The BLTS Archive - No Turning Back
by Kalita Kasar (kalitafic@hotmail.com)

---

Herein lies my heart Burning through the black Stealing all my breath
There's no turning back Lyrics: Copyright, Carrie Treder 1999

---
Prologue
---

He knelt in the blazing sun, hands bound behind his back; head down, 
eyes closed, he took what little rest was afforded to him after the 
long march to reach this place. He longed for even a patch of shade to 
relieve his skin from the relentless heat of this alien sun, but no 
one had paid him any attention beyond a perfunctory examination to 
check that his bonds still held, and an impartial hand that offered 
him one scant mouthful of water.

He groaned in distress, shifting and trying to settle into a more
comfortable position, only to feel the cord at his neck jerk tight
while a harsh, alien voice commanded him to be still. Although he did
not understand the words, the tone was unmistakeable. He raised his
head briefly, partly opening his eyes to look at the man who held the
other end of the cord.

Approximately 6 feet tall, the alien was muscular and swarthy
complexioned. Humanoid, but for the deep ridges across the bridge of
his nose that ran over his high cheekbones to the sharply pointed
ears; his catlike green eyes glared at the prisoner, daring him to
challenge his authority.

With a sigh, the captive bowed his head, trying to rest without moving
again. He knew the pain these creatures were capable of inflicting.
Pain dealt through implants behind his ears that could be activated to
send what felt like rivers of white-hot lava racing through him,
leaving him weak and shaken for hours after it subsided. He could not
afford that. He needed to keep his strength and his wits about him if
he were to escape. Escape. It was the one thought that kept him alive
in this harsh place.

The cord slackened around his throat and he closed his eyes, dozing
while he awaited the command to be up and moving again.

---

Proconsul Schylar eased his heavy frame in the seat and leaned over to
speak to his driver. "How much further?" He demanded. "It's too damn
hot out here! Why do these mercenaries insist on making rendezvous
points so many miles from anywhere?"

"We are approaching the coordinates now, Proconsul," The driver didn't
bother to answer the other question. He steered the air car to a stop.

"Ah so I see!" Schylar shifted in his seat. "Well, what Jasp has to
show me had better have been worth the journey." He stepped
ponderously from the car as the driver opened the door.

Standing by the car, he waited as Jasp used a combination of tugs on
the cord secured to his prisoner's neck, and blows with a long thin
thrash to urge the humanoid to its feet, before hurrying the captive
over to him.

He watched as the creature was pushed to its knees in front of him;
Schylar examined it in silence for several moments. It was male, as
far as he could tell from looking at it. Far too muscular to be
female; it's head was covered with silky black hair and the arms,
bound behind the creature's back were well muscled and strong but its
frame was exceedingly small compared to the slaves he was accustomed
to. The bare skin of its back gleamed in the sun with a light sheen of
sweat. He wrinkled his nose and glanced at Jasp. "Rather puny looking,
isn't it?"

"Proconsul," Jasp bowed low, "It is a new species, Proconsul. An
off-worlder and not as heavily built as we are used to, but it is
strong enough; sound enough for work or. . . pleasure. If it please,
Proconsul, take a look at it."

Schylar sneered; he hated these fawning mercenaries; they would bow to
your face, and put a knife in your back the minute you turned away.
"What species is it?" His tone was impatient.

"Human," Jasp replied.

At the word Human, the captive looked up, blinking its eyes against
the brightness of the sunlight. It struggled to focus on Schylar's
face and the proconsul hesitated in the act of turning away. "How
singular." He hunkered down in front to the captive and reached a hand
out to touch its face.

With an inarticulate cry, the creature lurched backwards, evading his
touch until Jasp applied the trash to its back, pulling sharply on the
cord to drag the human forward.

"I am sorry, Proconsul, it resists its training yet. . . but I am sure
that in your household it would learn to submit!"

Schylar firmly gripped the human's jaw and held its head still so that
he could stare into the glittering grey eyes. "Such eyes. . . " he
murmured. "I have never seen this colour."

"They are unique to the species, Proconsul. . . many of them have such
pale eyes. I've heard that some of them have blue eyes, though I have
not seen them for myself."

"How much?"

"Six hundred braashti," Jasp replied. "And I am sure you will double
that if you train it for resale. . . " He paused and an unpleasant
smile crossed his features. "Or only think of the bounty it could earn
you if you kept it for service at the consulate?"

"Five hundred," Schylar didn't look up from the human's face.

"Five hundred and eighty," Jasp stated.

"Five hundred and fifty." Schylar straightened and looked into the
eyes of the slaver, "and as usual, I will say nothing of your presence
on my planet."

Jasp hesitated and then nodded, holding up his hand, which Schylar
struck in pledge.

The proconsul turned towards the car, giving his driver instructions
to pay Jasp and take the new slave in hand before they returned to the
consulate. His mind was already ticking over with ways that he could
make money from the human. Such an exotic creature could indeed reap
him a small fortune if he made it available to his guests on state
occasions. The Clinarin were renowned for their exotic tastes in
pleasure slaves. This small, darkhaired human with the beautiful grey
eyes, could prove to be just the pot of gold Schylar was looking for.

---

Exhausted, the human slave collapsed onto his sleeping palette; he
closed his eyes against the tears that threatened to dim them and drew
a deep breath. He would not allow himself that weakness. He ground his
teeth together and slowly relaxed the tension in his tired muscles.

It was the end to yet another party at the consulate. One at which he
had, as usual been in popular demand. His body ached in a hundred
places. His anus burned from the use he'd been put to, yet he would
not allow himself to give in to the tears of shame and humiliation.

He had lost track of how long he had lived at the consulate. At first,
he had tried to keep track of the days using a knife he'd taken from
the banquet hall to scratch marks into the floor next to his bed, but
it had been found and he was severely punished for stealing. After
that, the days merged into one and he no longer cared.

He did not belong here; he knew it and yet, his mind could not tell
him where he did belong. He knew only that this life; this servitude
was not his rightful place. Somewhere on the edges of his mind, lurked
another world, another time and place when things had been so
different, but he could not force a single detail of that life to come
to the front of his consciousness.   Rolling onto his stomach, the
only way that he could find to rest that didn't cause some part of his
abused body to complain, the human let out a long, shuddering breath.
He must rest, for tomorrow heralded yet another interminable party.

From the little he had learned to understand of the foreign language
spoken in this place, it would be a grand occasion. The first visitors
from a planet named Terra were to attend the banquet and Schylar was
full of anticipation of forming some kind of alliance with them.

He groaned, knowing only that for him, it meant more abuse, more
humiliation, and more pain. He buried his face into the crook of one
arm and drifted into a fitful sleep.

---

Captain Jonathan Archer and his first Officer Commander Charles 'Trip'
Tucker III reclined on the decorative cushions in the grand banqueting
hall of the Clinarin High Consulate. They were replete with the wide
range of delicacies offered to visiting dignitaries in the sector, and
both men had drunk more than a little of the sweet, mellow wine served
with the food.

Archer, clad in the black dress uniform of the Terran Starfleet
glanced towards their host and raised his goblet. "A fine meal,
proconsul," he smiled and took a long draught of the dark red liquid,
shooting Tucker a speaking glance and watching as his second in
command raised his goblet and drank the toast as well.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Schylar beamed all over his florid face. "Now,
we have entertainment for our guests. He clapped his hands sharply
twice and looked towards an archway, which was draped with sheer cloth
hangings, all richly decorated with beads and tassels.

From somewhere in the room, a soft thrumming of some stringed
instrument began, and was accompanied by the gentle beats of a small
drum.

Archer followed his host's gaze to the archway, watching as a slim,
darkhaired man emerged from amongst the draperies. His lean body was
naked to the waist, and his creamy skin was adorned with golden chains
from which hung precious jewels. A gold band encircled his brow, and
matching bands decorated his wrists and ankles. The man's lower body
was clad in diaphanous pantaloons that seemed to reveal as much as
they covered.

As Archer watched, mesmerised the young man moved to the center of the
floor in front of where they reclined and began to dance to the music
that strained, it seemed from everywhere at once. The captain's green
gaze followed every movement of limb and the precise placement of the
bare feet as the man moved through the dance.

There was nothing effeminate in the man's movements; everything he did
spoke of coiled strength and power. His steps were neat and clean, his
body seeming to flow as one with the music.

The gentle clinking of chains and the tiny cymbals that the man wore
on his fingers made a delightful counterpoint to the music and as the
tempo increased the young man whirled and leaped across the floor, his
skin beginning to glow with a fine sheen of perspiration and his
breath coming faster between lightly parted lips.

Archer sent Tucker a quick glance, noting that the commander was just
as mesmerised with the dancer, as he was himself. As the music came to
a crescendo, Archer found himself leaning forward on the cushions,
breath suspended as the young man moved towards him to drop to his
knees, forehead bowed to the floor in front of the captain at the same
time as the music abruptly ceased.

"Amazing!" Archer set down his goblet and lightly applauded, glancing
at Schylar as he did so.

"Does he please you, Captain?" Schylar lifted his wine goblet to his
lips.

"He is very talented," the captain replied, unable to resist reaching
to touch the soft dark hair of the dancer who still knelt, panting in
front of him. He smiled as the man raised his head at the light touch.
"What is your name?" he asked.

Schylar gave a rumble of soft laughter. "He does not have a name,
Captain, and if he did, he could not tell you. Our slaves do not have
the power of speech." He smiled at the captain's look of enquiry. "We
fit them with a device which effectively renders them speechless –
only those sounds which are – aesthetically pleasing can be uttered."
He turned his eyes to the darkhaired man as he spoke. "If he pleases
you, you may have the use of him tonight."

Archer turned his attention to the kneeling slave whose grey eyes were
fixed on his face with an expression he couldn't fathom. Was it
puzzlement? He smiled at the man and glanced at Tucker before he
replied. "Thank you, Proconsul. We would like that."

Schylar smiled and clapped his hands. The slave got up and bowed to
Schylar and then to Archer and Tucker before he backed out of the
room. "You will find him awaiting you in your chamber," Schylar said.

Nodding, Archer took another sip of the wine in his goblet. "He looks
human," he remarked, "is he from Terra?"

"He is human, Captain, but whether he is from your home world or not,
I don't know. I acquired him from a trader who had already fitted the
inhibitors. We find it is better if a slave does not recall its former
life. They settle into their servitude more readily, and do not pine
if that is the case." He lifted a decanter of wine and offered to
refill their goblets. "You will find him a willing vessel. . . he is
one of my most popular pleasure slaves."

Archer kept his expression neutral as he accepted more wine from his
host. He did not approve of the manner in which slaves were handled on
Clinarin II, but it was not his place to speak.

Whilst slavery was not openly encouraged in Starfleet, it was not
discouraged either, and many captains carried pleasure slaves on board
their ships in order to keep morale high amongst the crew.

He did not keep a slave himself, since he was involved in an intimate
liaison with Charles Tucker, but he was not averse to the idea and he
knew one or two of his officers owned slaves that served aboard his
ship in the capacity of stewards during duty hours and in a completely
different status after hours.

He smiled and raised his goblet in a silent toast to Schylar before he
sipped the wine. He wanted to know more about the darkhaired human
that had danced for them so expertly. Perhaps there was some way he
could communicate with the man. He intended to find out.

---

He stood by the arched window in the chamber of the Terran guests,
hands clasped behind his back while his eyes scanned the barren
landscape that lay beyond the walls of the Clinarin High Consulate. As
far as he could see was desert and waste. Identical to the wastelands
he'd marched through in the custody of Jasp prior to being sold to
Schylar.

He drew a deep breath and let it go slowly, still trying to recover
from the shock of recognition when the Terran captain touched his hair
in the banqueting hall. He'd raised his eyes, expecting to meet eyes
filled with lust and had frozen in surprise as he realized that he
knew this face. As he struggled to catch his breath, the man met his
eyes and spoke in a tongue he knew and understood. 'What is your
name?' He felt a shudder run through him. That voice, those softly
spoken words, so familiar and yet, he didn't know who the man was.

'He doesn't have a name, Captain, and if he did, he could not tell
you.'  Schylar's voice echoed mockingly in his head. He closed his
eyes. How he had wanted to speak to the captain, to be able to voice
the questions that sprang into his mind. 'Who are you? Who are you?
Why do you look so familiar?'

The human turned away from the window, drawing the light robe he wore
over his dancing costume closer about his slight frame. He was glad
his dance had pleased the guests, for it meant that he would be sent
to serve them after the dinner.

He enjoyed dancing, it helped to keep his body toned and strong; he
danced with all his strength, putting as much extension and power into
every movement as he could muster. It made his muscles taut and ready.
He must always be ready, he told himself. One day someone would pay
him less attention than they ought to, and he would use that lapse to
his advantage.

Muted voices from the hallway outside the chamber drew his thoughts
from the possibility of escape, and he turned to face the door,
gracefully sinking to his knees and bowing to touch his forehead to
the floor as the two male Terrans entered.

He could not see what the men were doing as they entered the room. His
training held him in place; he would not look up until someone spoke
to him, or touched him. Some of the Proconsul's guests found it
amusing to leave him bowed like this for hours at a time and he was
prepared to do that if it was the desire of these men. He waited, and
listened to the soft sounds of movement, an unmistakeable sound of
kissing and fondling and he closed his eyes. Did he dare to hope that
these men would be content not to use his body?

Finally he became aware that someone had moved to stand directly in
front of him although he didn't indicate that awareness by even a
twitch of a muscle. Waiting instead until he should be told to move.

"They sure know how to train slaves on this planet," a soft, accented
voice said, "How d'you suppose they do it?" This voice, too, sounded
familiar and spoke in a language he knew.

