Chapter 4
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"The stars of thine own fate lie in thy breast." (F. Schiller)
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When he woke in his cell the following morning, his memories of the day before were blurry.
The last thing he remembered was the edge of the wooden desk his eyes had focused on the night before at the end of that conversation. After that, he couldn't remember getting back to the cell, or falling asleep, or even a single thought.
He felt numb.
The day dragged on, bringing nothing but silence and, once, the guard with food and water.
Bits and pieces of his conversation with the creature kept coming back to him: words, phrases, the way his voice drawled out on a particular sound. And then the fearsome moment in which he'd had to look into the black unknown abyss of his thoughts.
He began pacing, shaking his head, clenching and unclenching his hands in distress. He could not face him again. Whatever happened, he could not let them drag him again to that room, to meet that creature who fed on his own decaying thoughts. He was desperate to get away. He anxiously listened for every sound, at the same time thrilled someone would come and he could have the possibility to escape and terrified at the thought that they could come to take him to it.
But no-one came, he heard no sound, and at the falling of darkness he lay down in his scratchy blanket again and fell asleep.
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He could hear the sound of the waves breaking on the shore. The moon was thin, the night warm and hushed and he was the only one on the beach.
A voice called to him, softly:
"Captain!"
He turned. On the sand stood a girl, the moonlight paling her forehead and right cheek. She smiled.
"Captain," repeated, her voice a caress.
Her long dark hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she was wearing a Starfleet jumpsuit. Looking him in the eyes, she raised her right hand, her index finger pointing at the sky, and said:
"The stars! You must look at the stars."
She nodded, and then raised her eyes to the sky. Jonathan followed her gaze and turned his head upward, losing himself in the wonder of the starry sky.
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The dream was still with him when Archer awoke in his cell.
The first light of dawn was beginning to show through the window. He felt refreshed and much stronger than the days before. He knew in a little while the guard would pass and leave him food and water. He also knew that was the only opportunity he had to escape.
He never heard a sound or sign of another's presence, aside from the guards' and he wondered if he was the only prisoner. Security was low. After all, they knew they were fighting a war they'd already lost, they were dead men walking. He doubted they really cared what happened anymore.
He waited beside the door, the tin jug in his hands. He listened anxiously for every approaching sound, his breath short, his shaking hands tightening spasmodically around the metal object.
He feared that, for some unforeseen reason, the guard would not come. Then he wondered what he would do if the two usual escorts appeared to bring him away.
He waited and trembled until he finally heard the approaching sound of boots on the floor and crouched.
The man stopped on the other side of the door, shuffling with the keys, mumbling something under his breath. Archer tensed. He heard the clinking of the key turning in the lock, then the door screeched open.
The man's hands appeared, carrying a bowl and a jar, then his head came into view and Archer smashed the jug on him with all the strength he could muster. The bowl and jar fell clattering to the floor as the man reeled. Archer didn't give him the time to regain his bearing, flung himself at him, his hands tightening around his neck. They fell to the floor, struggling for mere seconds, before Archer felt the man's body go limp under him.
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He flew through deserted corridors without ever meeting anyone. This place was really a ghost prison. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, and, without knowing how, found a door and an exit, and was breathing in the fresh air, looking at the open sky and again running away, without ever stopping to think.
He saw trees, firs, an entire wood, and hastily ran for cover, but it seemed no-one was following him.
He kept pushing himself as hard as he could, but he was weak, and soon had to let himself fall to the needle-covered ground. His nose and throat and lungs hurt, and he let himself recover, trying to breathe evenly.
"This was maybe the easiest escape ever," he thought giddily, inhaling the fresh resiny smell welcoming him to freedom. He felt light-headed and careless, happy to just be out of that dreary tomb he'd been living in the last few days, away from that appalling white-skinned creature.
When his breathing had returned to an even rate, he got up and started hiking.
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As the day advanced, walking became increasingly difficult. Even though he tried to push ahead, the need to rest forced him to stop more and more often, and the breaks became longer than the walking spells. His initial good mood had also dimmed. The happiness to be free again had turned to dejection, once he realized he didn't know what to do with himself. He was walking on a world which wasn't his, a universe centuries away from any man or place he'd ever known, and he had no idea how he'd gotten here and no way of going back.
