Once In A Lifetime

Part 1

It really hadn't been his fault, Trip tried to convince himself one more time. But then again, if he hadn't walked into that particular bar, Malcolm wouldn't be slumped back there on the shuttlepod's bench, a deep gash sliced through one eyebrow and a blood stained bandage plastered across his cheek. He wouldn't be sitting there, exhausted from being questioned all night long and into the late morning hours at the police station. He wouldn't be sitting there in borrowed clothes, his ruined uniform impounded as evidence.

"I'm sorry," Trip said again despite knowing what Malcolm would say.

"I've told you; it wasn't your fault."

"But I feel—"

"Could we not talk about it?" Malcolm asked as he tossed aside the padd he'd been unsuccessfully trying to read. He was sore and desperately tired, but too keyed up to sleep. He brought his other leg up and wrapped his arms around them. "It wasn't your fault; it just happened..."

"But—"

"Please, Trip," Malcolm said, a little sharply. He looked away. "I just want to forget about it and go home," he ended quietly.

Trip re-engaged the autopilot and rose from his seat. He sat next to Malcolm.

"You had to defend yourself," Trip said gently.

Malcolm snorted and it turned into a choked sound. He closed his eyes and lowered his forehead to rest it upon his knees. "I'm just bloody lucky there was a witness."

Trip tentatively placed his arm around Malcolm's shoulder. Malcolm jumped slightly at the unexpected touch but after a moment relaxed against Trip and breathed out a low sigh. "I didn't...it was an accident. Everything just happened so quickly."

"I know. It wasn't your fault," Trip said soothingly, holding him tighter. Malcolm shifted, as if seeking as much contact as possible.

"I just want to take a shower and get some sleep," Malcolm murmured.

"I know," Trip repeated helplessly although he was cringing inwardly in self-disgust. If only he had left with Malcolm and not thought of his own self-gratification then this would have never happened.

If only he hadn't chosen that bar.

***

Trip tried not to laugh at the look on Malcolm's face as they walked into the bar. Their trip to this planet to trade for relays had been successful. They'd leave tomorrow night to rendezvous later with Enterprise after the shuttle carrying Jon and T'Pol reached the ship. Their captain and science officer were off on another world trading for other supplies, while the ship orbited yet a third planet, taking on warp plasma. It was a small system, each planet only few days away from the other, but it was faster to send out teams to get what they needed rather than have the ship waste the time traveling to each world.

Trip was grateful Jon hadn't questioned his request to switch teams. He didn't want to be on the extended away mission with T'Pol. His relationship with her was over. They would always be friends of course; but the attraction, or need, or whatever it'd been, was gone. He didn't blame her. He couldn't. She had her own sorrows to bear and her hard won but still tenuous emotional control made her incapable of sharing them with him. The death of their child engineered from their stolen DNA had shattered the last of their bonds and now it was too painful to continue to see each other in anything but a professional manner.

Trip regretted the mistakes he'd made in the last year; he mourned for the lives lost, the decisions he'd made while under the influence of his overwhelming grief—entering into a sexual relationship with T'Pol, pining for her while she'd gotten married—even leaving the ship for a brief time in his confusion and hurt.

Getting involved with T'Pol had been one of the biggest mistakes of his life; he knew that now. But at the time...

Yet Malcolm had been there throughout it all—not always dealing with his grief and moods in the best way, but Malcolm had at least made an effort. As his friendship with Jon drifted during the Xindi crisis, Malcolm had tried to maintain a connection with him. He appreciated that more than he could say, but it had brought up old feelings.

He broke off his study of Malcolm's expression and looked around the bar in anticipation. He'd been superficially attracted to Malcolm when they'd first launched, but he'd been seeing Natalie at the time. When they parted he allowed himself to give Malcolm some serious thought. However, after almost dying on that shuttlepod and having to listen to Malcolm's letters to all those women, he decided, with only a little regret, that Malcolm was a lost cause and Trip had been content with just getting to know him better as a friend.

He came to enjoy their conversations, their arguments, the push and pull of their conflicting personalities. But most of all, Trip enjoyed teasing him; part of the appeal was not knowing how Malcolm would react. Plus he loved to see that rare smile break out on Malcolm's face when he realized his leg was being pulled. And for the past few months Trip had been trying to wheedle that smile out of Malcolm every chance he could and he'd been rewarded with it more and more frequently.

Trip had come to terms with all of the terrible things the last year had wrought. He was tired of the person he'd become; everything—everyone—had changed. Including Malcolm, much to his delight. Finally feeling like his old self once more, he recently started flirting with Malcolm again, just to see what would happen. Trip was careful to make his advances ambiguous so that Malcolm could interpret them as a joke. He didn't want this friendship to fall apart too.

However, Trip had been surprised and encouraged when Malcolm seemed to respond in a positive manner, sometimes even flirting back.

So tonight he was in a playful mood, eager to just spend time with Malcolm, hoping to coax the other man into a little shore leave before they left to meet Enterprise. Who knew what it could lead to?

He was pleased that it hadn't taken much coaxing, although past experience told him that Malcolm would follow him anywhere.

Trip smothered another chuckle as he watched Malcolm survey the bar with a furrowed brow. Malcolm was just so much fun to wind up—he was such an easy target, Trip thought fondly.

"Trip."

"Yes, Malcolm?" Trip said innocently.

"They're all men."

"Yeah."

"It's a gay bar, Trip." Malcolm looked at Trip with narrowed eyes.

"So?"

"I thought the idea was to chat up women."

"Well now, considerin' your track record on shore leave, I thought that maybe something different would change your luck." Trip threw his arm around him, waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and gave Malcolm his most devastating smile.

It worked. Malcolm laughed and shook his head, but he didn't leave.

***

Malcolm took a sip from his drink as he watched Trip. A likable native had been flirting with Trip all evening and Malcolm found it entertaining. Belesar was harmless and he made Tucker laugh. When they moved out onto the dance floor once more, Malcolm sat back with a smirk, smugly thinking that it served Trip right—turnabout's fair play after all.

His expression softened. At least Trip was enjoying himself. After all Trip had been through, he deserved to a chance to cut loose. And would probably pull tonight, Malcolm thought wistfully as he saw Belesar draw Trip close and bend down, kissing him for the first time. Trip returned the kiss, standing on his toes to reach Belesar and Malcolm couldn't help but smile, though he felt a small wave of...

A waiter placed a drink in front of him, startling Malcolm out of his contemplation of Trip Tucker. "For you."

"I didn't order anything," he protested. He hadn't even made a dent in his first drink.

"Compliments of the gentleman over there," the waiter said and indicated to a man standing near the bar.

He was tall and broad shouldered, clad in a tight vest that showed off his barrel chest and muscular arms. He was also extremely good looking. He gave Malcolm a perfect white smile and a confident salute with his own drink.

Malcolm dropped his gaze and shook his head. He handed the drink back to the waiter. "Thank him for me, but tell him I'm not interested. No offense."

"Your loss." The waiter shrugged and took the drink away.

"I doubt it," Malcolm muttered as the man moved out of earshot.

He was watching Trip slow dance with his new found interest when the vested alien came over, the refused drink in his hand. "I bought this for you. Take it."

Malcolm looked up at him. "And I told the waiter to thank you, but I'm not interested. Sorry."

"That's what he said," the man sat down and pushed the drink toward Malcolm, "but I don't think you understand. Drink it."

"No, thank you," Malcolm replied politely, with just enough of a note of warning tinting his words. "I said I'm not interested."

The alien leaned in close. "How could you not be?" he asked seductively.

Bloody hell, Malcolm thought in exasperation. "Look, I'm sure you're very...charming," he said, trying not to sound sarcastic, "...but I'm not looking for anyone tonight. I'm with a friend," he added, hoping that would deter the man.

"Your friend seems to have left you all by yourself. And I'm much better than him in any case." The man gave Malcolm a toothy grin, shoving the drink forward once more.

Malcolm resisted the urge to violently refute that last assertion and pushed the drink away. "I said I wasn't interested. Was there something about that you didn't understand?"

The alien threw his head back and laughed. "Feisty. I like that." He surged forward, placing his hand on Malcolm's thigh and started to run it up toward his crotch. Malcolm quickly grabbed the man's hand and twisted it, rising to put more force and leverage behind the grip. The man hissed in pain.

"I'm not interested. So piss off before I break it," Malcolm said evenly as he bent the man's wrist back a little further to emphasize his point.

The alien swallowed another utterance of pain and pulled back. Malcolm released him and the man rose. "Bedamned cocktease," he snarled. He grabbed the glass and threw the drink on Malcolm. "I wouldn't want to fuck your ugly alien ass anyway." He stalked away.

"Feeling's mutual," Malcolm growled as he tried to blot the worse of the liquid from his uniform. He looked up to see Trip approaching the table with Belesar following behind trying to keep up with Trip's rapid movements through the crowd.

"What happened? You okay?" Trip asked, worry written all over his expressive face.

"Just a run in with a wanker who didn't know the meaning of the word 'no'," Malcolm said tightly. Trip looked around for the alien, ready to give him a piece of his mind but the man was nowhere to be seen.

"When the males of his species are in heat they can get very aggressive," Belesar said helpfully. "Their urge for conquest at that time makes them difficult to dissuade."

"Right. Story of my life," Malcolm said under his breath as he threw the napkin down on the table in disgust. His uniform was soaked through and it was cold.

"Do you want us to leave?" Trip asked. Belesar protested, stating that the evening had just started.

Malcolm saw the disappointment in Trip's eyes as he told the man that he really should go with Malcolm.

"No, Trip, stay here with Belesar. I'm tired anyway."

"You sure?" Trip asked, and Malcolm could see he was torn. Trip's arm had gone around Belesar's waist, his face flushed from dancing and the drinks, with a sparkle in his eyes that Malcolm hadn't seen in a long time. Trip was truly having a good time and Malcolm was grateful for that.

"Positive." He smiled at Trip to let him know it was all right. He got that dazzling Tucker grin in return. "Have fun, Trip. Looks like I probably won't see you til morning." Malcolm gave him an exaggerated leer and a wink, amused when Trip blushed slightly. Belesar hugged Trip and laughed. "Don't worry, I'll take good care of him," he said as he bent down and gave Trip's nose a little kiss.

Malcolm laughed as Trip turned a brighter pink.

***

Malcolm left the bar and started to walk back to their room. People were strolling along the streets, shops and restaurants open and beckoning, the night air slightly chilly. Malcolm decided not to take the shortcut across the park where it was darker and more secluded, opting instead to stay along the crowded brightly lit walkways even though it would take him longer to get back. His wet uniform was uncomfortable and sticking to him and he plucked at it irritably, hoping that if he washed it out now it would dry overnight.

He had just turned a corner when a hand shot out and grabbed him back into an empty access lane. A powerful arm lay across his throat and he kicked backwards, meeting hard flesh. There was a grunt and then he felt the blade of a knife against his cheek.

"Keep still, cocktease."

Malcolm froze when the knife sliced his face.

The arm across his neck tightened and a rigid penis pressed against the small of his back. The knife traveled down his chest, the blade flashing in the street light as it cut through Malcolm's uniform, its sharp tip slicing the sturdy fabric effortlessly. "I'm going to enjoy making you mine. Submit now or we'll do this the hard way." His skin crawled as he felt the heated breath, the moisture of the man's lips as the words were whispered against his ear. "Although I like it when they try to fight back..."

Malcolm exploded into action, batting the hand holding the knife away and bringing his elbow solidly into the man's stomach. He had the momentary satisfaction of hearing the alien wheeze out painfully before he was pulled off his feet and thrown into the side of the building. The impact knocked half the breath from him, and he just barely managed to duck when the knife came toward his face. He lunged forward, tackling his assailant and as they went down in a heap Malcolm started punching for all he was worth.

The struggle was quick but fierce. As they both regained their feet Malcolm recoiled from one thrust, the knife going for his eyes. It carved through his eyebrow, causing a bright shock of pain as metal scrapped against bone, blood welling out of the gash. The alien stabbed out again but this time Malcolm caught the man's arm and kneed him in the thigh with all his might. He wrenched the man's arm and felt something give; the alien's grunt of pain was audible, but he didn't let go of the knife so Malcolm hit him once more, staggering him.

The alien recovered quickly and rushed forward, knife out. Malcolm used the man's momentum to pull him close and Malcolm dropped, rolling the alien over his head. He felt the knife tear through his shirts, grazing his skin, but he followed through and tumbled with his aggressor, jerking them around to shove the alien face first into the ground. Malcolm then drove his double-handed fist between the man's shoulder blades as hard as he could. He heard a grunt of surprise and the alien went limp.

Malcolm scrambled away quickly, wary. Waiting. He was panting hard, shaking slightly from the adrenaline and anger. And that little sliver of shock. The man's erection had been huge, rubbing against him throughout the fight.

Malcolm had no doubt what the alien's intentions had been.

When a native ran up, he flinched, dropping into a defensive stance. The man stopped short, hands up and patting the air in a calming gesture. "I've called the police—I saw everything." He knelt down slowly and rolled Malcolm's assailant over.

He was dead, the knife embedded deep in his chest.

***

The police arrived and took Malcolm into custody. They questioned him throughout the night, confiscating his uniform for blood evidence and analysis. The witness told his story, confirming Malcolm's version of the fight. Malcolm's injuries were treated—the slice on his cheek dressed, the bleeding from the gash on his brow stopped, assorted bruises examined and documented for their files.

When Trip came back to their room in the morning to find it empty and Malcolm's bed untouched, he tried to raise his friend on the communicator. After several frustrating attempts someone answered, curtly giving him an address before closing the comm on Trip in mid-sentence.

Trip was surprised to find it was a police station and he waited interminably for someone to tell him what was going on. Then he waited nervously until they released Malcolm.

He'd been relieved when Malcolm was finally escorted to him, although Trip was concerned to see his friend battered and limbs swimming in ill-fitting clothes. The natives of this planet were rail thin and much taller than humans, their arms and legs unusually elongated; the clothing was far tighter than anything Malcolm would normally wear while the pant legs spilled over his boots and the sleeves of the shirt hung well past his hands, swallowing them.

The officer who accompanied Malcolm told them that preliminary analysis of Malcolm's uniform showed that a narcotic had been added to the drink, one that would render the recipient semi-conscious. A date-rape drug. It further proved Malcolm story and combined with the testimony of the witness there was no doubt that the alien had premeditate his attack and that Malcolm had acted in self-defense. The death was ruled accidental, the case was closed, and Malcolm was free to go.

Malcolm led the way out of the station, stopping once outside to cuff his pant legs. He asked Trip if they could leave now even though it meant several extra hours in space waiting to meet with the ship.

Trip agreed immediately, feeling guilty. He'd spent the night drinking and dancing, then going back to Belesar's home, making love before falling asleep in the man's embrace. It'd been wonderful.

Once back to their room he started to apologize.

Malcolm cut him off. "It's not your fault." He impatiently pushed his overlong sleeve up his arm again as he retrieved the case of relays from the closet.

"But if I hadn't left you alone—"

"I can take care of myself, Commander. Besides," Malcolm scrubbed a hand through his hair, "technically, I'm the one who left you alone." The motion dislodged his sleeve and it flopped down. He placed the case on the bed and sat down next to it, huffing out a breath in aggravation, and pushed the sleeve up past his elbow once more.

Trip crouched down in front of him and took Malcolm's arm. He started to roll the wayward sleeve up using tight, precise turns. Malcolm gave him an odd look, but Trip didn't notice.