"With pain, no doubt." The one he knew only as 'captain' replied. "The
fear of pain is a powerful motivator."

He heard footfalls as the captain moved towards him and he felt gentle
fingers brush his shoulder, permitting him to sit up onto his heels.

"Don't you know anything about keeping slaves, Trip?" The captain's
voice was mildly amused. "He probably would have stayed that way all
night unless you acknowledged him."

"Oh. . . "

Looking up, he got his first proper look at the 'captain's' companion;
a tall, golden haired man with deep blue eyes; again, startlingly
familiar and yet a stranger to him. He looked from one to the other of
them, silently waiting for them to command him.

"Stand up." The command, softly spoken, came from the captain.

He did as he was told, clasping his hands behind his back and lowering
his eyes.

"Look at me."

He met the sea green gaze and forced himself to maintain the eye
contact.

"You understand my words?"

A nod. He did, although he couldn't have said how.

The captain pointed to himself. "Archer." He indicated the other man.
"Tucker," he said.

The slave nodded, indicating that he understood, but he made no
attempt to speak.

"Are you from Terra?" The captain asked, "Your home? Where is your
home?"

He shook his head slowly and turned his gaze, to take in the chamber,
and then shrugged his shoulders. He didn't know where he was from; how
could he even begin to explain the shadows that lurked at the edges of
his mind?

"Do you. . . have a name?" Archer pursued.

He could only bow his head, shaking it again and offering another
helpless shrug.

"Cap'n, this is gettin' you exactly nowhere. The man don't know
anythin' other than this, this place, this life. . . why do you even
care anyhow? He's nothin' to us."

Archer nodded slightly, a gesture of resignation and half turned away
from the slave. "You can go," he said. "We don't need your. . .
services."

"Nngh!" He dropped to his knees at the Terran's feet, shaking his head
hard in denial and looked up at him in appeal. "Ngh!"

"What?" Archer turned to him. "What's wrong?"

"He's scared is what." Tucker moved over to stand in front of the
slave. "Lookit him. . . "

He was terrified. Cold fear clutched at his heart when Archer
dismissed him, sending him to his knees with a cry of supplication. He
had only ever been sent away by a guest once before, and the
punishment when it was discovered had very nearly killed him. He shook
his head again and dared to touch Tucker's leg, whimpering softly.
'Please don't send me away! Please!'

Archer frowned deeply. "I don't want to use him. . . it's not like he
has any choice. . . and you know I haven't had a slave in. . . well, a
long time."

"Yeah, but maybe if we don't, they'll hurt him. Or worse." Tucker
argued. "He's obviously terrified of bein' sent away." He looked down
at the man kneeling at his feet. "They don't handle slaves here the
same way our people do. We don't know what it will mean if they think
he's upset us or somethin'."

Looking from one Terran to the other, he followed their conversation;
he put every ounce of appeal he could muster into his eyes, mutely
begging them to let him stay. He couldn't face the pain from the
implants again, it was worse than any beating. It got inside him and
made him want to tear free of his own skin to escape it. He groaned,
bowing with his forehead to the floor. He would do anything if they
would just allow him to stay with them.

He heard Archer sigh and was aware of the heavy footfalls of the large
framed man and a moment later the same gentle touch to his shoulder.
He raised his head and looked into the Terran's eyes.

"If you just. . . rest here tonight, will you get into trouble?" The
captain's voice was low, and so gentle that it almost undid him. He
lowered his eyes, shaking his head mutely. It was up to the Terrans
how they used him. Only being sent away before the dawn would result
in punishment.

"Stay," Archer murmured and then he moved away before the slave could
even try to indicate his gratitude.

---

Jonathan Archer lay on his back in the darkness, staring up at the
high ceiling of the guest chamber. Next to him, curled into the crook
of his arm, his head resting on the captain's chest, Charles Tucker
III slept quietly. The captain sighed and stirred slightly attempting
to extricate himself from his lover's body without waking him.

Tucker had drifted to sleep, as was his wont, immediately following
their lovemaking. The captain, however, found sleep elusive. He sat up
as Tucker mumbled something in his sleep and rolled away from him.
Straining his eyes in the dim light that filtered through the window,
he was able to make out the form of the human slave curled up on the
floor asleep not far from the foot of the bed.

Jon stared at the still form for a few moments and then eased his
large frame out of bed and reached for a silk robe that was provided
by their hosts. He slipped the garment on and tied the sash at his
waist, moving to the slave's side and hunkering down next to the
sleeping man.

In repose the young man's face had lost much of the nervous strain
that was apparent when the slave was awake, his thin lips were
slightly parted and dark lashes brushed against the high cheekbones.
Jon stared at him, trying to understand what it was about this man
that seemed to call to some part of his soul. Tucker was right when he
said that this man was nothing to them, so why this feeling of déjà
vu; what did this young slave awaken in him that made him want to know
more about him?

Silently he reached out a hand and lightly touched the slave's arm.

He woke with a start and scrambled to his knees, bowing his head to
the floor in silence and Jon touched his shoulder.

"It's all right," he whispered, mindful of his lover sleeping a few
feet away. "I want to talk to you," he went on when the slave sat back
on his heels, "Come with me."

Archer led the way out through the arched window, onto a patio where a
couple of chairs stood either side of a small table which had what
appeared to be a glass top. He seated himself and waved a hand at the
other chair, but the slave shook his head slightly, sinking instead to
his knees at Archer's feet.

"No." Archer leaned forward and raised the darkhaired man's chin with
two fingers, forcing the slave to meet his eyes. "I am giving the
orders here, and I want you to sit in that chair. Understand?"

The clear grey-blue eyes met his for a moment and then the man nodded;
rising from his knees he moved to the chair. He laid his hands in his
lap and lowered his eyes, staring at the tabletop.

Although he knew that the man had no choice, Archer found the silence
of the slave a little unnerving. He sighed, watching the man and
asking himself again what it was about this man that made him want to
get through to him somehow. He had noted the sharp intelligence in
those clear eyes; it bothered him that the man was unable to speak. It
bothered him more than it should. More than the captain was prepared
to fully admit.

Looking up, he found those clear eyes fixed on him and it almost
caused a shiver to run through him. "What?" He asked softly, watching
the young man quietly.

Frowning, the slave shook his head and then raised a hand to point at
his own chest. He then placed a fingertip to next to his eye before he
pointed at the captain.

"You see me?" Archer frowned, trying to understand as the slave shook
his head. He watched as the slave made another attempt. Again the man
indicated himself, and then he touched his temple and then pointed at
archer.

"You know me. . . " Archer shook his head as the man nodded quickly.
"That's not possible. We've never met before tonight."

The slave shrugged. He signed again.

"I know – you speak?" Archer leaned forward, studying the man
carefully. "You mean you understand my language?" He was rewarded with
another nod and a small smile.

"That's true," Archer agreed, "but that may be because we're from the
same planet. It doesn't mean we've met before." He watched as the
slave signed insistently. "But . . .  you know my face. . . "

"Mm!" The slave nodded again, his eyes gleaming with certainty. I know
your face; he signed it again. He pointed towards the chamber they'd
left and made more signs.

"You know Tucker as well?" Archer sighed heavily as this was met with
another affirmative. "I don't understand it," he murmured getting to
his feet. "I am sure I would have remembered meeting you. . . " He
looked towards the darkhaired man, studying him in silence for some
time.

Sighing, the slave turned his eyes away from Archer's face, staring
for a long time out into the desert wasteland beyond the Consulate.
His face took on a look of deep sadness and confusion.

Archer found himself wondering what it must be like for an intelligent
and sentient being to be deprived of speech and memories. He couldn't
imagine he would be able to bear such a thing as stoically as this man
seemed to. He turned his gaze away from the man, following his stare
out into the wilderness. Drawing a deep breath, he mentally reviewed
what he knew of the Clinarin.

They were a major power in this sector. According to the database on
board his ship, anyone who had dealings with the Clinarin did so on
the most deferential terms, and this was borne out by the heavily
armed and shielded vessels that had met and escorted his ship into
orbit of the second planet in the system.

Archer didn't approve of many of the things he had found on this
planet; not the least of them, the trade in drugs and slaves, yet he
knew he could not comment on their culture. Starfleet had ordered him
to open negotiations for a trade alliance, dealing with the trace
minerals and elements that were found in rich deposits in the system,
not to spark an incident over his foolish preoccupation with a slave.

A soft sound behind him caused the captain to turn and look at the
darkhaired man who now stood beside the chair. He smiled softly and
watched as the man pointed towards the pink tinge of dawn on the
horizon.

"Time to go is it?" he asked and nodded his permission when the slave
confirmed his question. "Goodbye," he said softly.

The slave bowed, touching the heel of his hand to his forehead and
then left silently.

---

Rough hands gripped his arms painfully as he was half dragged and half
carried along a corridor. His head reeled still from the heavy blow
one of the guards had dealt him and he tasted the metallic taint of
blood in his mouth. He wondered if he'd lost a tooth or merely bitten
his tongue but his mind was too fuzzy to investigate the thought.

He was dragged into a large room and hurried across it. A shove from
behind and he sprawled facedown to the floor. Before he could move, a
heavy, booted foot came down on the small of his back, holding him in
place with an unspoken threat to crush his spine should he attempt to
get up.

Rapid-fire Clinarin echoed around him as Schylar demanded to know what
was going on, and his attempted escape was detailed.

He had very nearly made it, too. After leaving the guest chamber when
Archer told him he could go, the slave had headed for the small room
where he usually slept and whiled away his inactive days. He walked
there quickly; his mind occupied with his attempt at communicating
with the Terran, and was surprised to discover that his keeper was not
awaiting him.

Without a second thought he turned and bolted through the fortress,
his feet unerringly carrying him towards a small doorway he'd
discovered early in his captivity; a door that he knew was seldom
guarded. Servants used it mostly; an outlet into a courtyard, and one
that servants came and went through freely to bring produce in or
remove waste.

He had investigated it in quiet moments when he was left unattended to
wander at his whim. One of the benefits of his model behaviour was
that his keeper had come to trust him, and allowed him freedoms that
other slaves were not afforded.

He reached the door and cautiously stepped through it, glancing around
to ensure no one was about. At this early hour the small courtyard was
deserted and across the yard, not even one hundred meters from where
he now stood, a gate led into the open desert and freedom.

Pressing himself into the shadows along the wall he made his way to
the gate, wishing he'd had the foresight to take something he might
have used as a weapon. His heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest as
tortuously slowly, he edged his way closer to the gate, one hand
reaching for the latch, he held his breath, hardly daring to hope that
the portal to freedom would be unlocked.

His fingertips just grazed the metal of the latch when a gruff voice
cried: "Halt, slave!"

The command galvanized him and he hit the latch with all this
strength, a sob escaping him when it gave easily and the gate swung
open. He broke into a flat run.

Part of his mind screamed his own folly even as he ran. He was casting
himself into the wilderness with no water, very little in the way of
clothing to protect his skin from the merciless sun, no food and slim
chance of survival. Yet another part of him exulted in the sudden
freedom; his heart soared, and his legs borrowed from that elation
driving into the sandy ground, carrying him swiftly away from the
Clinarin fortress.

And then the pain hit. He recoiled, clutching at his head as he
stumbled and fell to his knees. He only just had time to tuck and roll
to avoid injuring himself from the fall. White-hot tendrils of agony
snaked out from behind his ears and ran down his spine. He cried out,
clawing at the nape of his neck in an attempt to stop the pain.

Writhing, he rolled onto his back, fingernails tearing at his flesh as
he cried and begged wordlessly for the pain to stop. When it finally
did cease, he subsided on the ground, groaning and sobbing for breath.
Too weak to do anything else, he could only wait until the guard
reached him.

The guard dragged him to his feet before landing a powerful backhand
cuff to his jaw that sent him reeling into the dirt again. He shook
his head weakly, slowly moving to his knees; frustration and hatred
roiled in his gut as he crawled like a whipped dog to the guard's feet
and bowed down. He received a savage kick to his side as a reward
before he was hauled to his feet and pushed in the direction of the
gate.

Inside the fortress once more, he was handed over to his enraged
keeper and two more guards who bound him and dragged him bodily to the
room he was now in, crouched cowed and defeated before his owner.

The guard removed his foot from the small of his back and fingers
tangled into his hair, jerking him upright. He swallowed hard, looking
into Schylar's eyes and reading the anger there.

"Is this the way you repay my trust?" Schylar stepped forward and
brought one large hand slashing across his face with a powerful slap.
"You know the penalty for your actions!"

He groaned with pain; the blow caused a galaxy of stars to dance
before his eyes as he blinked back tears of pain and frustration. He
raised his head once more, struggling to focus on Schylar's face,
blinking away the stars and attempted to shake his head against the
strong fingers that still held him by his hair.

"Fool!" Schylar growled and turned away from him. "Take him away.
Tether him in the courtyard under guard. He seems to have a fondness
for our sun..." Schylar cast him one last withering glance over his
shoulder. "Bring him to me in the banquet hall after tonight's feast.
He will serve as an example to anyone who might think to cross the
Clinarin High Consulate!"

He did not resist as he was pulled to his feet and marched towards the
door. The fight was gone out of him, and his head ached intolerably.
He needed to rest.

At the door, his guards paused pulling him aside as someone entered.
He raised his head when they didn't move off again immediately and
found himself looking into the startled, concerned eyes of the Terran
captain. A sharp intake of breath caused him to turn his head to find
Tucker standing at the captain's shoulder. His mouth hung open in
shock and blue eyes studied his face, registering first surprise and
then anger.

"What th'hell happened to him?" the Terran asked.

