Title: Another Planet's Hell
Author: Sita Z
Rating: R
AN: At the request of one of the readers, this chapter is being posted a little earlier than planned...
Anyway, thanks to LoveChilde (life isn't fair ;-)... and neither is fanfiction), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (okay, I'm sorry g-... no more hints this time), Gabi (hähä, natürlich tut es mir nicht Leid... aber nicht weiterverraten ;-) ), Luna (read and find out...), Tata (no international law that I know of... or I guess I'd be in trouble), Reedie (don't worry, no more creepy than the rest of us ;-) ), stage manager (yes I am!! -g-), Rinne (glad you do, or again, I guess I'd be in trouble), AquaSox (thank you so much, that's a great compliment), kittytrypsin (maybe you're right, but then again, he's really frightened and despairing at the time), buggles586 (glad you're enjoying it!), highonscifi (I guess Malcolm's in trouble now ;-)...), KaliedescopeCat (I'll have to agree with you -g-), Antares Star (Me? Evil? -g-... hmmm, let's just say, we'll see about Trip), CordeliaBlack (I wasn't planning to update until some time tomorrow, but since you're going away for the weekend... no fair, I want to go to Florida, too. Instead I'm stuck here in stupid old Germany ;-) ), Eyes on Tactical (your action figure is gonna need a lot of cuddling... -g-) and Laura B (thank you!) for reviewing.
Phew, what a long Author's note... anyway. Please read and review!
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Chapter 10
Image: He sits, his knees drawn to his chest, waiting for Trip to come back. It is dark, and the cold is creeping into his arms and legs, wearing him out. He closes his eyes. He is so tired. There is a noise, and he raises his head again, listening. Steps, very quiet steps approaching the containers. A bright light shining into his eyes. He jumps up. There is a short, sharp pain. And then - nothing.
Malcolm opened his eyes. It was dark here as well, dark and cold. Cold enough to make him shiver all over. He curled up as tightly as he could, and when his hands touched his bare chest, he noticed that he wasn't wearing any clothes. For a moment he lay completely still, trying to understand how he had come to be here, lying naked on the floor of this dark, cold place.
Image: Hands grabbing him. Voices. His eyes are closed, and for some reason he can't force them open. There is a smell, a smell he doesn't like, but before he can distinguish what it is he is plunged back into darkness.
The cold stirred him back into reality. The tiled floor he was lying on was icy, and after several attempts Malcolm managed to bring himself into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around his knees. His head was spinning, and it felt like his tongue was swollen, seeming at least twice its normal size. It was a nauseating sensation, and Malcolm swallowed hard, fighting back the bile that was rising in his throat. What was this place?
Tiles. The floor beneath was covered with tiles, which meant that he was somewhere inside. How had he come to be here?
Malcolm tried to hold his hands still, stop their trembling by sheer force of will, and think. He needed to stay calm, stay awake and think. He needed a system.
Tactical aspects. He could think of the tactical aspects. That was something his brain could do without too much effort, like a computer running a routine analysis.
Surroundings - unknown. He wasn't even able to see his own hands, although his eyes were rapidly becoming used to the dark. The room stank. And it was cold, bloody freezing cold in here.
Enemy - unknown as well. He had been rendered unconscious and taken away from their hiding place, but he did not know by whom. He didn't even know if they had caught Trip as well.
Procedure - no suggestions available. Not enough data.
Malcolm's hands started trembling again, and this time he could not help it. He wanted to call out for Trip, but his swollen tongue refused to cooperate, and all that came out was a hoarse croak. He'd been drugged, that much was clear, but he did not understand why. If the police had caught him, then why would they put him in here, take away his clothes and give him something to make him tremble all over? Was it some sort of punishment? Orven had told them about the things that were done to recaptured slaves, but he had never mentioned this. And where was Trip? Had they captured him as well, maybe locked him into another place like this?
Tactical analysis was failing, and panic was edging closer. Malcolm pressed a fist against his mouth, biting down hard to stop himself from screaming. The taste of his own blood had a strangely calming effect, and he closed his eyes again, forcing himself to breathe slowly and evenly. Despite the dark, this was not some sort of tomb, and he had not been buried alive. There was no use in burying him alive, it was a waste of workforce, and the Sar'veen never wasted anything they could still use to their profit. Someone had put him in here, and they were going to get him out again. Soon.
