Another Planet's Hell

by Sita Z

When Archer finds shuttlepod I empty and drifting in space, he assumes that his officers have been killed. However, Trip and Malcolm are not dead. But maybe they wish they were. Chapter 19 UP! COMPLETE!

4. Chapter 4

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: R

AN: Thanks to Gabi, ally, klitty, The Libran Iniquity, Pike2, WhtEvrHpnd2Mary, Luna, Tata, rebekah78, Quickbeam1, Rinne, highonscifi, The Flaming Dragonfly, KaliedescopeCat, CordeliaBlack, T'eyla, Maraschino, AquaSox and stage manager for reviewing!

Wow, thank you all so much! I love your feedback, keep it coming!

BTW, I kind of agree with what some of you said about the use of profanity, although I think that in a cruel environment people will naturally use "strong language", and not think much about it. Still, I'm sorry if anyone felt offended. There will be (a little -g-) less swearing in the chapters to come.

And now... on with Chapter 4! Please read and review!

Chapter 4

Three days later the ship reached its destination. They were rudely awakened only an hour after the lights had been turned off for the ship's night, the guards shouting at them to get up, kicking and pushing those who were too slow. Tired and disoriented, they stood and watched as more guards came in, carrying the hoses they had used to clean the floor. The guard in charge of the operation ordered the prisoners to strip, then made them stand in the middle of the room so the other guards could hose them down. It was clear that the guards considered this the "fun part", laughing and making rude comments when the naked, shivering people tried to escape the icy water beating down on them. The disinfectant mixed into the water stung, and burned like fire when it made contact with open cuts or sore parts of the skin.

His arms wrapped around his upper body to keep himself from shivering uncontrollably, Trip stood next to Malcolm and tried to ignore the sharp pain that was throbbing at the back of his head. The water had soaked the band-aid the Sar'veen doctor had applied to the cut, and it felt like someone was thrusting a red-hot spike into his head.

Trip saw Malcolm wince when one of the hoses was played directly on his stomach, and felt a surge of helpless anger at the guard who just grinned and moved the hose to the next person in line. Despite the Sar'veen doctor's prognosis, the bruise on Malcolm's abdomen had not started to fade, and Trip suspected that it hadn't even reached its full size yet. Malcolm, of course, never complained, and didn't even bother to give an answer most of the times when Trip asked him if he was in pain. The Lieutenant hardly ever said more than "yes" or "no" these days.

About ten minutes later the guards were finished, leaving their victims dripping wet and shaking with cold. Trip saw the guard who had beaten him take special pleasure in splashing the water into people's eyes before he shut off the hose, and was relieved that the man hadn't come anywhere near him during the cleaning procedure. The guard in charge - the Sar'veen woman who had stopped her colleague from taking Trip away - shouted at her subordinates to quit fooling around, they didn't have all day, after all. After the men had been given a depilatory agent to remove their beards with, the guards started to hand out "towels", a few dirty rags that were soon soaking wet, and made everyone stand in line again, using their clubs to push the people who were still busy trying to towel themselves down. Then the female guard, the doctor and another man Trip had never seen before began inspecting their merchandise.

Some of the people were given only a brief look-over and a nod, whereas others were examined more thoroughly, especially those who had any visible injuries. Instead of treating those wounds, however, the doctor covered them with a superficial layer of dermaplast which Trip suspected would wear off in no more than a day, maybe two.

When it was his turn, the doctor took a quick look at the cut on his head and removed the band-aid, smoothing down the hair next to the wound. It hurt, but Trip grit his teeth and forced himself not to make a sound.

"See?" the doctor said to the guard and the man next to her. "I told you, it's hardly visible. I'm sure no one will notice."

"You'd better be right," the man said, frowning slightly. "That one's worth quite a sum, and I'd hate to sell him for any less just because my crew is doing such a lousy job!"

This last remark was clearly directed to the guard who swallowed, keeping her eyes straight ahead. "Yes, sir, Captain."

"Good." The captain moved on to Malcolm, and his frown deepened as he saw the large, bluish-green bruise on Reed's stomach. "What's that?"

"It was Kher'van, sir." The guard took a deep breath. "I'd like to have him transferred, Captain. He's trouble, picking fights with his bunkmates and knocking around the slaves. He-"

"Listen, I don't care who did this!" the captain cut her off. "I said the crew can do as they please as long as they don't damage the merchandise. And I'm holding you responsible. So see to it that this doesn't happen again!"

"Yes, sir." The lines around her mouth had hardened, but Trip saw that she didn't dare to say anything else.

"Doc?" the captain asked and the doctor stepped forward, examining the bruise.