He didn't hear if any explanation was given. His guard spoke a harsh
command and pushed him forward. He broke the eye contact with Tucker
and shuffled out of the room.

---

Jonathan Archer paced the floor in their chamber; Tucker sat on the
end of the bed watching him.

"I can't just walk away and leave him here, Trip!" The captain shook
his head. "There's no telling what they'll do to him. You've seen him,
the spirit in him – and the fight. He won't relent and neither will
they until he's. . . "

Tucker shook his head. "Look, I can see how you feel about this,
Cap'n, but we're not here on a mercy mission. An attempted escape by
one of their slaves, or the way they handle it is none of our
concern." He paused, and then went on. "Besides, what's so special
about this one slave? Why are you so wound up over him? The Pro Consul
has hundreds of slaves, of every race. . . why are you so concerned
about this one? Is it because he's human, is that it?"

Archer shook his head, "I don't know. There's something about him,
Trip. I can't explain it." He sighed. "I just sense that there's
something more to this man, something important; I can't explain it
any better than that."

"Well, I dunno what you wanna do, Cap'n. All I know is you'd better be
damn careful about it. These guys are no small fry, and we can't
afford to do anythin' that's gonna hurt our trade negotiations here."

"I know." Archer let his breath out on a heavy sigh. He turned to the
window and stared out across the desert as he let his mind return to
the scene that had greeted them when they entered the Pro Consul's
audience chamber.

The human slave, who had been sitting across the table from him less
than an hour before, stood in front of him, trembling as though
chilled. One eye was rapidly swelling shut from an obvious blow to his
face. His lower lip was broken and bleeding. The sharp, intelligent
grey eyes were dimmed with pain and there were tracks of tears through
the dust and grime on his battered face.

Archer closed his eyes and sighed, dismissing the image from his mind.
The pro consul had offered a brief explanation in answer to Trip's
outburst and then had dropped the subject of the slave, turning to
matters of business.

They still had one more night on this planet before they would depart.
Hopefully by the time they left, negotiations would be well in train
for a trade alliance. That was what he had to focus on, Archer told
himself.

The plight of one slave amongst hundreds could not be permitted to
jeopardize those negotiations; in that, at least, Tucker was right.

---

The dinner seemed to drag on interminably. Archer sighed, resting on
the sumptuous cushions and nursing a goblet of wine in his hands.

Nearby, so close that their heads almost touched at times, Tucker
reclined in a similar position. From time to time he glanced at the
captain, making some passing remark about their surroundings or the
aliens that crowded the room. Archer was aware that his first officer
was trying hard to elevate his spirits and he appreciated the gesture.
However, his mind would not relent in brooding over the human slave
and wondering what had become of him.

Another sigh fetched up from somewhere deep in his chest and he
glanced at Tucker, offering him an insipid smile.

A small commotion by the doors drew his attention and he tensed,
staring fixedly at the scene that was playing out. Two guards stood in
the doorway as though awaiting a command to enter, between them, the
darkhaired human slave stood unsteadily, head bowed and his eyes
closed; he was the picture of exhaustion and Archer felt again the
familiar stirring of empathy and protectiveness that he was learning
to associate with the man. He raised himself a little on the cushions,
hearing Tucker mutter something unintelligible.

"Ah!" Schylar sat up and beckoned to the guards. "Captain Archer. . .
you will, no doubt remember our ‘talented' dancer"

Archer nodded, never taking his eyes off the man as the guards hurried
him across the floor to push him down to his knees in front of
Schylar.

"He was a model slave," Schylar said, his tone edged with something
like regret. "Until today. . .  today he destroyed his own good record
and became a traitor to my house."

Archer stared at the man who now knelt before them.

He was shaking uncontrollably as though from cold, and his fair skin
was an angry red. The livid bruises of the morning were still apparent
on his face and others now marred the man's upper body and arms. There
were marks on the back of his neck that looked like angry red weals,
as though someone had raked their nails repeatedly across the tender
skin there.

Archer wanted to go to him, offer him wine or something, anything to
alleviate the suffering so evident in every line of his body. He
swallowed hard and turned to look at Tucker, reading the same sympathy
in the engineer's blue eyes.

Schylar rose to his feet and took a step forward, seizing a handful of
the slave's dark hair and jerking him roughly to his feet. He shoved
the man, turning him to face the rest of the room and pushing him
ahead of him as he walked to the centre of the floor.

"This creature is a traitor against the Clinarin." He said clearly.
"He has abused our trust and our care of him and dared to attempt to
leave the Consulate!" He pushed the man hard, sending him sprawling to
the floor.

"Under our law, his punishment is clear. He should be executed,
publicly." The Pro Consul paused for effect. "However, I am disposed
to be. . . lenient." He looked around the room for a moment, until his
eyes fell on a huge, muscular Nausicaan who reclined on cushions
almost opposite to where Archer and Tucker were seated.

"Brendar, you have often expressed your admiration of him." Schylar's
smile was unpleasant. "Until now, I have discouraged your. . .
interest, but tonight. . . " He set a booted foot against the slave's
back pushing him forward with a savage force that shocked Archer with
it's ferocity. "It is yours! Take it and . . .  do not be too
concerned with its welfare."

Archer was on his feet without a second thought. "No!"

Schylar turned, his face a mask of indignation. "I warn you, Captain.
Do not interfere."

"Please. . . " Archer took a step forward but was halted by a gentle
restraining hand on his arm. He turned to look into Tucker's eyes.

"Leave it, Cap'n." The warning tone was as clear as Schylar's had
been. "Not here; not now."

Archer stared into his engineer's eyes helplessly, searching for words
to express what churned in his mind, but Tucker merely shook his head,
tightening his grip on Archer's arm.

"Choose your battles, Jon."

"Your first officer is a wise man, Captain Archer." Schylar spoke
softly before he turned to Brendar again. "Take it." He repeated
before he turned away from the slave and moved back to his seat.

Archer could only watch helplessly as the alien named Brendar left his
place to claim his trophy and dragged the unresisting human out of the
room.

---

"We're getting him out of here, Trip." Archer's tone brooked no
argument as he faced his first officer squarely back in their
chambers. He stood, hands on hips, staring into the worried blue eyes
of his second in command. "I refuse to leave this planet without him."

Tucker sighed and shook his head. Interfering in this situation was a
fool's mission; Tucker had spent the last half hour trying to convince
his captain of that fact, but he could see it was no use. He met the
captain's eyes. "Okay, have you given any thought to how we're gonna
pull this off?"

"We have to find him first." Jon began to pace. "He's in the hands of
a Nausicaan; we've encountered them before. . . I don't know; where do
you think that man would be quartered?"

"My guess would be we try listenin' out real hard for sounds of
torture." Tucker winced as he spoke. "It shouldn't be too hard to hear
a man screamin' in this place. . . " he tailed off at the look on the
captain's face. "Sorry. Just tellin' it like I see it, Jon."

Archer turned away from him, pushing a hand through his hair. Tucker
was right, but that didn't make it any easier to hear. He padded on
bare feet to the door of their chamber and looked out. The corridor
was quiet and deserted. He glanced over his shoulder. "Did you bring
weapons?"

"You know no landing party leaves the ship without ‘em, Cap'n." Tucker
got up and joined his captain at the door after fetching two energy
weapons from a small cabinet beside the bed. "You're gonna get us both
killed. . . I just know it."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Archer stepped into the corridor,
concealing the small hand weapon in his uniform pocket.

They made their way slowly through the darkened hallways, each with
his ears and eyes strained for the slightest sound of distress or
signs of movement in the halls that would spell their discovery.

After what seemed an age of fruitless searching, Tucker suddenly froze
in his tracks, tapping the captain lightly on his arm. "Listen!"

Archer froze, holding his breath so that nothing would interfere with
his ability to hear. At first he heard nothing, and then, faintly from
somewhere along a corridor to his left he heard it, muted sobs and
groans of pain. He glanced at Tucker. "Come on."

With a sigh and another shake of his head, Tucker followed his
captain.

As they approached the room from where the sounds originated, the sobs
became more insistent, Archer heard a ragged intake of breath and then
the air was rent by a demented howl of agony. The captain hesitated
for a moment, his blood turning to ice water, as his heart seemed to
stop. He swallowed a rising wave of nausea and quickly moved to the
doorway.

Raising the small weapon and holding it with both hands to steady his
aim, the captain nodded to Tucker who tried the door. It gave under
his hand and swung open noiselessly. The two shared a glance before
Tucker edged his way into the room, crouching instinctively as another
scream tore through the air around them.

Archer steeled himself to be stealthy as he followed his first
officer. He prayed they were in the right room, but even if they were
not, he felt sure he would not hesitate to kill whoever was inflicting
the kind of suffering these screams and cries spoke of; alliance be
damned.

"Does that hurt, pretty one?" A voice spoke softly, unmistakeably in
Nausicaan.

Archer recognized it from their last encounter, aboard the Fortunate.
He pressed his lips together in a thin line, keeping to the shadows as
his eyes adjusted to the soft lighting in the room.

The only response to the Nausicaan's question was a shuddering groan
of pain.

"I'll do it again, shall I?"

They were the last words Brendar ever spoke, but surprisingly, it was
Tucker who fired the fatal shot. It was a clean shot and the Nausicaan
died without a sound, slumping forward over the man who lay under him.

Archer moved quickly dragging the dead alien off the human and
reaching for the darkhaired man's hand; he pulled him off the bed,
grimacing at the blood that covered the slave's face. He wasn't sure
if it was Nausicaan or human and he didn't have time to find out. He
headed for the door, dragging the naked man after him and was halted
by Tucker's voice.

"Cap'n!"

He turned to look at Tucker.

"We can't go that way. . . if they see us. . . " Tucker waved towards
the windows, "you'd better make a jump for it. . . I'm gonna take care
of a couple of things here and I'll meet you at the shuttlepod in a
few minutes."

Archer nodded and looked around for a few seconds, locating a robe
which he picked up and gave to the darkhaired man who was on the point
of collapse. He urged the man quickly towards the windows, thanking
his lucky stars that they were not on a higher floor as he urged the
slave to jump.

Left alone with the dead Nausicaan, Tucker quickly scouted the room
until he found a Nausicaan energy weapon. He picked it up and
discharged it, and then he hastily wiped it with a corner of the
bloodied sheets, before tossing it to the floor near the foot of the
bed. His hope was that when the weapon and the body were discovered,
the Clinarin would assume that the human slave had murdered Brendar
and made good his escape under cover of night.

He stood for a moment, looking at the dead alien with an expression of
contempt before he made his way quietly to the door and let himself
out into the corridor. He was unchallenged as he walked through the
fortress and casually made his way to the Starfleet shuttlepod a few
minutes later.

Archer was waiting for him, crouched on the floor next to the
semi-conscious slave. He had a medikit open beside him and was doing
his best to tend to the multiple injuries of the other man. He looked
up as Tucker stepped into the small craft and sealed the hatch.

"How is he?" Tucker indicated the darkhaired human, his eyes taking in
the obvious seriousness of the man's condition.

"Not good." Archer shook his head. "We need to get him back to the
ship as soon as possible; he needs medical attention."

"I'm afraid he's gonna have to wait a while, Cap'n." Tucker offered
Archer a sympathetic look. "We can't leave until the morning.' They'd
suspect us in a second."

"Trip, he could die if we don't hurry."

"Yeah, and we could have a war on our hands if we don't play this nice
and cool." Tucker looked from Archer's face to the injured man and
back. "You'll just have to knock him out and leave him to take his
chances. We got him away from Brendar, maybe we bought him some time.
. . but we can't afford to let Schylar suspect we're involved in
this."

"So what are you saying?" Archer loaded a sedative in a hypospray as
he spoke. "We just leave him here in the pod and go back inside the
fortress?" He sighed as he sedated the injured man. "I don't like
leaving him like this. . . "

"We don't have a whole lotta options here, Cap'n." Tucker moved to the
hatch and opened it. "I don't like it anymore than you do, but this
way we're at least givin' ourselves, and our friend here, the best
chance we can."

Archer nodded reluctantly and followed his first officer out of the
pod, watching as he sealed it securely before they made their way back
into the fortress and their guest chamber.

---

Shortly after dawn, pandemonium broke out within the Clinarin High
Consulate. Brendar was discovered dead in his chamber, killed by a
single blast of an energy weapon to the head. The human slave he'd
taken to his chamber with him the previous night was missing. A trail
of blood and gore from the discarded Nausicaan weapon to the window
told of the fugitive's desperate flight, but no further trace of him
could be found either in or around the fortress.

Schylar ordered a search of the surrounding desert, certain that the
man must not be far away. He had the Terran captain and his first
officer summoned to his audience chamber where he questioned them
about the previous night. Both seemed innocent and were cooperative.
Although he strongly suspected they knew more than they would tell,
there was no way to prove it without endangering the alliance that was
wanted just as eagerly by his people as it was desired by Starfleet.

By mid morning, the Terrans were permitted to leave after an agreement
to receive more Terran diplomats was reached.

As soon as the hatch opened, Archer leaped into the pod and moved to
the side of the darkhaired man they'd gone to such great lengths to
rescue. He crouched beside the still form and felt for a pulse.

"Is he alive?" Tucker was already at the controls, preparing for
flight.

"Barely." Archer rummaged in the medical kit for more medicines. "Get
us out of here."

The flight to their rendezvous point was made in complete silence,
Archer busy attending to the unconscious man, and Tucker focused on
piloting the shuttle. They didn't dare to even hail Enterprise and
inform Phlox to be ready to receive an injured man. The risk of their
transmission being overheard was too great.