In the meantime, his eyes had gotten used to the dark, and Malcolm saw that he was indeed not in a tomb, but in a room. A very small room, three by three meters at the most, floor, walls and ceiling covered with the same, smooth material. On one of its four sides, the room was open, and as he squinted harder, Malcolm was able to make out long, thin shapes in the dark. Bars. He was in a barred cell, it seemed, even though at this distance he could not make out what was behind the bars. Malcolm began to pull himself towards the opening, not trusting himself to walk or even crawl. The tiles under his hands felt like ice. Slowly, centimeter by centimeter he inched forward, and when he had finally reached the bars, his whole body was shaking, his stomach clenching with nausea. Malcolm pressed his forehead against the cold iron bars and waited for the dizzy feeling to subside. There seemed to be some sort of corridor outside, and on the other side he saw more cells, also equipped with bars. Malcolm sat very still, listening, and suddenly heard a very faint noise, like someone gasping for air.
Again, he tried to speak - was it Trip? Was Trip somewhere in this dark place? - but no sound came out. Again, there was that noise, something between a sigh and a sob, and all of a sudden the lights went on.
For a moment he only saw a glaring whiteness. He squinted to protect his eyes from the sudden onslaught of light, and instinctively scrambled away from the bars, retreating further into his cell. There were steps, voices, and again, panic flared up inside him. Slowly, his eyes were adjusting to the light, and Malcolm got a brief glimpse of the corridor and the barred cell opposite to his. Then two people came to a halt in front of the cell door, blocking his view. Malcolm saw that they were Sar'veen, a man and a woman clad in pale yellow coveralls. The man was holding a hypospray in his hand. Malcolm tried to get to his feet, but his legs wouldn't support him, and he fell down hard on tiled floor. For a moment, his surroundings faded, and all he was aware of was the sound of the cell door being opened.
"Give me the hypo." The woman's voice. Malcolm tried to move away, but a gloved hand stopped him, gripping his arm. The woman's face was devoid of any expression except mild irritation as she briefly looked him up and down.
"Into the neck," she said. The man grabbed his hair, roughly pushing his head aside. She brought the hypo to his neck, but a second before the substance was injected into his vein, Malcolm managed to squirm away. There was a small hiss as the hypo emptied itself into the air.
"Dammit!" The man's grip on his hair tightened, and he slammed Malcolm's head against the floor tiles, hard enough to make the world go black for a moment. "That little bastard."
"Be careful, will you? You'll kill him."
Through a haze, Malcolm saw the woman adjust the hypospray, reloading it. No, he wanted to scream, get that thing away from me, but he could only watch as the hand holding the hypo descended again. The man held his head down on the floor, and Malcolm felt the cold tiles press against his cheek. A brief stinging sensation was all he felt as they injected him with the substance, then the Sar'veen let go of his hair.
"Alright. We'll check on him again tomorrow."
They left without looking back, and for a few minutes Malcolm simply lay on the floor, eyes closed and heart pounding. His head hurt, and he felt something warm and sticky spread where his forehead had hit the floor. He seemed to be bleeding, but didn't have the strength left to raise a hand and check.
The trembling started again, worse this time. His whole body was shaking, and it felt as if his arms and legs were filled with tiny glass shards that pricked his skin from the inside. Malcolm gave a low moan, clenching his hands to fists, but even this small movement sent waves of pain through his body. He could practically feel the substance burning in his veins, mingling with his blood and setting his nerve endings on fire. He couldn't fight it, and after a while he stopped trying, willingly succumbing to the darkness that engulfed him.
XXX
Image: Space.
He's surrounded by stars, but for once, he doesn't actually pay any attention to them. The pain is getting worse, and every time he looks at his leg, his stomach gives a small lurch. It's disconcerting to see that metal spike buried in the material of his suit, to know that it has gone through the flesh and muscles beneath like a knife through raw meat. He jokes about it, forces a smile - the Captain mustn't notice. He's an officer, trained to handle worse situations than this. No, the Captain mustn't notice that Malcolm Reed is actually afraid.