"Well, I can always try."

Roughly, he ran the dermal spreader over the discolored spot, and Malcolm took in a sharp breath. When the doctor was finished, the bruise was covered with several layers of dermaplast and looked as if it were already fading. Trip saw that Malcolm had closed his eyes, and knew that it wasn't only the pain that made him feel that way. Both he and Malcolm had suffered worse pain than that, but to be treated like that, like a thing without thoughts or feelings, was worse than any physical discomfort.

The captain had moved further down the line, not without a last annoyed glance at the bruise on Malcolm's stomach.

"You okay?" Trip asked quietly. He tried not to move his lips, but the guard saw him.

"Shut up, you!" she said, raising her club. "Shut your fucking mouth!"

She didn't hit him, though, and with a final glare followed the doctor and her captain. Malcolm, of course, did not give an answer, staring straight ahead as if none of this really concerned him.

Trip was beginning to get worried about the Lieutenant. Reed's eyes had a bleak, detached look to them, and he had withdrawn completely into himself, speaking only when spoken to and sometimes not even then. These last few days, Malcolm had been like an automaton, eating, drinking and walking as if it were someone else doing these things and he, Malcolm Reed, only a passive spectator. Trip knew it wasn't the physical violence - in the past, Malcolm had often found himself in hand-to-hand combat situations, had been shot and beaten, but then he had still been able to make caustic remarks, the corners of his mouth twitching in that dry, British way of his. Now, however, the ironic sparkle in his eyes had vanished, and the silent, unresponsive man that remained reminded Trip only vaguely of the Malcolm he had known.

But he couldn't talk to him. It wasn't really the time for talking when all you did was trying to live through another day without starving to death or getting raped by the guards. And what was he supposed to say, anyway? "Come on, Mal, what's wrong? Except for the fact that we're going to be sold into slavery on an alien planet, and will probably never see each other again."

That was another thing they couldn't talk about. The very likely possibility that they were going to be separated, sold to different buyers and thus losing the last connecting link to their old life back on Enterprise. Even now, standing in line to be inspected before the sale began, Trip refused to think of it, to think of how it would feel to be completely alone. He had gotten used to the thought that Jon wasn't looking for them, even though somewhere deep down in an irrational part of his mind he was still hoping he might be, after all, faked substances be damned. But he couldn't think of how it would be to lose Malcolm as well. To have no one at all.

The sound of loud voices caught his attention. There was a movement further down the line, and Trip saw that the guard had Kalem, the Andorian, on his knees, twisting his arm so he couldn't get up. The Andorian was struggling in her grip, sobbing and screaming as she rammed her knee into his back.

"Damn blue-skinned bastard!" she panted as she tried to restrain him with a pair of handcuffs. Neither the doctor nor the captain lifted a finger to help her, the latter watching in disgust as she hit the prisoner hard on the back of his head with her fist. Kalem cried in pain and suddenly turned to one side, causing the guard to stumble and fall. One second was enough for him. The Andorian was on his feet and a moment later he held a small, black weapon in his hand which he had pulled from the holster on the guard's hip. The woman stared up at him, her eyes wide and frightened, and the two Sar'veen men hastily retreated a few steps, drawing their own weapons. But Kalem did not shoot. Slowly, he walked backwards, away from the guard on the floor, the stolen weapon not trained on anyone but hanging loosely in his grip.

Trip saw the captain run his tongue over his lips.

"Drop the weapon and we won't hurt you!" he said, but Kalem was clearly not listening. His pupils were dilated with terror, two black, unseeing spots on his pale blue face.

"My children," he whispered. His hand was shaking, and for a moment Trip believed he was going to drop the weapon.

"Put down the weapon, and we'll take you to your children," the captain said, very gently, as if he were talking to a frightened animal. Kalem's unsteady eyes came to rest on him.

"Take me to...?" he repeated, his voice trembling, and the captain actually smiled at him.

"That's right. Just put down the weapon, and I'll make sure you'll see your children."

For a brief moment it looked as if Kalem was going to comply, but then his fingers tightened on the weapon's handle, his eyes narrowing to slits.

"Liar," he said. "You lie. You're not going to take me to my children." And suddenly he screamed "You killed them! You liar, you killed them!"

"He's damn crazy," the doctor muttered, raising his weapon, but the captain held up a hand.

"Wait!" he said quietly. "He's worth at least two thousand pakh. I don't want him injured."

Aloud he said, "You can trust me. I'm going to take you to your children, I promise."