As soon as the shuttlepod was safe in the launch bay, Archer moved to
the front and pressed the comms panel. "Archer to Phlox,"

"Go ahead, Captain," the doctor's voice responded.

"Come to the launch bay immediately. We've got an injured man with
us."

"On my way," the doctor replied before the comm went silent.

---

Laying aside the small medical scanner he'd been using, Doctor Phlox
turned to look at the captain. "He's suffering from many and varied
injuries. I've done the best I can to facilitate the healing process;
now it's just a matter of time, rest and care."

Archer nodded, his eyes never leaving the unconscious man's face. He
drew a deep breath. "The Clinarin said they had done something to him.
. . suppressed his memory, and made him incapable of speech. Can you
correct that?"

Phlox moved to the other side of the bio bed, his blue eyes thoughtful
as he formulated his reply. "In time, I don't see why that process
can't be reversed. There are some implants located near the base of
his skull, relatively simple. However, at present he is not strong
enough for me to even consider removing them. In a few days –
perhaps."

"All right," Archer murmured as he turned towards the doors. "Let me
know if there's any change, Doctor."

"Of course." Phlox smiled and nodded to the captain and turned to look
at his most recent patient as Archer left. "You are a man of mystery,
my friend. . . " he said softly, "but you're in good hands now."

---

He woke slowly several hours later. When he was able to, he opened his
eyes, blinking in the ambient light. He drew a breath, noticing the
sterile smell of his surroundings, the muted beep of instrumentation
and a deep, resonant throbbing that seemed to permeate everything.

With a gasp and an inarticulate cry he sat up, grey eyes frantically
scanning the room he found himself in. It was alien, but familiar at
the same time and that melding of two disparate realities terrified
him. He threw the light blanket that covered him aside, and was in the
act of climbing off the bed when a voice greeted him. "It's all
right,"

He bolted backwards, stumbling against a trolley and sending medical
instruments clattering to the floor.

"You're quite safe; please try to calm yourself."

He backed away from the man who approached him. Eyes wide with terror
as he looked into the blue eyes of an alien being with ridged flesh
around its eyes and forehead. He moaned in distress, backing up until
he felt a solid wall behind him and could go no further.

"You're in sickbay aboard the starship Enterprise. I am Doctor Phlox;
I mean you no harm. Captain Archer and Commander Tucker brought you
here. . . I realize you've been under a great deal of stress, but I
assure you, there is no need to be afraid."

Archer, Tucker; he knew those names. He leaned against the wall,
keeping his distance from the alien who stopped trying to approach
him; he closed his eyes for a moment as flashes of memory returned. He
remembered his attempted escape, and the resulting punishment,
kneeling for long hours in the merciless sun, and then the horrors of
the night when he'd been handed over to Brendar.

A shudder ran through him and he opened his eyes. The alien who called
himself Phlox had moved away and stood near the door, his fingers
working at a wall panel.

"Phlox to bridge."

A disembodied voice answered, and the doctor instructed whoever spoke
to inform Captain Archer that ‘the patient' was awake.

He breathed rapidly, fear still warring with fatigue as he watched the
alien closely. He flinched when Phlox took a step towards him and the
doctor halted, holding up his hands in an appeasing gesture. "All
right, I'll stay away. Please calm down, you're in no condition to be
upsetting yourself this way."

A few moments later, the doors behind Phlox slid open and Archer and
Tucker stepped into the room.

With a cry of relief, the darkhaired man pushed away from the wall;
moving to kneel at the captain's feet, he touched his forehead to
Archer's foot.

Phlox turned to the captain with a look of enquiry.

"It's a long story, Doctor." Archer bent down and touched the man on
the shoulder, then helped him to his feet. "No more bowing, all right?
You're not on Clinarin II anymore."

"Captain, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you could
convince him to return to bed," Phlox said quietly. "He really
shouldn't be exerting himself this way."

Archer nodded and looked at the man with a small smile and a nod
towards the bio bed. "Lie down," he said. "Rest."

He studied the captain's face for a long moment, reading nothing there
other than reassurance. With a sigh he nodded and moved to the bed he
had left a few minutes earlier, climbing onto it and settling himself
against the pillow. He looked from Archer to Tucker and then allowed
his gaze to take in the rest of the room they were in, the questions
in his eyes obvious to the three men who stood by him.

"We got you away from the consulate," Archer said softly. "You're
free. You're aboard my ship, the Enterprise."  The captain smiled and
patted his shoulder. "You'll be safe here."

Impulsively, he gripped that reassuring hand and pressed the back of
it to his lips. He closed his eyes tears slipping from beneath the
dark lashes as he nodded his understanding. He was free. A part of him
said he was home, but he dismissed that. While this place seemed
familiar, he didn't really recognize anyone or anything apart from the
two Terrans who had helped him to escape his captivity. He drew a
deep, sighing breath, fatigue at last winning the battle over his fear
and curiosity. Still clutching Archer's hand, he drifted into fitful
sleep.

Archer gently extricated his hand from the sleeping man's grasp and
turned to look at the doctor and Tucker. As he met his lover's eyes,
he surprised a flicker of some emotion that was gone in an instant.
"Something wrong?" he asked.

Tucker shook his head and his gaze slid away from Archer's face. "No."
he answered softly.

Archer frowned, studying Tucker carefully for a moment. "Sure?"

"Yeah." Tucker glanced at the man who slept on the bio bed and then
turned towards the doors. "If ya need me for anythin' I'll be in
engineerin'," he said before he left quietly.

"Trip?" Archer followed his first officer. "Trip, wait."

The commander turned to face him as he stepped into the hallway.
"Cap'n I really have a lot I gotta catch up with. Three days is a long
time in engineerin'," His expression was neutral, and he met Archer's
eyes levelly. "Can't this wait?"

"I want to know what was going on in there," Archer pressed.

"There was nothin' goin' on, Cap'n – was there?"

The question struck like a barb, and Archer sighed and looked away for
a moment. "Just what is that supposed to mean, Trip?" He searched
Tucker's face for an answer.

"Why don't you just think on it some?" Tucker turned away. "I'll see
ya later." 

---

He lay on his back in the room that the doctor called sickbay and
stared up at the ceiling. His mind mulled over this strangely familiar
place and the events that had brought him here. He sighed, wishing
that there was some way that he could voice his myriad questions and
find some answers to them.

A soft sound of someone clearing their throat drew him out of his
silent reverie and he glanced to the side to meet the eyes of a young
woman with dark hair and warm brown eyes. She smiled at him, her lips
curving attractively as she stepped towards him a few paces.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Ensign Sato –" She paused for a moment, then held
up a small device she carried. "I'm the ship's linguist," another
nervous cough to clear her throat. "Captain Archer asked me to work on
some way for you to communicate, at least until the doctor can help
you to talk again." She passed him the electronic device and he stared
at it in silence for a moment.

It had a small screen, and a keypad with letters. Under the screen was
a pattern of minute holes that he assumed were designed to allow sound
to come from the device. He glanced up from it and met the ensign's
eyes, frowning slightly.

"You just input what you want to say," Hoshi said moving a little
closer to him. "Here, I'll show you." Taking the device from him she
tapped the keys with her fingers. "See?" She glanced at him. "Then,
you just touch this button here." She pressed it.

‘I am happy to see you.' A faintly metallic sounding voice came from
the machine.

"Now you try it," Hoshi handed the device back to him.

Nodding, he took the machine from her and experimentally tapped a few
keys. He frowned in concentration, trying to make sense of the keys
and input something intelligible. He bit his lips, frustrated with the
slowness of a task he felt sure he should be able to accomplish with
as much ease as Hoshi did.

Finally with a small sigh, he pressed the button that Hoshi had shown
him.

‘Hello, Ensign Sato.' The automated voice said.

"Excellent!" Hoshi smiled broadly, "But you can call me Hoshi, almost
everyone does."

‘Hoshi,' he typed and then met her eyes with a bright smile. ‘Thank
you.'

"Don't mention it." Hoshi returned his smile, then reached over and
pointed to a row of buttons along the bottom of the device. "These are
shortcuts," she said. "Words that are used a lot, like: ‘hello,'
‘thank you.' If you press these buttons they are printed for you
automatically."

He nodded and smiled, holding the device in both hands. It wasn't
exactly speech as he would like it, but for now, it was better than
the grunts and other vocalizations he was forced to use. ‘I need to
talk to Archer,' he typed, glancing at Hoshi as he pressed the send
button.

Hoshi nodded, "he should be along soon, he had a few things to attend
to on the bridge, but he is interested in seeing how this works."

As she finished speaking the sickbay doors opened, and Captain Archer
walked in. He was alone, and he glanced at Sato as he made his way to
the side of the biobed. "Ensign," he said in greeting and then turned
to the darkhaired man on the bed. "Hello," he murmured.

‘Hello, Archer,' the mechanical voice replied for the man.

Archer smiled. "I see Hoshi has been busy. I realize it's not the most
ideal situation, but, for now it is the best we can do."

‘It's all right,' he typed in response. ‘Good to be able to
communicate in something other than sign language.'

"And this way everyone can understand you, without needing to learn
how to sign," Hoshi put in.

Archer and the patient both nodded.

"Well, if you don't need me for anything else, Captain?" Hoshi took a
half step towards the door and Archer gave a nod. "Thanks, Hoshi."

As the ensign left, the darkhaired man tapped on the keypad of his
small device. "Archer, I didn't have a chance to say so before now,
but I am grateful for all that you have done.'

The captain turned to look at him, his expression breaking into a wide
grin. "It was my pleasure," he answered. His eyes went to the device
the other man held. "That thing sure makes a difference, doesn't it?"

He nodded, tapping on the keyboard again. ‘It is good to be able to
make myself understood.' He looked up with a smile, meeting Archer's
eyes.

"Do you. . . remember anything? Where you're from? Your name?" Archer
asked quietly.

‘Not really,' he typed in reply. ‘There are some things that are
familiar to me; yourself, Tucker, and some of this,' he looked around
the sickbay, ‘but I don't know why or where I know you from.'

"I'm certain I have never met you before." Archer shook his head
slightly.

The man shrugged slightly and allowed a faint smile to touch his lips.
‘Hopefully, it will all become clearer once Doctor Phlox is able to
remove the implants. It is rather unnerving not knowing who I am or
where I belong.' He lowered his eyes, frowning slightly. ‘How long
will I have to stay here?'

"I can answer that," Phlox spoke as he stepped out of his office and
approached the bed. "Your body has undergone a good deal of physical
trauma; however, because of your fitness and physical strength your
system is recovering remarkably well. I don't see why you should have
to stay here – just so long as you would promise to rest should we
arrange alternate quarters for you." The doctor ended with a smile and
an enquiring look at the captain.

Both men regarded the captain steadily for a moment, and Archer nodded
amiably. "I think the quartermaster could find you a place. We've got
one or two cabins that don't have any other occupants at present, I
think. I'll see what I can do.

‘Thank you, Archer,' the darkhaired man typed and then turned his
attention to the doctor as Archer got up to leave. ‘How long before
you think you can remove these implants,' he asked.

"Not too long, I think," Phlox replied. "I had anticipated that it
would be several days, but you appear to be recovering from your
injuries very well. I'll review the possibility tomorrow, but for now
it's time you got some rest. You've had two visitors in a very short
space of time. I don't want you to tire yourself too much."

‘Yes, I'll admit I do feel a little weary,' he set the device Hoshi
had given him on the cabinet beside his bed and laid down while the
doctor fussed with a medical scanner.

---

". . . Phlox says that everything went well with the surgery, he
expects that our friend will wake up sometime this morning." Archer
remarked as he sipped his orange juice. He glanced at Tucker who was
pushing his breakfast around his plate, not making any attempt to eat.
"I hope he can remember something about who he is; he seems so. . .
lost."

Tucker didn't reply, merely shooting the captain a look across the top
of his coffee mug as he sipped the steaming liquid.

"Trip, you've been sulking now for three days," Archer said as he laid
down his knife and fork. "I've given you space, and plenty of time to
think, but frankly I'm getting just a little tired of the silent
treatment." He levelled a searching look at his lover across the
table. "Out with it. I want to know what's wrong!"

Tucker raised his eyes from the congealed mess of egg yolk and
fragmented toast on his plate and met Archer's eyes. "I didn't think
you had much time, between your duty shifts and all the time you're
spendin' with your ‘lost boy' to notice what I've been doin!" He
frowned and looked away.

"That's more than a little unfair, Trip." Archer was surprised at the
amount of venom in his young lover's tone. He reached for the other
man's hand across the table, but Trip snatched his fingers out of
reach, glaring at him.

"Oh really! Unfair?" Tucker picked up the snowy white napkin from his
lap, hastily wiped his mouth on it and then tossed it onto his plate.
"Lemme tell ya ‘bout unfair, Jon! It's unfair when you expect me to
hang aroun' waitin' on ya while you're in sickbay for hours at a time
after your shift ends. It's unfair when ya expect me to drop
everythin' and run to ya when ya fin'lly decide you've had enough o'
his company and have a few minutes to spare fer me!"

Tucker's accent escalated along with his temper, and he got to his
feet, leaning both hands on the table as he stared into the captain's
eyes. "It's unfair when, two years in'o a relationship we decided was
exclusive, ya get all gooey eyed over some stranger, an' don't expect
me to buck!"

Archer's mouth dropped open in amazement and he stared at Tucker
without speaking for a few moments. Shaking his head he managed to
stammer. "Trip. . . I. . . I had no idea, uh. . . I. . . "

"O'course ya didn't!" Trip snapped back at him. "But now you got an
idea! I won't play secon' fiddle t'him, Jon. Y'either have me, or ya
have him. I won't jus' dangle on a string wait'n' while ya figure it
out either!" Anger and hurt were evident in every syllable, and in
every tense line of the engineer's body as he broke off, staring into
Archer's eyes for a moment, breathing hard. "I gotta git t'work," he
muttered, and then he turned and stormed out of the captain's mess.

