Chapter 20: The Warriors Code

Malcolm stumbled slightly as the Andorian shoved him into a room that looked as though the invaders had made it their situation room.

He looked around incredulously. A whole host of scanners and other equipment were keeping the place under close surveillance by the look of it. What could an attack squad of the Imperial Guard possibly gain by ransacking a monastery?

"Who are you?" the Andorian demanded, keeping his weapon firmly pointed in his direction.

"My name is Malcolm Stuart Reed, Lieutenant of United Earth Starfleet. And before we go on, I wish to request that you let me contact my ship."

"Why should I do that?" his captor asked, still holding the weapon firmly pointed at his head.

"First: We found no ship in orbit," Malcolm explained pulling up his fingers to count his points. "Second: The Vulcan ships are the fastest in the sector, so whatever brought you here is more than thirty minutes away even if you've matched the Vulcans by now. Third: There's a ship full of eighty nervous humans in orbit who haven't heard from us in over two hours. Sooner rather than later they'll come down here with an assault team, and however gallant your warriors may be, they'll be no match for twenty humans with pulse-rifles. Bottom line is, numbers count."

"And you offer to prevent that?" the Andorian asked, squinting his eyes in suspicion.

"I do."

"Why?"

"I've met members of your species before, though I'm not discussing the occasion. The Imperial Guard wouldn't send a Regimental Commander without good reason – and as unlikely as it may sound, we might even be on the same side."

"You knew about your right to be heard according to our traditions," the Andorian grumbled. "Do you also know about your fate if you abuse that right?"

"None of us would leave alive," he replied impassively. What did Papa Smurf take him for – an amateur? Although that was actually debatable, considering he had ended up a captive in the first place.

"Contact your ship!" the Andorian ordered gruffly, without lowering the gun.

Now it would all depend on Captain Archer having some common sense. He flipped open his communicator, presenting it to the suspicious alien before speaking into it.

"Reed to Enterprise, please respond."

"Enterprise here. Malcolm, what's going on down there?" came the impatient demand of the ship's captain.

"Captain, at this moment I'm looking at the business end of a pulse-rifle and I need you to listen carefully. At this point in time we are prisoners of the Andorian Imperial Guard. None of us has been harmed, and I think I can use past experience to keep it that way. For the time being I advise: do not send any additional forces to the surface."

He hoped the captain would pick up the vague reference to his past.

When Archer replied, some of the tension in his voice had lessened. "I understand you, Lieutenant. Is there any chance I can speak personally to a representative of this Imperial Guard?"

Malcolm offered the open communicator to the Andorian, who precariously tried to keep the weapon on target with one hand.

"Enterprise," the smurf barked into the device.

"To whom am I speaking?" The captain's voice was steely, yielding nothing.

"This is Commander Shran. Your people are prisoners of the Andorian Imperial Guard. If the lives of your people mean anything to you, I suggest you follow the advice of your Lieutenant Reed!"

"Do I have your word that his words were spoken of his own volition?"

"We are warriors, captain – not pirates. Await further instructions!"

With that the Andorian closed the communicator and pocketed it. "I want to know more about your previous 'encounter' with some of my people."

Malcolm could almost feel the suspicious glare of the blue alien burn through him. He cast a glance around; there were too many listening ears for his taste, those of the men manning the surveillance equipment. "Would you discuss restricted information in front of every Tom, Dick and Harry from Starfleet?"

Apparently Shran wouldn't. He drew the prisoner into a corner, pressing the muzzle of the gun into his chest. "You're a spy!" the Andorian growled in an accusatory tone. "You know a lot about us, but we know nothing about you!"

"I was," Malcolm replied softly, trying to project assurance, and above all refraining from any sudden movements which would perhaps startle the trigger-happy alien. "We preferred to refer to ourselves as operatives. Sounds an awful lot better than 'pet assassins', wouldn't you agree? I had a run-in with one of your people before – his name was Tholos. Considering that your translators are familiar with our language, I'd hazard a guess he even survived the mission at Rigel X."

Suddenly the Andorian dropped his weapon a little. "You knew Tholos?"

