by Xenutia
Part 2


Rating: PG
Category: Friendship/Angst/some Humour/some Romance in later parts
Codes: R/S
Summary: Reed awakes from an accident to find himself held prisoner in a tank without windows or doors, and with no idea how he got there. As he slowly pieces together the events leading up to his capture, he is forced to re-evaluate a lot of things . . . including a certain comm officer . . .
E-mail: sorted@witzend.fsbusiness.co.uk
Spoiler Warning: Minor spoilers for Vox Sola, Minefield

TWO


The air hissed with static, and bitter-burnt charcoal fumes seemed to bleed in through his nose, his mouth, his eyes, coating the inside of his skull with poison and waking him slowly to a nauseous, feinting lucidity. His eyes streamed too badly to open them, but open them he did, blinking rapidly into the hazy blue twilight of an alien planet through acid smoke-tears. He raised his hand to palm the stinging moisture away only to encounter an obstruction, a weight pinning him down and trapping his arm to his body, preventing him from bringing his hand to his face. The crisp tips of scorched grass scratched at his downturned cheek, that numb weight pressing into his back and crushing the air from his lungs, the fizz of crackling flames and popping plastic reaching his ears. Dying sounds, all of them. The left side of his body was bathed in a swarming heat, but the right was cold, and he twisted his head with difficulty, turning his face into the cool oasis there. Into the night, and away from the flames.

Around him the blackened husk of the alien vehicle smouldered into the ground, leaving behind it craters like the aftermath of a meteor ploughing into the earth. In the morning only a charred ring of downtrodden ash would remain, druidic patterns branded into the immaculate mountain side.

Malcolm bucked against the weight trapping him, pushing backwards with his elbows, attempting to twist beneath it and somehow gain a hold from which to push.

Whatever you do, he reminded himself firmly, don't call for help.

He scoured the empty field for hostiles, poised to play dead at the first suggestion of a shadow in the trees. He would know if that shadow was Hoshi. The panic of waking to find himself trapped beneath the wreckage, his back shredded into tiger-stripes by the falling metal and his head ringing with the blow he had sustained, had given way to speechless relief . . . he could hope, at least, that the tank, the console, the voice, had been nothing more than a delirious fantasy. They must have been, because here he was, in the open air, moments after the crash, waking from unconsciousness to the burning husk of the unfamiliar land craft and the disorienting flames spiralling into the evening sky from the consumed materials around him. The blow to the head must have induced projections of his worst fears, of failing Hoshi and failing in his duty, and made them real.

A scream ruptured the air, fracturing over the distance between himself and its originator. A woman's scream, piercing, absolute . . . and human.

Hoshi. He bit down on the reply that wanted to come, reminding himself how foolish it would be to draw undue attention to himself on an alien planet. He kicked against the unseen thing that pinioned him, but the scream had already washed thin on the heavy air, and as he twisted his head awkwardly to trace the sound it was fading, failing . . .

Malcolm jolted awake from a doze he had not intended to take, the last shreds of Hoshi's barely-remembered cry echoing even into his dreams. Leaden walls and white lights leered over him, and the all-pervading silence swelled as the ripples of memory died. Malcolm dragged himself upright with sweaty palms, as upright as the leering ceiling allowed, shaking the dregs of sleep from his head, and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the light. His prison seemed smaller than before, pressing in on all sides like a vice, closing its jaws around him with almost gentle reproach.

Reproach, he could not help but feel, that was well deserved.

He did not go back to sleep again that night.

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Not for the first time, Malcolm found himself wishing he had made it a practice to wear a watch. His grandfather had had quite the phobia about it—asserting that you can't keep time if you don't know the time—and had been scrupulous in never leaving his house without the comforting band of flexible gold plate fastened securely to his wrist. That old watch had been an antique, a Rolex with its now rare interior workings untouched and unreplaced since its original sale, and once his grandfather had permitted Malcolm to try it on, a privilege extended to very few. Grandad Reed's timepiece was not a matter to be taken lightly, or an honour to be refused. It had slithered up and down the length of his thin forearm ridiculously, the wrist of the ten-year-old he had been swamped even in its tightest setting, but with the fond indulgence that is only possible when years lie between the event and the memory, Malcolm recalled how he had worn it all that day, proudly sporting the token of Grandad Reed's unspoken affection. How his grandfather had smiled almost knowingly at a young boy's boundless enthusiasm for all things grown up.