Watching as his lover rapidly disappeared the captain shook his head
again. He had to admit he'd been spending a lot of time with the man
they'd rescued from Clinarin II but it didn't go any deeper than an
honest concern for the man's welfare; did it?

He frowned, thinking it over. He had not really sat down before now to
honestly evaluate his motives regarding the darkhaired man. Damn, I
wish we had a name for him. . .  he thought distractedly as he
pondered the situation. Archer sighed. If he was completely honest
with himself he did find the man attractive and had done so from the
first moment he laid eyes on him. Still, he was a Starfleet captain,
and knew enough to keep a professional detachment; didn't he?

Archer rose to his feet as a steward entered to clear the table. He
nodded to the young man and walked towards the doors with a sigh.
Whether his motives were pure or otherwise didn't matter a bit, he
thought, as long as Tucker was seeing more in his actions than he
realized he'd been projecting. Perhaps others were aware of it as
well.

The captain made his way to the end of the corridor and pressed a call
button for the lift.

Stepping into the lift when it arrived, he pressed the button for the
bridge but hesitated when the comms panel beeped.

*Phlox to Captain Archer,*

Archer pressed the call button. "Go ahead, Doctor."

"The patient is coming around, Captain, I thought you'd like to know."

"Thank you, I'm on my way."

The darkhaired man was awake and sitting up a little groggily on the
biobed by the time Archer arrived in sickbay. He looked up as the
doors opened and smiled at the captain. "Arr..cher," he said, frowning
in concentration as he articulated the name.

"Take it easy," Phlox cautioned, "you may find you'll need to continue
with the voice synthesizer Ensign Sato made for you."

With a sigh, the man looked at the doctor, "but. . . "

Phlox shook his head. "I'm sorry, but you can't expect things to
happen overnight. I should think there will be some residual
dysphasia, even with the implants gone." He smiled sympathetically

Archer moved to the bedside, standing next to the doctor. He smiled at
the darkhaired man. "I'm sure things will get easier as time goes on.
Phlox here is a fine doctor. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," the man answered and Archer tipped his head to one side,
something about the inflection of the word ‘fine' struck him as being
different. He nodded slightly.

"Glad to hear it." The captain turned to look at Phlox. "Is it all
right if I stay for a little while?"

"Certainly," Phlox nodded. He gave his patient a cautionary look.
"Don't push things for now," he said quietly then glanced at the
captain. "Not too long, Captain, we don't want to tire him too much."

Archer nodded and pulled a seat over, easing his large frame down into
it as he turned his attention to the man on the biobed.

"Have you. . .  had. . . " the patient began, and then paused,
frowning deeply in concentration. He seemed to search for words for a
few moments, and then shook his head with a sigh. Meeting the
captain's eyes he tried again. "Schylar. . .  has he. . . "

"If you're asking if anyone from Clinarin II has tried to contact us,
the answer is no," Archer told him. "I don't think they suspect that
you're with us. You have nothing to worry about."

"That's . . .  good to know."

Archer smiled reaching out to pat the man's hand. "You have an
accent," he said softly, "It sounds European."

"European?" The man pondered for a moment, and then his expression
changed. "From Earth. . . I am. . . from Earth!" He stated it with
conviction and met the captain's eyes. "European." He smiled. "Yes."

"What's your name?" Archer pressed gently, hoping that if the man
could remember his place of origin, he may be able to remember other
details about himself. He leaned forward, watching as the man frowned,
concentration obvious on his angular features.

After a moment, the man shook his head, sighing in exasperation. "I
don't know."

"Well, don't push it," Archer said quietly. "It may just take time."
He got to his feet as he spoke and rested a hand on the man's shoulder
for a moment. "When you're a little stronger, perhaps things will come
more easily to mind."

"Perhaps," the man agreed.

He was beginning to look tired, and the captain decided it was time he
left him to rest. Archer moved towards the doors and was met by Phlox
just before he left.

"I've arranged for my patient to study some speech therapy programs I
have here in sickbay, Captain," Phlox said. "It is only a matter of
time before he will relearn how to form speech fluently. However,
there may be some permanent dysphasia. Although the implants were
easily removed, they had been in place for some time and there is mild
neurological damage to his speech and memory centres; probably caused
by the electrical impulses which were used to control him."

"I see." Archer glanced back towards the bed, where their guest had
laid down and appeared to be sleeping. "Do you think he'll ever regain
his memory?"

"Most amnesiacs do recover eventually, Captain. How long that process
will take however. . . " Phlox tailed off with a slight shrug. "It
varies from one patient to the next."

Archer frowned. "For his sake, I hope it's not too long. It must be
frustrating not even knowing his name."

"For all of us, Captain." Phlox agreed. "In fact, if he does not
recall his name in the next few days, I suggest that we encourage him
to choose one, it is somewhat dehumanising to constantly refer to him
as a pronoun, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would, Doctor. Good idea." Archer gave a short nod and stepped
through the doors and into the hallway.

---

Warm, gentle lips brushed against his and he moaned, running his hands
down along a broad, muscular back; he explored every inch of the long,
lean body pressed against him and shuddered in delight as a large hand
wrapped around his sex. "God, yes. . . "

"Need you," his lover breathed against his ear; breath warm and moist
against his skin caused another shudder to ripple through him as the
other man's hand stroked him gently, gradually increasing the pace. He
whimpered with desire, opening his eyes in the darkness to try to see
the face of the man he loved more than life.

His partner's face was lost in shadow; he moaned and closed his eyes
as lips claimed his mouth again; pleasure and passion mounted to a
fever pitch as his fingers sought, and found his partner's organ,
closing around it, feeling the wetness of precum from the tip of the
pulsing organ. He pressed closer, losing himself in the sensation of
being held, loved. He felt safe and protected, surrounded by strong
arms.

"I love you, Malcolm." The words were whispered in a dream, but they
startled him into full wakefulness.

He sat up, rubbing his face with one hand. "Mal. . . Malcolm."
Reaching for a light switch, he pressed it, blinking in the soft
illumination that lit the room; regulated by the ship's life support
system the lights came on to a dim glow and gradually built up unless
the cabin's occupant asked for brighter light. He frowned. Malcolm? Is
that my name? He shook his head in frustration. Closing his eyes, he
concentrated harder on the illusive sliver of memory called up by the
dream. Aloud he said. "I am Malcolm. . . from Earth. . . I am
European. . . I am. . . " he struggled to fit the fragments together
and suddenly in a burst of almost painful realization, he knew. I am
Malcolm Reed. Tears flooded his eyes, and he stifled a sob.

Getting to his feet he paced the small cabin he'd been assigned when
the doctor allowed him to leave sickbay, pondering what he should do.
After a moment, he moved to the small panel by the door and pressed
the comm button, following the instructions Phlox had given him.
"Cabin E20 to Phlox." He bit his lips, wondering if the thing would
work; he had not tried this before and he sighed with relief when the
doctor's voice replied, sounding detached and foreign over the comm
but still recognizable.

"Phlox here, how can I help you?"

"I. . . think I . . . " damn, now the words desert me. He thought with
frustration as he struggled to form what he wanted to say into a
cohesive statement. "My name – " he said, "I. . .  think," another
shake of the head and he was searching for the small device Ensign
Sato had given him; typing was easier and faster and he moved back to
the panel, pressing the comm link again. He touched the send button on
the machine.

*My name is Malcolm Reed,* the metallic voice said.

There was a short pause, and Malcolm wondered if the Doctor was still
there. "Doctor?"

"Yes – yes, I heard you." The reply came. "I will come to your cabin,"
he added. "See you shortly, Mr. Reed."

Malcolm turned away from the comm panel, rubbing his face, and moved
to the cooler. He found a container filled with water and took it out,
drinking deeply, directly from the jug. He paced restlessly to and fro
in the small room, waiting anxiously for the doctor to arrive.

When the door slid open a few minutes later, Phlox entered accompanied
by Captain Archer. Malcolm turned to face them and froze as his eyes
met Archer's sea green ones. "Jon," he said.

The captain frowned and glanced at the doctor before returning his
gaze to Reed's face. "Yes, that's my name." He smiled. "How did you
know?"

Malcolm shook his head. "I just knew," he said with a shrug.

"Phlox says you've remembered your name?" Archer paused, waiting for a
response and Malcolm nodded.

"I'm Malcolm Reed," he said softly, watching as another glance passed
between the captain and Phlox.

"Is. . . something wrong?"

"No." Archer smiled reassuringly at him. "Nothing's wrong." He took a
few steps until he was standing near to Malcolm. "Malcolm Reed," he
said softly, as though testing the name on his tongue. "I'm glad you
remembered."

Reed watched the captain's eyes carefully as the man spoke. Something
flickered in their depths that bothered him and he touched the
captain's hand. "Tell. . . me," he said. "What. . . what about my. . .
name?"

---

 "I don't know who this man is," Jonathan Archer told Phlox as he
moved to a seat in his ready room. "But I know who he can't be, and
that's Malcolm Reed."

"You sound very sure," Phlox replied softly. "Would you care to
explain why?"

"Malcolm Reed is dead, doctor." The captain leaned back in his chair
and passed a hand over his face.

"You knew a Malcolm Reed?"

"Yes," Archer sighed softly. "He was a munitions expert, the best in
his field. The perfect man for this mission and I was determined to
have him aboard. In fact, I was planning to meet him personally and
break the news of his selection. . . "

"But?" Phlox listened carefully to the captain's story.

"But, three days before we were due to meet, he was killed; an
explosion in an experimental weapons system. It killed Reed and two
others," another shake of the head. "A damned waste."

"I see. Still, human names are often similar, it's possible this man's
name is Malcolm Reed, but he is a different man."

"True, I hadn't thought of that." The captain smiled. "There's one way
we could find out. . . " He turned to a computer console on his desk
and activated it. "Starfleet maintains records of all personnel, even
those who are killed in the line of duty." He tapped a few commands
into the console and watched as the screen scrolled through some
information. After a moment, there was a muted beep, and the screen
paused at a personnel record.

The heading displayed the name: "Reed, Malcolm. Lieutenant, Munitions.
And next to the name was a small picture. Archer sat back with an
exclamation of surprise. Looking out at them from the computer screen,
was the same grey eyed man that they had left in Cabin E20 earlier.

"How is that possible?" Archer's puzzlement was evident in his tone
and in the look he turned to Phlox.

"I honestly can't explain it," Phlox leaned closer to the computer
screen, studying the image closely. "I must say the resemblance is
uncanny."

"Is there any way he could have accessed these records?" Archer asked.
"Accidentally maybe, when he was using your speech therapy programs?"

"None at all, Captain," the doctor replied. "Those computer systems
are entirely separate. "While that would provide a simple solution to
our problem, I have a feeling this situation goes far deeper than
that."

---

Malcolm paced the small cabin impatiently, glancing towards the doors
from time to time as he waited nervously for Archer and Phlox to
return. It had been over an hour since the two men had left after
assuring him once again that everything was fine and they would be
back soon to continue their discussion.

Why were they lying to him? He sighed in exasperation, wondering for
the hundredth time what it was about his name that caused the shadows
to flicker in the depths of Archer's eyes. Surely they couldn't think
he was lying. Malcolm Reed was his name; it had to be, it felt right.

So why did that name cause the hesitant, almost doubtful reaction that
had been so obvious in Archer?

Finally the door slid open and Archer returned, accompanied by the
doctor, and Tucker. Malcolm turned to face them, trying to read their
expressions and determine by them what they had to say.

There was silence in the room for several moments before Archer
finally let out a deep breath and moved to a chair. "Malcolm, there
are some things we need to discuss," he said quietly, waving the
younger man to a seat.

Several minutes later, Malcolm was staring from one face to another in
utter confusion, his head ached and his eyes burned as it seemed to
him he'd been staring, unblinking for ages.

"Dead?" He shook his head slightly. "But that makes no sense. . . I'm
obviously very much alive. I've never been in any kind of accident
such as you described. . . well, at least, not that I remember." He
frowned, his shoulders slumping as he glanced towards the small
computer console with the personnel records of Lieutenant Malcolm Reed
displayed on it. "I. . . don't understand. . . any of this." He said
wretchedly. "Where am I? What's going on?"

Archer shifted in his seat casting a sympathetic glance at the young,
darkhaired man as he stood up. "I wish I could explain," he murmured,
"but we're as stumped as you are, Mister Reed."

"If I may intervene," Phlox stepped forward, "I think you should try
and rest, Mister Reed." He smiled placatingly as a pair of grey eyes
met his own. "You had a disturbed night, and we've kept you up for
some time. Perhaps on a few hours sleep, things may become clearer to
you, you may remember more details."

Malcolm nodded and sighed softly. As much as his mind wanted to
continue wrestling with the problem of his identity, he had to
acknowledge that he was also bone tired. He got to his feet as the
three men prepared to leave. "Thank you," he said softly, knowing that
as bad as the news they'd brought him was, they were attempting in
their own way to help him.

---

Sitting alone in the mess hall, Malcolm stared gloomily into a mug of
now cold tea and let out a sigh. He'd been given limited freedom to
move about the ship a few days earlier, once the doctor was satisfied
that he was sufficiently recovered from his ordeal on Clinarin II and
the subsequent surgery he'd undergone when he came aboard Enterprise.
It alleviated the boredom only marginally he thought as he raised his
eyes from his mug and stared out of the view port at streaming stars.

