Right. Here we are.
No immediate signs of life, which is good, because I'd bet my trigger finger that if there was any they'd be shooting at us. That said, the place isn't exactly roomy, which is even harder on Trip than on me. Sometimes it pays to be the runt of the party.
As severe as Sun Tzu would be upon the decision to split our forces, I'm not sure I have much choice. We don't know how much time we'll have before someone notices we're here, and I need to find out as much as I can as quickly as I can. So the MACOs the captain has sent to keep an eye on me clump off down one corridor, and Trip (sorry, Commander Tucker) and I clump down the other.
Apart from finding out that the whole section's depressurised, we don't achieve much to start with. The bulkheads must be made of some immensely dense alloy, because the scanners can't pierce them. However, our luck finally changes when my esteemed colleague finds a computer interface.
I suppose asking for a computer interface with power in it would be a bit much, knowing my luck…
We're in the middle of arranging help from Enterprise with regard to poking life into it when, much to my alarm, all the lights suddenly come on. Commander Tucker's confession that it was nothing to do with him doesn't lift my spirits significantly; I suspect someone has noticed we're here.
What follows is probably the nearest I'm ever likely to experience to being a piece of laundry in a tumble-dryer. The hitherto motionless ship explodes into movement, and judging by the way we're thrown around, it's exactly the same sort of theoretically impossible acrobatics it indulged in on its previous visit. As much attention as I have to spare from trying to save myself from breaking something as I impact various portions of the superstructure detects what I suspect is weapons fire.
Unsurprisingly, Captain Archer decrees that we should come back home. I mean, it's not like I'm going to argue. As much as I'd like to Take Significant Steps To Stop It, there's not a lot I'm going to be able to achieve while I'm being rolled around like a bundle of washing, and I silently if heartily second Trip's observation that we're ready to be rescued.
Oh, more joy. They can only transport one at a time.
Commander Tucker is the ranking officer present, so he makes the decisions. He clearly thinks that it's more important to save two MACOs, of which we have more than enough on board, than Enterprise's extraordinarily gifted Chief Engineer, of whom we have only one.
Still. I suppose it's tough making that kind of a decision when you're 'the one' in question, so I only heave a silent sigh (not that I've much breath available for sighing at all right now, but it's the thought that counts) as I listen-in to developments aboard Enterprise.
She's taking damage, and if this barrage keeps up, there's only going to be one winner. So it's sort of a relief, in a way, when the captain advises Trip that they've lost the transporter and we have to sit tight until they come back for us.
I've finally managed to find something that offers me some stability against this cursed ship's acrobatics and I'm hanging on for grim death. Nevertheless, I'm aware that I won't be able to hang on forever, and probably not as long as it'll take Enterprise to effect repairs and chase us down again. But, a Reed does not dampen his captain's forced and probably misguided optimism. "We'll be fine, sir."
Presumably our ship's rapid decamp puts a brief stop to this one's acrobatics. I suppose it was a bit premature of us to even cautiously resume our exploration, because almost before we've started moving again, another sudden wicked roll (presumably just to spite us) throws me sideways. And wouldn't you know it, I feel something click on the back of my EV suit, and an ominous hiss tells me what's happened.
As much as a Reed values his dignity, it has to be said that my bleat of "Trip!" sounds a mite panicky. It's one thing to bleed out my breathable air when I've made the decision myself, but to have some blasted alien ship components get in on the act is the outside of enough.
Fortunately the Commander manages to get it reattached, but I've previous experience on how fast those things drain out. I hardly need his terse observation that I'm down to eight minutes, which is hardly comforting. Stray memories of debating our capacity to hold our breath for eleven hours wander bleakly through my brain.
Just as Captain Archer did when we were dealing with that mine on Enterprise's hull, Trip connects his backpack and shares his air with me. It's very gallant and comradely of him, I'm sure, and I thank him accordingly, but it undoubtedly leaves both of our survival time looking a lot less cheerful than it did. "We're not going to get very far only sharing your supply," I add, in case this hadn't already occurred to him.
