Rating:PG-13
I cannot provide an accurate count of the number of sections this piece will have. It grows on its own as the twists are brought to me by my own mental imbalance and suggestions given to me. This current twist I owe to Gilly's fabulous questions. May she always lead me astray. ;)
A long corridor extended before him. The walls were sparkling clean, painted a sterile white with bright beaming lights before each door. The spaces between them marked by deep shadows and yet he could find his way. He'd traveled this path countless times during his route. How lowly and miserable an existence his had become. To take care of a being he adored and abhorred at the same time. A small life devoid of all sin and yet created in it. Without consent or knowledge it came forth into this world, taking in breath just as its parents did. It was his job to care for it. Only that nothing more, but it made him feel unclean. He could have refused, but death would have come swiftly to those assigned to The Farm.
He neared the next door along his route, pausing briefly to check the alien symbols above the door. It was a habit of his as nearly every corridor in all their buildings were startleing similar. The idea was to make a labyrinth so complicated no prisoner could find their way out. Losing his way and the confusion that ensued had forced him to witness objects and acts that he sincerely wished he could erase. They were called the 'trials'. G'Tol called them 'The Mistakes.' Beings never meant to be. Hideous disfigured creatures...monsters in a humanoid form that spoke... the ones that lived anyway. Those that didn't were preserved to study. The moaning and the stench of The Mistakes' hallways was something he avoided at all cost. It was irrational for him to fear them. He was, after all, a trained professional, but nothing within his subroutines prepared him for viewing beings that were little more than mounds of flesh that spoke, cried, wailed, and begged to be given their freedom. The ethical side of him could almost rationalize helping them seek their god, but doing so could mean his own people's demise. Faced with such decisions, he would find himself rushing past their cells quickly, praying they wouldn't hear him near.
This hall, however, housed a different group. These were the final creations. The Wanted as they became known on The Farm. Now tiny vessels that could potentially destroy what his 'family' had fought so hard to protect.
He stepped toward the door, waiting for the light above him to blink once and fade. A soft green illumination moved from the base of the door to the top and returned again.
"Recognize-Prisoner AV-008, proceed, Doctor," A computer voice droned. It was just as sterile as the hallways he walked down every day.
Slowly, the door to the main nursery slid open. Soft light billowing out into the darkened hallway, the Doctor could make out a lone figure in the shadows across the room. It was seated in a chair, holding a small bundle and rocking back and forth. The Doctor grabbed one of the medical tricorders and approached the silhouette.
"She was removed from her status pod this morning," he explained.
The Doctor looked down into the other man's arms and regarded the tiny being. "Subject GV-001. Mission Status, Success." It's tiny arm band read.
"She appears to be alive and well, Mr. Neelix," The Doctor said, taking a brief scan.
"I suppose it is only a matter of time now," the Talaxian said in a whisper.
"Not necessarily. The number of species aboard Voyager will mean that their mission will take a bit longer than this."
"They managed to unravel human DNA. How long until they figure out Vulcan, Bolian, or Talaxian?"
"I wish I could tell you. We'll just have to wait and see."
"Indeed, you will, Mr. Neelix. Until then, I remind you that noncompliance means death," G'Tol Kairon said, entering the nursery. The illumination in the room finally lighting his tall frame completely. G'Tol was a gazelle compared to others in his species. He was also of an extremely heavy build. His eyes were large, citrine orbs that resembled a cat's in this low lighting, and his hair was a light blond color. Pale, pasty white skin only assisted in making him appear ghoulish in appearance. In their culture, however, pale skin was looked upon as a sign of status. It meant that he spent little time outside to tan his skin; working outside was, after all, only for lower ranking officers.
As far as the Doctor could tell, the Kamien's system of balance was preestablished before birth. Children of the common soldier were doomed to the same fate. Higher class members had their children genetically altered to either fill their position or another. At a young age, all were sent to learn what the Kamien considered basic skills: weaponry, combat skills, and survival techniques. Those in the upper brackets were also tought trade negotiation, torture tactics, astrometrics, and genetic science. Extended intelligence would give those in higher ranks a feeling of greater importance. A fact that they reminded every man beneath them at least once a day. G'tol was no different
Genetically engineered and groomed from childhood for his position, he was assigned to head The Farm's main 'research' group, he also had a mind for persuasion. His methods of retaining higher work rates for those working under him were widely known. They boarded on cruelty, and he was not above both mental and physical torture.
It was this extensive reputation that made even the Doctor flinch when the man neared. He'd autopsied some of the corpses that G'Tol left in sickbay. Bone, organs turned into a liquid state. Faces so badly distorted that it took a DNA sample to learn the person's identity. On a few rare occasions, the punished were his own men. Those were the worst of those send to him. Twisted limbs, fused spinal columns, even one that had had his heart removed while he was still alive. All of this because they did not comply. Not complying seemed to be a favorite saying on Kamien.
