Summary and disclaimer see
chapter 1
CHAPTER 2
As they approached a closed door-
-fun zapstick is fun-
-find out now hee you get to hee
hee-
-the thoughts picked up again. He tried to block them, and was surprised to find that it was possible, though it took some concentration.
K'Kor, in front of him, opened the door and stepped inside, giving Chekov a clear view of what was inside. He refused to go any further.
The center of the room was occupied by a chair that looked like it was made of red gel. He smelled a horrible stench, horrifyingly familiar.Two more Rodt'hir were waiting by the chair, grinning, holding long metal rods. It looked downright dangerous, but if that had been all, he probably would have gone in. He just had a really, really bad feeling about that room.
M'Lom prodded him, but when he still held back, the alien got tired of resistance and simply pushed his prisoner in. He was stronger than he looked.
K'Kor intercepted the Russian and struggled to get him seated in the chair. Chekov took a wild swing at his temple, but only connected with his nose when he pulled away.
As the Rodt'hir was retreating, Chekov heard the worst sound he'd ever imagined, a high, shrill whistle that seemed to die abruptly. He didn't hear himself scream as he fell to his knees and covered his ears.
The waiting Rodt'hir grabbed his arms while he was recovering and forced him into the chair. The seat molded like gel, but the arms and base grew around his wrists and ankles. It burned like acid where it touched his skin, and held like elastic, giving a little before snapping back painfully.
He glanced up quickly, noticing K'Kor's obviously broken nose and the expected sickening creature, announced by the smell. The round alien was moving his mouth, talking silently, walking silently.
But that was impossible. Nothing that large could move silently, not in an atmosphere. He had a sneaking suspicion that he wasn't in any hurry to have proven. He simply waited, knowing the truth would be revealed all too soon, already knowing it.
They turned back to him, forming a semi-circle around the front of the chair. He let his head drop to his chest, expecting something, but not what happened.
He felt them probe his mind, then begin in earnest, searching through his memory. In a second he knew more about them than any-one else in the Federation. A second later, he screamed, unknown to himself.
If the thoughts before were a river around his brain, this was his brain tumbling unprotected through white-water rapids. And hitting every sharp-cornered rock on the way down. Every thought of the aliens felt as if it was stabbing his brain, gouging and ripping and tearing. The pain was unbearable.
Finally, they let up. They withdrew and consulted among themselves, poring over his memories. He just sat there, trying to simultaneously ignore the pain and the smell and the fact that he couldn't hear anything.
The aliens broke their connection and drew the metal rods from their clothing, grinning. He shrank away, not liking their anticipation. Anything that could make them excited could only make him miserable.
K'Kor touched the rod to his shoulder. He tried to squirm away, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from screaming. He felt power surge through his shoulder, seeming to tear it apart from the inside out. It was almost as bad as a Klingon agonizer, overloading his nerves in the same way.
He looked at his shoulder for a second when K'Kor stepped away, then turned away, disgusted. It did, in fact, look like it had been torn apart. He tried not to pass out.
M'Lom stepped forward as he drew away from the "zapstick" the Rodt'hir held. The alien spoke, knowing full well that Chekov couldn't hear. After he was done, he held the weapon to the Russian's knee. He felt the power pour into his knee, exploding the joint. He screamed, and the aliens grinned.
It seemed to go on forever, always the same. They enjoyed it. His throat was hoarse and raw; he supposed he had long-since lost his voice, not that it mattered. The Rodt'hir delighted in every movement of agony he made. He wished he could pass out, die, anything to escape the pain, but his mind stubbornly clung to consciousness.
K'Kor backed off yet again, an eternity later. No one took his place. He and M'Lom grabbed his arms and pulled him from the chair, as the bands absorbed into the chair. Their hands against the burned skin exploded it into new agony, but that was nothing compared to M'Lom's grip on his ruined right shoulder. He fell to his knees and they dragged him back to his feet. He wheezed as they hauled him back to the elevator, wondering how many of his ribs they'd broken.