The fact was, he felt restless and bored most of the time. He needed
to do something more than brood in his cabin, or wander the hallways
of the ship or sit in the mess hall drinking interminable cups of tea.
He felt dispossessed as though something important and precious had
been stolen from him. He snorted softly at that thought. Of course
something important and precious was stolen. . . I've lost myself!

With another sigh, he turned his attention back to the mug of
unappetising liquid in his hands. I can't stand this much longer. . .
I'm going insane here.

The images flooded his mind without warning, and suddenly, he was no
longer in the mess hall, he was in the cabin of a small vessel. A
vessel that shook and bucked as he tried vainly to regain control of
the helm.

"We're getting' pulled into th'gravity well o'that planet! Pull up,
dammit!"

"I'm trying!" he snapped, his hands working frantically at the
controls. "The helm isn't responding, that asteroid must've done more
damage than we realised. . . See if you can do anything!" He was
giving orders and he didn't care, ranks didn't matter when you were
staring death in the face.

"I've tried everythin' I know how t'do Malcolm! You're gonna have to
get this boat under control. . . if ya can't then. . . "

"Don't you think I would if there were any bloody way of doing it?" He
rounded on his companion, meeting the frantic eyes of the Chief
Engineer. "I'd suggest you bloody well hold on, Commander. . . we're
going down, and there's not a bloody thing I can do about it!"

He breathed hard, his hands gripping the mug of tea so hard that the
china began to give in his grasp. He shook violently, held in the
grips of a nightmare there was no escape from; he couldn't pull
himself out of it, no more than he could have pulled shuttlepod one
out of her death dive into the small planetoid that had claimed her.

"Oh God, Trip! Hold on!" he gasped frantically as he finally abandoned
his attempts to control the shuttle and gripped the console for grim
death. "Brace for impact!" he said, his voice sounding deceptively
steady and calm and he closed his eyes and breathed a prayer that
someone. . . anyone would protect them.

The impact, when it came was sickening. Jarring. He heard the screams
of overstressed metal as the hull came apart, a breach opening above
his head; he lost sight of Tucker who seemed to vanish in a welter of
flying metal, sparks and twisted wiring. "Trip!" He felt himself
lifted bodily and flung to the side as the craft rolled, pitching over
in the sand of the planetoid and he seemed to tumble through choking
dust, smoke and plasma for an eternity before at last, everything was
still. Deathly still. He was conscious, but for a long while he
couldn't move or speak. He could only lie there gasping for breath and
marvelling that he was even alive.

"Trip?" He called, softly at first, and then with more volume as
desperation leant him strength. "Trip!"

There was no response and he began to despair for his friend's life.
Had he been the only one to survive? He couldn't think that; he
wouldn't, Trip had to be okay, he just had to. Malcolm wouldn't accept
anything less.

The mug finally gave way to the tension in the hands that held it and
broke in pieces but Malcolm didn't notice. His eyes were wild, and his
breath came in great, heaving gasps as his mind forced him to live in
vivid flashback through those moments again and with them came the
knowledge that he'd left his companion back there on some alien world.
Left him for dead. Malcolm groaned, unaware of the blood that ran from
his palms where the broken china had cut him.

"Get outta here, Malcolm. . . leave me. . . I can't go any further."
Tucker's one sound eye pleaded silently with him. As the sounds of
pursuit grew closer, Trip struggled weakly against Malcolm, trying to
break loose from the smaller man's grip. "You gotta save yourself.
I'll. . . I'll be all right if I know you're safe."

Malcolm looked into the bloodied face of his companion he suppressed a
wince at the livid gash across the man's left eye. Tucker would lose
the sight of that eye if Malcolm was any judge. He shook his head,
pulling Trip's arm across his shoulders and slipping one arm around
the commander's waist. "Don't be bloody stupid! I'm not leaving you!"
He hefted the other man's weight on his shoulder and pushed onwards.
"I'm getting us both out of this. . . I told you, Commander, we stay
together."

"I'm orderin' you to leave me, Lieutenant!"

"Well, consider me guilty of gross insubordination. I'm not leaving
you. . . sir."

"Damned fool!" mustering what little strength he still possessed
Tucker pushed himself away from Reed and staggered backwards a few
paces. Before Malcolm could react, he turned in the direction they'd
come and lurched a few unsteady paces towards the aliens who pursued
them. "Hey!" he shouted. "Here!"

"Trip!"

"I'm finished I tell ya!" Tucker spoke over his shoulder. "I can't use
my arm, I can't see with this banged up eye, and in a little while
it's gonna be hotter'n hell out here, and I know Ah'll only slow ya
down!"

"Commander Tucker. . . "

"Go Malcolm!" Tucker glanced at him and then half ran, half tumbled
towards the scaly, ridge nosed aliens. "I'm givin' up, see?" he called
and was soon lost to sight in the shimmering heat haze of the desert.

Faced with no choice, Malcolm turned away, fiercely biting back the
rage and frustration Tucker's action caused. He had to remain free,
and try to find a way to contact Enterprise. It was the only hope
either of them had now of getting off the planet alive.

It was the last Malcolm Reed ever saw of Charles Tucker III. After
wandering in the desert for another day, he'd been almost relieved
when he was ‘found' by Jasp.

And before long, Jasp had done him the mercy of stealing his memories
of the blond man he'd left out there, somewhere in the desert.

He groaned, a sound of profound loss and grief as the flashback ended.
"Trip. . . oh god, Trip. . . where are you?"

After a few minutes, having recovered some kind of composure, Malcolm
got to his feet. He had to see Archer. They had to go back to the
Clinarin Sector. He couldn't think of leaving Trip back there on that
planet forever. If there were any way that he could find his friend
and get him off that desolate planet, he would do it.

Stepping through the doors, he was brought up short when he collided
with an officer who was just entering. Malcolm took a half step back
and put out a hand to steady the young man. "I beg your pardon," he
said softly and then took a closer look at the man. "Travis!"

The ensign looked up at him and his eyes grew wide with surprise an
instant before all color fled from his face, leaving his skin an ashen
grey. "M-Malcolm?" He croaked as he staggered backwards a pace or two
to lean against the wall. "That's impossible you're. . . you died. . .
"

"So I've been told," Malcolm managed a small smile at the younger man.
"But as you see, I'm here, and I'm alive. You can't collide with a
ghost, now can you?"

Mayweather nodded slightly. "But. . . how did you get here?"

"I wish I knew," Malcolm said sincerely. He glanced along the hallway
and then turned to Travis again. "I was just looking for your captain,
I need to talk with him. . . " He paused. "Actually, would you mind
coming with me? I think I could use someone to vouch for who I am."

"Sure," Travis straightened up still looking at Reed as though he
couldn't quite believe the man was actually there.

"Thanks." Malcolm patted Travis on the shoulder as they began to walk
together along the hallway. "I appreciate this more than you can
know."

---

Charles Tucker straddled the lean hips of his lover, eyes closed, head
thrown back in ecstasy as he rode Jon hard, impaling himself again and
again on the rigid shaft that was buried deep in his body. Jon's hands
were on his chest, supporting his upper body while his fingers toyed
with the younger man's nipples.

A harsh cry of pleasure burst from Trip's throat as he tensed and
came, the warm semen spurting from his cock to spatter over Jon's
belly. Trip's sphincter clamped tightly around Jon's straining organ,
and the orgasmic ripples through the heated sheath of his lover's body
sent Jon over the edge with a cry of his own.

Trip fell forward on top of him and nuzzled his neck gently, his
breathing still erratic and small shuddering aftershocks running
through his body. "This is the best part o' fightin' with you," he
breathed against Jon's neck.

"I wish we didn't have to fight, though." Jon ran his hands through
the tousled blond hair and pushed Trip away a little, gazing into the
dazed blue eyes of his lover. "I'm sorry," he murmured, then
surrendered his lips to Tucker's mouth as the commander sought a kiss.

"Nah, I'm sorry, Jon, I was actin' like an ass."

"With reason." Jon shifted under his lover nudging him over onto his
side and turning to envelop Trip in his arms. "I didn't realize . . .
"

"Shh!" Trip hitched closer and slipped an arm across Jon's body,
burying his face against the captain's neck. "Enough apologizin'
already; it's past, okay?"

Jon sighed, allowing his lips to curve into a smile against the
younger man's hair. "Okay," he conceded. Eyes slipping closed he began
to doze, delighting in the warmth of Trip's body pressed into his own.
He could easily stay this way forever, he thought sleepily. "I love
you," he breathed, allowing the soft waves of slumber to reach and
claim him.

He was jarred awake moments later by the sound of the door chimes.

Damn! The captain sat up on the bed, pulling away from Trip who
grumbled something in his sleep and flopped onto his belly. Jon
suppressed a grin at the sight of a perfectly rounded butt gleaming at
him. He reached down and drew the light coverlet up over his lover's
body before he stood up, pulling on his underclothes. He moved to the
comm panel by the door and thumbed the button.

"Who's there?"

*Malcolm Reed, Sir, and Ensign Mayweather.* The clipped tones of their
mystery passenger responded. Archer frowned and glanced towards the
bed and his sleeping lover. It wouldn't do to have the two men come
in; the room smelled of sex. He pressed the button again.

"Just. . .  just a minute," he said. "I'll be out shortly."

A few minutes later, dressed in off duty fatigues, the captain stepped
into the hallway. He smiled when he met the blue-grey eyes of the
British man. "How can I help you?" He asked, glancing at Mayweather in
enquiry.

"There are some matters I need to discuss with you, Captain." Reed
replied. "Memories. . . and a request, sir."

Archer nodded. "All right," he said, "His eyes again flicking to
Mayweather, wondering why the ensign was present. Reed seemed to
understand his puzzlement. "Ensign Mayweather and I know each other,
Captain. We were to work together in the munitions program. . . " The
Brit trailed off, frowning. Until that moment, he'd had no conscious
recollection of how he knew Mayweather, but the knowledge had simply
supplied itself when he began to explain the ensign's presence.

Mayweather nodded. "Lieutenant Reed requested that I join the
Munitions program about two months before he was. . . well. . .
before. . . " Travis was obviously struggling with how to explain.
After a moment he shook his head. "I was waiting for my transfer to
come through when the accident that killed Lieutenant Reed happened."
He frowned. "I asked to be released from the program and applied to
join the Enterprise, sir. Somehow, piloting seemed less. . . " He
glanced at Reed.

"You know this man?" Archer glanced between the two of them.

"I knew Lieutenant Reed, Captain. Unless he had an identical twin
brother, this man is Lieutenant Reed, sir."

Archer felt a sick headache beginning to develop behind his eyes. "Is
this the memory you wanted to tell me about?" He began to walk along
the hallway, heading for the mess hall and a much needed mug of
coffee. "And. . . you mentioned a request?"

"Yes, Captain. I would like to request that you take me back to the
Clinarin Sector."

"What?" Archer stopped and turned to look at the man. "Why?"

"I. . . left a colleague. . . a . . .  crewmate there." He met the
captain's eyes. "An engineer." Malcolm decided it might be best to
keep the name of the man quiet for now. "He was with me in a shuttle
when we crash landed on a minor planet in the sector. I was forced to
leave him behind. I need to return for him, sir."

"I don't know if I can justify turning back," Archer said softly. "We
don't even know for sure if your friend is alive, Mr. Reed."

"P-please. . . Captain. . . " Reed frowned, as his tongue seemed to
fumble over the entreaty. "I. . . need to. . . know. If. . . if Tri. .
. if my friend is alive. . . I need to find him. . . "

Archer gazed into Reed's eyes, noting the silent entreaty in the
darkening blue depths. He sighed. "I'll need to talk this over with my
senior staff," he said at length. Watching the man, he saw the jaw
work reflexively, watched as Reed swallowed hard. "That's the best I
can offer you at this time," he said almost apologetically.

Reed nodded. "I understand. Thank you." He glanced at Mayweather and
the two shared a long look before Malcolm moved away.

"Mr. Reed." Archer took a half step after the darkhaired man.

"Sir?" Malcolm turned to look over his shoulder.

"Your hands. . . they're hurt."

For the first time since the flashback in the mess hall, Malcolm
raised his hands and looked at the lacerations on his palms. He hadn't
noticed the bleeding until now, but the moment he looked at them, he
winced with the sudden, stinging pain. "I must have. . . cut them. . .
on the mug. It broke," he said softly, his voice almost detached.
"I'll. . . have Phlox look at them." Reed turned on his heel with a
half salute and walked away along the corridor leaving Archer and
Mayweather staring after him.

"I swear," Travis said softly. "I'll never tell another space-ghost
story as long as I live."

---

It was a desolate planet. Dry desert stretched as far as the eye could
see in any direction and a hot wind swept across the sandy plains,
stirring the fine, powdery sand into dancing whirlwinds and eddies
that staggered across the landscape like drunken phantoms.

Malcolm Reed hunkered down in the sand next to what little remained of
the wrecked shuttlepod. He rested one hand on the sun warmed metal rib
that protruded from the covering sand in front of him. It reminded him
of the bleached bones of some animal that had died of thirst in this
wasteland. He sighed, glancing around as though the swirling sand
could tell him more.

After a moment, Captain Archer stepped forward and laid a hand on the
younger man's shoulder. "I guess the people of this planet are the
same as many races we've encountered. Equipment like you'd find on a
shuttlepod is valuable. They would have salvaged most of it."

Malcolm nodded. "Yes." He let his hand fall away from the metal
framework and straightened up. "I'm just glad there is something
here," he said softly. "It means...a lot."

Archer turned to look at Tucker who was standing a short distance away
talking quietly with Travis Mayweather who had piloted them to the
planet. "Any signs of life?" he asked the two men.