As G'Tol approached, the Doctor stiffened. He attempted to cover his discomfort by setting his tricorder down on one of the biobeds near the rocking chair.
"How are the subjects fairing?"
"BV-003 is already nearing his crawling stage. Due to the acceleration concoxtion your men have created, I believe that, within a few hours, he will be walking. I would suggest having Mr. Tuvok start his sessions approximately two days from now."
"Agreed. And subject BV-001?"
"Still underweight. She doesn't sleep as much as the others. The similarities are amazing."
"And what of GV-001?"
"Would you please stop! They all have names," Neelix said, rising from his seat.
"Yes, they do. The child you are holding is Beta Voyager 002 until further notice. We will not burden them with Terrain names until they are deemed The Replicas, understood?"
G'Tol straigtened, letting the shadow of his figure loom over Neelix. Neelix turned slowly, returning the child to his cradle. Gray eyes stared up at him, blinked, and closed slowly.
"I apologize, G'Tol Tumeric. I was out of line. There is just a great deal of research on human children that suggest having a sense of identity early on helps establish how they will develop into adults."
G'Tol's face hardened briefly. "If it means so much to human development, Mr. Neelix, you may call them what you wish," he said, turning on his heal and walking out.
Silence fell upon the pair of men as the Doctor crossed towards GV-001's crib. He lifted the small bundle into his arms and looked into her eyes. Deep blue eyes that seemed to gleam in response. Her small mouth drew up into a smile.
"I think we should call her Hope."
"Uh... Doctor, don't you think her parents should name her?"
"We don't even know if they are still alive, Mr. Neelix. Besides, I can't just call her Gamma Voyager 001 for the next few years."
This is how life was now. How their lives had become. The daily grind of waking up well before full sunrise, forcing stale bread into there ever empty stomachs, and marching onward towards the hours of laborious work that faced them. All that just to return to half a bowl of lukewarm broth that tasted vaguely of meat. It was a terrible flavor that, under normal circumstances, they would have pushed aside. After six months however, the taste of it was something they'd almost become immune to. Eating was no longer something to be enjoyed; it was to be endured. Every spoonful kept them alive. A prospect that was neither appealing nor unpleasant. However, the amount of food given was never enough. Stomachs long since gave up growling for more food. Instead, prisoners centered their attention on memories of home, escape, and, most importantly, staying alive.
Hope was something they clinged to. Good news was so rare that it was often not believed. Roll call in the morning became a way to gauge numbers of friends lost during the previous few hours rather than just another few minutes before returning to work or their cell. Fewer and fewer people to count aloud; a testament to working conditions and the drive for freedom. More than anything the walls moved in on them. Faster and harder, crueler and more unforgiving than even Tom remembered them as being. Granted, Starfleet prisons- even living down that chute- were bad, but this... this was more than just survival. It was a slow and steady mind game... a test of wills... to see who would crumble first. The Kamien, however, were holding most of the cards.
Had they been playing poker, most of the crew would have folded by now. Knowing that they couldn't out-bluff someone that had no intention of simply walking away. A few, however, were resistant to differing degrees. Despite all the killings and beatings, they continued on in the underground, working on a plan of escape. They were the most dangerous of all because they had adopted the idea of live free or die.
Regardless of how jaded they had become, the group still cared about injured members. Rumors of the captain's maltreatment spread through the camp like most gossip. Well wishers saw to it Tom had what little they had to offer: spare bits of bread, an extra blanket smuggled out of the sewing factory, clean rags to tend to her wounds.
Before dark had fallen, it began to rain. A soft steady stream that fell down in absolute silence. Tears from the Prophets, the Bajorians called them. It trickled down, off the roof of the building and formed in small pools at the base of the door.
For the first time in almost six months, Tom saw his own reflection. It was an image that was anything but a man: long hair, untamed, knotted, and filled with white streaks; sagging skin; beard and mustache with streaks of gray in it; and hollow cheeks. It was, however, his eyes that caused him the greatest distress. The usual blue reflect back at him but they were unfocused. Sunken, unattached, they searched beyond the reflection to the memories of the past few months.