His father had owned a watch, too. But Malcolm had never been allowed to try that one on.

Time passed, but he had no idea how much; in these cramped conditions, he was prevented even from pacing away his frustration as he might have done on any other day. He had been told that pacing was one of his more irritating habits; but it was also the most calming activity he could employ himself in when a situation was beyond his control, as this one was. Why put him in this matchbox room, after all? Were these people so much smaller than humans that all their structures would be this kind of squeeze?

A blaze of memory jabbed at him, as if a shock had stunned life into a dead battery—a line of black silhouettes against the alien moonrise, figures in silent regiments like standing stones against the leaden sky, watching he and Hoshi with a clear intent black as their armour. No. No small race, this; though the errant stab of recall ended there, with he and Hoshi stranded in a dark meadow without cover and surrounded by those grim living barriers all around, it was all he need see, for now. All he felt he could assimilate, with so much still unknown. It was enough to remember that those creatures on the hill had been human-sized, perhaps even a little more. And this bench, although positioned low between tight ceiling and floor, was the length of a man stretched out. That once blinking, now darkened console planting a maddening itch in the back of his mind was proportioned, in all its many dark keys and switches, to the span of a man's fingers. No small race at all.

He spared a glance for the room, knowing he did not need to, but compelled by dictates far deeper than mere reflex to do so again for appearance's sake. A good tactical officer took nothing for granted. If they had deliberately constructed this holding cell to be so obviously uncomfortable for even their own race, and with cause to assume a large number of other races would suffer the same problem, then it must be for one reason and one reason only—psychological advantage. They had studied he and Hoshi on that planet, that much he did not need to be told; they had known his name, known his position on Enterprise, they had probably been watching them the whole of that day as they carelessly—too carelessly—explored the alien terrain. As he carelessly explored the terrain, indulging Hoshi's requests that they land without a second thought for his command responsibilities during the mission or for her safety . . . why had he done that? It didn't seem like him to give way to a mere flight of fancy, be it his or another's . . . but one glance from Hoshi's little-girl eyes and he had crumbled faster than an unwrapped mummy, barely uttering a word of resistance. She had deserved it after all the hard work of the previous nine days, after all. It was the least he could do. He had taken the shuttlepod down to land, and now here he was, in all probability here they both were, locked away in cells clearly designed to unnerve them, frighten them, make them sweat.

Malcolm curled two fingers around the collar of his uniform, testing the skin at the base of his skull with his fingertips, dabbing at the greasy sheen clinging to the hairline. He tried not to let the presence of his own bloody sweat frighten him.

But it was difficult.

If Hoshi were being held in similar conditions, he reflected blackly, then she would be climbing the walls by now. He almost dared hope she was enjoying better treatment as their sole communications medium, in all likelihood serving not only as vocalist but as translator . . . but that thought was one he deadened, swiftly. Thinking about Hoshi was not going to make this situation any easier. Quite possibly her involvement in this had ended with that robotic message, and this battle was now solely his, and not hers. Quite possibly she had never even been taken, and that message had been hacked from their eavesdropped conversations as the day sailed by, and reassembled into the recording he had heard.

But he would ask, just to be sure.

Just to know that she was alright.

It's your duty, Lieutenant, he murmured, berating himself for the hesitation as it came. Only your duty.

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He held out for what might have been minutes, had he possessed any way to mark the time besides his own biological clock remotely informing him that he was starving, but eventually the garish console won. He was still adamant that this first look would go no further . . . but he gave in, after a struggle, and took that first look he had sworn so vehemently against.

He punched the same button he had ascertained would kill the screen, and the monitor blinked back up with a halcyon rapidity, the dart of a hawk as it swooped on unsuspecting prey. As if it had been waiting for him to reconsider, knowing it was only a matter of time before his curiosity bettered him, and he sneaked a glimpse.