"Nothin'," Tucker replied with a shake of his head. "Whoever lives on
this planet prob'ly has more sense than t'be gallivantin' around in
the noonday sun."

Archer acknowledged Tucker's words with a smile and a nod. "Well, we
need to find someone that can tell us what became of Mr. Reed's
companion. I'd suggest you start scanning."

"Aye sir." Tucker cast Reed a glance before he activated the tricorder
he carried and began to scan the area for lifesigns. He moved off a
short distance, accompanied by Travis and Malcolm sighed.

He couldn't understand why Tucker treated him with such thinly veiled
distrust. He was sure he hadn't done anything to cause the man to
react that way to him. He offered a smile and a muttered, "fine," when
Archer asked him if he was all right. There was no point in pulling
the captain into a situation that may be only imagined anyway. He
watched Mayweather and Tucker in silence wishing that something would
happen so that they could move on. He focused his mind only on finding
Trip. Nothing else mattered aside from that for the moment. There had
to be someone on this planet who knew what had become of the engineer.

A sudden flash of movement to one side caught his attention and
Malcolm whirled, instinctively crouching and giving a soft cry of
warning to alert Archer that they were not alone.

The captain was by his side in an instant, phase pistol in hand and
looking in the direction that Malcolm indicated. "I saw
something...over there."

Archer followed the younger man's gaze, straining his eyes against the
glare and heat haze. Then, he saw it too; a shadow, or something, he
couldn't quite make it out. It was moving fast, and heading towards
them. Archer flattened himself in the sand, pushing Reed down as well
and trained his phase pistol on the rapidly approaching form.

The creature slowed its pace as it came closer, and made no
threatening movements. It approached them openly, without hesitation
and Archer watched it carefully. It didn't appear to be armed. He
narrowed his eyes, waiting until it came up to them and hunkered down,
studying him and Reed carefully.

It spoke after a moment, in a guttural tone that rumbled from deep in
it's massive chest.

It could only be described as reptillian, Archer thought, staring up
into the snub nosed face of a dark greyish green creature. Its skin
was scaly and rough, resembling something like a Terran alligator, and
two prominent tusks or teeth protruded from its lower jaw, Archer was
reminded of a wart hog by that part of its anatomy. Its eyes were
golden and the pupils were elongated, like those of a snake. It spoke
again and gestured with one, three fingered hand.

Archer took out his communicator and spoke into it, addressing his
remarks to the creature, "I am Captain Archer, of the Terran ship
Enterprise," he said and aimed the communicator at the alien.

At first, the creature's language remained undecipherable, but after a
few attempts the universal translator seemed to pick up the speech
patterns.

"I am Shilthran," the creature said, though whether this was a name or
it's race, Archer couldn't tell.

"You are on this planet, why?"

Archer smiled slightly. "We're looking for...a friend of ours," he
said. "An engineer. He was lost here a while ago, we want to find him
and take him home."

"Shilthran knows of such a one," the alien replied and Archer glanced
at Reed.

"Shilthran has seen this one before," the alien indicated Reed as it
spoke.

"Is he alive?" Reed spoke from his position beside Archer. "Is the man
alive?"

"He lives. Three days journey," Shilthran said simply and got to his
feet. "You come."

"Wait." Archer got up and moved to face Shilthran. "We
have...transport." He waved towards the shutttlepod they had come to
the planet in and Shilthran followed his gesture.

A moment later, Mayweather and Tucker joined them and Shilthran turned
to look at the newcomers. His eyes lingered on Tucker slightly longer
than on Mayweather and he moved closer to study the blond engineer
intently.

Tucker glanced uneasily at Archer as he was carefully examined by
Shilthran, who even went so far as to tentatively touch Tucker's face
with one hand. "Blood runs close," the alien said cryptically and
turned away. "Your transport...makes journey short. You come."

---

The Zilanthi village was only an hour's flight from where shuttlepod
one crashed. It was barely noticeable from the air; most of the
dwellings were subterranean, the inhabitants sticking to their dug out
homes during the daylight hours in order to conserve moisture in their
systems. They were by nature a friendly and inquisitive race, open to
outsiders and curious about the newcomers from Enterprise.

Archer and his crew were offered water and food, and plied with
questions about their home-world, their customs and most importantly,
their travels in space from the moment they arrived.

Whilst the Zilanthi themselves did not venture into space, they had
contact with neighbouring planets which did, and knew of the Clinarin.
They also traded with mercenaries that visited their planet, but none
of them had any knowledge of Jasp, the man who had captured and sold
Reed.

Malcolm bore with the niceties of the first contact situation as
patiently as he could, but a part of him still anxiously wanted to see
Trip and ascertain for himself that the man was alive and well. He had
to bite his lips several times to prevent himself from demanding to
see the engineer.

Finally after what seemed like hours, the leader of the Zilanthi, an
elderly matriarch named Shallarha turned to him. "No doubt you are
eager to see your companion," she said with what amounted to a
gracious inclination of her scaly head. "He has often spoken of you,
and wondered if you live. He will be pleased to learn of your good
fortune."

Malcolm nodded slightly. "I'm looking forward to seeing him too," he
murmured. As Shallarha got to her feet, he rose also, glancing at
Archer who stood next to him. He frowned slightly then met the
captain's eyes. "If you don't mind, sir, I'd rather go alone...I think
it's best that way."

Archer hesitated for a moment, then nodded slightly. "All right," he
agreed.

Malcolm smiled his thanks and then followed Shallarha out of the room.
They moved through the dry, cool hallways of the underground village
for what seemed like ages before the female paused at a door and waved
him past her.

"The man you're looking for works here," she said simply and took a
step back. "I will await you."

With a small nod of acknowledgement, Reed stepped through the doorway
and paused for a moment, taking in his surroundings. It was
unmistakably a mechanical workshop of some sort. Tools and spare parts
lined the rough-hewn stone benches around the walls, and the room was
well lit with lanterns. He smiled; it was the kind of surroundings he
would have expected to find Trip in and that familiarity was
comforting. A man was bent over a low bench to one side of the room,
working on some kind of mechanical device. He was half turned away
from Malcolm, and at first, Reed didn't recognise him.

The man was intent on his task, working with a wrench to loosen a
bolt. He was muscular, clad in a leather vest and dun-colored
trousers. His skin gleamed with a light sheen of perspiration and he
paused for a moment to brush a strand of  collar-length blond hair
from his cheek. His face was bearded.

Malcolm took a small step towards the man and the movement caused him
to look up, revealing one clear blue eye. The other was covered with a
patch made from the same leather as his vest. The one good eye widened
with surprise and then clouded, an instant before the man dropped the
wrench and made his way quickly into the back of the building, calling
out in Zilanthi, his voiced edged with something close to panic.

"Trip!" Malcolm followed the blond man into the room he'd bolted to.
"Trip, it's me, Malcolm." he called, looking around for the man as he
walked into what looked like a sleeping area. "Trip?"

There was silence, and the room appeared to be empty at first. Reed
frowned and turned around, looking for any other doorways that the
engineer could have gone through. There were none. "Commander Tucker,
show yourself!" Malcolm put a note of command into his tone and almost
chuckled as a blonde head slowly rose up from the other side of the
bed.

"Malcolm?"

"At your service." Malcolm smiled slightly and took a step closer.
"Come out of there, would you? I'm not a ghost."

Tucker moved slowly, coming out from behind the bed and moving to sit
on the edge of it. "You came back," he said it almost in an awed
whisper and an instant later was on his feet. "Enterprise? The Cap'n?
Did you contact the ship? Are they with ya?" He made his way into the
workshop, looking around as though he expected to find his crew mates
waiting for him.

"Trip..." Malcolm followed the blond man. "There's a lot I have to
tell you. It's ... complicated."

"What?" Tucker spun on his heel to face Reed. "They're all right,
aren't they?"

Malcolm let his eyes run over Trip for a moment, taking in the changes
in the man's appearance, the neatly trimmed but full beard, the
patched eye and the way his right hand seemed to be held at an odd
angle. Reed realised that there was something wrong with the last two
fingers, they were curled tightly against the palm, and had an almost
waxy appearance, lifeless and bloodless.

"I think you'd better have a seat, Commander." Reed moved to a small
stool next to a workbench. He shook his head with a sigh, wondering
where he should begin. This was not going to be easy.

"I am here with Enterprise," Malcolm began, "but it's not as simple as
you might think."

"What's wrong?" Tucker slowly sank down on another stool, leaning
against a workbench to steady himself until he was seated. "What's so
complicated about it? If the ship's here then we...we gotta go home!"

"It's not...the same, Trip, it's not the Enterprise  we know. Please,
just let me talk, all right?" Malcolm waited until Tucker nodded
before he went on. "After we were separated...after the crash,
I...tried repeatedly to hail the ship. There was never any answer.
I...walked in that desert all day, without water, no food. You were
gone and...and I couldn't raise the ship.

// Malcolm stumbled and fell to his knees in the burning sand,
flipping open the communicator to try one more time. "Reed to
Enterprise, come in. Reed to Captain Archer...T''Pol, can you hear
me?"

Static was the only reply; the ship must either be out of range, or
the device was not functioning. He staggered to his feet, the
communicator falling unnoticed into the sand as thirst drove him
onwards.//

Tucker nodded, listening as Reed recounted his desperate search for
water and civilization. He frowned over the fact that Enterprise had
not responded to Reed's calls. Where had the ship gone? They must have
seen the pod get into trouble, or noticed the crash...why hadn't they
answered?

"When night fell, I was so cold...it was bitter out there in the
night, one extreme to another." Reed made a rueful face. "I ended up
burying myself in the sand to keep warm. I slept like that, and the
next morning I was found by Jasp."

Malcolm brushed over his time with Jasp and his eventual relocation to
Clinarin II. He didn't see the need just now to tell Trip everything
about his time on the Clinarin world. He filled in some brief details
and then moved on to the arrival of the Terran ship and Captain
Archer.

Looking into Trip's eyes, he took a deep breath. "When I was able to
remember...I realized that this ship, this Enterprise is not ours...it
can't be...because...because there is a man on board named Charles
Tucker III and Malcolm Reed as they knew him...is dead."

"What the hell!" Tucker got to his feet and took a couple of paces
towards Malcolm. "Are you shittin` me?"

"I wish I was." Malcolm said softly. "You can never know how much."
And suddenly it was more than he could do to hold back the anguish
that telling the whole story caused. He realized how much he had lost,
his world, his friends and worse, a man whom he loved more than life.

Malcolm brought his hands up to cover his face as he realized with
awful clarity that his entire world had been stolen from him. More
than just his mind or his memories had been taken, and it had happened
before he even encountered Jasp.

"I've lost everything," he whispered. "There's nothing left!" a
choking sob tore from his throat. "They're gone and I will never see
them...I'll never see *him* again!"

Tucker didn't move or speak for several moments, seeming at a loss for
how to deal with the raw grief that Malcolm expressed so openly. He
shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked around the
room as though appealing to the tools and spare parts for help.

Finally he moved over to the darkhaired man and hunkered down in front
of him, gently touching his shoulder with his sound hand. "Hey," he
murmured. "Y'haven't lost everythin' Ah'm still here." He rubbed the
thin shoulder gently and then, impulsively pulled Malcolm into his
arms. "I never shoulda left ya out there in that desert...I'm sorry,"
he said softly and then he fell silent, simply holding the other man
as the grief continued to come from him in great, heaving sobs.

---

"So y'haven't thought about tryin' to get back to our ship?" Charles
Tucker looked at his companion across the room as he laid the piece of
bread he'd been eating back on his plate.

"No." Malcolm shook his head as he hastily swallowed a bite of food.
"For one thing, there hasn't been time, and without knowing precisely
how we came to be here -- wherever here is, then there's no way to
determine how to get back." He had composed himself somewhat since his
earlier outburst of grief and was grateful for the fact that Tucker
had moved the topic of conversation onto other matters. He sighed,
watching the thoughtful expression on his companion's face for a
moment.

"That may be so," Trip acknowledged, "but my grandaddy always said:
'if there's a hole in a fence, it opens on both sides...'" He smiled
slightly, reflecting on that for a moment before he met Reed's eyes.
"You said somethin' earlier...somethin' about never seein' him again,"
he paused, searching for words. "Who did you mean?"

Malcolm averted his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable about meeting the
other man's eye. His words had been an outpouring and he had begun to
regret them with the return of reason. He sighed.

"It's something I've never spoken about before," he said quietly. "Not
to anyone, not even to the person who needed most to hear it." He cast
Tucker a brief glance and then shook his head. "I always thought there
would be time..." His brow creased as a stab of pain rippled through
his chest. "Now it's too late, I suppose."

"I'd still like t'know," Tucker told him, "if it's not too personal."

"What does it matter?" Malcolm let out another deep sigh. "I was
hopelessly infatuated...in love with our captain, Trip." He gave a
snort of rueful laughter. "Stupid, wouldn't you say? As if he could
ever reciprocate."

Trip frowned and looked down at his plate, pondering what the other
man had just told him. He'd never had any idea that Malcolm had
feelings for the captain, the man certainly was good at keeping his
personal thoughts and feelings to himself. After a moment, he stood
and moved across the room to stand in front of Reed's chair. "So
what're we gonna do?" The question was softly spoken. "You can see
Ah'm not...not exactly fit fer duty and, frankly I dunno how I would
handle workin' on a ship that has a man on it who's my double or
whatever he is. And this," he glanced around the small workshop
briefly, "this has been my home for the past year on this planet; I'm
kinda settled here."

Malcolm looked up and met the one clear blue eye that regarded him
quietly. "You know, I hadn't really thought much about that either." A
small self deprecating laugh, then, "I just wanted to find you, never
thought beyond that. After all, you're the only element of my...our
world that still exists."