He'd been in difficult situations before, on alien worlds or even in another time. But he had always known he had his ship to go back to, his officers looking for him. Now, Enterprise seemed lost forever, and his crew probably thought he was dead. He felt lost.
Firs had given way to beeches, and each step he took was a whisper among the rustling dry leaves on the ground. He had found some water to drink along the way. The weather was still cold, but the tree branches showed the first signs of budding leaves. Soon, night would fall.
Jonathan Archer dropped to the ground. He just lay there, closing his eyes, probing with his mind the various aches in his body and savouring an overwhelming wave of weariness. He had no strength to go on, but, more than that, he had nowhere to go.
He raked the dry leaves around with his hands, making a pile, and then snuggled inside. He looked at the sky above, quickly turning from pink to indigo, and watched the stars coming alight. First Venus, then, one at a time, an innumerable army. He studied Orion, glittering in the early spring time. He reviewed the constellations one by one, softly uttering their names, tasting them on his lips.
He thought of his dream from the previous night. He closed his eyes and saw himself having dinner in his private mess with Trip and T'Pol, talking, joking, smiling, like they used to before the Expanse. He wished he could reach out to them, talk to them, open his heart and explain his reasons, ask them theirs. Too many things had been left unsaid. And now, there wasn't a way to go back, time had run out.
The stars above were the only friends he had left, the only constant, with their hopeful twinkling, and they were light years away. He wished he could reach them, like he'd dreamt of as a stargazing child. But this dream had already come true and had brought so many things he hadn't expected. He'd discovered space was more barren, dangerous and unkind than he thought. He'd discovered that dreams sometimes turn to nightmares.
He was sick and tired of feeling sorry for himself, but it seemed it was the only thing he was left with. He looked at the stars again. He let them into his eyes, feeling their light seep into his soul and melt, their likeness finding a hollow place to match in his breast. "This would be a good way to go," he thought, as sleep clouded his mind. "Stars always show you the way".
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"Captain!" an urgent voice called out. Someone was shaking him. "Captain!"
He opened his eyes, blinking. It was T'Pol's voice, and T'Pol's form was looming above him against the dark night sky.
"T'Pol?"
"Captain, are you alright?"
He pushed himself to a sitting position and looked at her like she was a ghost, the warm touch of her hand on his arm only marginally reassuring. Then he understood.
"You're not real, are you?"
"Captain, we need to get away as fast as possible…"
"It's good you're here. I wished to speak to you."
"Captain, are you feeling alright? We must go now!" She was trying to pull him to his feet.
"Wait! I told you! I need to speak to you. It's important."
She squatted in front of him, studying his face in the darkness, her hand still on his left shoulder. He went on:
"T'Pol, I need…" Now that he had succeeded in getting her attention, words failed him. "T'Pol, I don't… I don't hate you," he finally whispered, the words unlocking a flow: "I thought I did. I felt like I hated everyone, but, now, I understand… I hated you because I hated myself. I couldn't forgive myself and so I couldn't forgive you." He was becoming more agitated while he spoke. "I just thought you should have found a way to help me, should have found the right thing to do or say to save me from what I had to do. But it's unfair! No-one of you could. I couldn't expect this of you, I'm sorry!"
She was looking at him with inscrutable dark eyes, her face almost completely shadowed in the night. "Captain, now you listen to me! You cannot stay here. We have to get away, now! Come on!" She was shoving him upward. He got to his feet, swaying, dropping dead leaves around.
"We have to go? Where?"
"We have to get back to the Enterprise, Captain!" She was trying to pull him ahead.
"But there is no Enterprise!"
She grabbed him by his shoulders, shaking him, looking him in the eye:
"Captain! We have to get back! You have to get back to the Enterprise! Do you understand me?" Her voice was raising, now. He remembered the time when she had pled with him not to go to Azati Prime, with the same high-pitched emotional voice.
"Why are you so emotional, T'Pol? What is, is. Remember? We cannot go back."
"Yes, we can! You have to get back! Captain!"
He tried to listen, to focus, he felt it was important, but his mind was shutting down. He only felt her hands and heard her voice, but from a great distance, getting less and less clear, until it was only a whisper in his ear.