"I shouldn't have dragged you to that bar," Trip said, angry at himself. He hadn't meant to get caught up in Belesar and ignore his friend. He'd just wanted to play with Malcolm in a little innocent fun to see how he'd respond, and he had to admit, to see if there was a chance that Malcolm could be interested.

"You didn't drag me."

"Well, you certainly didn't have a very good time," Trip replied as he started on Malcolm's other sleeve. But I sure did, thought Trip with a touch of self-loathing. Once again he'd let his libido get in the way of his common sense. He should have left with Malcolm.

"I was having a good time," Malcolm stated mildly. Trip stopped in mid turn and looked up at him in surprise. Malcolm shrugged. "It was fun watching you have fun for a change." Malcolm gave him a small smile, not quite up to the usual standards of his customary smirk, but it gave Trip a rush of pleasure at the sight of it nonetheless.

Trip broke eye contact abruptly, returning to Malcolm's sleeve. "Yeah, well, if I hadn't of chosen a gay bar that guy would never had hit on you," he said, still feeling bad despite Malcolm's assurances.

"I don't have to be in a gay bar to have the wrong sort hit on me," Malcolm said in low tone. Finished with his task, Trip stood and looked at Malcolm, puzzled by the comment. Malcolm grabbed the case and rose. "I'm sick of talking about it. He's dead and it's over. Let's get out of here."

By the time they reached the shuttlepod and gone through the pre-flight check, Malcolm had grown quiet. Trip could tell that the night's events were finally sinking in. Once they broke orbit Trip suggested that Malcolm try to get some sleep—it would be an uneventful trip to the rendezvous point.

Malcolm had tossed and turned on the bench for about fifteen minutes before sitting up and taking up a padd. Trip manned the helm, self-recriminations floating through his head.

***

"What did you mean back there in the room—about the wrong sort hitting on you?" Trip asked. Malcolm didn't stir from his position against Trip, but Trip heard him sigh again.

The pause was so long that Trip didn't think Malcolm would answer. "I've never been...comfortable...being approached by a man. I seem to attract the unsavory types," Malcolm said as he raised his head to look at Trip. "It's been a problem most my life, actually. I knew how to defend myself early on—I had a black belt by the time I was 14. One of the best things my father ever did was send me to those self-defense classes. He said that an officer never starts a fight, but he should bloody well know how to finish one." Malcolm smiled and Trip couldn't help but smile in return.

Malcolm's smile faded and he shifted under Trip's arm, unself-consciously nestling closer to Trip. "You know it's not easy for me to connect with people and I've always had poor luck with men. Eventually it got so bad that the only ones who ever seemed interested were either the bullying sort or wanted to smother me. I won't put up with that kind of shite so I just focus on women now."

Unfortunately Trip could understand all too well what Malcolm was talking about. When he'd been young and first exploring his sexuality, he'd become involved with a man who was dominating and suspicious. Luckily, Trip had left for a semester overseas before it had gotten out of hand and never saw him again.

Malcolm would certainly attract some of the more macho types looking for someone to push around or the overprotective possessive kind, Trip thought. Malcolm was darkly handsome, soft-spoken and mild mannered, slightly built with delicate features. On the surface he had an air of shy, insecure vulnerability to him. However, once you got to know him there was an independent and aggressive streak, an almost dangerous intensity to him, especially when provoked. Trip found the combination intriguing, and wildly appealing.

"So I've never been comfortable with some guy trying to pick me up and..." Malcolm trailed off. After a moment he spoke again. "I've had one or two scuffles because someone couldn't take no for an answer. But nothing like this has ever happened to me before..." Malcolm swallowed and closed his eyes.

Trip sat in silence, digesting what Malcolm had said, feeling conflicted. He wavered between hope and resignation. He was surprised that Malcolm had said as much as he had; even after four years it was still difficult to get him to talk about anything personal. It usually took something that pushed him to close to the breaking point, Trip thought grimly.

However, he hadn't really seemed averse to entering a relationship with a man and that gave Trip hope. Unless this episode had put him off the idea altogether, that little negative voice in his head chimed in. But Malcolm always said he wasn't good at connecting with people.

He felt a little sorry for him—one night stands and short-term relationships really didn't let a person make a connection, and it seemed like the men who'd approached Malcolm certainly hadn't help. However, he and Malcolm had connected, their friendship, while unlikely, deep. Deeper than what he'd had with T'Pol, Trip thought sadly.

He gazed at the floor, all too aware of Malcolm's warm form huddled against his own. Malcolm's borrowed clothing hugged his body; Trip had rolled the sleeves past Malcolm's biceps to assure that they'd stay put, the pants were molded to his thighs and the shirt clung to him tightly. Suddenly his mind's eye presented a picture of them together, Trip kissing Malcolm tenderly, showing him how good it could be, that he was the 'right sort'.

And just as quickly Trip upbraided himself. Malcolm had been attacked with rape on the mind of his assailant and here he was, once again lost in his own selfish thoughts. That kind of attention is the last thing he needs, Trip thought with self-contempt.

He realized that Malcolm was a dead weight against him and he stole a glance at his friend. He was asleep, head on his knees. It looked uncomfortable, but Trip didn't move, not wanting to disturb him, thoughts swirling.

***

Less than ten minutes later the shuttle lurched. Malcolm woke with a start and Trip rushed to the helm. The shuttle rocked again and Trip's hands flew over the instruments.

"What's happening?" Malcolm asked as he slid into the co-pilot seat.

"We're being sucked towards something—" Trip reversed the thrusters but it didn't slow their velocity.

"Sensors aren't detecting anything," Malcolm reported.

There was a flash of light, a swirling mass appeared, and then they were being pulled forward faster. A rift opened ahead, obscuring the stars.

"Goddamn, it's a wormhole!" Trip exclaimed, trying to veer off. Malcolm quickly programmed something into the emergency beacon and jettisoned it; then they were drawn inside. There was a loud pop and the hissing of something leaking. They turned as one, looking toward the back of the pod.

A cloud was venting into the pod. Trip swore and raced to a locker, grabbing a repair kit.

It was plasma gas. That was supposed to be impossible. If something had pierced the tank from the outside with enough force to split the interior bulkhead, then the tank would have ruptured, causing the pod to exploded.

Trip found a crack in the bulkhead abutting the tank. Eyes tearing and holding his breath, he started to seal the fissure. It was beginning to widen and he had to patch it before the gas poisoned them both.

Malcolm was busy at the helm. It was hellish, seat of the pants flying; trying to following the abrupt twists and turns of the wormhole, being pulled through at a breakneck speed. A few minutes later the pod was spit out and a planet loomed ahead.

Malcolm didn't know where they were—the navigation console spewed gibberish and the shuttle was already hurtling through the planet's atmosphere. He could hear the hull creaking dangerously, the integrity alarms going off, the engines cutting in and out. They needed to land right now. Sensors indicated that it was a class M planet so Malcolm plotted a course for set down. He coughed, the fumes from the leak hanging in the air, and he took a quick glance back at Trip.

Tucker was lying on the deck, unconscious. Malcolm swore and looked back, already committed to their descent, the bulkheads protesting.

Having only enough power for one quick flyby, he managed to find a secluded area. He brought them down easy, trying not to damage the pod any more than it was.

***

Trip woke feeling nauseated, disorientated, and shivering with an icy chill that permeated his bones. He tried to push at whatever was covering his face, but a hand stopped him.

"Leave it there, Trip. It'll help you breath. I've given you the antitoxin. You're experiencing plasma fume poisoning. You'll be fine."

He opened his eyes and saw Malcolm looking down at him, a crease of worry etched between his eyebrows. "Just keep breathing slowly and steadily, Commander." He dimly noted that they were outdoors, the light fading from a setting sun, the med kit open next to Malcolm. He closed his eyes again, trying to concentrate on breathing.

There was a limited window of opportunity to administer the antitoxin. He hoped Malcolm had given it to him in time. Otherwise his lungs would be irreparably damaged, his blood vessels would constrict, his body temperature would plummet and he'd die a short but miserable death, freezing and gasping for breath.

He shivered violently and felt another blanket being tucked around him. It didn't help much. "I know you're cold. As soon as the pod's aired out, I'll move you inside." He felt Malcolm's hand sweep across his forehead, then cup the side of his face. "You're going to be just fine, Trip," Malcolm whispered.

He must have faded out for a while—the next thing he knew the mask was gone and he was breathing easier, although terribly sick to his stomach and still shuddering with cold. He felt Malcolm caress his cheek. "The pod's clear now. Think you can sit up?" He let Malcolm pull him forward and promptly threw up all over himself and Malcolm, then passed out.

Part 2

The next time Trip was fully aware of his surroundings, he felt almost normal. His chest was a little congested but breathing was no longer a chore. He was nice and warm, his stomach calm; in fact he even felt a touch hungry. He opened his eyes and saw that he was in the pod, swathed in all the blankets, the cushions from the benches making a makeshift bed on the deck beneath him.

He also noticed that Malcolm was wrapped around him like a living quilt, plastered against his back and arms encircling him. Trip lay there for a moment, savoring the warmth.

He remembered shaking so hard and being so cold. And it jolted a vague memory of Malcolm swaddling him up securely in all the available blankets, then coiling around him for added heat.

Trip's eyes searched the pod in the soft light of the rising sun. His uniform was hanging up next to Malcolm's borrowed clothing, strung along an improvised clothesline. That's when he discovered he was dressed only in his blues.

He groaned softly. That's right, he'd vomited on them both. Malcolm must have cleaned them up and washed their clothes. And been up with him all night if Trip's spotty memory could be trusted.

Trip rolled onto his back slowly, freeing himself from death grip Malcolm had on him. He studied his friend; he hadn't reacted at all as Trip extricated himself.

Malcolm looked exhausted. He was clad only in his briefs. Good thing the pod wasn't too cold, Trip thought, then frowned at the sight of a few bruises along his ribs. Trip sat up, leaning over to get a better look and saw another one stretched across his shoulders. The bandage on his cheek was gone and Trip could see that it wasn't a deep cut. However the one through his eyebrow was a different story; a few centimeters lower and Malcolm could have lost that eye. Damn, the fight must have been brutal, Trip thought with a renewed feeling of guilt, his eyes running over Malcolm's body in search of additional injuries. It was funny though; Malcolm didn't look as delicate half naked as he did in uniform. He was slender, but he had muscle there, making him heavier than he looked. Trip recalled the warm, comfortable weight against his back last night, being cradled in strong arms while he shivered uncontrollably.

Trip halted those thoughts as he unwrapped himself from the blankets and rose. He felt a little unsteady and stood still for a moment. He abruptly coughed and brought something up. Disgusted, he looked around for something to spit it out into and saw nothing. Damn it, he had to cough again. He opened the hatch, spitting out a mouthful of phlegm, then started hacking away in a coughing fit loud enough to startle a bird several meters away into flight.

At least it was a good sign, Trip thought as he spit out another wad of brown crud. Obviously Malcolm gave him the antitoxin in time or else he wouldn't be standing here, hocking up some really revolting stuff. Once he brought everything up, he'd be fine. He'd been gassed once, early in his career. He'd been given the antitoxin within a minute, but he still spent an hour or two coughing and spitting. Luckily he'd never experienced the fuller effects before.

And he knew he was very lucky that he wasn't dead right now.

He coughed until there was nothing left to bring up and his chest no longer felt so constricted. With the racket he was making he half expected to see Malcolm come out of the pod to either check on him or complain.

But Malcolm didn't. Trip spit one last time and re-entered the pod. He had to grin. Malcolm hadn't moved an inch.

Trip figured that a grenade going off next to his ear wouldn't wake him, so he took one of the discarded blankets and covered Malcolm with it, then stepped over him to grab his uniform. It was mostly dry, just a damp patch here and there. Trip pulled it on and set about exploring the shuttle, accessing the sensor logs and diagnostics, taking a break to eat something, then making repairs to the hull and bulkheads, only stopping whenever the coughing fits got bad.

After he finished he sat down, pondering their options. He'd found a microscopic crack running down an outer seam of the plasma tank, a match to the one he had sealed on the inner bulkhead. It was such an odd fracture that he was sure it had something to do with stresses created by the wormhole. But they were spaceworthy again. However, the plasma tank was empty.

They wouldn't get off this planet until they could replenish their plasma. And he didn't even know if this was a warp capable world.

He knelt down next to Malcolm to wake him, to ask what he knew about this planet, but paused. Malcolm had barely stirred throughout all of Trip's tromping and coughing and banging around. Trip didn't have the heart to disturb him. The pod was well hidden in a deserted area and it could wait another hour or two. Besides, Trip was tired; he'd pushed himself a little too much trying to get everything fixed.

Trip grabbed another blanket and lay down next to Malcolm. A quick nap couldn't hurt, he decided; it would be for the best if they were both fresh and alert for whatever would come next.

***

Trip woke with the feeling of a heavy weight pressing down on his chest. He panicked for a moment, thinking that the gas had in fact damaged his lungs. He opened his eyes to find Malcolm lying on top of him, a little off center as he straddled Trip's leg. He looked so cozy that it made Trip smile. As loath as he was to bother him, they needed to start thinking about their next move, so Trip decided to wake him. And give him a hard time in the process—this was too good to pass up.

"Hey, sleepyhead, wakey, wakey," Trip cooed, exaggerating his accent. He gave Malcolm's back a little pat.

Malcolm only burrowed his head deeper into Trip's chest. Trip patted him more insistently. "Come on, lazybones, rise and shine."

He got a grunt with that one. He grinned and started a litany of schmaltzy pet names, using the sappiest tone he could manage.

In between 'Porkchop' and 'Munchkin' he got a muzzy "Go 'way"; 'Punkin Doodle' got him a cross "Sod off" and 'Monkey Buns' got him a half-hearted poke in the ribs.

Somewhere along the line his other arm had found its way around Malcolm and the patting had turned into a slow rubbing of Malcolm's back. "Up and at 'em, Cuddle Muffin," Trip said, suppressing a laugh as Malcolm raised his head and gave him what was no doubt intended as a deadly glare. Unfortunately the effect was ruined by the fact that he was barely awake and looked about as menacing as a six week old puppy.

His head sank back down onto Trip's chest. "Arsehole," Malcolm mumbled before going limp again. Trip laughed out loud, shaking them both as the carefree sound washed over them. Malcolm lifted his head with a jerk, this time wide awake and blinking in surprise, making Trip laugh again. Then to Trip's mortification, he realized that his body was responding to the warm presence in his arms, to Malcolm's tousled appearance and confused air.

Malcolm pushed himself off Trip with a casual yet controlled haste, but not before Trip felt a distinctive hardness press against his thigh. Trip wasn't sure who was more startled.

Malcolm grabbed his trousers off the line and Trip could see a faint flush creeping over the back of Malcolm's neck. Trip sat up and bunched the blanket up in his lap. Trip looked anywhere but at Malcolm, who was pulling on his pants with record speed.

"How are you feeling?" Malcolm asked. Trip could tell he was a little flustered. He could relate; he was feeling a little flustered himself.

"I'm okay. Spent half the morning coughing my lungs out though," Trip added wryly, trying to lighten the mood.

"I'm sorry," Malcolm said quietly, fastening his trousers. He kept his back to Trip. "I had to land the pod—we were in the atmosphere already—I had to pay attention to piloting the shuttle." He took his shirt off the line and simply held it, staring at it. "I wanted to administer the antitoxin right away. I knew the longer I waited the worse it would be, but I had to get us down safely first."