Kalem's hand trembled harder, and tears began to run down his thin face. "No," he whispered. "No. They're dead. You're lying." He raised the weapon and pressed its muzzle against his temple. "You killed them."

"No!" The captain fired, aiming at Kalem's arm and missing by a few centimeters. But it was too late. Kalem pulled the trigger, and a moment later collapsed on the floor, his face and upper skull gone, the rest of his head a black, smoking mass.

"Great." Lowering his weapon, the captain walked over to the fallen body and nudged it with his foot. "Just great." He turned around to the guard who had retrieved her weapon and was now quickly scrambling to her feet. "Your incompetence has just lost me another two thousand pakh. Care to tell me how you're going to repay them?"

The guard went pale. "Captain, I-"

The captain cut her off. "I don't want to hear it. Get them dressed, and then take them to the salesroom. And clean up that mess." He jerked his chin at the dead Andorian.

"Aye, sir," the guard said, lowering her eyes when the captain gave her a last disdainful look before he left the room.

Then she drew herself up straight, and turned to the prisoners whose eyes were all fixed on the mangled body on the floor.

"What are you staring at?" she barked. "Put these on, and then get back in line! Move!"

She gestured at a large crate in one corner of the room; the guards had dumped it there before they began cleaning the prisoners. Now that they were being pushed towards it, Trip saw that the crate contained clothes, old worn-out shirts and trousers of a shabby, nondescript color. In a way, he felt relieved; he'd been afraid that, in order to make things less complicated, these people were going to sell them naked.

The smell of burned flesh was still hanging in the air, and Trip felt his stomach give a lurch when he bent down to pick a shirt and a pair of trousers. The Andorian's corpse lay only a few meters away, and Trip remembered how he had first met Kalem, a mad stranger in a dark, stinking place. And he realized that in a small part of his mind, a part whose existence he had only just discovered, he envied the man. Kalem had escaped into his own world, fleeing from reality by willingly succumbing to the madness that lurked everywhere in this place, and finally fleeing from life itself.

Trip noticed that most of the people avoided looking at the dead body, acting as if it were only another one of the dirty towels that lay crumpled up on the floor. And he knew he was not the only one envying Kalem.

He pulled the shirt over his head and winced when the coarse fabric made contact with the cut on the back of his head. The clothes he had picked didn't really fit, as was the case with most of the prisoners, the shirts and trousers hanging loosely off their emaciated bodies. It was a relief, though, having a protecting layer of fabric between your skin and the guards' lewd stares.

Malcolm had silently chosen his clothes and was now fastening the trousers' drawstring, pulling it tight so the pants wouldn't slide down his thin waist. Their eyes met and Trip had just opened his mouth to ask him once again if he was alright when the guard's voice interrupted him.

"I said back in line! Move it, there!"

They were herded back to the middle of the room and lined up again. Trip stayed close to Malcolm, even though the Lieutenant didn't seem to notice or care, his eyes downcast and his face expressionless. On an order of the Sar'veen woman, the guards began to restrain the prisoners, securing their wrists with handcuffs made of a smooth, metal-like material.

"Hands on your back!"

Trip did as he was told, and felt the guard fit the cuffs around his wrists. The hands securing the restraints did not withdraw immediately, though, and Trip tensed as someone roughly grabbed his behind.

"Nice," a voice whispered next to his ear, and Trip recognized Kher'van, the guard who had asked him whether he liked the food. "Very nice. Too bad I didn't get the chance to-"

"Let him go!" The voice of the female guard interrupted him, and Trip saw that she was coming their way, her eyes dark with fury. Immediately, Kher'van removed his hand.

"I've had enough trouble because of you, Kher'van! Either keep your hands off the slaves, or-"

"Alright, alright!" In an exaggerated gesture, the guard raised his hands and proceeded to handcuff the next person in line. The woman glared at him, then left to return to her vantage point at the far end of the room. Trip bit his lip, taking comfort in the mental image of punching Kher'van so hard in the face that the man's nose was only a bloody pulp afterwards. He noticed Malcolm watching him, but for some reason couldn't bring himself to meet the Lieutenant's eyes just now. Very soon, either of them might become the rightful property of a person just like Kher'van, and then there was nothing they could do to but accept that dignity and self-respect were a luxury they could no longer afford. Trip knew that, and he knew Malcolm did, too, but still he couldn't bring himself to look at the Lieutenant.

In the meantime the guards had finished. The woman, hands on her hips, let her eyes wander across the prisoners lined up before her, then nodded once.