But Archer is making things difficult. Again. Can't he see that this isn't easy for Malcolm either, that he is only making things worse by displaying an inappropriate concern for the life of one crewman?
"As much as I appreciate all your efforts, sir, you have to detach the hull plating. It's the only option."
He's not listening. Of course not. Malcolm is angry, and at the same time Archer's stubbornness touches something within him. Archer is fighting for his life. Refuses to leave him behind. Him, Malcolm Reed, the man with no interests beside his work and no friends. Why does he consider it worth the effort?
It surprises him how easy it is to pull out the air tube. A slight tug suffices to detach it from the container. Must note it down for the next report. Design flaw in Starfleet EV suits. A small smile crosses his face before the stars begin to fade.
"If I were the kind of captain you think, I'd bust your ass back to crewman."
Archer's face is close to his, an exasperated frown creasing the Captain's forehead. Malcolm draws in air, and at the same time realizes what the Captain has done. And again, it touches him somewhere deep down, even though his answer is as dry and acid as everyone would expect of him.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but if you were that kind of captain, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Something changes in Archer's face. It's a very subtle change, but Malcolm notices immediately. The worry in the Captain's eyes has disappeared, to be replaced by an angry and at the same time malicious glitter. It almost looks as if Archer is pleased at something.
"You know, Malcolm," he says slowly, and his voice has changed as well. It is hard now, hard and nasty, a humorless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You know, I guess you're right. We wouldn't. And maybe that would be just as well. It's not like I -care-. And to be quite honest - it'll be a pleasure. You little hypocritical shit."
Archer reaches out, and a small tug at the back of his suit tells Malcolm that the Captain has just pulled out the air tube once again.
XXX
Image: The bridge.
"This is all a big joke to you!"
Malcolm is as angry as he can ever remember being. His cheeks are flushed, and the Commander's irritated answer - "Give it a rest!" - pushes him close to losing his temper with the man.
"This isn't a bloody pleasure cruise! Without proper discipline on this ship, this mission is doomed!"
Tucker turns around, his face twisted in anger. It gives Malcolm a strange satisfaction to see this.
"Why don't you go play soldier somewhere else?" Tucker snarls. The remark hurts, more than Malcolm would ever admit. He opens his mouth, about to say the first thing that comes to his mind, but he never gets the chance. Tucker pushes him, hard, and he falls, his elbow making painful contact with the deck plating.
"It's about time, you know! And I'm not the only one who'd be glad to see you leave!"
The Captain steps up next to the Commander, his eyes cold and disgusted as he looks down at Malcolm.
"If you're that unhappy with the way I run this ship, then why are you still bothering us with your presence? Do you know that I get dozens of complaints every week, of people who are fed up with your arrogant attitude, Malcolm? You'd be doing us and your staff a favor if you left this ship as soon as possible."
Malcolm can't move, stunned by the open hate in the voices of his crewmates. "Captain..."
"I have to agree with the Captain and the Commander, Lieutenant." T'Pol has stepped closer as well, her eyebrows raised in icy disdain. "Working with you has proven a constant challenge to both my control and my patience. And it is obvious even to me that none of the crew likes having you around. To put it mildly."
"Actually, Cap'n, why don't we give our esteemed Lieutenant a hand if he is that eager to get away from here?" Tucker smiles coldly, drawing a phaser. Malcolm hadn't even noticed he was wearing one. The Captain and T'Pol simply stand with their arms crossed, not intervening as Tucker raises the weapon. "I've been wantin' to do this for a long time."
XXX
Image: The messhall.
Malcolm hardly notices the familiar background noise of quiet voices and cutlery softly scraping on plates. He is intent on his padd, forking food into his mouth without taking his eyes off the small display. The report needs to be finished by tomorrow, and he is only half-way through it.
"One of these nights, I should fix something myself."
Hoshi clears her throat, and Malcolm looks up, startled. The communications officer seems to be unusually eager to engage him in conversation tonight, smiling and chatting non-stop ever since she has set down her tray next to his.
"I'm sorry?" Malcolm asks, slightly abashed that he hasn't heard a word she said. Her friendly smile never wavers.
"You'd love my enchiladas."
He is at a loss. "Enchiladas?"