Trip snapped his gaze back to Malcolm. He didn't like that conscience-stricken tone. He rose, everything else forgotten as he moved toward him. "There's nothing to be sorry about. You really didn't have a choice," Trip said. "In fact, I'm surprised we came down in one piece—you must have been coasting in on fumes."

"I was afraid I hadn't got the antitoxin to you in time," Malcolm said softly. Trip heard the emotional note in Malcolm's voice and felt a rush of compassion; Malcolm had been through a lot in the last 48 hours.

Trip stepped around him to face him. "I'm fine. If we'd have crashed, neither of us would be here right now." He stared into Malcolm's eyes. "A little coughing and shivering is better than being dead. You had your priorities straight, Malcolm. Don't worry about it."

Malcolm looked down at the shirt in his hands. "I know that, intellectually. But..." He shook his head and looked at Trip again, "But then you were so sick." His voice dropped but he didn't look away this time. "I wasn't sure I'd made the right choice. I was afraid I waited too long, that you'd die—"

"I'm alive, Malcolm," Trip said gently, "You did exactly what I would have done." He smiled. "It's part of making those command decisions. Keep it up and you'll make captain some day." He waited a beat. "'Course, I'll be old and grey by then."

That drew a chuckle from Malcolm and Trip grinned at him. Malcolm began to put his shirt on and Trip noticed that the sleeves had been cut off at the point where Trip had rolled them up. The ends were a little ragged but fairly even. His gaze flicked down to Malcolm's feet. The pant legs had been trimmed as well, now coming to an end right below Malcolm's ankle.

"My compliments to your tailor," Trip drawled.

Malcolm looked up with a small smile. "Yes, well, it isn't Saville Row, but it'll do." He started on the bottom button and for the first time Trip saw a faint mark slicing down his chest. Trip frowned and drew closer. "What's that?" he asked, fingers hovering above the cut.

Malcolm looked down at his chest. "Nothing." He moved to button up the rest his shirt and Trip touched Malcolm's wrist to stop him. "You didn't tell me he tried to filet you," Trip said, his voice hardening unintentionally.

Malcolm raised his eyes and Trip dropped his hand. "It's just a scratch. Besides, I don't think that's what he had in mind," Malcolm replied. He looked down to finish buttoning his shirt. "We've got more important things to think of right now."

Trip nodded slowly. "Okay. But if you need someone to talk to—"

Malcolm met his gaze, his face serious. "—I know where to find you."

***

Trip filled Malcolm in on the repairs he had made, and Malcolm told Trip that he'd managed to piggyback a message onto the emergency beacon's distress signal before he'd jettisoned it outside of the wormhole. Hopefully it was still in place on the other side, undamaged. The hasty sensor sweep Malcolm had made before landing showed that there was a moderately large city less than fifteen kilometers away, with signs of relatively advanced technology. They decided to make the trek to the outskirts of it and do a little visual reconnaissance before trying to contact the natives.

Malcolm insisted on checking Trip with the scanner, then gave him another injection to help clear his bronchial passages. After that, Trip spent ten minutes hacking, bringing up stuff he never imagined the human body could produce, all the while complaining to Malcolm in between coughing fits. But when he was through he felt better, able to breathe freely again, the ache in his chest receding.

They set out after eating. The shuttlepod was locked up tight, safely ensconced in an isolated area, camouflaged by the surrounding trees. Malcolm had even draped the pod with more branches after landing, making it invisible from above. They propped more against it, covering it completely until it blended in with the surrounding landscape.

It was an easy hike, mostly downhill at a gentle decline. The sky was cloudless and sunlit, but not too warm. All in all it was a pleasant journey, and from what Trip could see, a beautiful planet. As they walked they fell into an easy banter.

Trip didn't notice when he started to gently flirt with Malcolm; he couldn't help it. It was just a natural response to some of Malcolm's more risque comments about Trip's evening with Belesar, genially ribbing him. Of course, the memory of Malcolm in his arms earlier that day was difficult to ignore. The fact Malcolm was soon playing along encouraged Trip, but he kept it light, leaving his teasing open to interpretation as usual.

The sun was beginning its descent as they came to the city, the buildings stretching out into the horizon. The architecture was clean and bright, well kept and stylish. They watched from a distance, studying the inhabitants.

They were very human looking, much to their surprise. The populace seemed to be made up of tall stocky blond people all with ghostly pale skin, and shorter, lean brunets, their skin tones varying from creamy white to richly tanned. The streets were filled with silent vehicles, some people hurrying on their way, their purchases in hand, others strolling leisurely down the sidewalks, window-shopping and socializing.

Trip decided they would blend in well. Their clothing was different obviously, but his uniform was sleeker than some of the attire he'd seen.

"You should let me do all the talking," Trip said, concealing their Universal Translator in a zippered pocket as his eyes raked over Malcolm's appearance. "You look kinda...gritty," Trip added by way of explanation. Malcolm frowned and it only accentuated the cut along his cheek and the slice through his eyebrow. He looked a little intimidating, and to Trip's mind quite roguish, but that was the last impression Trip wanted to make on anyone they may meet. "Just follow my lead. We'll check things out, keep our mouths shut and try to blend in. We'll go with standard protocol and try to pose as natives until we gather a little more information. Let's just see what we can see."

They made their way to the buildings, Trip leading them through the streets, observing the people, the UT gathering enough of the language so that they eventually understood the conversations around them. They got some curious looks from the fair-haired aliens, but most tilted their heads in a cordial greeting to Trip as they passed.

They wandered deeper into the city where the streets became more crowded, making low comments to each other about their observations. Eventually Trip noticed that Malcolm had gone silent, his alert eyes constantly scanning their surroundings.

"What's wrong?" Trip asked casually as he inclined his head to return a greeting from a passing blond alien.

"There are no women," Malcolm said quietly. "And have you noticed that they tend to acknowledge you, but not me?" He indicated for Trip to stop and they stood in front of a building, Malcolm busying himself with looking in one of the windows, using the reflection to assess their surroundings. "Look round. The blond ones all seem to have...servants. The dark haired ones."

Trip surveyed the streets. Sure enough all the blonds were trailed by several dark haired men who carried their packages, opened doors to stores and vehicles for them and generally catered to them. Other dark haired aliens hurried through the streets on their own, speaking to no one, eyes down and ignored by the taller blonds.

"Slave society?" Trip asked a modicum of disgust tinting his words.

"Could be," Malcolm replied evenly. "The blonds certainly look better fed and dressed."

Trip nodded in agreement; that was an understatement. The blond aliens ranged from stocky to downright obese, their pale skin flawless, their clothing luxurious. Trip hadn't seen one brunet of the same size; they were all slender, their clothes clean and neat, but not as lavish. They also all had wide metal bracelets encasing their arms from wrist to elbow and some wore necklaces, while the fair-haired aliens wore no jewelry or other such adornment.

Malcolm continued. "And have you seen the backs of their necks? There's something protruding from them." A blond alien and his entourage were coming toward them. Trip returned his greeting then turned to stare after them. He could see a little knob of discolored flesh on the nape of the blond one's neck.

Trip looked at Malcolm, a thread of worry starting. Malcolm had dropped his gaze as the blond alien had approached, not looking up until he had past. Malcolm caught Trip's concerned look. He shrugged. "When in Rome..."

Trip didn't like it, but he had to agree. It would be best not to bring any attention to themselves until they learned more about this culture. He indicated that they should start walking again and they moved on down the walkway.

They stopped at a crowded corner, waiting to cross, when someone bumped into Trip. He turned and a dark haired man behind him froze, a look of panic on his face. The man dropped his parcel and immediately brought his bracelets together, and bowed low. "I have no excuse, Graced One." He straightened, brown eyes averted.

Trip exchanged a look with Malcolm. The only two blond men in the group looked on with an aloof interest. The rest of the crowd was made up of brunets, all of whom actively avoided watching the scene.

Trip forced a frown. "See that it doesn't happen again," he said sharply and turned away, hoping that his performance met the society's standards.

Apparently it didn't for the two blond aliens came forward. "He needs to be Edified," one said pleasantly. He looked grandfatherly, his face round and his bright blue eyes benign. "You are new to Sakaur? Perhaps your Edifier has not yet adjusted to our network. It happens often."

Trip latched onto the alien's words. "Yes, we're new here. Just arrived this evening."

The alien smiled. "I thought your accent was different. Welcome." Before Trip could react he leaned around and examined Trip's neck. His eyebrows shot up in surprise and he looked at Trip with renewed interest. "Ah, I see that you are uncommitted. No doubt you've come to Sakaur to seek your Concordance. How fortunate that we have met." He appraised Trip with a shrewd air. "I am Rthuril, Third Onagon of Sakaur, and this Goturch, my brother and Vaelul of the Mercantile Affiliates. I invite you to share our evening meal with us. It appears you could certainly use a decent one." He and his brother chuckled as Rthuril gestured to one of his attendants, who took off at a run.

Malcolm tensed by Trip's side, shaking his head slightly, but kept his gaze to the ground. Trip was in agreement and trying to think how to politely refuse the man's offer when the signal chimed and the rest of the crowd crossed the street, leaving only the two aliens and their many attendants, and the dark haired man who had bumped into Trip. He was still standing there, waiting.

"I will Edify this one for you," Rthuril said and reached behind his own neck, pressing against the knob of flesh there. The dark haired man howled in pain; his slender frame was frozen in place and his fists were clenched so hard his nails bit into his palms.

At the sound of the man's cry, Malcolm's head jerked up. Goturch caught the movement and looked at Malcolm. Their eyes met for a brief moment before Malcolm quickly lowered his gaze.

Rthuril lowered his hand and the brunet staggered back, gasping. He steadied himself then picked up his parcel without a word. Small drops of blood dribbled from under his wristbands. "On your way now," Rthuril dismissed the man with a careless air. The brunet bowed and scurried off. Rthuril turned to Trip with a smile. It was all Trip could do to keep the shock from his face.

Goturch was studying Malcolm intently, bobbing this way and that. He then simply grabbed Malcolm by the hair, jerking his head up. "He owns a halfling!" Goturch crowed with a mix of disgust and astonishment.

Rthuril inhaled sharply as he studied Malcolm's eyes. He looked at Trip, his expression turning to one of greedy calculation. Goturch released Malcolm and stepped forward. "Where did you get him?"

Trip pulled Malcolm to his side, placing a possessive arm around him. "He's not for sale," Trip said, hoping they weren't going to try to buy him. Goturch seemed surprised by the protective move, but before Trip could continue, Rthuril, sounding slightly awed, asked "Was he borne from your family line?"

He took Trip's hesitation as confirmation and beamed. "I knew it! Your line is virile—you travel with the evidence. I offer you Concordance. I will give you the office of Fifth Onagon, 100 dakts of land, and 10,000 levits for each child you bear with my youngest."

"I offer you a seat on the Mercantile Affiliates, three factories and two concerns of your choice, 80 dakts of land and 12,000 levits for each child you conceive with my second daughter," Goturch said eagerly.

This time the shock did reach Trip's face. "I...I beg your pardon?" he managed to get out, his mind reeling.

Rthuril laughed, secretly charmed by the man's apparent naivete. "You drive a hard bargain, my friend." He looked at his brother and Goturch inclined his head, a cagey look in his piggish eyes. "Both. You may have both. It's a generous Concordance that does honor to the virility of your house." Before Trip could speak, a large vehicle pulled up and its door opened. "Come, we shall have a feast to celebrate the negotiation of the Concordance. Our daughters will not disappoint you." Rthuril continued to describe the merits of their offspring as he tugged Trip toward the vehicle.

Trip tried to shake Rthuril off. When Goturch took Trip's arm, yanking him off balance and pulling him forward into the vehicle, Malcolm dropped his submissive attitude and tore Goturch's hand away from Trip. Goturch stumbled against Rthuril, both shouting their outrage. They lunged for Trip and Malcolm blocked Rthuril, pushing him back and turning to swing at Goturch. Malcolm's fist connected with Goturch's ample belly causing him to lurched back, his bulk knocking Trip head first into the side of the vehicle. Trip went down as the aliens' attendants attacked Malcolm.

Rthuril and his brother shoved a stunned Trip into their vehicle. Malcolm, outnumbered but fighting hard, tried to get to Tucker. The attendants piled upon him, subduing him and holding him fast.

The blonds settled in their vehicle, Trip between them and groggily trying to climb over Rthuril's mass. Panting slightly, Goturch touched a panel and a tray slid out. He selected an instrument and pressed it to the nape of Trip's neck. Trip's eyes rolled back and he went limp. Rthuril looked at his brother with a sly questioning grin. "You know how business is," Goturch said with a dismissive gesture. "Sometimes my rivals need a little persuasion."

Malcolm bit the hand across his mouth and strained forward, shouting for Trip and struggling with a renewed frenzy. They looked at him, a bit surprised, as if they had forgotten he was there. "What should we do with him?" Goturch asked, gazing at Malcolm with disdain.

"Get rid of him. A halfling is too conspicuous, and they seem to be too attached to each other. It would be best if his family doesn't find this one," Rthuril said, indicating to Trip. "Just think of how much more it would cost us if they were involved in the Concordance negotiations."

Goturch chuckled and tossed another instrument to one of his attendants and the last thing Malcolm heard before he felt a sharp sting to his neck was Rthuril, asking Goturch if he still owned that pharmaceutical research lab.

***

Auro stared at his naked reflection in the mirror as he spread the lotion on his body. It was working; his skin was getting paler. He poked at his softening belly, a tinge of disgust at the little mound of flesh starting to form there. He knew he should be pleased, happy that he no longer had the lean and hungry appearance of the Disfavored ones, that he was beginning to look like someone of his station should. His blue eyes stared back at him as he studied himself. His blond hair was a little longer, his face a little fuller than what he first remembered over a month ago.

What little he remembered.

He sighed and turned away from the mirror. He grimaced at the injector on the tray by his bedside, despising it, despising the illness he couldn't remember, the one that had darkened his skin and wasted his body, leaving him unable to even comprehend his native tongue. Thankfully he had found a strange item among his personal effects—one that helped him understand the conversation around him and allowed him to be understood in turn. He had kept that device hidden on his person, vaguely uneasy with the thought of it being discovered and reluctant to let anyone know that the restoration of his faculties wasn't complete.

The illness had stripped him of his memory of his life before Concordance, leaving him with odd thoughts and an inexplicable dissatisfaction with his life. No matter how often he told himself that there was nothing to be unhappy about there was always an underlying sense of repugnance coupled with a frustrated need for...something. But he had everything as befitting a Graced One, especially one of his prowess.

He had two beautiful wives, a more than respectable amount of land, a seat on the Mercantile Affiliates and held the office of Fifth Onagon. But it felt hollow. The businesses and offices he held were mostly formalities at the moment. His Concordance-fathers wouldn't let him devote his attention to them, claiming that he still needed time to convalesce. So he spent most his days roaming his estates or spending his seemingly unlimited supply of wealth in the city, bored. He didn't love his wives. He liked them, finding their soft flesh and rounded curves beguiling, but he merely played stud service to them, visiting them at their estates twice a week to mate with them at the appointed hours to help their bodies ripen for the coming season's conception.

His every desire was catered to by his vast array of Disfavored ones; he had chefs, valets and drivers, housekeepers, secretaries and servants, even his own personal physician. He didn't have to lift a finger to do a thing. He wasn't even allowed to tinker with any of the equipment in the household—a desire that was strong yet contrary to the very nature of being a Graced One, especially one of his high status.