"Alright," she said. "Now listen up. I'm only going to say this once. If you give us any trouble or do anything to sabotage the sale, then believe me, I'll make sure you'll regret it. And just so you know, it's for your own good to put on a nice smile out there. The sale will be going on for three days, and after that we expect to have sold out of our current stock. I can assure you no one will be left over, one way or another. So you'd better see to it that you find someone who'll buy you."

Trip thought of Lu'Vis who stood a little further down the line, and felt something clench in his chest. Even after all those days in the cargo hold, he still found it difficult to believe that someone would do this to living, sentient beings, treat them like a farmer would treat his fruit or vegetable at a market sale - sell as many as he could and then throw away the rest at the end of the day.

The guards opened the door, and for the first time since they had been brought aboard this ship, Malcolm and Trip left the cargo hold. The prisoners were marched down a long, dimly lit corridor, the guards pushing them and swearing at those who didn't catch up with the rest fast enough. Finally they came to a halt in front of a large, gray bulkhead. The female guard turned around, giving the crowd a last look-over, and then proceeded to press the panel next to the door.

They were led into a huge hall, almost three times as big as the cargo hold. In sharp contrast to the latter this place was clean, however, brightly lit and crowded with dozens of well-dressed Sar'veen who turned around when the prisoners were brought into the hall. Passing the people who stared at them as if they were only so many slices of meat, they were marched to the far end of the hall. There was a small stage at the back of the room - the auction block, Trip assumed. The Captain and another Sar'veen stood a few meters away, watching as the group came to a halt next to the block. Involuntarily, the prisoners huddled closer together, some of the frightened people beginning to cry. Trip watched Kher'van slap a woman in the face, punching her in the ribs when she wouldn't stop crying.

"Stop that bawling, you bitch!" he hissed. "You've been warned, don't even think of causing any trouble, or else."

The woman swallowed, visibly biting back the sobs that threatened to come out. "Yes, sir."

Using their clubs and fists, the guards scattered the group until the prisoners were standing about an arm's length apart. Trip managed to stay next to Malcolm who didn't even raise his eyes when one of the guards smacked him on the side of his head to get him moving.

The captain, who had been watching the procedure with a certain air of impatience, nodded at the man next to him. The man, unlike the guards and the captain not wearing a uniform but a long, dark green robe, called something in the direction of the crowd. Trip didn't understand the words, but realized that it must have been some sort of invitation when the Sar'veen started walking towards them.

What now followed was another examination, but one far more thorough and humiliating than the first one. The Sar'veen walked up to the slaves they deemed worthy of having a look at, felt their arms and legs, pulled open their mouths to inspect their teeth and discussed their various merits and flaws with the other customers as if they were talking about breeding stock at a cattle market. Many of the prisoners stood completely still during the examination, frozen with terror and humiliation, others started to cry, but none of them dared to offer resistance, not even when some of the customers grabbed them between the legs. It happened more than once, and Trip felt a deep hatred for those men and women, and their utter disregard for the feelings and dignity of their fellow beings.

He had to force himself not to shrink back when one of the Sar'veen pulled up his eye lids, seized his jaw to turn his head from side to side and declared him a "fine article." It made him furious, but what was even worse was the terrible shame he felt at being touched and treated like that, at being nothing but a thing to these people. Finally the man let go of him again, but Trip found his relief had been premature. Before he knew what was happening, the Sar'veen grabbed him and squeezed him hard, saying something to another man who nodded approvingly. It hurt, but Trip wasn't really aware of the pain. His blood rushed into his cheeks, and all he could think of was killing this man, as slowly and painfully as possible.

A man about Jon's age had started to examine Malcolm, squeezing the muscles in his arms while another Sar'veen watched and from time to time commented on his friend's stock examination.

"He's rather small," the onlooker said, looking Malcolm up and down. "Handsome fellow, but rather small."

"He's in good condition." The other Sar'veen proceeded to feel Malcolm's legs. "I bet he's quite strong, judging by those muscles. I'm - look at that!"

The man had lifted Malcolm's shirt and was now frowning down at the bruise, probing the discolored skin with his fingers and ignoring Malcolm's gasp of pain. The onlooker bent down to get a closer look, and Trip saw tears of humiliation gather in Malcolm's eyes. To spare his friend the additional embarrassment, he turned his eyes away, and a moment later heard the Sar'veen's voice: "Damaged goods. Better not waste your money on him; chances are that he'll die a few days after you've bought him."

Trip's attention was diverted by a man, between fifty and sixty years old, who had come to a halt in front of him, and was now scrutinizing him in a business-like way. The man was rather stocky, and his gray skin had an unhealthy look to it, as if he didn't go outside very often. His round face and receding hairline matched the rest of his appearance; a man who was well off but didn't think it necessary to take good care of himself.