Their way
was clear, even the museum room. The elevator's doors opened automatically as
they approached, whooshing like the doors on the Enterprise. He gingerly leaned against the wall because he had
nothing else to support him as the doors closed and they started moving.
When the doors opened again, it was onto the small, metal room. He hung back, remembering the temperature difference. K'Kor pushed him inside, which made him stumble on his broken leg. His breath wheezed as the pain and temperature finally rendered him unconscious.
When he came to, he was lying in a pool of blood that seemed to be steadily seeping from his pores. He knew it wasn't so, but that was the impression he got.
He tried to roll over, and got a fresh protest for his efforts. He settled for pushing himself to his right knee with his left hand, fighting to ignore his agonized ribs. The room was still stifling hot, maybe more so than before.
He limped and wheezed his way to the wall, trying to remember how long the days were; this one seemed to have lasted forever. Perhaps it was another day. It didn't really matter, though; the rest of the landing party would have gone back to the ship, waiting for the return of him and Ensign Richards. They would probably be told, regretfully, that they had died and to please have Starfleet send only races that could stand the heat.
To keep himself sane, he examined the Rodt'hir memories; they seemed to have exchanged with him. He was surprised by what he learned, mainly because it was exactly what he had been thinking.
These people were part of the main government, though there was a minor civil war going on. The group of rebels would do anything to overthrow the government, a monarchy ruled by an especially telepathic family. The races in the Alliance liked seeing other people
in pain. They were a race of conquerors, who infiltrated other races and ruled by their minds. They thought the Enterprise was here to spy on them. He saw how they'd killed the security guard.
The young Russian fell to his knees and threw up again. He decided that it was probably not a good idea to think about the fact that it was mostly blood.
What he did think about was the layout of the building, now that he knew it. He thought that if he could he could get to the bottom of the elevator, he could find his way out. If he could walk, that was.
He stood and tried it. Each step shot a spike of agony into his knee, but with practice, he thought he could manage it without killing himself. It would wreck his leg, probably forever, but at least he had a shot at still having a forever.
He sat still, waiting for someone to come after him again.
Of course, the suns would probably fry him, but still. . .
"There is definitely something fishy going on here," McCoy told an unresponsive Spock. "Jim just doesn't act that way."
"I must agree, Doctor, and I have a theory as to the reason." They were within sight of the settlement, Kirk having stayed behind to talk with the Dictar.
"So you're not going to tell me."
" Correct." Spock suddenly turned his head toward the desert.
"What is it, Spock?"
"Stay here," the Vulcan replied. McCoy, of course, ignored him and never left his side as he strode off into the desert.
Soon they spotted something lying on the featureless terrain.
"What's that, Spock?"
"That," Spock said, "appears to be a person."
"What!?"
Spock saw no need to repeat his explanation
The darkness made it almost impossible for McCoy to recognize who was lying on the ground until they were only two meters away, though Spock could have told him almost since he'd first seen him.
"Why, it's Chekov! And not in very good shape, by the looks of it."
"Indeed."
McCoy brought out his medical tricorder and ran it over the ensign's body.
"Good gods!" he exclaimed aloud. "He can't have walked out here! Shattered knee, femur broken in two places, six broken ribs, shoulder effectively nonexistent,-"
"Spock to Enterprise," the Vulcan summoned through his communicator.
"Enterprise here."
In the background, McCoy's litany continued unbroken.
"Beam us up immediately, and have a medteam standing by."
"Aye. Enterprise out."
The transporter's familiar hum filled his ears as the desert faded out...
...And was replaced by the Enterprise's main transporter room. McCoy went on, barely aware of the change in scenery.
"-concussion, internal injuries, massive blood loss. This man shouldn't even be alive, really, let alone going anywhere!"
"My god!" Kyle, the transporter operator, gasped, after he looked up.