He felt utterly useless and it made him chafe at the absolute emptiness of it all.

It didn't help that he dreamed about strange things, fantastic things he told no one about, not even his wives. Stars and engines. Cramped corridors and wondrous worlds. A tall Graced One, a few years older than himself, with startling eyes of green; loved like a brother but his presence conjured a feeling of loss. There were images of men and women, some with strange dark skin or differently shaped eyes; there was a small four legged creature and an exotic woman with pointed ears—it all seemed to be out of some child's tale.

He also dreamed of mating with men.

Sometimes a Disfavored one caught his eye, and he'd make arrangements to trade one of his own for the duration. He'd bring him back to his estate and make love to him.

The ones he asked were more than willing—he gave them gifts and baubles, material things they were unaccustomed to having and often craved. They did not treat his needs and desires as odd as his Concordance-fathers did, thinking it was beneath a Graced One to have relations with a man when there were so many female Graced Ones to chose from. But it was a natural expression of intimacy between the male Disfavored ones, evolved from the lack of available females. He was comfortable with them, sometimes more so than with his own kind.

It was a lonely life, his wives sequestered in their ancestral homes as they awaited the ripening, his visits always under the scrutiny of his Concordance-fathers. The few hours with a Disfavored one eased the isolation, his sense of purposelessness, his need for a connection with someone, receiving more affection and tenderness from those bedmates than he did from his passive, preoccupied wives.

It was also considered an aberration. At least that's what his First Concordance-father, Rthuril, said when he had made a surprise visit to the estate and caught Auro with a Disfavored one. Rthuril had been understanding though, telling him that it was the virility of his line, the strength of his drive that urged him to seek such a release like a common slave. But he anticipated that when he'd asked Auro to be his Concordance-son. The kind of potency Auro's line possessed was prized because it was so rare, the offspring borne from such a Concordance always twin males. He had encouraged Auro to keep his desires secret, telling him that while he could have his choice of any Disfavored one he saw, he should be discreet. And to stay away from the female Disfavored ones.

Not that Auro would want a female one. Those wretched Breeders were pitiful, mindless creatures, their sole purpose to produce male Disfavored ones for the labor force. The first time Auro had seen one he had been horrified that such a damaged thing existed.

But that was when he was first recovering from his illness, his state of mind weak from the sickness, which according to his Second Concordance-father, Goturch, had killed his parents and almost killed him. He had learned to ignore the breeding factories, as all Graced Ones did, although it left a lingering sympathy and outrage that he dared not tell anyone.

Auro dressed himself—another aberration he knew, but he wasn't comfortable with having his Disfavored ones help him with such a personal task. It was considered an eccentric trait, but not remarked upon. His Disfavored ones also did not remark upon his other eccentricities either. No doubt for fear of being Edified, Auro thought darkly. They did not know that the illness had left him unable to focus his thoughts properly to direct the process and unable to operate the Edifier implanted upon Concordance. However, Goturch assured him that the injections would eventually help him to recover completely—it had only been a few weeks.

His attendants would have nothing to fear from him even if he could mete out Edification. Sometimes he felt an encompassing distaste for this whole way of life. Disfavored ones were flesh and blood, just as he was. They laughed and felt and made love to each other, just as he did. The peculiar thoughts that no man should be in servitude to another had crossed his mind much too often. He suspected it was another side effect of his illness and said nothing about it, yet he was compelled to treat his attendants with a compassion that was rare in society. Goturch had remarked several times that he was too indulgent, too lenient with his attendants, but Auro disregarded him. It felt right.

If it wasn't for the vague dissatisfaction, the uneasy feeling that this wasn't the life he was supposed to be living, he had no doubt that he would have fully recuperated by now. But he didn't tell Rthuril or Goturch any of his thoughts or dreams. Especially the worse—the best—dream, that of a halfling, the dark hair and build of a Disfavored one with the blue eyes that showed the dominate line of a Graced One in his conception. Handsome and passionate, Auro would dream of him often—laughing with him, fighting with him, touching him. Making love to him.

Halflings were rare; they were coveted abominations, the product of taboo liaisons by the most powerful of Graced Ones. Auro couldn't remember ever seeing one, yet the dream haunted him. He found himself having his driver take him all over the city, then further and further out to the rugged countryside, where there was nothing but farms and factories and the other places where Disfavored ones labored. He sought the halfling of his dreams, fantasy though it was.

With a sigh Auro picked up the injector and administered his medication, and his peculiar thoughts faded as usual.

***

Jon picked at his dinner listlessly, aware of T'Pol's eyes upon him. He knew he was brooding but sometimes the effort to project that steady confidence was too great. Here in private, with T'Pol as his only companion, he felt he could take off the public mask of captain and let his true feelings show.

When Trip and Malcolm had failed to meet the Enterprise on time, Jon had immediately ordered a long-range sensor sweep for signs of the shuttle. He had Travis continue toward the planet his crewmen had left, focusing the scans along the flight path they would have taken, knowing that Trip wouldn't have deviated from the agreed upon course. Unless there had been trouble. But by all accounts this sector was peaceful and he and T'Pol hadn't run into any problems.

They found the emergency beacon from the shuttlepod. Jon would bet that it was Malcolm who had recorded as much information as possible from the pod's sensors before jettisoning it. T'Pol had sifted through it, confirming that the shuttle had been drawn into a wormhole. Jon had contacted one of the traders he'd dealt with, who in turn helped him contact one of their astrophysicists.

Jon had been given material on the stable wormhole in that sector—it had been studied thoroughly and the information was extensive. It opened every 97 days by Earth's standard of time, and remained opened for roughly sixteen hours. The only facts Jon had were that planet on the other side of the wormhole was a pre-warp society and the people human looking. The other worlds in the system left them alone in accordance with their mandate about avoiding such primitive cultures.

Starfleet had ordered him to continue with their mission, granting him permission to return for the reappearance of the wormhole to attempt to retrieve his men.

In all honesty he couldn't blame Starfleet—there was nothing he could do but it gnawed at him all the same. They still had more than a month to wait and every day his foreboding grew. There were too many unknown factors and no information about the world Trip and Malcolm were stranded on. If they were still alive...

"There is no reason to believe that anything adverse has happened to them," T'Pol said, breaking into his thoughts with uncanny accuracy.

"There's no reason to believe they're okay either," Jon retorted.

"I have been studying the information we received on the wormhole. While the forces exerted by it would have been severe, simulations show that the structural integrity of the shuttle would have remained intact. There is no reason to believe that they did not land safely. Both Mr. Tucker and Mr. Reed could certainly survive in a pre-warp society. Between Mr. Reed's caution and Mr. Tucker's gregarious manner, I would surmise that they are either in a secluded and secure area or have been able to blend in with the culture."

Jon smiled slightly. "What, either living it up in one of the cities or hiding out together in a cave?"

"Let us hope it is the former scenario. Trip can be quite...cranky when forced into close quarters," T'Pol said dryly.

Jon chuckled thinking that over two months now in a cave with Malcolm would probably drive the engineer crazy. Trip had said being stuck with Malcolm for three days in the shuttlepod had been bad enough.

No, wait; Sim had said that.

That brought a flood of bitter memories and Jon abruptly pushed his plate away, what little appetite he had gone. He'd left too many issues unresolved with Trip. But he hadn't been ready to talk to Trip about the damage to their friendship. He always thought there would be time, when he was ready.

And now he was afraid there wouldn't be time at all.

T'Pol must have picked up on his darkening thoughts. She deliberately placed her hand lightly upon his arm. "I am sure they are fine." She stared at him with a strange intensity. "Regardless of their propensity to argue, underneath it all, Trip is exceedingly fond of Mr. Reed and Mr. Reed would do anything to ensure Trip's safety. They have a bond. I don't think even they realize the strength of it."

Jon held her gaze, seeing something more in her eyes that her words had revealed. She removed her hand and picked up her fork, daintily spearing another piece of lettuce, leaving Jon to wonder for the rest of the evening what she meant.

It hadn't stopped him from worrying though.

***

Malcolm threw another heavy bale up onto the loader, taking a moment to stretch before bending to hurl the next one. His shift was almost at an end and he couldn't wait for the day to finish. He was hungry and looking forward to dinner.

He hadn't expected to actually like the work but he found he enjoyed being with the animals, caring for them, though he wished he had more time with them and less time doing the heavy manual labor. But the food was decent, the living arrangements adequate, the other Disfavored ones left him alone, and the Graced Ones who oversaw the farm, with the exception of a right bastard or two, were for the most part benevolent. It wasn't that bad.

If you didn't mind being a slave that is.

He hefted another bale, the weight now not as difficult as it was at first. Then again, over three months of intensive daily labor had been more of a workout than anything Enterprise's gym had to offer.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and the Graced Overseer from high above in his climate controlled perch distractedly gestured to him to take a break. Malcolm crossed his wrists in thanks, his bracelets jangling together, and sat in the shade, grabbing a bottle of cold water and a piece of fruit to tide him over until dinner.

He contemplated the wristlets as he rested, still trying to figure out a way to remove them safely. He'd been Edified several times now; the first for some modest act of disobedience brought on by his minimal understanding of the language. He learnt the language quickly after that; Hoshi would have been proud, he thought wryly. She always did say that the best way to learn was by total immersion. Of course, he had the added incentive of being Edified—that first time had been so painful it had knocked him out for nearly an hour. The inconvenience had caused some displeasure with the Graced Overseers, but they had him taken to the infirmary and he woke with the doctor standing over him, examining the wristlets. The doctor eventually decided that his nervous system was sensitive to the device. Luckily for Malcolm a human's physiology was close enough to those of the natives that any abnormalities were written off as part of his unusual condition as a halfling.

Not that the doctor had ever treated one before.

The second time he'd been Edified was when he had taken one of the farm's horse-like creatures and slipped away in the night to the shuttle to use its sensors to try to locate Trip. He was unsuccessful, but he recorded an encrypted message detailing all that he'd learned about the culture in the meantime, hoping it would reach the Enterprise, although every week that passed left him less sure that they would be rescued.

He doubted the signal would be monitored and traced but he set it on a randomly repeating subspace squirt nevertheless. The Graced Ones weren't interested in space travel, their culture stagnant. Why bother exploring when you had your every comfort fulfilled by slaves right here at home?

He had returned to the farm and had been late for his shift by only a few minutes when he was Edified again. He still remembered the excruciating pain running from his wrists and up his arms, blazing through to his shoulders and curving down his back and chest, feeling as if his body was bursting into flame. He'd been frozen in agony for what seemed hours but in reality was less than two minutes, the standard duration for that particular infraction.

Afterwards he was unconscious for a good four hours, causing concern with the Graced Overseers. Once again he woke in the infirmary and the doctor made him stay overnight.

The doctor had again removed the wristlets to study them for malfunctions and Malcolm had seen his skin, spotted with pinpricks resembling a rash, dried blood capping each tiny wound. He tried not to anger anyone after that, but it was difficult. A few of the Graced Ones were arbitrary at times, looking for the most minor excuse to punish him and Malcolm had to admit he wasn't the most subservient of slaves. But the Overseers had adjusted, simply Edifying him in repeated short bursts so as not to endure the nuisance of having him unable to work afterwards.

However, as much as he'd discovered about the devices it didn't help in circumventing them. They consisted of thousand of tiny rods that would pierce the skin when activated, seeking out the nerves to inflict their fiery punishment. It could last two or three seconds using only a few hundred of the rods—the usual for a 'gentle' reminder—or many long minutes using all of the conductors for more serious transgressions. It depended on the judgment of the Graced One who had been offended. He'd seen one man Edified at the device's full capacity for an hour after one of the animals became ill from the slave's perceived carelessness; the Graced Overseer had used him as an example to the others.

The wristlets couldn't be forcibly removed. If they were tampered with the tiny spikes would be triggered all at once, first burrowing deeply into the skin, then detaching. The excruciating pain would commence, not ending until each and every one had been pulled out. Malcolm thought anyone's nervous system would be fried long before they could all be extracted and he doubted that he could remain conscious long enough in any case to do it himself.

The frightening part was that any Graced One could Edify a Disfavored one. The doctor had cheerfully talked about the mind/machine link; it was just a matter of pressing the activator implanted in the back of the neck and focusing a mental command. The citywide network worked for all activators and wristlets, its reception far reaching. It made escaping nearly impossible.

Besides, Malcolm hadn't known where to go. At first. He'd been searching for Trip, teaching himself to use the farm's computers to try to trace him. Few Disfavored ones were interested in mastering the system, but the Overseers didn't care how he spent his off hours. Disfavored ones were no threat to their status quo.

The irony was that the whole society was based on a quirk of recessive genes. Blond hair and blue eyes were considered superior; dark hair and brown eyes, inferior. Malcolm had found that this planet's "Aryan" race had taken advantage of their genetics since the beginning of their recorded history.

Malcolm had read the troves of material written about the Graced Ones, as well as the subject of Concordance and the responsibility of continuing the 'pure' line. There was a shortage of viable men, the shrinking gene pool making it more and more difficult to produce the male offspring desired.

It made sense now why Trip had been abducted. He was a rare prize in the city of Sakaur. Unattached males would come to make their fortune there, looking to enter Concordance—basically rich dowries, seeking the highest bidder. They were fought over by the ruling population and sometimes took two or three, or even more wives. There were plenty of female Graced Ones but not enough males to impregnate them; the male Graced One had only about a 10-year period in which they were fertile. Add the odd female fertility cycle—the ripening—and conception was a prolonged matter, taking months of preparation before the female was ready to conceive, then more months of rigorously scheduled mating sessions for it to effectively happen.

It would be exhausting work actually.

Most dark haired female newborns were euthanized, except for a certain quota set aside to breed more male Disfavored ones. They were lobotomized once they became fertile and maintained in breeding factories.

Malcolm knew that judging alien societies by human standards wasn't right, but it was abhorrent to him all the same.

He'd found out that's where halflings came in—some households kept their own female Disfavored ones, foregoing the reproduction mills, breeding workers according to their own specialized needs. And sometimes a male Graced One would have sex with a female Disfavored one. Pregnancy was rare, and a live birth even rarer—something to do with an incompatibility that Malcolm couldn't find information on. But now and then a male offspring with dark hair and blue eyes was born and thrived. Although it was seen as a testament to their family lines' superior potency to overcome such insurmountable odds, bringing even more power and status to their house, it was a discouraged practice; the blood of a Graced One was sacred and a halfling was an ethical dilemma.

As far as the whole fucked up society was ethical, Malcolm thought.

He poured his off hours time into trying to find Trip. And now after more than three months he had finally turned up one lead—information on Rthuril and Goturch. But getting to their estates would prove problematic. They were powerful men and well protected. Plus he'd never make it back in time for his work shift on foot; getting Edified and lying passed out somewhere wasn't a feasible option. So he'd made plans to steal a vehicle and break into Rthuril's estate tomorrow under cover of the large gala being thrown at the farm's manor. The celebration started at sundown and would give him over 24 hours of unsupervised time—still, it was a dangerous and desperate move, but being so close to finding Trip drove him to take the risk; he didn't know when he would have the opportunity to slip away unnoticed again. He decided that tonight he'd once more ride out to the shuttle to update his message with his findings. Only this time he'd urge his mount along a little faster in order to return in time come morning...

His musings were interrupted when the Graced Overseer told him to get back to work. Malcolm rose and bowed, careful to adhere to the proper etiquette, careful not to meet the light blue eyes of the Overseer. He needed to stay unnoticed more than ever now.