Trip nodded, "well, I guess we should go see this, 'Terran' cap'n that
rescued you for a start...we'll figure on what's best to do next from
there, okay?"

"All right," Malcolm got to his feet and brushed a few stray crumbs of
bread from his clothes. "They must be wondering by now if I am ever
coming back."

---

Commnder Charles Tucker III, First officer of the Terran Ship
Enterprise leaned against the wall of the small chamber he and the
captain had been shown to earlier and drew a deep sigh. The Zilanthi
had been very hospitable, and had done the best they could to ease the
situation that the Terrans found themselves in. He passed a hand over
his face, wondering for the 'nth time where Reed was, and when he
would finally return from his meeting with the engineer that they had
come back here for.

There was something furtive about the way Reed had acted since telling
them about the man, and it troubled Tucker deeply. He still wasn't
sure how he should take this enigmatic stranger.

Reed was too tight lipped for Tucker's liking, and the longer he had
to wait for the man now, the more his unease grew. He glanced over his
shoulder at a sound of movement behind him and then smiled and relaxed
as he realized that Jon had woken from a light nap and was now sitting
up on the small divan he had stretched out on.

"Sleep well?" Tucker asked, amusement tinging his voice.

"I didn't realize I had drifted off," Jon replied, "You should have
wakened me."

"What fer?" Trip shrugged, "the food they gave us was heavy. Made me
feel tired too, and we didn't have anythin' pressin' to attend to."

Jon got to his feet and stretched with the grace of a cat before
approaching his lover. "Well, that depends on your definition of
'pressin',' doesn't it?" he purred as he reached to take Tucker in his
arms.

"Oh, I see," Tucker smiled and offered his lips to the captain
willingly as he was pulled into the tender embrace and Jon bent down
to kiss him.

After a few moments, Jon broke the kiss and drew back a little,
looking down into his lover's blue eyes with a frown. "What's wrong?"
he asked.

"Nothin' really," Trip replied, running his hands along Jon's
forearms. "I just don't like waitin' around, you know that."

"Impatient as ever," Jon said and shook his head in mock dismay. "You
need to relax, Commander. Here we are on a nice planet, with friendly
natives, no threats, no problems -- apart from having to wait a while
until we meet the person we came here for, and all you can worry about
is how long it's taking?" He grinned, flashing strong white teeth and
stole another kiss.

Tucker smiled, but it was only a half hearted attempt before he gently
pulled away from the captain and paced the small chamber. "I'm just
gettin' a li'l antsy," he admitted. "I'll be glad to get above ground
again."

At that moment there were sounds of movement from the corridor outside
their chamber and a moment later, Shilthran poked his head in through
the door and bared his teeth at them in what approximated a smile.

"Your companion returns," he said and gestured for them to follow him.
"The one you seek is with him."

---

Malcolm watched Trip as the man paced back and forth in the chamber
Shallarha had brought them to. The engineer's nervousness was obvious,
his body tensely coiled as though he expected to get into a fight.

Malcolm had told him on the way here that the Terran Commander Tucker
was with the party that had come down to the planet. He couldn't
imagine what it must feel like, waiting to meet yourself. He smiled
reassuringly at his companion when Tucker glanced at him. He wished
there were some way he could make this easier on the man.

At the sound of footsteps and voices from the corridor, Trip froze in
his tracks, staring towards the entrance with obvious worry. Malcolm
moved to stand beside him, resting a hand on the man's shoulder to
show his support. They both stared at the door, waiting in silence
while first Archer and then Tucker stepped into the room.

Malcolm felt a shudder run through Trip's body when the captain walked
in. He knew how much it must shock to see the man. He was identical to
their own Captain Archer in every sense, from the easy grace with
which he carried himself to the facial expressions and gestures.
Malcolm felt his own heart constrict painfully looking at him and he
shifted his gaze to the Terran first officer.

This time, Trip's reaction was more pronounced. He made a small,
inarticulate sound and staggered backwards a pace. His breathing
became shallow and erratic for a moment and he put out a hand to
steady himself, meeting Malcolm's shoulder blindly.

"Oh, my God!" Both Tuckers spoke at the exact same moment, and said
the same thing.

"Trip?" Malcolm turned to his friend and offered a supporting arm
about his waist, which was accepted with a slight nod of thanks. He
ignored the Terrans for the moment, placing all his attention on his
crewmate and helped the engineer to a chair.

Trip drew a deep breath, composing himself and looked up to meet the
concerned grey eyes of Malcolm Reed. "It's. . . like lookin' in a
mirror," he said, his blue eye clouding with pain. "But this mirror's
lyin' I don't ...I'm not like that anymore Ah'm. . . " He looked away,
shaking his head, his whole body aquiver with pent up emotion.

"It's all right." Malcolm said for Trip's ears only. "I know this must
be a terrible shock for you. It's all right."

The soft sound of someone clearing his throat distracted him, and
Malcolm turned to find himself gazing into the hazel eyes of Captain
Archer. He took a half step back, placing some distance between
himself and the other man. With a swift glance at Trip, Malcolm
straightened his shoulders and looked back to Archer.

"Captain, allow me to introduce Commander Charles Tucker III, First
Officer, and Chief Engineer of the Starship Enterprise."


Archer studied Malcolm for a long moment before he turned his gaze on
Trip. "Commander Tucker?" he said softly, staring at the man in
disbelief.

"Sir!" Trip was on his feet instantly and drew himself to attention by
instinct. He raised his chin, carefully avoiding looking at the other
Tucker. "Yes, sir." He added, meeting the eyes of the Terran captain.

Watching Trip, Malcolm felt his eyes mist over with tears. He knew
that feeling; the need to revert to training when nothing else seemed
real or steady. He blinked rapidly a few times, looking from the
Terran captain to his crewmate and back, lost for anything to say.

He could understand the confusion the Terrans must be feeling to meet
this man who was so like, and yet unlike, this stranger who was
familiar. He'd been there himself only short weeks ago. He swallowed
against the lump in his throat and stepped to his senior officer's
side. Solidarity would carry them through this; whatever happened, he
would not be separated from Trip again.

"Commander," Archer said again, glancing from Trip to Malcolm,
"Lieutenant," he added. "I have no idea how to explain any of this,
but it is obvious that you must be who you say you are." The captain
sighed and passed a hand over his face, the only crack in his
professionalism before he seemed to rein himself in tightly. He looked
at Tucker. "You are obviously in need of medical treatment, Commander,
I'd like to offer the services of my ship's doctor."

Trip nodded but didn't say anything.

"We'll discuss things further when we return to the ship." Archer
ended. He turned to his First Officer. "Commander Tucker, I. . . " and
that was where his resolve seemed to desert him. "Trip. . . "

Tucker stepped forward. "Don't worry, Cap'n," he said, "I'm okay." He
shot the other two men a glance. "And y'don't need to try an' explain
this. . . Ah don't think it c'n be explained." After a moment's
hesitation, he stepped forward and held out a hand to Trip. "I'm happy
to make your acquaintance," he said, shaking the man's hand and then
turned away, his face clouded with an indecipherable emotion.

---

"I'm afraid there is not much I can do for the eye," Phlox said
regretfully as he regarded his new patient steadily. "The retina was
badly damaged in the accident, and unfortunately the injury has
degenerated over time. There may be hope of an ocular transplant, if a
suitable donor could be found. . . but again, that is not feasible for
the foreseeable future." He sighed, and then turned his attention to
Trip's right hand. "This injury, however, has much better prospects
for recovery."

Trip shook his head. "I don't believe that," he said softly. "I can't
feel those fingers, doc. Ah can't move ‘em. . . they're dead."

"It might seem that way to you, Commander, but I assure you, with time
and therapy you can regain a good deal of sensation and movement in
these digits." The doctor turned aside and tapped a console for a
moment, bringing up a small screen with an image of the injured hand.
"You see, several nerves were severely damaged or crushed in the
accident, I would suggest the hand was struck quite forcefully by
flying debris. However, the nerve pathways were not severed and that
is why I believe this hand can be restored to almost perfect working
order. The fingers have atrophied without use, but I can fashion a
brace, and set up some stimulators to help reactivate the nerves. . .
physio-therapy will accomplish the rest."

Trip nodded and glanced at Malcolm. If he could gain even partial use
of those fingers it would improve his chances of being accepted back
into Starfleet when they returned home. He looked into Phlox's eyes.
"Do it." He said softly. For the first time in months, Charles Tucker
III felt like he was back in control of his own destiny. He smiled to
himself as his eyes again sought Malcolm Reed. {I'm gonna get well,}
he thought determinedly. {And then I'm gonna find us a way back home.}

--- Six Standard Earth Months Later. . .


Leaning his chair back against the doorpost, Malcolm Reed sighed
softly. A sound of contentment, and he smiled, realizing that word was
the right description for how he felt at the moment. He was contented.
Eyes closed, he reviewed the past few months since the Terran
Enterprise had gone on her way, leaving himself and Charles Tucker on
Zilanthi. It had not been easy to begin with, adapting to a new world,
a new language, different customs, but he had done it.

Trip had told him that it was probably best if they remained on the
planet where their shuttlepod had crashed. Ever the optimist, the
engineer still held to the hope that somehow, their own Enterprise
would find them, or that he would find a way to get them off Zilanth
and back to their own universe. Malcolm permitted himself another
faint smile at that. He would like to go home he supposed, but it
wasn't imperative anymore. He was happy here.

Opening his eyes, he glanced out across the desert plains of his new
home world. It wasn't Earth, granted, but it was a friendlier place
than Clinarin II. He had befriended many of the Zilanthi, and was
engaged in work, helping them to enhance their security systems, not
that it needed that much work; their detection arrays had astounded
Malcolm the first time he saw them.

The Zilanthi lived much of their lives underground, and had no warp
capable vessels of their own, through choice rather than lack of
advancement. Their arrays consisted of underground networks, which
were capable of sensing movement, heat and vibration across a large
area of their planet's surface.

The lizard-like creatures were aware of the presence of strangers on
their world from the first moment Shuttlepod One crashed. They'd sent
out a search and recovery team. . . the ones that Malcolm and Trip had
mistakenly assumed were pursuing them, but had only managed to
‘rescue' Tucker.

Malcolm shook his head slightly and made a rueful expression. Had he
decided to give himself up when Trip did, he would never have
encountered Jasp, never have been sold to Schylar. . . and yet, that
in a sense had served a good purpose. It had led to him meeting the
Terran Archer.

Malcolm often thought of the Terrans and wondered where their travels
had taken them. He owed them a debt of gratitude for rescuing him and
returning him to Zilanth where he had found the only other person
alive who shared anything in common with him, but there was something
else he owed them as well. His blue-grey eyes grew reflective as he
thought back to the last time he had seen them.

// "I'd like to express my gratitude, Captain," Malcolm said as they
stood near the entrance to the Zilanthi Burrow that had been
designated to him and Trip.

"It was our pleasure, Lieutenant Reed," The captain heartily pumped
Reed's hand and met his eyes for a moment, "I can only hope that you
will be reunited with your crew someday," he added, "It must be a
great loss to them, not having yourself and Commander Tucker aboard."

Malcolm smiled and nodded briefly, casting a glance at his crewmate.
"I'm sure that if Commander Tucker has his way, we won't have to wait
too long for that to happen," he murmured.

"Well, we'd best be going," Archer shook Trip's hand and turned to his
Executive Officer, "We've got some exploring to do."

The Terran commander stepped forward and held out a padd to Malcolm.
"Before we go, I want ya t'have this," he said softly.

Malcolm took the device and stared at it in silence for a moment
before he met the commander's eyes. "These are. . . "

Tucker nodded, "Manumission documents," he said matter of factly.
"You're a free man, Mr. Reed. I didn't think you'd wanna be always
lookin' over your shoulder for Schylar and his ilk. . . so. . . " He
made a wry face and glanced at his captain. "Consider it a weddin'
present," he said, meeting Jon's eyes. "Mine."

Malcolm was surprised to see the captain flush deeply and he smiled,
looking from one to the other. "It seems congratulations are in order
then," he murmured and stepped back, falling alongside Trip. "Thank
you again and. . . Godspeed," he murmured resting a hand on the
engineer's shoulder. //

Malcolm Reed got up from his chair and stretched luxuriously.
Sometimes he found himself thinking about his own Captain Archer and
wondering if he was well, but his dreams of a romance with the man had
faded with time as Malcolm realized they were only dreams.

Dreams didn't keep one going through the kind of ordeals the
lieutenant had faced since their small vessel went down on a rugged
and unforgiving planet named Zilanth; they didn't keep hope alive in
one's heart as he passed the long months of waiting on that same
planet to be rescued or. . . to decide that fate had stranded them
here forever.

Dreams couldn't lighten the day's burdens and lift the spirits. For
that, one needed —Malcolm needed— someone vital and strong and
immediate. He looked out across the desert once more as the sun dipped
lower toward the horizon and his eyes fell on a figure approaching
their home through the gathering twilight. He smiled, watching as the
man walked towards him.

He reached out and took hold of Trip's right hand as the engineer
arrived at the entrance. He smiled, glancing down at the fingers,
which were almost straight now, and pink with blood and life. Trip had
progressed well with the stimulants and therapy Phlox had prescribed.

Malcolm had spent hours every evening massaging life and feeling back
into the digits. He met Trip's eyes and placed his other hand on the
man's shoulder.

"Welcome home," he said softly. "I've started dinner," He smiled into
the tired eyes of the engineer as he drew him into their underground
home. "Is meatloaf all right?"

---

The End

© 2002 Kalita Kasar