Spock walked to the console and depressed the button for the intercom.
"Spock to bridge."
"Scott here."
"Please instruct Lieutenant Uhura to call Captain Kirk and tell him that I request he return immediately; we have Mr. Chekov onboard."
"Aye."
"Spock out." He clicked it off.
"Where's that damned medteam?" McCoy complained as the doors whooshed open. The medteam entered with an antigrav gurney and lifted Chekov onto it and left, McCoy talking to Nurse Chapel all the way.
Kyle stared after them horror.
"What happened to him, Mister Spock?"
"Unknown."
The intercom bleeped for Kyle's attention. He clicked it on.
"Transporter room."
"Prepare ta beam up Cap'n Kirk," Scott told him.
"Aye, sir."
"Bridge out."
Kyle pulled the levers that activated the transporter, and Kirk materialized on the platform.
"Hello, Spock," he said as he stepped down. "What's so urgent it can't wait?"
"We have found Mr. Chekov, in the desert. he is in sickbay now." They left the transporter room, heading in the direction of sickbay.
"Do you know what happened to him? He was supposed to be with the Rodt'hir healers."
"I do not know, as yet."
"Sickbay to Spock."
He strode to the nearest intercom and pressed the button.
"Spock here."
"Get your computerized self down here," McCoy told him. "I need your help, deciphering what Chekov is telling me. Bring Jim with you if he's back yet."
"Indeed. I shall be down presently," he returned without so much as raising an eyebrow. He clicked it off and started down the corridor with Kirk.
Chekov looked terrible.
McCoy had repaired some of the internal injuries and almost all of the more severe lacerations when he woke up. His eyelids fluttered and opened, and he tried to bolt upright, seeing only the ceiling of the sickbay.
"Hey, it's okay," McCoy told him, putting a hand on his shoulder, holding him down. He was dismayed by the ease at which he held the younger man, usually so strong. His patient's eyes landed on him, and recognition dawned. He leaned back in relief.
"Capritan Kirk," he said softly. "Oogosdat."
The doctor raised his eyebrow. "What?" Chekov didn't appear to have heard him.
He hurried to he intercom on his desk and called Spock. As an afterthought, he called Kirk too.
He walked back to where Chekov was lying on the bed and gave him a sedative. It would calm him down but leave him coherent enough to talk. There was a lot of work to be done on him yet; it was still uncertain if he would live.
Kirk and Spock arrived a few minutes later. McCoy led Spock to Chekov's bed, then returned to his office, where Kirk was waiting.
"Well?" the captain prompted.
"You don't want to know. Eight broken bones, two ruined joints, concussion, massive internal injuries, excessive blood loss. He looks like he's been through a barfight with an Orion."
Kirk whistled. "That bad?"
The doctor nodded. "His insides are a mess. He probably wouldn't look much worse if he'd been put through a blender."
Kirk didn't follow the reference, but understood the sentiment. So much for short, easy assignments.
He followed McCoy into the sickbay and got his first look at the worst medical case he'd ever seen that still breathed. The Russian was pallid and drawn, a sharp contrast to the vibrant, if nervous, young ensign that usually filled the navigator's position on the bridge. His dark hair was tousled but lay limp against his head, the only color visible. The rest of his body, what showed, was a uniform ashen shade of alarming paleness. His right shoulder had an odd, deflated look, and he was covered with sickening gashes which looked like they had been made from the inside out. It obviously hurt him to breathe. At that moment, he looked about sixteen years old to Kirk, even though he was almost twenty. Kirk felt a surge of anger that anyone should be allowed to do this to one of his crewmen.
As they looked, he was gripped by a wracking cough that was painful to watch. When it was over he absently wiped a trail of blood from the corner of his mouth with a weak hand.
McCoy frowned at this small sign of distress, anxious to get back to work. The captain was impatient to leave himself, but composed enough to wait for Spock.