Indefatigably cheerful still, he says he'll try to get their life support online.
"Right," I mutter. "With our luck, they probably breathe fluorine."
I don't know why it is, I just get the feeling that the only reason he hasn't hit me with a brick is that he hasn't actually got one.
~ Later ~
Well, we've been trudging about these bloody corridors until it feels like we must have gone around every one of them at least twice. But we've managed to identify a couple of panels that look like they might have command functions behind them, and my ingenious companion has managed to get each one open and start prying about in it. After a few moments' suspense as he inspects the latest (that dwindling air supply's preying on my mind a bit), I ask if he's had any luck.
"I can't find anything that even looks like an atmosphere recycler," comes the gloomy answer. "I'm startin' to wonder if this ship even has life support."
There's no denying, it's a blow, but I rally. "They must have atmosphere on their Bridge!"
Behind his faceplate, Commander Tucker juts a pugnacious jaw. "Well, let's hope they don't mind sharing."
~ Later ~
Whoever built this thrice-damned ship was so obsessed with security he makes even me look like an amateur. Whenever we get to a door we have to use our phase pistols to cut the lock open. Now, as we force yet another open, nothing greets us but another access tube, pretty well identical to all we've visited already.
"I'm starting to wonder if this ship even has a Bridge," mutters Trip.
I'm wondering much the same thing. Which isn't much comfort when I have – as he informs me – only twenty-six minutes of air left. "Perhaps it's on one of the lower levels? There's no rule that says the bridge has to be at the top of the ship."
He points to thick cables snaking up through the floor and heading upwards. They're data conduits, and as he points out, the chances are they converge on the Bridge.
Oh well. Onward and upward, and all that.
The ship's still motionless, and we don't appear to be in any significant danger at the moment, so I feel a little distraction is in order. I mean, harmless conversation might help take both of our minds off those stealthily-decreasing dials on our air tanks. And fortunately for everyone concerned, I have just the topic to introduce.
"So, I understand our First Officer's no longer married," I say innocently. I know this solely because T'Pol sought me out very shortly after receiving the message from Koss in order to notify me that the 'Next of Kin' details should be changed on her personal files – as Head of Security, I have to have the information kept up to date, in case of accidents. Though I murmured the conventional words of regret, and was equally startled and flattered and sad when she asked me if I would take on that responsibility: "Of my closest friends on Enterprise," she told me, "you, Lieutenant Reed, are the one I most trust to make rational and logical decisions regarding my fate and my property in the event that I cannot do so for myself." Ordinarily I'd never dream of revealing anything so personal, but, knowing what I know about our Chief Engineer's supposedly private heartache regarding the sub-commander, I'll risk mentioning her change in marital status. And I'll just save the business about her next of kin for later, when I'm feeling more pissed off and less compassionately disposed toward him.
The studied lack of reaction is telling in itself, but I'm Section-trained; he's as transparent as a window, even when he's trying to keep his barriers up. "Yeah?"
I bite my lip to stop myself grinning. "Well, I was wondering what your intentions were."
A very sore spot! The Tucker brow behind the faceplate is definitely furrowed. He glares at me and asks who am I, her father?
I look back at him limpidly. "No. Simply curious."
The situation might well have escalated, but it's probably fortunate that at that moment, yet another panel seizes Trip's attention. It turns out to hide a manoeuvring thruster, which – as my suddenly much more cheerful comrade points out – is chemically fuelled, with liquid hydrogen and oxygen. I'm not sure how he can be sure of this, but I'm certainly not about to argue.
Needless to say, he knows as well as I do that breathing pure oxygen is extremely dangerous and would shortly be fatal. Even short-term, it would damage our lungs, which aren't designed to cope with more than the 21% contained in Earth's atmosphere. But a generous helping of it will certainly improve the quality of the gases in our tanks, which are recycled when we breathe and are now becoming dangerously contaminated with carbon dioxide.
I always hesitate to say things are looking up, but there are times when I'm tempted.