For the first time Malcolm had the impression that Papa Smurf was driven by something else than anger and aggression – the face of the alien was a grimace of pain.

"I take it you knew him as well?"

"He was my brother," the alien answered, his antennae drooping forward. "He died two years ago."

"My condolences," Malcolm said honestly. "From what I saw of him, he was a good warrior."

Meanwhile, the Andorian had evidently remembered why they were here, and had raised the weapon again. "Why are you here, Pink-skin? What interest have you in a place like this?"

"We – as in we humans – have no business here," the Brit explained calmly. "The two Vulcans on our ship have. The young one – the child – was abused, and needs the help of a priest. I suppose you now understand why I didn't care much for your man's handling of our science officer."

Bullseye! he thought when the blue alien's antennae flattened against his skull in disgust. For all the bluster, Papa Smurf seemed to have a strong moral compass.

"Why here?" the soldier demanded. "There are thousands of Vulcan monasteries. Why this one? Have you unloaded any supplies?"

Malcolm pondered the wisdom of disclosing any more information than he already had, but he had come this far, and if he wanted to have any chance of resolving this without a firefight, he had to make it clear to the alien that they were not enemies, and indeed could even, perhaps, be on the same side.

"First of all – no – we did not unload any supplies. Frankly I wouldn't know what we could offer to a group of monks, who by the look of it do not exactly lead an extravagant lifestyle. But since you're so interested in that, I take it you think this is more than just a monastery?"

"For years we have tried to find it, and I KNOW it's here somewhere. There is no other place from which the Vulcans could gather as much intelligence!"

Seeing that the Andorian was becoming agitated, Malcolm saw his chance to make it clear that they were not his enemies. "With what I am about to tell you, I'll put a lot of good people in danger, and I trust that I will not be forced to revise my opinion about the honor of an officer of the Imperial Guard..."

Well, that certainly got him a dirty look, but he also had the Andorian's undivided attention.

Malcolm continued, keeping his voice level and his eyes cool. "This spiritual retreat is run by a formerly very influential Vulcan clan, one that recently adopted me into it, so you and your men might keep that in mind if you destroy any property around here."

"Why would a Vulcan clan adopt one of you pink-skins? Those green-bloods can't even stand each other!"

Malcolm couldn't help but smirk. Papa Smurf surely had a way of summarizing Vulcans in a single sentence.

"It was, let's say, a formality. It's not like they welcomed me out of love. It was necessary to enable me to deal with the girl's tormentors in an appropriate fashion."

To emphasize his point he made a cutting motion across his throat. That served well to let the blue chap know that he was no stranger to dealing out harsh treatment. After all, even if they seemed to have come to a kind of understanding, years of service in the Section had taught him that cockiness or optimism were cardinal sins in such a volatile situation.

"Then you know where it is!" the Andorian accused him.

"I know nothing," Malcolm replied impassively. "In fact, if I knew of any intelligence personnel around here, I would have beaten you to the punch. The clan this monastery belongs to is summarily persecuted by the High Command for political reasons. If they got their hands on either of the two Vulcans we brought here, neither of them would escape punishment."

Just for added effect, he repeated his throat-cutting movement.

Shran's antennae flattened back against his skull in disgust. "That's why you came here specifically!"

Malcolm answered the statement with a nod.

"Then you will have to leave," the Andorian demanded angrily. "This time we're not leaving until we've found their surveillance station, and we'll destroy the monastery if necessary!"

"Or we look for it together," Malcolm replied dryly. "Not that we have much interest in your people, but surely you understand now that we're no keener than you are on having the High Command in this place."

"You propose an alliance?"

"Nothing so grandiose," the Brit replied; another thing the Section had taught him was knowing your limitations. "Just co-operation. We have the same interests. If the High Command is here somewhere, we both want them gone."

He could almost hear the gears grinding in the Andorian's mind. The commander was a proud warrior, and as such accepting help from someone who was until minutes ago a prized prisoner – a self-confessed spy, of a species they hadn't met before – was not an easy decision. But the very fact that he was thinking hard about it – manifested by the wagging antennae – was all Malcolm needed to know.