When the man stepped closer to begin the inevitable examination of Trip's teeth, eyes and muscles, he brought his face closer to Trip's, and the engineer could smell the not-so-faint traces of alcohol on the man's breath.

The captain, walking around among the slaves and customers and extolling the quality of his goods, saw that the man was interested and immediately was at his side.

"Very good, sir," he said when the stranger looked up from his examination of Trip's legs. "This one's top quality, strong and good-looking. You can use him for work as well as for... other things."

He grinned suggestively, but the man only nodded and straightened up again. Without paying any further attention to the captain, he walked over to Malcolm and submitted him to the same examination. He didn't lift his shirt, though, and so the bruise stayed unnoticed for the time being.

The captain had just opened his mouth again, probably to tell him that Malcolm was very good at doing hard work and... other things (a thing he said about every prisoner younger than himself), when the man interrupted.

"I need a waiter," he said. "Or two, but I'm not sure I can afford them both." He looked at Trip who suddenly felt a wild surge of hope. "Do you have any waiting experience?"

"Yes, sir," Trip lied smoothly. "My friend here and me, we were servin' as stewards back on our ship."

Malcolm raised his head at that, but the man only laughed. It was not an entirely unkind sound, though. "Sure." He turned to the captain. "I still don't think I can buy them both. Business has been slack lately, and I've heard the prices have gone up."

"Oh, it's not that bad," the captain assured him quickly. "And besides, you'll be making a good deal; they're both young and strong, and it always makes a good impression to have handsome servants waiting on the customers."

"I won't argue that one." The man ran a hand over his chin, looking from Trip to Malcolm. "We'll see. I'll buy at least one of them, that's for sure."

The captain smiled, satisfied, and Trip stole a look at Malcolm, seeing his own, desperate hope mirrored in the Lieutenant's eyes. Maybe they weren't going to be separated, after all. And working as a waiter didn't sound too bad. There were worse things a slave could be forced to do. A lot worse.

The sale began. The Denobulan whose wife had been killed was the first one the captain pushed up the steps to the block. He stood there, his eyes wide with terror, as the auctioneer in the dark green robe accepted the bids coming from the crowd. After only a few minutes the man was sold, and pushed from the block to the foot of the stairs where his new owner was waiting for him. Lu'Vis was next, and against her expectations she was bought by an elderly Sar'veen woman, but her face did not betray any relief when she came down the stairs.

By now, Trip felt a hard knot of fear sitting in the pit of his stomach, and it tightened every time another prisoner was dragged to the block. It was horrible, watching as sentient beings were auctioned off like furniture or pieces of equipment, but his horror was gradually blotted out by the panic he felt at the prospect of mounting that block himself. Everyone out there in the crowd, no matter how cruel or perverted, could buy him or Malcolm and then do with them whatever he pleased. No one was going to stop him, just like nobody stopped the captain from pushing the crying woman to the steps of the auction block.

"Trip."

He turned around and saw Malcolm, his face pale and eyes dark with fear, standing next to him. The Lieutenant only looked at him, and Trip understood. This might be the last time they saw each other - hell, the last time they saw another human being in their life - but there was no time to talk. He nodded, and Malcolm held his gaze for a moment. Then suddenly the captain was there, grabbing Malcolm's arm and giving him a hard jerk.

"Move it!"

Trip watched, frozen, as his friend was being led to the block and pushed up the stairs. Once he had mounted the last step, Malcolm threw a quick, nervous look at the crowd, and stumbled as the auctioneer took him by the arm and pulled him forward.

The crowd was calling out their bids in rapid succession, and the noise made it impossible for Trip to make out what they were saying, let alone who was participating in the bidding.

Malcolm's cuffed hands were trembling. The last bids were coming in, and only a second later the auctioneer called out, "... once, twice, sold for 2380 pakh!"

Feeling sick, Trip watched as Malcolm slowly walked down the stairs, head bowed and face burning crimson. The Lieutenant didn't even look up as his buyer, the man who needed a waiter, took his arm and led him away from the steps.

Someone pushed him, and Trip heard the captain's voice next to his ear.

"Come on, you're next!"

Trip didn't offer any resistance as he was pulled towards the steps. Suddenly the noise of the crowd seemed to be coming from far away, and his attention narrowed down to the steps in front of him and the captain's hand that held his arm in a vise grip.

"Up you go!"

He was given a hard shove, and a moment later he was standing on the platform, the combined noise and light enough to numb his senses for a second or two. Then, however, reality slowly faded in again, and Trip raised his head to face the crowd in front of him.

TBC...

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