"Or if you don't like them I can fix something else." She cocks her head in a characteristical manner, raising her eyebrows at him. "What's your favorite food?"
His favorite food? Malcolm feels himself getting flustered, and involuntarily tightens his grip on the fork.
"I... I appreciate the offer, but it really isn't necessary."
Hoshi doesn't seem willing to give up that easily. "Aren't you getting a little tired of having to eat whatever Chef happens to serve?"
Why would she be that obsessed with his food all of a sudden? Though Hoshi doesn't actually seem interested in food. She is trying hard not to sound suggestive, but there is an urgency to her voice that doesn't quite agree with her "casual chatting." Malcolm knows he is going to blush, and hates the fact that there is nothing he can do about it.
"He's a... a fine cook," he stammers, and sure enough feels the heat rise in his cheeks. It's so bloody embarrassing. Other guys never get hot and flustered, so why does he blush like a school girl every time he talks to a woman? A very pretty woman, by the way.
"Oh, he's terrific." Hoshi is in perfect control of the blood flow in her cheeks, and if anything she sounds more amused than embarrassed. "It's just that dinner in the messhall can lack a certain... personal touch." And then, in a lower voice. "I got a hotplate in my quarters."
Okay, that was it. Now he has to react, or she will think he's either weird or very slow on the uptake. Briefly, Malcolm thinks of what Trip would say - "You make us dinner, Hosh, and let me take care of the -dessert-", or something similarly inane, accompanied by that boyish grin that seemed to send females of every species reeling. Hoshi would laugh, maybe smack his arm in mock outrage, not in the least offended because Trip was just - Trip. Coming from him, however, Malcolm knows the line would sound more horny than anything else. And besides, he is not Trip Tucker. Never will be, either.
"That's very flattering, and..." And what? And I'd love to take you up on that offer? And I think it could be fun? "... I just think it might be a little... awkward." She gives him a strange look. "Serving on the same ship," he adds - not for means of explanation, just because he feels the need to say something.
Hoshi is still staring at him, and slowly, very slowly, a grin begins to spread on her face.
"I knew it," she says quietly, and then louder, "I knew you would think I was implying..."
She laughs, a sharp, nasty sound, and suddenly turns around in her chair, calling out to Liz Cutler and several female ensigns who are seated at a nearby table.
"See, I told you he would! Do you believe me now?"
The women break into laughter. It is clear that they have been watching the entire time, and know exactly what is going on.
"You're so pathetic, Malcolm." Hoshi turns back to him, her grin changing into a sneer. "Did you really think I was interested? You need it that badly? Well, in that case you'll just have to keep staring at the Subcommander's bum, because no woman who has any sense left would let you come near her."
Malcolm has no idea what is going on here. He only knows that he needs to get out of here, get away as quickly as possible. He doesn't even bother to put away his dishes, gets up and walks away as fast as he can without running.
"Just look at him! What an idiot!"
Malcolm's face is burning, and the way to the door seems endless. All he can think is get away from here, just get away. With shaking hands, he presses the door panel. On leaving the room, the last thing he hears is the women's near-hysterical laughter, and Hoshi's voice: "Did you see his face? He actually fell for it! He thought I... God, what a loser."
XXX
Image: The shuttlepod.
Malcolm clenches his fingers around the glass to stop his hands from shaking. The bourbon helps a little, but it isn't only the cold that makes his hands tremble. He doesn't dare look at Trip. He has never talked like that to a friend before - hell, he has never talked like that to -anyone- before. And he is afraid he might lose the courage to do so if he actually looks at him, reminding himself that there is someone listening to what he is saying.
"I lost nearly everyone I cared about on that ship. All those girls I talked about, Rachel, Deborah, Caitlin... none of them worked out because I could never get really close to them." Not for want of trying, though. Or maybe he had just thought he was trying, at the time. "Never got very close to my family either, for that matter. Not that it's any business of yours." He takes a sip. The bitter liquid tastes cold in his mouth. "But with the crew of the Enterprise, it was different. I was really starting to feel... comfortable with them. And now the only one that's left thinks I'm the bloody angel of death."
He lets out a short laugh that doesn't sound like a laugh at all. Hell, he's almost crying now. Must be the alcohol, though. Or the cold. Malcolm Reed? Cry in front of a superior officer? Bloody ridiculous.
