. Just bring her to the outer door and let her go. She can take care of herself. I promise."

He scoffed. "Do you know what's going to happen to this place, Liz?"

I shook my head. I had some idea, but he knew more about it than I did, for obvious reasons. As the resident explosives expert he'd been the one to put the final polish on the arrangement of booby-traps Trip had set to delay unwelcome visitors, and I had no doubt that the results would be pretty murderous. And he'd undoubtedly know what the routine would be when dealing with a captured rebel base.

"Assuming they manage to avoid all the booby-traps, which is a big assumption, there are two options. The first is that they'll take over the place – which is probably the better option, because Austin could make use of the tech that's left behind. It's an intact engineering lab and medical facility planned and managed by one of the best engineers and two of the best medical professionals (you and Miguel) in the Empire. It might be lacking the most up-to-date equipment, but it will still be well designed, and with Trip in custody, maybe they can pick his brain about his plans for the place.

"Failing that, they'll gut the place and take everything of any value out of anything that's left intact here, after which they'll annihilate it," he went on harshly. "If they do, they'll carpet bomb everything in a five-kilometer radius of this place. This bunker, where we're standing right now, will blend right in with the landscape then, because it will be a just another bloody crater."

And this time, to my complete astonishment, his mouth flinched as he gripped Beans closer. "I am not leaving her to die!"

Then he put his head down and rubbed his nose against the top of her head, probably ashamed even now of me witnessing his moment of weakness.

"Of course not," I agreed, suddenly understanding why tears worked so well on Trip. "Let me help you."

I opened the carrier and held it upright so he could lower her in rear first. She grumbled and hissed, but she was no match for the two of us when we were working together.

"Thank you, Liz," he said with deep feeling, and scrubbed the back of his sleeve across his face. "We can leave her somewhere along the way. With a family or in somebody's barn..."

"We'll talk about it later," I told him gently. "When we're not so tired."

Hess and Rostov who had, to this point, managed to give us some space, approached urgently.

"We have to go now," Anna said, grabbing the litter box while Mike took the cat food and I scooped up the bowls. "We have less than a minute to get into the shuttle and cloak it before we'll be visible on their scanners."

We exited the Bunker at a dead run.

Data was still being deleted from the banks as we fled to the shuttle; Malcolm was confident the process would finish too soon for it to be halted, but we could actually hear the distant blasts as the charges he'd set went off where the transports were disgorging the attacking troops.

The shuttle was hidden from external view inside what looked like an old mine adit, linked to the Bunker by a narrow tunnel – we hadn't been able to risk landing it in the bay under the Bunker itself in case the explosions above brought the roof down, but this was a second hiding place for when one was needed. The entrance was kept carefully clear so that no movement of greenery betrayed the craft's comings and goings, but even so I don't think I was the only one of us whose heart was in my mouth as Mike eased the nose out into open air. There were a couple of big ships up there, motherships to the troop transports, and no doubt they'd be watching intently for whatever rabbits might bolt now the ferrets had been sent in. The cloaking device was on, and the shuttle's mottled brown coloration blended in perfectly with the sandy soil, desert scrub, and tumbleweeds, but though the ships' orbit was far too high for us to be visible with the naked eye, there was a terrifying sense of being pinned beneath the concentrated gaze of a ruthless enemy. They had Trip – we'd already had to accept that – and none of us knew quite what had happened to Amanda Cole, but they wanted us too.

Malcolm was at the weapons station, studying the readouts of the hostile ships. "In eight seconds, full power, mark 4.2 – go!"

"There's a scoutship coming up!" protested Anna.

"Don't argue – bloody go!"

Even as Mike hit the throttle, the air above us darkened with the scoutship's shadow. Like a sparrow shooting out beneath a hawk's belly, the shuttle darted out of the adit and matched course and speed as Mike realized what Malcolm had intended. The heat of our exhaust trail would have merged with the scoutship's, and we hung on grimly until a sharp turn around a canyon wall offered us the chance to break away unseen.

By this time we were at a decent distance from the Bunker. Readouts on the ships in orbit above revealed it was safe to head out; we all had our plans, and the sooner we disappeared into the ether the safer we'd be. Above all, we didn't want to waste Trip's heroism – he'd bought us the chance to survive and carry on his work, and we wanted him to take what comfort he could from the thought that at least we'd escaped. Though with Amanda Cole having to stay behind at the last moment, I'm sure we all wondered exactly how long we'd be able to live and continue the humanitarian work on the run.

There's now a silence aboard the shuttle as we power out across the blank evening desert.

Mike's the first to break it, asking what we're all thinking. "You reckon they've gotten hold of the Boss yet?"

Anna consults the chronometer. "Stands a chance." She hesitates. "We could pick up the News broadcast…"

"Are you sure you actually want to?" Malcolm's voice is harsh. "You want to see exactly what the Empire wants you to see – a noble man being taken into custody and given honorable treatment?"

I swallow. I know Miguel and Bert are in touch with Trip via the earwig transceiver, but it's only a one-way system. I know that they'll watch the broadcast of the surrender, using the transceiver to give Trip encouragement and advice for as long as they can. But even they won't hear what happens after the official broadcast ends.

I also suspect that Malcolm had made or obtained a listening device of his own. He'd never mentioned such a thing, but in his day he'd been superbly skilled in spyware; it would have been child's play for him to have introduced such an article into the shuttle bay where the surrender was to take place, without anyone being the wiser.

Mike sets the control to autopilot and turns in his seat. Though he speaks respectfully enough, there's a stubborn jut to his jaw. "Yes, sir, I reckon I would," he says. "I've been with the Boss since the start of all this, I'd like to see it through to the end. Near as I can get to it, anyways."