Part 3

"How much longer?" Archer asked T'Pol, his gaze glued to the viewscreen.

"Five hours, twenty-two minutes, thirteen seconds," T'Pol recited calmly.

Jon rose from his chair and paced in restless anticipation. It had been 96 days of worrying, waiting for the wormhole to reappear on schedule.

Now they had finally returned, a rescue shuttle prepped and ready, and Jon waiting impatiently for the wormhole to materialize.

***

Auro sat in the back of his vehicle, looking out from the black tinted windows at the landscape, swallowing down the last of the wine. Rthuril had insisted he stay for lunch after performing his procreational duties. Auro was used to his Concordance-father's lavish entertaining, even merely for an informal meal. There had been plenty of food and drink and Rthuril had insisted that Auro take the some home with him. Auro gave his attendants the leftovers, amused by their pathetic gratitude. He kept the bottle of wine for himself.

In the last two months he'd grown to like Rthuril. The man had taken him in after all, using his own resources to restore him to health, honoring the Concordance Auro's house had made before the illness had robbed him of his memories and his birth family. Rthuril was jovial and generous, and above all, understanding about, Auro seeking release with male Disfavored ones—he kept saying it proved how potent Auro's lineage and seed was, even encouraging him. In Auro's more cynical moments he thought that it was only because he was in his prime and Rthuril could anticipate multiple male births, and when they matured their Concordances would help fill the coffers of Rthuril's house.

But those thoughts were rare nowadays. He smiled, pleased with his recovery. Although his memory of his life before Concordance still hadn't returned the odd thoughts and pervasive feeling of discontent had all but vanished. Stepping up the injections as Goturch suggested had worked and Auro felt a new zeal for life. He'd proven himself to his Concordance-fathers by throwing himself into his work, enjoying the negotiations and deal making—even relishing the more sordid aspects of business as usual in Sakaur. He savored the prestige and perks that went with his seat on the Mercantile Affiliates and the high office of Fifth Onagon. Allied with his Concordance-fathers there was nothing to stand in their way and they had seen their wealth and influence grow. They had made some enemies along their rise, such as the Houses of Kral and Binet, but he was confident that they were too cowed, too weak, to matter much. He intended to keep them in that position too.

He had power and he liked wielding it. He soon found he could buy whatever he wanted, and what he couldn't buy, he could take.

And he enjoyed taking what he wanted.

It was only natural. He was a Graced One after all.

He glanced at the back of the heads of the three attendants whom his Concordance-fathers insisted accompany him everywhere. He suspected that they were there to keep an eye on him, to make sure he was discreet, most likely reporting back to Goturch. Probably to prevent him from seeking out a female Disfavored one, he thought sourly. As if he could even think of taking advantage of one of those revolting creatures when he had two beautiful wives to service. Although his wives weren't very stimulating, he thought with a touch of contempt. He was rather glad that they stayed at their ancestral estates—he found their company tedious.

He wished an attendant would be disobedient so he could Edifying one to alleviate his boredom. The increased dosage of his medication had finally allowed him to focus his thoughts properly. He couldn't imagine why he had ever indulged those shiftless creatures, why he'd ever felt sorry for them. It was their place to serve their Graced Ones and the natural order of the universe.

Relaxed from the heavy meal and slightly tipsy, Auro decided to go looking for a diversion to fill the rest of the day. It was just a matter of finding a Disfavored one who struck his fancy.

He only visited his wives once a week now as they approached the final stage of the ripening. Yet his sexual appetite had grown. He had thought about making another Concordance or two, but that wasn't what he really wanted.

He found that he truly preferred males and he liked the Disfavored ones who performed manual labor—he liked their masculine forms, harder and sleeker than those living a softer life in the city. While he enjoyed the full, fleshy bodies of his wives, he liked the firm build and strength of a workman, with more stamina than his distracted brides.

Auro watched the scenery go by and when they came upon a group of laborers mending a fence, he told his driver to stop. He studied the men, sizing them up. They were shirtless, their skin darkened, signifying the many long hours they spent in the sun. It was a mesmerizing contrast to the pure coloring of a Graced One or the soft pale skin of his wives. He felt a tendril of arousal as he watched one bend to tie the bottom wire.

His eye was caught by one hammering the posts into the ground, the muscles in his back defined as he swung the sledgehammer down again. He was glistening with a light sheen of sweat, his skin golden, his dark hair accented with lighter sun-bleached strands. As he raised the hammer, Auro could see the muscles in his arms flex.

Auro stared at him as he worked, liking what he saw. He told one of the attendants to fetch one of the farm's Graced Overseers.

He watched the Disfavored one toil as he waited. Eventually the man finished and turned; Auro took in the well defined chest and sculpted stomach, every muscle cut in sharp relief by long hours of hard work. The Disfavored one lifted his head and Auro caught his breath.

Blue eyes stared back at him out of the face of the halfling of his old night dreams. The high cheekbones and straight nose were unmistakable. The halfling looked away and Auro pressed his face to the tinted window, not quite believing his own eyes.

His scrutiny was interrupted by the farm's Overseer sliding into the backseat next to him.

"I'd like to borrow one of your men for a few hours," Auro said without preamble. "You can take any of mine in his place."

Auro saw the look of avarice in the other Graced One's eyes as he took in the insignias of Auro's high office, the plush interior of the vehicle and his affluent clothing. "As you can see, they're all very busy right now. I'm afraid I can't afford to lose one, even for so short a time." The man's manner was unctuous but Auro was used to that—he was Fifth Onagon after all.

"Then I'll buy him." He'd never done that before—his prestigious position insured that he could borrow any Disfavored one freely; after all, there were plenty to go around and their owners were all too happy to curry favor with Auro's house.

But the idea of owning the halfling was exciting. He could do whatever he pleased whenever he pleased if he owned the man and not worry about paying compensation if he returned him in less than original condition. He schooled his face to a bland expression and concentrated on negotiating.

They haggled and Auro finally offered more than was rational for the halfling, but he had to have him, no matter the cost. The Overseer pocketed the payment and gave Auro an oily smile. He sharply told Auro's attendants to accompany him and he exited the vehicle, calling to the halfling.

Auro could see when the Overseer told the halfling he had been sold. The man's head snapped up and he watched in disbelief as the halfling's eyes flashed with anger, brazenly looking at the Graced One. He actually dared to protest, moving forward with an intense expression on his face, causing the Overseer to step back in alarm.

Auro's attendants were shocked for a moment, then moved to grab him. The halfling lashed out, downing two of the men and punching the third before anyone could react. He lunged for the Overseer, getting his hands around the Overseer's neck before being pulled back by his own workmates. The Overseer, fear clearly on his face, Edified the halfling.

To Auro's consternation, the halfling collapsed after being corrected. He heaved himself out of his vehicle. "What did you do to him?" he shouted, furious that his newly acquired property may have been damaged. "If you've—"

"He'll be fine," the Overseer hastened to soothe him, once again adopting his obsequious manner. "He'll awaken in a few hours." He rubbed his neck, unable to hid his outrage. "But we've made a contract—you can't renege on it. I certainly won't take him back, especially now." He looked at the halfling with contempt. "There was always something too bold about that one. I've never trusted him."

A wave of disgust suddenly possessed Auro. He found the Overseer repulsive, for once not disturbed by his peculiar thoughts. He signaled his attendants to place the halfling into his vehicle. He forced himself to be pleasant in taking his leave of the Overseer, only half listening to the man's vindictive advice on how to keep the halfling in line, just wanting to get back to his estate.

***

The wormhole appeared exactly when T'Pol said it would. Jon waited impatiently as she performed scans, all coming back inconclusive. He ordered Travis to proceed, one quarter impulse power.

Immediately the ship was sucked in and streaking through the wormhole. Jon could only hang on tightly to his chair, watching as Travis frantically piloted the twists and turns as their speed increased.

Panels sparked and lights flickered; Hoshi held on to her console for dear life as T'Pol planted herself in front of her viewer, recording every moment of their passage.

Travis was damp with sweat by the time they were spit out on the other side. They were immediately drawn into the planet's gravity and he fought the helm, struggling to keep them from entering the atmosphere. A few tense moments later and he had them in a low orbit, coaxing the over-stressed engines into gaining altitude.

"Damn good flying, Ensign," Jon said as he clapped Travis on the shoulder when they attained a stable orbit. Travis nodded in acknowledgment of the praise, a small smile on his face.

"Hoshi, try to raise them. T'Pol, start scanning for their biosigns," Jon ordered.

Two hours later there was still no sign of his missing crewmen and Jon's anxiety grew. He was about to question T'Pol again when she stiffened. He was beside her instantly. She looked up at him.

"I've located the shuttlepod. It's in a forested area several kilometers from one of the main cities."

"Biosigns?" Jon asked.

"None," T'Pol answered.

"Travis, prep a shuttle. We might as well start there. You have the bridge, T'Pol." Jon joined Travis in the lift, hoping that the shuttle held some clues to the whereabouts of his missing crew.

***

A pleasant feeling of nervous anticipation fluttered in Auro's stomach as he studied the halfling's features. He regretted that he had to have him restrained and sedated, but he had no choice. Auro had been told he had become hostile once he'd awaken and been informed of his new duties.

Auro wanted him cleaned up before being brought to his bed but the halfling refused to strip and bathe; so Auro had no recourse but to order his personal physician to sedate the halfling if he didn't cooperate. It had taken six of his attendants to subdue the halfling long enough for his doctor to get near him.

Auro's finger traced the scar bisecting the halfling's eyebrow. It was the only flaw marring the man's features. He thought it made him look roguish and his hand froze, a frown crossing his face, the word sparking a memory that flittered out of reach as soon as he tried to focus on it.

There was something so familiar about this man, beyond just the visions of his dreams; something that evoked warm emotions in him. Something besides lust or mere attraction, something deeper, as if there was a connection, a link Auro hadn't felt before. Not with his wives or any of the Disfavored ones he'd been intimate with, but more profound.

A love, he thought fleetingly as his fingers brushed over a seductively shaped lower lip.

A fantasy, Auro corrected himself harshly. The halfling was here, purchased and coerced, sedated and bound, a sturdy length of chain running between the wristlets. Love had nothing to do with this pretense.

He rose abruptly from the bed, automatically reaching for his medication. He injected himself and after a few moments felt the reassuring return of his composure. When his property made a low sound he was once again drawn to him. He watched as the man stirred, his head turning to the side. Auro approached the bed and sat down next to him, his previous thoughts vanishing as he reached out and unbuttoned his property's shirt, pushing it aside and down his arms as far as the chain would allow. His hands stroked down the golden skin of the halfling's chest.

He couldn't wait to peel him out of the confining trousers that left little to the imagination and Auro's desire increased. Images of what he would do to his halfling fanned his excitement and he felt himself grow hard at the thoughts. From what he'd seen his new possession was a spirited one—not like the meek Disfavored ones he had honored by allowing them to share his bed. He would enjoy bending this one to his will.

No, love had nothing to do with this, he thought, unaware of the cold smile on his face as he started to unfasten his property's trousers. But pleasure—his own pleasure—had everything to do with it. He was a Graced One and that's all that mattered.

A few minutes later the halfling groaned and his eyes finally opened, then focused on him.

Auro was surprised when the halfling smiled warmly.

***

Jon took one last look around the abandoned shuttlepod then called the ship to have an engineer and some plasma standing by to refuel the craft.

At least Trip and Malcolm had survived the landing, that much was evident by the repairs that had been made. The antitoxin missing from the medkit worried Jon though.

He was about to tell Travis to get ready to leave when the young boomer spoke. "Found something! It's a compressed message, set for a subspace squirt."

"Let's hear it."

"It's encrypted—but I think Hoshi can crack it with no problem. Looks like a standard Starfleet code."

"Copy it and we'll have Hoshi decrypt it. While she's doing that I want you to fly the plasma and personnel back here. Hopefully by the time that's finished Hoshi will have something for us that'll lead us to Trip and Malcolm."

And a few hours later, they had that lead. Jon had listened to Malcolm's extensive description of the planet's society and customs, relieved that Malcolm, while basically chattel, was at least alive and apparently none the worse for wear. Jon could hear the worry in Malcolm's voice as he had reported that Trip was still missing, then his excitement when he amended the report with a lead regarding Trip's whereabouts and his subsequent plans.

The recording lifted Jon's spirits, his worry easing further as T'Pol pointed out that Trip should be able to maintain his cover as a native with no problem, and perhaps even thrive. With any luck they'd have Trip and Malcolm back on the ship in time for breakfast.

His heart lighter than it had been in weeks, Jon selected a team of men, all blond and blue eyed. He'd lead the effort and Phlox had outfitted him with blue contact lenses. With Malcolm's directions to Rthuril's estate in hand and a location pinpointed in which to land undetected, Jon piloted Shuttlepod One down to the surface.

***

Malcolm woke with a pleasant fuzz tainting his senses. He turned his head and felt crisp linens beneath his cheek. The movement made him feel as if he were floating and he lay still, resisting the urge to give in to the comfortable languor and forced himself to think.

Christ, he'd been a complete berk—he'd let his anger at being sold get the better of him; and just when his plans to find Trip were coming to fruition. He shouldn't have protested, but he couldn't stop himself and then everything had spun out of control.

He dimly felt the surface beneath him dip, accentuating the warm floating feeling, then the sensation of something ghosting over his skin. It felt nice and made it difficult to concentrate, but he pushed himself to continue to sift through his memories, trying to figure out where he was now. He remembered waking in a strange room, being told to strip off, refusing and then...

He groaned at his stupidity. He'd panicked as soon as they told him he was to be some fat bastard's bloody rent boy. Now all he had to show for his actions was being knocked out twice today and a head full of cotton wool...

Malcolm managed to open his eyes and waited until the room stopped revolving. He was surprised to see someone sitting next to him, but as the figure came into focus and he saw the attentive visage of Trip Tucker he broke out into a huge smile.

He saw Trip smile back at him, that happy smile that he hadn't seen much since Lizzie had been killed. Having it directed at him sent a warm feeling to the pit of his stomach.

"I take it you're the one who bought me?" Malcolm asked wryly, still grinning.

Trip nodded.

Malcolm laughed. "Leave it to you to throw a spanner into the works. All this time I've been searching for you and when I'm finally close, you go and find me first."

The smile on Trip's face widened and once again Malcolm felt it go straight through him. He'd had over three months to think about what Trip meant to him, replaying their conversations, analyzing them, trying to be sure that he had read all of Trip's advances right. Subtle cues had always confused him. That horrible misunderstanding with Hoshi their first year out still made him cringe in embarrassment at times. His inability to recognize such nuances had ruined more than one relationship. He preferred the direct approach—he liked to know where he stood.

Trip was refreshingly direct. Of course, that had lead to some impressive rows at first, but they always managed to sort things out. He usually knew where he stood with Trip. And, much to his surprise, when Trip had started flirting with him—the man was about as subtle as a chain saw—he found he wasn't opposed to the idea.

The year in the Expanse had thrown out every rule in Malcolm's book—his ideas of what a captain should be, his views on fraternization, even his concepts of regulations and duty. They'd done some terrible things in the name of the mission, they lost good people, and they paid a heavy price to save Earth. But he'd made his peace with all of it. And it seemed that Trip had too, finally.