"Why're you tellin' me this, Malcolm?"
Malcolm looks up. Trip is staring at him, still perched on the bench next to the burning candle.
"I don't know. Maybe..."
"D'you think I don't know what you're doin' here?" Trip gets up, his mouth hardening. "You know, that's what I really hate about you. You're so full of self-pity you never notice it's your own damn fault you've never gotten close to anyone. You only ever think of yourself, feel sorry for yourself. Ever thought that you might just not be the person people want to get close to? I wouldn't want to. And I don't want to spend the last damn hours of my life listenin' to your whinin'. Oh, and as for your feelin' comfortable, don't worry, it sure doesn't show. "
He turns around. "You know, in a way it makes sense that you want to die. In a way, it really starts to make sense. I mean... why shouldn't you?"
XXX
Malcolm jerked awake, sweating and shaking. Faces, voices and images were still swirling in his mind, and he could hear them over and over again, yelling, jeering, laughing. The drugs, a distant part of his mind tried to remind him, it's the drugs.
But Malcolm didn't know about any drugs. All he could think of were those voices and sneering faces, and as he lay in the dark, his cheek pressed against the cold floor, he still saw Trip's eyes as he raised the weapon to kill him.
He didn't know how much time had passed when the lights went on again. The approaching steps, the voices meant nothing to him, didn't pose a threat in the face of what had just happened.
The cell door opened, but Malcolm didn't move. He didn't even raise his head.
Someone crouched down next to him, and he heard the man's disgusted voice.
"What a mess. We'll have to clean him up before we take him to the lab."
"His urine's stained with blood. Note that down. It's an unusual reaction, but then, we've never had that species before. Wait..."
A hand grabbed his shoulder, turning him around. Malcolm kept staring straight ahead, and didn't resist when the woman pulled up his eyelid with her gloved fingers.
"Okay, the symptoms... dilated pupils, abnormal transpiration, muscle tremors... everything's normal except for the blood in his urine. We'll have to do a more thorough check on that one."
"Now?" The man held up a hypo. "We could inject him with fifteen milligrams this time, and see if the symptoms intensify."
"Later." The woman got up. "Call the techs and tell them to take him to Lab Room Two. I want to run a few tests before we inject him with anything else. And have them clean him up first. He stinks."
They left after that. Malcolm stayed where he was, staring blankly at the ceiling, and when five minutes later the lab techs came to get him, he had lost consciousness again.
XXX
Light. A white light was shining into his eyes, seeming to come from all sides. He couldn't move, and couldn't escape the hands that were touching him. There were voices, coming and going, and blurred shapes that might have been faces. Malcolm didn't know. He was too terrified to move, frozen in the white light.
They strapped him down, and he felt the restraints cut into his skin even though he never tried to struggle. It was cold, so very cold, and their hands seemed to consist of liquid ice as they touched him. They began to palpate his stomach, applied pressure to his abdomen until he whimpered with pain. Satisfied that they had found the cause of the strange bleeding, they increased the pressure, not stopping until tears were running down his face and he was coughing up blood. He almost suffocated then, until one of the techs loosened the strap on his forehead and turned his head so the blood could flow off on to the table and wouldn't run back down his throat.
"Major irritation of the gastric wall," the woman said to a man who was taking notes on a padd.
By now he was shaking all over, and when they began testing a series of substances on his skin, the trembling got so hard that two of the techs had to hold him down so none of the samples were spilled. Malcolm hardly noticed the searing pain as the acid burned his skin. He hardly noticed anything anymore. At times felt as if he were floating, rising from the table and looking down at his own naked body from a spot below the ceiling.
"Hold his head still," the woman said. Malcolm lost the floating sensation as someone grabbed his hair, turning his head back so he was facing her.
"The eyes," she said. "I need to apply it directly to the cornea."
Her hand approached his face. He couldn't squeeze his eyes shut, someone was forcing him to keep them open, their fingers bruising his skin. For a split second, he felt a warm and sticky liquid forming a film on his eyes, entering his tear-duct. Then his surroundings went black, and Malcolm Reed screamed as agony surged through his nerves, filling every particle of his body.
TBC...
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