I hate you, Malcolm muttered cordially. Just thought I'd tell you that. Clarify our working relationship right from the start. He put his head on one side, regarding the console with a waspish smile that merely rested uncomfortably on his face with his sweat. It didn't even feel like he was smiling at all. I can't believe I'm talking to a computer, he muttered.

And got to work.

The keys were smooth under his fingers, neither warm nor cool, responding to the lightest touch of his hand . . . like something else that came all too readily to mind, this memory sharp as cut glass, reflecting back to him with almost vicious suddenness. He shivered, faintly.

He would think about her when the opportunity came, and when he could do so without that twang of guilt pulling at him softly. For now, he couldn't afford to.

The console, he soon discovered, was unbelievably simple to decipher. Even without a means to translate the purely iconic labels and controls it posed no problem to him, the on-screen diagrams unmistakably pointing the way. He couldn't help but smile, albeit grimly, at that; some things, it seemed, truly were universal. He followed where the blueprints led, hand resting pensively on the controls, his sweat pooling under his fingertips onto the black keys below. At every new screen to appear, Malcolm fought the overwhelming urge to remove his hand—just take it away, quietly withdraw to the far corner of this room, and clamp his hands firmly around his knees so they could not betray him again. He felt traitor enough for indulging his curiosity as it was.

You could sabotage it, a voice whispered, enticingly. Whatever this weapon is, you could change it. Shoot it into the sea, off into space, anything. Turn it into a midsummer firework if it'll make you feel better.

He entertained the notion for barely a second. No. Whatever he did to sabotage this weapon, his hosts would only return and make him do it again, sensibly this time. Had he been concerned only for himself, then he might have chanced it, weighing the good he would do against his own personal safety. The one thing they could not do was kill him, and all else could be amended. But he still didn't know, with any degree of certainty, if they had Hoshi.

He shuddered once more, remembering the day that had led to this—some of it vague, clouded, nebulous shapes drifting out of his reach . . . but some points, especially the breeze of her hair past his face, clung to him like rainwater. Whatever else had happened, he couldn't put her in any more danger than he already had.

As he scrolled through pages of blueprints, Malcolm's eyes opened wider, and eventually his hands slowed until he was merely staring sightlessly at the screen, palms rested on the damp keyboard, finding it hard to breathe.

It was an exact copy of Enterprise's phase cannons.

They scanned the ship, he murmured, disconsolately. So that was how they had known his name, his rank, his job . . . how they had known to find he and Hoshi down on the planet, alone, isolated. Foolishly isolated. They had been watching, and no doubt waiting. He could not help but wonder, his stomach twisting like a cyclone and his head swimming faintly, just how much these people had seen. There were things he had allowed to happen that day that were not meant for outside eyes, things he did not even know how he himself felt about. And Hoshi . . .

. . . she deserved better than to be spied on because of him.

Feeling his heart beating, sounding strange echoes in his skull like music through water

(I know you're afraid of the water, Malcolm)

he pressed the button for the next screen, hoping he would be proven wrong. After all, he hadn't recognised the system so readily on his first peep. Perhaps the alien laguage and the unaccustomed computer were muddling his judgement, making the familiar feel strange, and the strange familiar.

It was then that the pulse thumping so hotly in his temples stopped altogether.

It was a sensor scan, evidently utilising the same precise means of data-gathering as the sweep that had allowed these beings to duplicate Enterprise's phase cannons. A labyrinthine tracery of fine, electric lines represented a vast complex of some kind, apparently their intended target; and between these lines, some moving, some stationary, were thousands of tiny red dots like swarms of locusts on a field of wheat.

Red dots. Moving red dots.

Lifesigns. Although the language surrounding this diagram told him nothing, he did not need to see a number. There were thousands, and this phase cannon was trained directly on them.

Trembling, Malcolm reached out, blindly, and shut off the monitor for the second time. Suddenly the idea of crawling away, of removing himself from this staring console and waiting for a better turn of events to present itself, had never been so attractive.

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He removed himself physically from the console, but he could not remove it from his sight; it faced every other corner of this tiny tank, blank-eyed and grinning like a skull. Sooner or later his hosts would wonder why he hadn't done as they demanded, and would contact him again—whether by that sickening perversion of Hoshi's voice or in person, he wouldn't like to say. Either seemed equally unappealing, but either was better than sitting here, bored but unable to pace, exhausted but unable to sleep, and so hungry his hands shook. He had gone long periods without food before, but this was different; those times had been largely voluntary, and correctable if the need became harmful; here he was stuck, and his incapability chafed him.