So recently, whenever Trip flirted with him, Malcolm flirted back, curious and a little flattered. But he'd been unable to take the next step, insecurities and uncertainties still dogging him. One of the biggest hurdles, that Trip was only interested because he was on the rebound from T'Pol, had been eased slightly the night Trip met Belesar. Malcolm had watched him carefully, relieved that there had been no sign of desperation in his encounter with Belesar, no self-recriminations afterwards as Trip responded good naturedly to Malcolm's testing, amiable teasing about his tryst.

However, there was still a fraction of doubt that had kept him from following through. What if he was wrong? What if Trip was just joking around? Trip may not be subtle, but there was just enough ambiguity there to make Malcolm hesitate.

Malcolm once again allowed himself to imagine what something more could be like. Trip was easy to talk to, attractive, and the best damn friend he'd ever had. Trip wasn't like the other men he'd been with before.

Malcolm was comfortable with him.

He wasn't aware that he was staring at Trip, that his pupils were dilating, his expression reflecting his jumbled thoughts, obvious affection on his face.

But Trip was, taking it all in. And when he leaned down and kissed Malcolm passionately, Malcolm surprised himself by throwing his last iota of doubt to the wind and eagerly kissed him back.

***

Auro kissed him, forcing his lips apart, his tongue flickering against the halfling's own. His hand roved down the man's skin, reveling in the feeling of the hard flesh so different from his wives. His property was displaying an enthusiasm that sent a triumphant thrill through him. His halfling said he'd been searching for him but he didn't question it. Obviously the man recognized his rightful master.

He broke the kiss, nipping the halfling's lips once before nuzzling him under the jaw. The halfling lifted his head and Auro sucked at the sensitive skin there. He heard his possession inhale, a soft sound, and Auro began his trek down the man's body. His lips and fingers explored him thoroughly, delighting in the reactions his quest provoked. He could feel the halfling's erection and he paused to free it.

"Trip—"

Auro silenced him with another kiss, ignoring the odd word. "I've been waiting to do this for quite some time," he told him. He lowered his head and took the halfling's penis into his mouth. He could feel it swell further as he sucked gently at first then more firmly, his tongue traveling around the head, then down the thick shaft. Oh, yes, he'd been waiting for quite some time. It had been in his night dreams.

The noises his property was making hadn't been in his dreams though—they were better. The halfling was rocking his hips, uttering half whispered words. Auro quickened his pace, then opened his throat and pressed down, fully engulfing the halfling, his nose brushing against the coarse dark hair. He inhaled the man's clean scent, so new, yet somehow familiar.

Malcolm groaned, this time in pleasure. The remnants of the fog in his head and Trip's talented mouth blended to inundate his senses. He raised his hand, whether to try to stop Trip or hold him there, he wasn't certain. He was startled when his arm came up short, jerking to halt. He opened his eyes to see a chain running from his wristlet, just now registering the uncomfortable lumps of its cold metal against his lower back, gaze following it to the end where it was attached to his other wrist. He felt a rush of alarm; his head clearing enough to protest and he raised himself up onto his elbows.

"Trip—wait."

Auro placed his hand on his property's chest and pushed him back down, shifting his weight to pin him there. He nudge his possession's thighs apart. When he tried to twist away, Aruo felt a flare of irritation. "Lie still, halfling. Don't make me Edify you."

Malcolm froze, fully alert now. "Edify me? What the hell are you playing at, Trip?" Annoyed, he bucked, dislodging Trip and sending the engineer off the bed and onto the floor. "If that's your idea of pillow talk—" His words were cut off as a jolt went through him. It was brief, a few seconds only, but it still hurt like hell.

In disbelief he saw Trip drop his hand, an icy smile on his face. "Don't do that again. You will obey. I prefer your participation but I can fuck you whether you're conscious or not."

As he was stripped of his trousers, it dawned on Malcolm that something was very wrong with Trip.

Part 4

The servant who answered the door at Rthuril's estate identified the picture of Trip as his master's Concordance-son, Auro. Jon browbeat the man into giving him Trip's location and he used his most imperious manner to demand a vehicle and driver. Safely ensconced in the back of the vehicle with his men, Jon was grateful that Rthuril hadn't been home. He doubted his cover story would have held up to cross-examination. Distasteful as this society was, it at least worked to their advantage. None of the Disfavored ones had questioned them, scurrying to fulfill Jon's orders.

He blessed his luck—soon he would have Trip, they'd retrieve Malcolm from the farm where he was being held, and then they'd be back on the ship within a few hours.

Jon urged the driver to go faster and tried to curb his impatience.

***

"Fucking hell!" Malcolm yelped as another shock of pain went through him.

"I said spread your legs. I don't expect to have to repeat myself again," Auro threatened softly. His hand hovered behind his neck in warning.

Malcolm had seen no recognition in Trip's eyes, no response to his protests. He'd been Edified again when he called him Trip, told to address him properly. The most frightening thing was the lack of compassion in Trip's manner. It wasn't the Trip Tucker he knew and Malcolm clamped down on his feelings. He needed to get Trip away from here, perhaps back to the shuttle or at least as far as he could get away from Sakaur and the Graced Ones. Then he could concentrate on trying to figure out what was wrong with him.

However it was difficult to formulate a plan when your thighs were being pushed apart while a cool, slick finger was being pressed against your asshole. And improvisation had never been his forte.

So Malcolm reacted instinctively, kicking out.

His foot caught Trip under the chin and Trip's head snapped back. He kicked again with both feet and caught Trip in the chest, sending him flying off the bed. Malcolm launched himself after Trip, desperate to prevent him from reaching the Edifier at the nape of his neck.

Auro shook his head, dazed, too stunned by the assault to react quickly. The last thing he saw was the halfling hurtling toward him.

***

Malcolm scrambled off Trip and flexed his arms as far apart as he could, sliding his hips through the narrow opening the chain afforded. Hands now in front of him, he checked Trip, relieved his friend was breathing easily—his pupils showed no sign of concussion even though his head had impacted the floor. Malcolm sent a mental thanks to the martial arts instructor who had shown him special pressure points to attack in order to render an opponent unconscious. A knee was as good as a hand, especially with your full weight behind the blow.

Malcolm found his trousers and pulled them on hastily, straightening his shirt but not taking the precious time to button it as he made a cursory search of the room, looking for the device to unlock the wristlets. He didn't find it, but he found an injector and pocketed that. He didn't see anything that could be used as a weapon although some of the sex toys in Trip's collection looked quite painful...

Casting another glance at Trip he cautiously opened the door. He ventured out for a quick reconnoiter. He trotted down a long hallway that ended in a sweeping staircase and leaned over the banister to examine the floor below. He could hear the quiet bustle of the other slaves down in the kitchen preparing dinner, but his luck seemed to be holding—there was no one in sight.

Returning to the room he bent over to pick Trip up and grunted as he hefted him over his shoulder. Trip must have gained at least twenty-five pounds, he thought sourly. Of course, Trip had been living the decadent life of a Graced One for the last three months. His momentary irritation faded, turning into relief that he'd found Trip alive. Trip's solid weight was something he could live with; it was a far better burden than the worry and fear he'd endured.

Despite the effort, Malcolm smiled.

***

He made his careful way down the stairs, trying to maintain his balance while moving as silently as possible. Taking one last look around, he hurried to the door. As Malcolm's hand reached the opener, the door chime sounded. He flinched and snatched his hand back, panicking for a moment, cursing his luck. He heard footsteps from the kitchen and gripping Tucker tightly, bolted. There had to be a back door somewhere.

He spared each room he passed a glance, frantically looking for an exit; a library, a sitting room, a room full of artwork—all opulently decorated, if a bit too garish for his taste.

He turned a corner and descended a short flight of steps, stopping abruptly at the closed door before him. He felt Trip twitch, fingers brushing against his ass, and Malcolm felt his heart speed up as Trip groaned. Damn it, not now! Throwing caution to the wind, he burst through the door and almost laughed out loud.

The garage. There were several vehicles but as Malcolm checked each one his anxiety grew. They were all locked and he didn't have time to break into one and hot-wire it. Trip stirred feebly, moaning once more. Malcolm wanted to howl in frustration. He didn't want to have to knock Trip out again, didn't want to hurt him—but he didn't want to run the risk of Trip raising the alarm, or worse, Edifying him. He needed to get him away from here, away from any help.

Malcolm pushed the pad to open one of the roll up doors and ducked outside, into the night.

***

Jon hit the door chime, catching his breath from the long walk. His three security men stood behind him forming a tall blond wall alertly scanning the surrounding area. Their vehicle had been left at parking area at the bottom of the hill and they'd followed the leisurely winding pathway designed to showcase the lush gardens of the perfectly manicured estate, the sheer size and flawlessness of the grounds an ostentatious display of wealth. However he had ordered the driver to wait for them and he had no doubt that the man was still there.

Malcolm's report on this world's societal customs had been thorough—it was easy to play his part and it made Jon feel uncomfortable. He was used to giving orders and being obeyed, but this was different, detestable—just wrong.

The massive door opened and Jon saw the servant blink in surprise before he cast his brown eyes downward and performed a low bow.

"I'm here to see Auro," Jon said imperiously.

"You are with Master Goturch?" the servant asked. "I beg forgiveness, Graced One, we were told only of Master Goturch's presence for dinner this evening. Please, come in—I'll inform the kitchen."

Jon hesitated. According to Malcolm's information, Goturch was Ruthril's brother; he didn't want to be questioned by any of the Graced Ones, especially the ones who kidnapped Trip in the first place. "Don't bother," Jon said, his impatient tone only partly feigned. "We won't be staying for dinner. I have business with Auro. Fetch him at once."

The servant shifted nervously. "He is...occupied...at the moment and doesn't wish to be disturbed. However, you are welcomed to enter and wait—"

A far off sound caught Jon's ear and he turned to look back down the hill. He watched the glare of headlights turn into the long driveway; it looked like his luck was about to run out. He barked at the servant, "Disturb him. Tell him Archer is here."

***

Malcolm couldn't believe his luck when he saw the vehicle parked at the bottom of the hill. Although there was a driver inside, that proved to be no problem. Three seconds after accosting the poor man, the driver was out cold and Malcolm pulled him out of the vehicle and gently deposited him into some nearby bushes. He then went back to retrieve Trip, whispering a soothing hush as Trip began to stir again, groggily beginning to come to. Malcolm torn his own shirt off and used it to bind Trip's hands so couldn't reach the Edifyer. Malcolm decided he'd put Trip in the back, raising the privacy glass and locking the doors to prevent Trip from escaping.

He was in the process of dragging a weakly protesting Trip into the backseat when headlights swept over him. Startled, he looked up as another vehicle stopped along side of them. When the door flew open and Goturch and his slaves rushed out, Malcolm cursed his luck.

He launched himself over Trip and out the vehicle, almost making it to Goturch before the pain started.

***

The servant stopped in mid-sentence as a scream interrupted him. Jon saw the man wince before he collected himself and continued as if nothing was wrong. Jon ignored him as he heard a faint outcry, the words alien, but in a familiar Southern accent. He motioned to his men and they broke into a dead run, following the screams of pain that overrode Trip's voice. Jon could hear more than one servant behind them, but that was the least of his worries. As they progressed back down the long pathway he could hear Trip clearer now, shouting angrily over the tortured screams and Jon forced himself to move faster, wondering what was happening, yet thankful that Trip, while pissed off, seemed to be all right.

Minutes later they made it to the bottom of the hill, Jon's hand automatically going to the phase pistol he had concealed under his clothing. Trip was arguing belligerently, being held back by three servants as a portly blond, hand raised to the nape of his neck and a slightly sadistic grin on his face, ignored him. Between them was the source of the screaming, another slave frozen in pain, his back arched in agony and his voice growing hoarse.

Jon knew that the year in the Expanse had changed him, but he accepted that. Which is why he did something he wouldn't have done before that experience—he pulled out the phase pistol and without hesitation stunned the three men holding Trip. He heard his men fire on the servants who had followed them.

Trip stumbled forward, shock and anger on his face, toward the other blond who wore an almost laughable look of surprise. Jon stunned him too.

The brunet dropped so suddenly that Jon thought he was dead, but at this moment his only concern was for Trip. Illuminated by the headlights for an instant as he stalked forward, Trip's face appeared to be a ghostly white to Jon, his blue eyes seething as he stared at Jon before entering the shadows again to squat down next to the other Graced One. "What did you do?" Trip asked, his voice harsh as he examined the older man. "You're lucky he's still alive—who sent you?" He fumbled around in the folds of clothing of the downed Grace One and his hand came up with a weapon. He aimed it at Jon. "Was it Kral? Binet? Who are you?"

The questions threw Jon. He saw his men quickly glance at each other, their faces uncertain. "Go ahead," Trip challenged, his tone scornful. "I can take his head off before you even pull the trigger."

Jon motioned to his men to lower their phase pistols, but Trip shook his head. "Throw them away."

Jon tossed his pistol aside. "Do it," he ordered his crewmen. He then turned his attention back to Trip. "No one sent us. We're not here to hurt you," he said as Trip rose and strode over to the brunet. Trip gave a disbelieving snort at Jon's words as he knelt beside the dark haired servant.

"Look, it's me. Jon," Jon continued, taking a tentative step toward the headlights so that Trip could see him clearly. "Don't you remember? We're here to take you and Malcolm back to Enterprise—"

Trip looked sharply at Jon and Jon halted, still outside the light. "What are you talking about? I don't know you. And you're not taking me anywhere." He pressed his hand against the brunet's throat, looking for a pulse. His exhalation of relief was audible to Jon.

"Listen to me, Trip—I'm Jonathan Archer; I've known you for over a decade—you're the chief engineer on Enterprise. Try to remember, Trip!"

"Trip? That's what he called me..." he murmured, just loud enough for Jon to hear, his hand brushing tenderly over the side of the unconscious man's face.

Jon made a horrible connection and began to move toward Trip again. Trip's head snapped up. "Stop right there!" he snarled as he thrust the weapon forward. Jon pulled up short in surprise at the furious tone. "Obviously you don't know who you're dealing with—I am Auro, Fifth Onagon. Leave my estate at once or I'll call the authorities. I'll be expecting reparation for the trouble you've caused and if you don't comply, I'll ruin you. I'll have your Concordances severed and your House banished from the city."

Jon spread his hands in a placating gesture, his mind racing. Trip's words and actions confirmed his fear that there was something seriously wrong with his friend. "Please, listen to me. Your name is Charles Tucker the Third, although everyone call you Trip." He was heartened as Trip's expression changed at the use of his full name, the weapon lowering slightly. Jon continued urgently, eyes on the sprawled figure next to Trip. "Is that Malcolm? We need to take him to the ship so Phlox can—"

Trip's face distorted in rage as he cut Jon off. "So that's why you're here! He's my property now! I bought him and I won't let you take him. He's mine!" The weapon moved up again and Trip's finger tightened on the trigger.

Jon didn't know who was more surprised, he or Trip, when Ensign Locke stunned the engineer.

***

Jon hovered over Phlox's shoulder, trying to decipher the results on the computer screen and failing. He had reluctantly ordered Trip to be restrained after he'd woken up on the shuttle trip back to the ship. Trip had tried to overpower one of the security men; Phlox now had him on one of the biobeds, sleeping off a sedative. He glanced at the biobed Malcolm was currently occupying. If the monitors hadn't indicated that Malcolm was still breathing he would have thought the man was dead. He had helped place Malcolm into the shuttle—it had been like carrying a corpse.

Between the away mission, the battering Enterprise had taken coming out of the wormhole and its aftermath, Jon was exhausted. Travis had once again done a miraculous job of keeping the ship in one piece but the strain he'd put on the engines with his maneuvers had cost them. They were currently at all stop, every single engineer working overtime to make repairs. Jon had been down in Engineering helping out and this had been his first chance to return to sickbay since docking hours ago.