His evolution from civilized man to an animal fighting to stay alive. It was that animalistic side that took over in that shuttle. Seeing her harmed was enough to drive any reason from his mind. Even as his mind told him it was wrong to kill, he edged onward. Blow after blow he watched the guards eyes bloody... felt the sticky liquid pooling out of his ears. All the while his own heartbeat thundered in his own. Tom could feel the bones and cartilage breaking...giving beneath his fists. He could hear the mans pleas, begging him to stop, but they only served to fuel his anger. He felt an inhuman surge of adrenaline at ever whimper. He lost since of time, feeling nothing but his energy draining from him. Empty, he slid away from the corpse that he was straddling and stood. His fists ached from their use. Dripping with deep crimson, he wiped them on his uniform and stepped over the guard's body to Kathryn's side. Never did he even think of his actions. Darwin's theory put into practice among his own kind. 'The weak shall perish,' 8472 had said. They were right, in some cases. In others, stronger minds with even stronger wills found ways to try and escape. Refusing to see all the dangers or, rather, ignoring them, they pressed on to try and seek freedom. Others were less fortunate to be drawn down a spiral towards mental breakdown. Some programmed into the routine set aside for them by the Kamien, and others trapped within their own mind, unwilling to face reality.
While he was of strong mind and will, Tom was unwilling to seek escape within his own mind. As one of the remaining senior staff, he didn't have that luxury. Tuvok, Chakotay, even Neelix disappeared after the Kamien did the first roll call. Rumors of their death circulated quickly. Seven never really held a rank. B'Elanna and Harry were killed trying to tunnel out. That left himself and Kathryn. By default, he was currently running things until she healed. It was his job to keep morale up. A thought that was almost laughable. To say that he was dying inside might be cliché, but it was exactly how he felt.
He could remember a time when he used his rank, days from drinking, and the number of friends he had to measure his accomplishments. Drinking... he'd always struggled with it. Since his misspent youth, he'd turned to it rather than facing emotions. Once on Voyager, he had depended on his friends to keep him from that path. Now, in this cell, part of him yearned for a shot. The burning it left in its wake. The slight buzz it caused. Then another... and another... forgetting how many times his hand held the large, cool glass in his hands as his wrist dipped the neck of the bottle towards the shot glass. By the time his aim was slightly off, the bottle would be drained. But the smell and the first sip... how his body would shake. Giddy at the knowledge of what was to come. The following morning, the headache and the nausea were more sensations to latch on to, giving him something to ignore his pain and remind him that he was still alive.
The quiet of the cell left him nothing to do but contemplate the day. In a few hours, he had thrown away his humanity. He'd taken a life for a life. There was no question that the guard wouldn't have injured Kathryn, but he had killed the guard with his bare hands. No part of him even considered stopping, even after the man had lost consciousness. And, with the level headed thinking of a cold blooded murder, he had disposed of the main evidence - the body.
Sighing, Tom sat against the back of their cell, supporting himself against the wall. His vigil had started hours ago. Her fever spiked early in the evening. Using the rain to dampen cloths, he wiped the sweat away from her brow. Determination to keep her alive was what kept him going through his exhaustion. If her condition worsened during the night and he wasn't awake to help her, he would never forgive himself.
He returned to watching the rain fall into the small puddle. Tiny droplets that caused the water to ripple. The moonlight cast through the window above him lighting the room. From his perch, he was able to see Kathryn's breathing had grown shallow. She was beginning to stir from her sleep.
"It's raining," she whispered.
"How are you feeling?" Tom asked, moving towards her.
"Like an elephant sat on me," she said, laughing. "How did we get back here?"
"G'Tan Tumeric had us brought back after it happened. Sort of. The transporter's engine failed a ways from here. I had to carry you."
"Captain Proton to the rescue," she groaning in pain as she tried to sit up.
"Careful. I had a time splinting that wrist."
She turned to look at him, eyes searching his for an asked question.
"Without a medical tricorder, I can't really be sure of how bad the injures are," he said, sitting down beside her. "Some of the smaller bones in your wrist were probably fractured, a lot of bruising, fairly high temperature, and it's highly likely there is some head trauma. He did beat your head against the bulkhead before I could get to you."
"That would explain the headache."
"Do you remember any of it?"
"Bits and pieces. I remember you over me, saying something and then you were gone...," she said, reaching up to touch the gash he'd received during the struggle. "Are you all right? What happened to the guard?"
"I...I'm fine. Don't worry about the guard."
"Tom, when he wakes up..."
"He isn't going to wake up, Kathryn."
She looked him evenly in the eye. "Have they had roll call yet?"
"No."
"Then we have a few hours to escape...before they find him missing."
"You're in no condition to move. Don't worry; they aren't going to find him."
"Tom..." she warned.
"I beamed him into the mountains. No one will know where he went until summer thaw. That's at least five months from now."
"I don't plan on being here five months from now. We have to find a way out. 'Live free or die.' If we don't find a way out of here soon, we'll all be dead by then."
To be continued...