A muscle twitches in Malcolm's cheek, but he nods curtly. "Put it on the main viewer then."

There's a viewscreen on the side of the shuttle, a bit forward of the exit door. I look over at it with fearful curiosity as the picture flickers into life.

A pretty redhead, an expression of gravity on a face that's usually more vivacious. Marla Moore. She'd been all smiles and perky as could be the day of the ceremony to start the building of the Jupiter Station Memorial Hospital to replace the Sickbay over which Phlox had reigned before he and the rest were blown to hell. The Empire must surely have anticipated this moment garnering a hell of a viewing audience, to have gone to all the bother of transporting Moore and the outside broadcast team all the way out to Jupiter Station especially.

She's delivering some tag line, I hardly hear it and I don't care. In the background I can see Trip, standing upright and still, his face set in lines of steady resolve; for all the ruin that the delta radiation and the botched surgery made of it, he's still handsome in all the ways that matter. After all the times I've seen him in anything from an informal tracksuit to an engineer's coverall black with oil and grease, he's hardly recognizable in his dress uniform, his hair immaculately brushed and all his medals shining on his chest. Just the sight of him brings me to the edge of tears, and I hear Anna stifle a sob.

The camera swings to the shuttle from which Admiral Hernandez is just descending. I'll hate that woman till the day I die, but give her her due, she looks the part, and she can act it too. Her face is grave and still, with just the faintest hint of solemn reproach. She's every inch the representative of an authority whose trust Trip has betrayed, come to take her felon into custody to answer for his crimes.

There's an exchange that I hardly hear, I'm too busy watching Trip, watching him free and upright and in control, more of a man than I've ever seen him. I think of him back on Enterprise, stripped to the waist with the others in Engineering, fighting in ferocious temperatures to bring the malfunctioning engine back online; I think of him laughing in the Mess Hall when Anna bought him a set of antique spanners for his birthday; I think of him thoughtfully scanning a list of 'salvaged' items from Mike's latest assignment and then with a small, meaningful nod moving a few things here and there into the 'scrap' column; I think of him looking across at T'Pol, with this odd expression on his face like he's trying to work something out about her in his mind; I think of him arguing passionately with Malcolm, trying to tame a pit-bull that would tear out his throat as soon as look at him; I think of him slipping in through the door to my quarters, whispering All the way tonight, baby girl, because he's got something we need to talk about and bed's the only place on board where no-one turns a hair if men and women whisper to each other.

"And so this historic surrender is taking place peacefully." Marla's voice-over chimes in as the camera zooms in on where one of the admiral's MACOs steps forward with the cuffs for Trip's wrists. He's not quite deft enough to completely hide the gleam of lights on the inner surfaces of them, and beside me Malcolm draws in a small, ragged breath. "Damn you to hell, Erika…" he whispers.

"Ex-Commodore Tucker will now be returned to Earth, where he will stand trial for his crimes against the Empire," Moore intones. "TETV will, of course, bring you the latest coverage of the court martial that we've just heard Admiral Hernandez promise the prisoner, whenever it takes place.

"Now this is Marla Moore from the shuttlebay on Jupiter Station, returning you to the studio."

Nobody wants to hear the rest of it. Anna's index finger flicks the switch off and a heavy silence falls.

"Guess we'd better start deciding where to go," Mike says eventually. "Probably safer if we split up."

"Liz and I will stay together." Malcolm's reply is both instant and unsurprising, given he's just married me. "If you two will take my advice, you'll do the same – that way if one of you gets into trouble, there's at least a chance that someone can get you out of it."

"Somewhere in South America sounds nice," Anna suggests. "There was always a core of resistance down there; maybe there still is, if we look hard enough."

"I'm sure of it," Malcolm says, and while I know he's remembering our mission with Trip and Cole, his grimace suggests that efforts made to clear out that particular rats' nest during his tenure as the Empire's Head of Security were both strenuous and unsatisfactory. "But for pity's sake both of you be careful. I wouldn't use any of the co-ordinates stored in the shuttle's navigational computer if I were you, on the chance that someone, somewhere is squeezing those locations out of Lieutenant Cole as we speak."

I catch myself gasping. Mike looks down and shakes his head sadly while Anna looks toward the ceiling with suspiciously bright eyes – but she never cries, so it must be the dust, or the pollen of some desert plant.

"I'm sorry to be so blunt," Malcolm continues, "but we can't forget that they probably have her now, too, and she was more involved in the distribution operation than anyone."

Exchanging a glance with Mike, Anna nods assent. "Now, don't you and Liz go running your heads into trouble either," she dares to command Malcolm, with a stern look in his direction. "The Boss thought a whole lot of you, General. Believed you'd be the one to look after Liz here. Don't you go proving him wrong, you hear?"

"I won't." The reply is terse, but it's charged with so much meaning that she nods again, accepting.

"So, you thought about where you wanna go? England might be a bit risky, you'll have to run the ports. Might pay you to lie low for a while before you try it."

"I've got somewhere in mind," I say before Malcolm can answer. "There was someone I met at one of the markets where Anna distributed supplies … she lives in Arizona. Last time I spoke to her, she said if ever I needed help or shelter, to look her up."

"We're heading southerly now. We'll be across the border in a couple of minutes." Mike checks the co-ordinates. "Whereabouts this lady live, Liz?"

"A tiny little place in the Sonora Desert. I'll check the maps." I scramble to the navigation station, which Anna helpfully vacates. "She said it was by a place called Rainbow Wells."

"'Wish on a rainbow,'" quotes Malcolm ruefully.