Phlox made a small hum of discovery, shaking Jon from his stupor. "What?" Jon asked, trying to sound patient and not succeeding.

"I've identified the foreign substance in Mr. Tucker's system. It matches the contents of the injector you found in Mr. Reed's pocket." Phlox called up another screen, a scan of Trip's brain. "There is a concentration of it here, and here," he pointed to two different areas. "The pre-frontal cortex and the hippocampus—the parts responsible for working memory and long-term memory. Based on what you've told me about Mr. Tucker's actions, I would say it was used to affect or alter his memories."

"Is the damage permanent?" Jon asked, suddenly afraid. This was beginning to feel like a nightmarish repeat of the situation with Sim. He cursed himself again that he had left so much unresolved with Trip.

Phlox looked at him with a reassuring smile. "There is no damage—it's merely suppressing his memories. I've found a counteragent and can clear the chemical from his system within 24 hours. He'll be 'as good as new' once he's been detoxified."

Jon sagged, closing his eyes in relief. There would be time now. He vowed that he wouldn't waste it. "What about Malcolm?" he asked. He opened his eyes to look at Phlox when the doctor didn't answer right away.

Phlox had risen, going over to his menagerie. "Mr. Reed has suffered recent injuries to his nervous system." Phlox's tone was tinged with anger as he selected a set of tongs. "There is evidence of older traumas but the Lieutenant was lucky; they were relatively minor and have healed already." He lowered the tongs into a glass container, gently removing something. "However, these injuries were quite severe this time. There is a finite time frame to repair those injuries without any lasting damage. While I've already begun treatment, I'm not satisfied with its progress so far."

Jon saw something long, squirmy and hairy looking in the tongs' grasp. Phlox picked up the jar and walked over to Malcolm. Jon followed. As he drew closer he noticed what he had mistaken for hair was actually thousands of tiny legs all waving frantically. Phlox turned Malcolm's head to the side and dropped the creature into his ear. Jon fought back the urge to gag as it slithered into Malcolm's ear, leaving a shiny trail behind it.

"A Denobulan Hinthra," Phlox explained as he watched the creature disappear, his tone returning to his usual mild one. "Its secretions coat the damaged nerves, repairing and mending them with much more speed and accuracy than Starfleet's most advanced medical devices. They feed off of the red corpuscles; the more they eat, the more secretions they produce. The human nervous systems is very responsive to the Hinthra—and they find you quite appetizing."

Jon grimaced, feeling even more ill. "How do you get them out?" he asked, although he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"When they've eaten their fill they leave the same way they came. Usually. Sometimes they get too greedy and can't fit back into the Eustachian tube," Phlox added with a chuckle. "In that case they'll make their way to the stomach and the patient vomits them out. It doesn't hurt the Hinthra and I dare say it's preferable to alternate methods of elimination." Phlox poked the tongs into the jar again with a pensive air. "That little fellow was the fifth one—I think I'll add another one just to make sure they cover everything," he muttered to himself.

"That's disgusting," Jon said, his stomach churning. He breathed deeply through his mouth and had to turn away as Phlox lifted another Hinthra out of the jar.

"Sewing people back together with catgut was disgusting, but I doubt the patients minded as long as it kept them from bleeding to death," Phlox retorted cheerfully.

Jon walked over to where Trip lay, telling himself that the squelching sound he thought he heard was just his imagination. "How long do you think we'll have to have Trip like this?" he asked, looking at the hated restraints.

"Not too long. As the chemical is purged from his system he'll no doubt become more cooperative. He'll slowly regain enough of his memories to recognize people and his surroundings and then it's just a matter of hours before everything comes back to him." Phlox walked over to Jon. "That reminds me; when do you think an engineer will be free to cut through Mr. Reed's restraints?"

Jon let out a soft exhalation and turned to Phlox. "I'm sorry—it totally slipped my mind. There's just so much to do down in engineering and—"

"Captain, it's quite all right," Phlox interrupted Jon's apology. "From what I could determine the injuries to the lieutenant's arms are superficial. I've disinfected them but I would appreciate having someone up here when they become available so I can examine them properly. I would have removed them myself, but I don't have anything suitable to cut through the chain or the metal bands."

"I'll try to get someone up here within the hour, Doctor," Jon promised.

Phlox nodded. "Excellent. Perhaps Commander Tucker will be awake by then." Phlox sighed. "I'm afraid between the two of them I'm giving the impression that people will only allow me to treat them if they're bound, gagged and unconscious." Jon chuckled at that.

Until he thought of the Hinthras again.

***

Auro opened his eyes and did a double take. This wasn't his room. He felt a tendril of fear center in his gut as the night's events came back to him. He'd been abducted after all, but by whom was still a mystery; he'd never gotten a good look at the face of the man he'd confronted.

He'd underestimated his enemies; he hadn't thought they had the cunning or the courage to dare touch him.

Something was attached to his arm and his eyes following the tubing, ending at the slow drip from the bag overhead. He tried to tear the offending needle from his arm but he couldn't. He was strapped down. The fear increased, coupled with a slow burning anger. He lifted his head, a twinge of pain in his neck freezing him in mid-motion. He let his head sink back against the pillow and looked around the room the best he could without moving again. To his horror it looked like a laboratory, on par with the one Goturch owned. He'd been inside that one only once and never wanted to visit it again.

Before the panic could set in movement caught his attention as someone loomed over him. It was a man, but he was hideously disfigured, horrible ridges across his face and his eyes a luminous blue. Auro had never seen eyes that electric blue before, not even on the most pure of Graced Ones. All in all, it was a disturbing sight and for a moment Auro was speechless.

"Ah, Commander, we're awake. How are we feeling?"

"Where am I? Who are you?" Auro felt a pang of self-loathing as the words came out feebly. He strengthened his resolve and used his most authoritarian manner. "Do you realize who I am? Your masters will pay for this outrage. I demand you release me and bring them to me now!"

The man made a noise that sounded amused. "Now, now, Commander. You really aren't in any position to demand anything, are you? But to answer your questions, you're in sickbay, on Enterprise. I'm Dr. Phlox. You and Lieutenant Reed have been stranded for a little over three months on a planet on the other side of a wormhole. We've only just now been able to retrieve the both of you." The grotesque creature checked the tubing and then smiled at him. "I've removed a foreign object from the back of your neck so please don't hesitate to tell me if you're experiencing any discomfort. Apparently some of your memories are returning; you're speaking English. I suggest that you lie here quietly and rest. You'll start feeling like yourself again soon." With another frightening smile the man turned and walked away.

Confusion battled with irritation; most of what the 'doctor' had said meant nothing to Auro although a few things sounded familiar. Commander. Enterprise. They were words the other—had he said his name was Archer?—had spoken and now they resonated with him.

Disregarding the pain, he turned his head to locate the man to question him again, his curiosity overcoming his fear. His eyes widened as he recognized his halfling upon a similar examination table and the man standing over him, a pair of tongs and a glass jar in one hand.

Auro strained upward. "Don't touch him!" The 'doctor' turned, a look of surprise on his marred face. Auro realized that he had practically shouted and settled back as casually as he could. "I don't like people handling my property." He stopped, a faint feeling of shame washing over him, but he couldn't pinpoint the cause.

A door opened and he received his second shock. A woman with skin darker than he'd ever seen before entered the room. He stared at her: wait, he had seen that color of skin before—in his old dreams. She was followed by a tall blond man in a blue uniform that was eerily familiar. The man came over, giving him a tentative smile.

He had green eyes. He'd seen this man in those dreams as well.

"How you feeling, Trip?" It was said warmly although there was concern obvious in the tone. As well as in the man's expression.

"Cap'n?" Auro said, the word coming automatically. The man's smile widened, so genuine and so joyful that Auro couldn't help but respond. Despite his situation, Auro felt a sense of trust in this man coupled with a flush of pleasure at the sight of that grin. Haven't seen that in a long time, he thought, then wondered where that had come from.

The man placed his hand on the juncture of Auro's neck and shoulder, an intimate gesture, yet he didn't feel uncomfortable. The gentle squeeze felt natural. The man bent down and spoke quietly. "I'm so glad you're back safe, Trip." Auro could see the man's eyes fill with emotions beyond his simple words. "When you're feeling up to it, we need to talk. I've left things unsaid far too long." With another soft but heartfelt squeeze the man slid his hand down to rest lightly upon Auro's chest.

Auro had a myriad of questions he wanted to ask, but needed time to order his thoughts. The man—no, the captain his mind supplied—was still standing over him, although his attention was now focused on the doctor. Auro studied him, the familiarity growing stronger now. He hadn't anticipated this feeling of place—a sense of belonging. He tried to fight against it, fearing that it was all part of some nefarious plot against his House; but he wasn't successful. This felt right.

"Sorry, Doctor," the captain was saying, "I know I promised you I'd send someone hours ago, but we just finished up—"

The doctor waved the apology away. "I quite understand, Captain. After all, don't you humans say 'better late than never?' The lieutenant certainly hasn't complained."

"How is he?" the captain asked, that tone of concern back, eyes shifting to the halfling. Auro tore his gaze from the captain's face and looked at the doctor as well.

"He'll make a full recovery. The Hinthra have performed admirably," the doctor replied in a pleased voice. "See, four of them have returned already." He held the jar up and Auro frowned at the bloated creatures within it. "And you're just in time to see the fifth make its appearance." Auro thought the doctor sounded excited, but the captain looked a little unsettled.

"Uh, Phlox..." the captain began, but the doctor interrupted him.

"Look! Here he comes now!" the doctor said gleefully, turning the halfling's head to the side. "You can see him." To Auro's queasy astonishment he could see something moving beneath his halfling's skin, worming its way up his neck.

"Oh, God," the captain breathed out and turned away. But Auro watched in horrible fascination as the doctor dipped the tongs into his halfling's ear. He pulled gently and withdrew a fat, slimy looking creature. It moved sluggishly, as if well sated, and the doctor dropped it into the jar to join its revolting brethren. He then cleaned away the bloody looking trail it had left behind.

"That's disgusting," Auro muttered and the captain chuckled.

Auro met his eyes and saw a spark of affection there. "Trip, remind me never to let Phlox use those on me. Ever."

"Let's hope I'll never have to use them on anyone ever again, Captain," Phlox replied solemnly. His words changed the mood of the room. The doctor seemed to notice and filled the silence, his cheerful demeanor once more on display. "Crewman Kelly, I believe you have some work to do?"

"Yes, doctor." The woman looked at Auro, giving him a nod and a smile. "Good to have you back, sir," she said sincerely before moving to the other examination table. The doctor pushed down the sheet covering the half naked halfling to reveal his still chained hands, and the woman gave a low whistle. The captain shot her a quizzical look. She smiled sheepishly, her face flushing slightly. "Didn't expect him to look so...healthy. Sir." The captain laughed but Auro felt a jolt of jealously toward her. Mine, he thought with fierce resentment.

She bent to inspect the wristlets and chain. "Shouldn't be a problem," she said. She took a device from her pocket and flicked it on. Auro heard a faint hum emanate from it. The woman gently took hold of one arm and drew the device near the wristlet. "I'll cut through this in no time—"

"NO!" Auro shouted, straining forward with all his might. The captain jumped slightly at his outburst, then pushed Auro back down. Auro fought against him. "You'll Edify him at full force! You'll kill him!"

Kelly jerked her hand back. "What do you mean, Trip?" the captain asked, still holding Auro down.

"You can't cut the wristlets; if you try to remove them without the right tool, it'll Edify him at full power. He'll be dead by the time you pull out all of the rods." Auro made a conscious effort to relax and the captain released him. It wasn't just about the potential loss of a costly possession. Something made his stomach clench at the thought of his halfling's death.

He actually cared about the man, far beyond the mere the lust he felt. It was a disturbing realization and he vaguely recalled the forgotten thoughts he'd had earlier that evening, the feeling of connection, of a deeper emotion.

"Can you remove them?"

Auro shook himself from his unsettling reflections. "No, I don't have the releaser with me." He thought a moment. "But I can make one. The field should be operating on the standard frequency, I could..." he trailed off, seeing what he'd need to make the device, exactly how to make it work. He received his third shock since waking when he realized that he knew how to do it—Graced Ones didn't work with their hands; how would he know how to that? Because I'm the best damn engineer in Starfleet, his mind immediately answered.

"How about the chain? Will that activate anything?" the captain asked. Auro pulled his attention back toward the man. He shook his head, wincing at the pain in his neck. "No, that won't do anything—you can cut that off." He saw Kelly acknowledge the captain's nod and she once again brought the device up.

She cut both ends of the chain and when she was finished the doctor began to pull the sheet back up. Phlox stopped, frowning. "Hmm." The doctor bent over the halfling, skilled fingers running over his patient's stomach.

Auro didn't like the sound of that. Apparently the captain didn't either. "What, Phlox?"

The doctor gave him a reassuring smile. "I've found the last Hinthra. It looks like he was a bit too voracious. It appears he'll be making his exit with a little less finesse."

The captain groaned. "Great. I'm sure Malcolm will appreciate that."

The doctor chuckled. "He'll be fine. Obviously you've never sat next to him in a shuttlepod during turbulence."

***

Trip didn't allow his steps to falter, trying to quiet his nerves.

The last three months on the planet seemed like a dream now. An unpleasant one. When he finally regained his memories in sickbay, he was mortified by his actions while under the thrall of the Auro persona. Phlox had explained that the drugs had suppressed all of Trip's memories, a sophisticated brainwashing in the true meaning of the word. That he wasn't responsible for what he had done or said or thought. That there was no possible way for any being—human, Vulcan, or Denobulan—to have resisted the chemical manipulation forced upon him.

Phlox had tried to assure him that his behavior was the result of alien drugs and the skillful lies of the men who had captured him. They were able to completely eradicate Trip's personality, replacing it with one they had manufactured, most likely based on their society's standards. Phlox had never seen a combination of chemicals so advanced and so potent.

Still, it was little comfort. His whole foundation of how he perceived himself had been badly shaken and he had no chance to examine his feelings before Jon called him in for a debriefing. Talking with him had been awkward at first, reminding Trip just how far their friendship had degraded. Thankfully Jon seemed to sense that he wasn't ready to speak about his time on the planet. Instead Jon had apologized, trying so hard to explain, trying to fix the rift that had started so long ago with the death of the Cogenitor. He'd been emotional wiped out afterwards, but it had cleared the air. Trip felt better and more at ease with Jon than he had in a long time.

However, his long conversation with Jon hadn't helped with his current problem. He was still ashamed of things he had done, the cruel thoughts and deeds he had performed while on the planet, enjoying having every whim, no matter how base, fulfilled. The exhilaration of complete power had been intoxicating—all the sordid political plots and strong armed business tactics, owning slaves and disregarding their 'humanity', the sadistic pleasure of holding their lives in his hands.

Forcing himself upon Malcolm.

Don't mince words, his mind whispered hatefully. You tried to rape him. You would have, if he hadn't stopped you. He almost came to a halt, almost turned away, but made himself rap softly on Malcolm's door, not wanting to wake him if was asleep. After talking with Jon he'd sequestered himself for the rest of the day in engineering, feverishly making the device needed to remove the wristlets. Finishing late in the evening, he'd gone to sickbay but Malcolm wasn't there, Phlox having released him earlier. Trip now stood in front of Malcolm's quarters, uncertain and on the verge of fleeing.

