Chapter Twenty-one

Malcolm stood in the shower as dread filled his gut. Washing the shampoo out of his hair, he knew she wasn't dead. The dream was …so real. No matter if it was real or not, he wasn't going to stop searching for her -- ever.

Somehow, Trip had managed to get Em dressed, sans undergarments, and back to her quarters. She had collapsed into a fitful sleep and he fell onto the bunk beside her, welcoming the exhaustive sleep that claimed him.

Jon walked onto the bridge and immediately looked over at his science officer. "Any change?"

T'Pol straightened her back and answered, "No, Captain. We are still several light years behind them."

Jon remained silent, crossing over to his chair and sitting down. "Let me know if there are any changes."

"Sir, we've been in route for six days now and are not due back to Mars for several more weeks. The strain of having the witchling on board is wearing on the men. They are able to feed on her anguish, but they are becoming bored with that. They wish to harvest her and I will be unable to squelch their thirst for much longer," Commander Reynolds informed the older man in the mist. His eyes were glazed with the strain, as he didn't know how much longer he could control his men and keep her away from them.

In exasperation, Admiral Basilone struck Commander Reynolds across his face. "You weakling! Keep your men in line and don't let them near the witchling. She has the power to destroy us all if she isn't harvested under the proper circumstances."

Commander Reynold's physical form flinched as though hit, but he squared his shoulders and stood tall. "Yes, sir!"

She had successfully blocked everyone out, as she could no longer hear their taunting. She could only feel the daily needle pricks in her thighs and the burn of the IV as it pumped nutrients into her system. She had stopped eating, shutting herself down completely, so as not to give the monsters what they craved. She kept the hopelessness at bay by adopting the attitude that it was better not to feel anything at all.

Blissfully, she slept.

"It was a blood bath, Mina. I don't know if I can go through another one," a disembodied male voice sounded. "They provide us with no justifications for the attacks. We have to do as they say; otherwise…" he choked on the thought that harm would come to his wife or daughter.

"I've had it, Matthew. Once you are recovered, we are leaving. I don't care who or what I have to destroy for us to get out of here. We deserve better and so does our daughter." Her mother's voice carried a menace that Hoshi had never heard before. "She's manifesting an ability, one I've never seen before. We've got to get her out of here before they try to harvest her."

Once Matthew recovered, they planned and waited. They waited for the chance to live. The raven-haired girl resisted the hypospray, crying for her father not to leave again. In response, he kissed her on her forehead and whispered, "This time, we're all going together."

The explosions all around her jarred her subconscious, silent witness to the night her mother unleashed her full potential. As if caught in an invisible hand, the overseers would stop and writhe, falling down to the ground, grasping their heads and begging for mercy.

Her mother held her, and Hoshi could hear the voice emanate from her mother's chest, dripping with ice, "You feed off of the pain of others. It's time you tasted your own."

Her father laughed maniacally off in the distance, the madness of his enhancement taking hold. "Transport is secured, my loves."

She and her mother floated through the air without effort, rising above the carnage below. No longer distracted by the attackers, her mother could see that her child was conscious, so she waved a hand over her eyes and whispered for her to sleep.

Commander Reynolds sighed as he lay back onto his bunk. He had been up for thirty-six hours straight, suppressing his men and forcing them to follow the directive that had been handed down to him - "Do not harm the witchling! And continue the hormone therapy!"

He could sense the woman's lack of feeling as he administered the shots. She had already given up, which was for the best, for her death would be bleak. He had long ago lost the lust for dissoluteness - at least that is what he called this, knowing full well that he was judging himself by normal human societal measures. He had lost the hunger long before Christopher was born.

A touch of guilt niggled at the back of his mind as he recalled what happened to the mother of his son. She was a runaway; all of the women who were brought into the compound were. Their status ranged from prostitutes, to girlfriends and wives to simple broodmares.

He would never forget that night when a wide-eyed, sixteen-year-old girl with scraggly brown hair and dark brown eyes was shoved into his quarters. "Here's ya a girlfriend, Reynolds. She's a weak one. Ya shouldn't have a difficult time breaking her."

An astonished 20-year-old Ensign Jacob Reynolds could hardly believe his good luck. He had put in a request for a woman five years ago. Some of his contemporaries had taken to homosexuality in frustration, but he had never really cared for that. He had one friend who had tired of his wife and invited a group of his buddies over to gang rape her and dispose of her as they wished. Behavior such as that was not abnormal; they were the norm. If one lived by standard human collective values, it was rare, but acceptable.

It took some time and great restraint on his part, but he wooed Sandra and she bore him a son.

He was away on assignment when Christopher was born - away meddling in the affairs of some alien government that he didn't give a shit about.

He came home, hyped up on the slaughter, wanting to exercise his spousal rights on a women who had given birth to his son two weeks previously. He didn't care and he forced her against her will. He broke her that night, physically and mentally. By the end of the week, she was dead by her own hand, and he had never forgiven himself.

As he fell into his slumber, he wallowed in the guilt, embracing it, for that is who he was. His guilt turned to shocked surprise as he felt the numerous daggers thrust into his body repeatedly, leaving his body bloody, draining of its life force. He damned himself for letting his defenses down, then damned all of his underlings for their treachery. With his last breath he prayed for a quick death for his son.

The lead assassin smiled, pleased with his work and turned to his accomplice. "Go to impulse and let Enterprise catch up with us, and bring the witchling to sickbay."