There was nothing for his mind to do but wander, and without other stimulation he had no choice but to let it go where it pleased, too tired to bother with disciplining his thoughts anymore. The mission had gone well, in its early stages; he had never seen Hoshi so speechlessly happy as when she exchanged ritual bows with the head of the council, initiating a first contact that would be cited in Enterprise's—and indeed, Starfleet's—records for years to come as one of their first true successes. Logic had selected her for the task, her linguistical skill far overriding any diplomatic qualifications the others might possess, but secretly Malcolm attributed her stunning reception to one far more obvious, and all too regrettably concealed, reason:

The woman was exquisite.

From the moment they had set foot in the capital to the moment the deal was officially sealed, Hoshi Sato had carried herself with grace, modesty, and effervescent charm. She accepted the honours and receptions thrown for her as an ambassador with gracious willingness to sample their delicacies, observe their formalities, speak their flowing language. She had dressed in their fluid robes and styled her hair in crumpled ribbons as they did, had flattered them, questioned them and complimented them. But Malcolm?

He had been at her side, at every formal dinner and every festive gathering—present but silent, offering a nod when he was greeted, using his duties as security officer as an excuse to hide behind her. He had eventually allowed her to dress him more appropriately, though he had flatly refused the jewellery she extended to him. He had done his duty, and been her eyes and ears while her physical senses were otherwise engaged . . . but when it came down to it, all he had been was a jumped-up bodyguard with nothing to do.

He couldn't help but be a little jealous of her instant success, especially as his own efforts had fared so badly. But she had thanked him. Not once during all their nine days in the capital itself, not in any way he could confess to another living soul . . . but on the tenth day . . . today . . .

Malcolm shifted his weight a little where he sat, and scrubbed a hand wearily across his face, feeling the first beginnings of stubble with dismay. It had been a mistake to let his mind wander. He wouldn't do it again.

He was debating lying down for a while, if only to spare his legs from any worse cramp than he already had, when there was a crackle, and the voice came again. It filled the tiny space with dead echoes.

Why have you not launched the weapon? it said, tonelessly.

Malcolm closed his eyes at Hoshi's voice once more, and swallowed. His throat was swollen with thirst. Because that's not what I do, he said, quietly. You want me to shoot that thing at thousands of people. I don't know what impression you have of me, but I'm not a killer.

We have knowledge of your vessel. We know you are the tactical officer. Destruction is your job. Make the weapon work.

The accusation bit; not because it was true, but because of what it made him out to be. In a fair battle, I would, he growled, between his teeth. I do what has to be done to disable an enemy ship. But I don't destroy them. Give me credit that I have some ethics. Even if you don't. He waited, doubting that this message, like the first, was anything more than a recording; and doubting, in tandem, that anybody could hear him.

There was only ambiguous silence.

Where's Hoshi? he demanded, after a moment.

We are willing to hold you here until you comply, the voice repeated, regardless of his question. The target has been selected for you. We know you can operate this weapon.

The target' looks suspiciously like the capital, he shot back, hotly. And as I remember even the southern suburbs had a population of five million. That phase cannon would easily annihilate enough of the city to kill five thousand, maybe more.

The target has been selected for you. Make the weapon work.

Malcolm growled low in his throat, and smashed his fist into the wall once more. It raised no more echoes on this second occasion than it had on the first. He no longer doubted that at least one of these beings heard him, and to a degree understood him—with or without Hoshi's help, he didn't know. But the answers he received all made use of those same few sentences, clearly all they had prepared and recorded, each time selecting the phrase which closest matched his inquiry or the answer they wished to give. He doubted he would get more from them until they had gone away and spliced together a larger vocabulary.

Good. The more reason he gave them to keep Hoshi alive, if she really were here, the better.

A moment later every one of those assumptions was crushed. The woman will be terminated unless you comply, the voice replied, pleasantly. Make the weapon work. You have one hour.

Part 3 on its way . . .