Before he had a chance to give into the temptation to leave, the door opened. Malcolm stood within the frame, a look of surprise on his face before it shifted into a wide genuine smile. "Trip!" Malcolm said, stepping back to let him in. "How are you feeling?"

The first thing Trip noticed was that Malcolm was wearing a ratty pair of jeans and a bulky sweater. His comfort clothes, Trip recognized.

Whenever a mission went awry or when Malcolm was feeling troubled, Trip noticed that as soon as Malcolm got off duty he would retreat to his quarters, always changing into this particular set of clothing. His sackcloth and ashes, Trip had teased him once, right after their run-in with those cybernetic beings that second year out. The jeans were ancient and well worn and Malcolm simply said they had seen him through some interesting times. Then Malcolm had explained, with a quiet sincerity that had wiped the grin off of Trip's face, that the sweater was from his sister and it reminded him of her, of some of the happiest moments of his life spent in her company.

It occurred to Trip that he himself was wearing the sweatshirt Lizzie had given him, the name of her alma mater emblazoned upon it. After her death he had buried the painful reminder in the bottom of a drawer. He'd found it when he'd packed his belongings to transfer to the Columbia and wore it there for the first time since she'd been killed as he puttered around his cramped little room. He took comfort from it, inexplicably feeling not so alone. He remembered he thought about Malcolm that night and felt a connection, an insight into what he had previously just chalked up to another eccentricity of his friend.

The second thing Trip noticed was that the welcoming smile Malcolm had offered him had slowly disappeared. Trip hadn't moved, hadn't said anything in return, wrapped up in his thoughts. "Trip?" The tentative tone, the wariness in Malcolm's eyes cut him to the core.

"I came to get those wristlets off." It wasn't what he wanted to say. He wanted to say he was sorry, mortified by his actions. He wanted to say he was so very relieved that Malcolm was all right. He wanted to kiss him, taste him again, touch him. But shame and regret froze the words and he could only hold up the device he had labored over.

Trip saw some of the tension that had built up leave Malcolm's body. "I'll be glad to get rid of them. Come in."

The door slid shut behind Trip. Malcolm's quarters were neat and clean as always, his bed made with a military precision. "I didn't realize how late it was, but I figured you'd want those off as soon as possible."

"You'd be right—they're a bloody pain in the arse," Malcolm complained. He tried to push back a sleeve but the cuff was too narrow to get past the wristlet without ruining the sweater. He muttered a soft curse and pulled the sweater over his head instead, his movements economical yet graceful as he folded and placed it on the bed.

Trip couldn't help the lustful feeling that rose inside him as he watched Malcolm. He wore no shirt under the sweater and the richly tanned skin was enticing. Trip was flooded with memories—the feel of those labor-hardened muscles under his hands, the scent and heat of the body that had been laid out before him. He could almost hear the sounds Malcolm had made, could almost taste that thick cock, each moment etched irrevocably in his mind. A flare of jealousy sparked as he recalled Kelly's low whistle and flustered comment in sickbay, sending a strong wave of possessiveness through Trip once more. Mine, he thought savagely then immediately felt sickened by his response.

"Are you all right, Trip?"

The question drew Trip's attention back to the moment. Malcolm was standing in front of him, the arm he had thrust out now falling slowly back to his side. Malcolm looked uneasy, tension radiating from him again, as if preparing to defend himself from an attack—as if he had read Trip's contemptible thoughts.

"Let's do this," Trip said abruptly, his attempt to bring his emotions under control making him speak harsher than he intended. The surprised look of hurt that flashed across Malcolm's face added another layer of guilt. "I'm sorry," Trip said, his tone softer. "It's been a long day."

Malcolm nodded and moved over to the small couch. Trip sat next to him, concentrating on the releaser, trying not to look at Malcolm. After what you've done he doesn't need you leering at him, Trip told himself caustically. But it was difficult to ignore Malcolm's scent, freshly showered and familiar, difficult not to admire the muscular arm Malcolm held out, hard not to stare at Malcolm's hand, its labor-calloused palm half hidden by the slender curled fingers. The fingers that had been laced through his hair, holding his head while he—

Trip grabbed Malcolm's arm roughly, trying to stem the flow of memories. He flicked the releaser on and monitored the test run, checking the compatibility of the field with that of the wristlet.

"Are you angry with me?"

The softly spoken question startled him. "What?" He looked up, straight into Malcolm's eyes.

Where do I stand with you, Trip?"

"What...what do you mean?" Trip stammered.

"I need to know where I stand with you and I don't know..." Malcolm trailed off, struggling to explain. "You come here looking positively grim and I don't know if you're angry at me for—" Once again Malcolm broke off and looked away, his body stiffening with distress. It only emphasized his naked torso, the bright lighting of the room detailing each taut muscle. Trip couldn't help but remember the feeling of stroking his hands down Malcolm's chest, touching every inch of that smooth body, his fingers lightly following the trail of dark hair downward.

Trip exhaled sharply, feeling the arousal beginning to kindle in his stomach. He pulled his gaze away and saw that Malcolm was looking at him, an insecure anxiety rising in those expressive eyes. It proved to be his undoing.

"Mad at you? You should be mad at me! I tried to rape you!" Trip blurted, feeling his face burn with shame. "Oh, god, Malcolm—I'm so sorry...I..." He couldn't continue, the humiliation overwhelming.

Malcolm's whole body relaxed suddenly. "Is that what...I thought—" Malcolm said softly, then shook his head. "I've told you—I can take care of myself," he said more firmly. "Phlox told me what they did to you. You weren't responsible for your actions."

"But I did them!" Trip shouted, all his self-examination and regrets exploding outward. "Jesus, Malcolm, you don't know everything I did!" He rose to his feet and started to pace, his voice loud and angry. "I only cared about myself, my own pleasure, no matter the cost to others. I had slaves, I blackmailed people, I even had my men burn down a rival's business for God's sake! Then I bought you, like, like you were just nothing, so I could use you, so I could..." He abruptly turned away, stomach churning at the memories of that all consuming desire to own Malcolm—an ugly, possessive need. "What kind of person am I, that I could do those things?" he asked quietly, feeling empty, his outburst draining him. "What does that make me?"

There was silence in the room, then he felt a touch to his shoulder. He flinched, but Malcolm didn't pull his hand away.

"You were heavily drugged—"

Trip cut him off. "That's a bullshit excuse; I should have been stronger." Trip had always considered himself a moral person. He was all too aware that those convictions had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion when dealing with an alien culture. But remembering what he'd done, how easy it had been to brushed aside those beliefs..."It didn't take long to show my true colors," he said bleakly.

"Everything you did—it's not in your makeup. It never was, and never will be," Malcolm countered gently.

"I'm not so sure," Trip whispered.

"Do you hate T'Pol?" Malcolm asked abruptly.

"What?" Trip asked, startled and a little shocked by the question.

"Do you hate T'Pol?"

"No, of course not!"

"Do you blame her for the way she acted, the way she treated you?"

"No! She couldn't help it, she—"

"Was intent only on her own pleasure? No matter the cost to you or anyone else on this ship? Didn't take much to show her true colors," Malcolm sniffed disdainfully.

Trip jerked away from Malcolm, rounding on him angrily. "Now wait a goddamn minute! She made a mistake—she wasn't herself, the Trellium made her do things—"

"That she'd normally never do," Malcolm finished quietly. "It's not in her nature. Just as it isn't in yours. If you can forgive her then why can't you forgive yourself?"

Malcolm's words struck a chord. They didn't alleviate all his doubts, but they gave him something to hold on to. He met Malcolm's steady gaze, seeing absolute certainty there. That was something else he wanted to hold on to, that unconditional friendship and trust. He suddenly felt apprehensive. What if that was gone? What if what he'd done had erased that hard won trust?

"Are we still friends?" Trip asked. "After what I tried to do to you—"

Malcolm placed his hands on Trip's shoulders and gave him a shake. "Course we're still friends," Malcolm growled. "How many times do I have to tell you that I can look after myself? Besides, as we've established, you weren't yourself. I know it wasn't you."

He closed his eyes, the relief overwhelming. If Malcolm didn't blame him, if he couldn't blame T'Pol, then, maybe, it was possible to forgive himself. A small smile appeared as he thought of Malcolm's logical maneuvering.

"Sure you aren't part Vulcan?" he asked. He opened his eyes at Malcolm's snort. He was rewarded with the sight of that wry smirk. "I have too many flaws, my friend," Malcolm replied, emphasizing the last word. It made Trip feel slightly giddy and he chuckled.

"Yeah, one of them is that you make a lousy slave." As soon as he said it, Trip wished he could take the words back.

But Malcolm merely laughed and shook him again playfully. "Pillock." He jerked his head to indicate to the small bruise under Trip's chin. "I'd say you came out of all that the worst."

"It's nothing—it doesn't hurt," Trip said.

"I hope not. I tried to be careful." Malcolm's hands were still on shoulders, only now they were kneading gently, almost absently. It felt nice and Trip began to relax for the first time since waking up in sickbay. It was a pleasant distraction from the growing awareness of how close Malcolm was standing, right inside Trip's personal space. He couldn't help it when his gaze flickered from Malcolm's eyes to his lips, the memory of the feel of them against his own rising up unbidden. Mine, he thought again, but now that possessive fierceness was gone, leaving simply longing in its place.

His tore his gaze away, knowing that he'd stared too long. Malcolm was watching him with the expression he wore when calculating the odds of his chances of successfully disarming a bomb or getting blown up in the process. Malcolm raised an eyebrow and then, quite deliberately, slowly slid his gaze down Trip's body with a surprisingly single minded focus.

Trip was just starting to feel a little flushed by the intense scrutiny when Malcolm looked up again. There was mischievous glint in his eyes. "Actually, Commander, your defensive techniques were appalling. Non-existent in fact."

Malcolm's right hand glided from Trip's shoulder down to his chest, pausing almost imperceptibly before coming to rest on his stomach. "Not to mention you've gained a few stone—I'd say that we'll have to start a work out regime to remedy all that." Malcolm's hand rubbed Trip's stomach in a lazy circle.

"M-Malcolm?" Trip stuttered, his body beginning to respond to the soft caresses, to the now heated look in Malcolm's eyes. The hand on his shoulder moved up and he felt Malcolm's fingers thread through the hair at the back of his neck.

Trip supposed he shouldn't have been surprised when Malcolm leaned in and kissed him. It was gentle, natural—and all too desired. Without thinking he kissed him back.

God, it felt good. Malcolm was probing his mouth, tongue flickering across his lips and then back in. It drove Trip crazy and he brought his arms up, embracing Malcolm and drawing him closer. There was a shock of surprise at the sensation of Malcolm's erection and Trip felt himself harden.

Then Malcolm was pulling him to the bed, displaying that aggressive streak which always fascinated Trip. He quickly unbuttoned Trip's pants and pulled down the fly, trying to free Trip from the confines of his underwear.

When Malcolm's hand grasped Trip's cock in a firm hold, Trip panted out a low moan. He had just enough presence of mind to grab Malcolm's hand. With an effort he rolled them over and pinned Malcolm to the bed. "Wait."

"Why?" Malcolm asked reasonably as he arched up to nip at Trip's neck.

"Isn't this a little fast?"

Malcolm continued his exploration of Trip's trachea. "No."

"But—"

Malcolm stopped and flopped back on the mattress. "No buts, Trip. No ifs or ands either." He moved quickly, slithering out of the hold Trip had on him, touching down on the floor for a moment before launching himself back up at Trip and knocking him flat on his back. The bed shuddered with the impact and Trip found himself immobilized. "Simply appalling," Malcolm scolded with a smirk before he attacked Trip's mouth again.

Malcolm ended his assault just as Trip was wondering if he'd ever be able to breathe again. Not that it was a bad way to go, he thought dimly. Malcolm was sitting over him, slightly flushed and eyes warm. "I've had plenty of time to think about this." He kissed the side of Trip's neck. "You've teased me." A kiss on his throat. "You've flirted with me." Another kiss on the lips and a hand sliding slowly down his front. "I'm fairly sure that you want this." The hand slipped under Trip's skivvies and began a light stroking of his erection.

Trip moved into the touch and groaned. "I want you, Malcolm."

Malcolm smiled. "I stand corrected. I want you too," he said before swooping in for another kiss.

The speed in with Malcolm divested them of their clothing was astonishing. Trip felt helpless under the swift onslaught. Malcolm was straddling him and the cold metal of the wristlet rubbed against his belly as Malcolm took them both in hand and started stroking. Malcolm brought Trip's hand up and sucked his fingers into his mouth, and Trip decided that it felt wonderfully dirty when Malcolm's tongue darted out to slowly lick Trip's palm. He then brought Trip's hand down and wrapped it around their cocks. The warm, wet feeling sent a shiver through Trip's body as they stroked in tandem, Malcolm's hand over his. Malcolm's eyes were closed partway, a small smile curling his lips and Trip increased their pace, Malcolm matching him. Malcolm leaned over, holding himself up with one arm and began to plunder Trip's mouth once more. The combination of hands and mouths sent Trip over the edge and he came, feeling his seed spurting over their fingers. Malcolm milked them harder and then came with a throaty exclamation.

Trip drew Malcolm down on top of him, reveling in the feel of Malcolm's bare skin against his own. He listened to Malcolm catch his breath while attempting to catch his own, only a bit irritated when Malcolm recovered first.

"At least that took the edge off," Malcolm murmured and Trip could hear the smile in his voice.

"Some edge," Trip replied, still panting slightly. Malcolm snickered and rolled off him, repositioning himself comfortably. He swiped a hand across his flat stomach and smeared the remnant of their semen onto Trip's softened belly. Malcolm started that slow rubbing again and Trip squirmed—although he liked it, he felt a bit self-conscious. The dark tan of Malcolm's skin was a startling contrast against his own artificially bleached skin, the fit and spare form next to him the antithesis of Trip's now less that perfect shape.

"I look like crap," Trip sighed, feeling more embarrassed now. "I feel like a goddamn marshmallow."

"I love marshmallows," Malcolm replied before nibbling on Trip's belly then dipping his tongue into Trip's navel.

"I look like a pig," Trip whined and tried push Malcolm off.

"Then lucky for you I like bacon," Malcolm said, resisting Trip's attempt easily. "But if you start asking me if your arse looks big I'll give you a clip 'round the ear."

"But—"

"Shhht! No buts, Trip. If you're so concerned, consider that your first workout. Shall I'll schedule you for three times a day?" Malcolm asked with a cheeky grin, hand now drifting lower.

Oooh, but what that hand was doing felt good—Trip sank back on the pillow and surrendered. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"

"No, but I hope to be," Malcolm teased.

"I didn't come here to seduce you," Trip said seriously.

"I know. And don't worry, you didn't. It just took me a while to come to a decision," Malcolm said, all teasing aside now, his hand stilling. He ducked his head and it seemed to Trip that he was searching for the words. "I wasn't completely certain you wanted this—I wasn't certain you were over T'Pol or that you weren't just joking around. But I do want this. As I said, I had a lot of time to think it over." Malcolm looked up at him through his lashes, almost shy now. "I'm comfortable with you, Trip."

Trip looked at him, seeing the open expression on his face. And that's when he knew that he didn't just want Malcolm; he loved the man. He realized that jealous, possessive desire had vanished, replaced by a contentment he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Let's get those things off you," Trip said, touching the wristlets, wanting to get rid of all they represented.

"They can wait," Malcolm replied before pulling Trip forward for another kiss.