The Vulcan seemed to be carrying on a conversation in gibberish, but it was only the sound of a language he didn't speak.
"Anything, Spock?"
"I will be able to tell you in it's entirety a moment, Captain," he replied, turning back toward Chekov.
"Ti ne v sostojany slishat?" You cannot hear?
"Nyet," Chekov replied after a moment. No. He looked embarrassed, more than usual, and very sick. "Ya enat oney pamyat." I have their memories. He shuddered involuntarily but painfully.
Spock inclined his head in thanks and turned toward the office, moving around McCoy as he hurried to the bedside.
"Well?" Kirk prodded when they were seated. "What was he trying to tell us?"
Spock raised an eyebrow at what he knew, considering, but answered the captain at length.
"Essentially, to leave immediately."
"What about Richards? He's still down there."
"He is dead. He was killed much the same way Mr. Chekov was tortured."
Kirk's eyebrows reached for his hairline. "Tortured?"
"Yes, Captain. From what I gathered, the Rodt'hir are nothing but conquerors, enslaving inferior races and forming alliances with stronger ones. They are highly telepathic, and overpower other races using these powers. They wished to determine if humans were stronger or weaker than their races, by probing minds, demanding information, and torture with a unique weapon, called a 'zapstick'. It essentially sends an electric charge through the immediate part of the anatomy it touches, rupturing the tissue. Ingeniously designed, I might add. Mr. Richards was their first experiment; he died before they could complete their tests.
"They did not wish to have to use high-ranking officers, which they believed would cause a major issue. They next took Ensign Chekov, their first choice, though they had taken Ensign Richards first to supposedly avoid any security problems.
"He was held in a metal room, designed to act as a furnace, while they deceived us into believing that he was sick. They then took him to a room where they probed his mind with theirs and used their zapstick. He lost his hearing while trying to resist.
"When he finally got an opportunity to escape from his room, he took it and managed to travel into the desert, where we found him."
As Spock finished his narrative, McCoy broke in.
"I can't believe he went anywhere in that leg. It's broken in two places, and the knee is demolished. And, for your information, there is nothing wrong with his ears."
"It is my experience that humans may do seemingly impossible things when the need is strong enough," Spock countered.
Kirk pondered all the new information he'd been given as McCoy went back to work.
He finally reached for the intercom and pressed the button, summoning the bridge.
"Scott here."
Kirk was just about to speak when he heard the familiar sound of a transporter behind him. He was out of his seat a split second after Spock, reaching the door a step behind his first officer, just in time to see the fading green sparkle of an unfamiliar transporter beam. When it disappeared, so did McCoy and Chekov.
He rushed back into the office.
"Scotty, who the hell did that?!"
"I dinna know, Cap'n. Did they get anyone?"
"McCoy and Chekov. 'They' who?"
"I dinna know that either. Someone just beamed them off."
"Could it have been the Rodt'hir?"
"Aye, but why would they-"
"Never mind that now. We need to get down to the planet, after some preparation."
"It's more likely t' be the other ship, if it's there."
"We'll just have to assume that it is. Any suggestions on how to search a planet and a ship?"
"Start with the capitol city on the planet," Spock suggested after a moment.
Kirk clicked off the intercom and headed for the nearest turbolift with Spock.
Scott surrendered the command chair when Kirk and Spock came onto the bridge. The Vulcan assumed the science station from the ensign who manned it and peered into the viewer.
"Why were our shields not up?" Kirk demanded.
"I figured the other ship would run away if they thought we'd spotted them, and that's probably how they'd interpret our shields," Scott explained meekly.
"Captain," Spock spoke up. "The planet is still shielded. We cannot scan it."
"Damn. Okay, where's the capitol city?"
"Benj'hiro is nearer to the northern pole, making it more suitable for human visitation."
"So it's cooler."
Spock raised an eyebrow in supposed confusion. "I believe I just said that."
Kirk rose
from the chair. "Let's go then. We're going to need some making up
first."
