Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Gabi (nee nee, ich musste nicht nachsitzen ;-) ), Luna (that's how I see her, too), Rinne (thank you! I was a little unsure about that part, so it's great to hear that you liked it), highonscifi (yes, it's going to take a while for him to come to terms with what he's done), Maraschino (about time, wasn't it ;-)?), CordeliaBlack (don't worry, there're still a few chapters left -g- ), Tata (I'm sorry about the thing with the chapters. There is a nice little trick, however, how you can get to the chapter even if it's not in the drop down menue yet. In the internet address, it says fanfiction net, then a whole bunch of numbers and then /number of chapter/ at the end of the address. So if you want to open, for example, chapter 12, and it's not in the drop down yet, just go to chapter 11, change /11/ into /12/, press -Enter- and there you are. Works almost always ;-) ), Exploded Pen (sure I wanna hug Malcolm ;-)!), LoveChilde (well, getting them back home isn't going to be that easy...), The Flaming Dragonfly (thank you for your encouragement, it's great to hear you like my writing style!), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (you are right, of course, about the setting of the story. To be perfectly honest, when I started writing this, I didn't really think about when the story takes place... but it could be happening just after "Storm Front", that's right), PJ in NH (thank you!), stage manager (Oh no, please don't! I love getting your reviews for -every- chapter -g-), Reedie (let's torture Malcolm some more, hm? -eg-), lieutenants-lady (yeah, Trip found him... but will he get better? -veg-) and Eyes on Tactical (so many questions... maybe a few are answered in this chapter!) for reviewing!

Sorry if I forgot anyone, but, like everyone else, I haven't been getting all my reviews, they're only just coming in. And now, after much blahblah... read and review!

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Chapter 13

He was surrounded by darkness. That was nothing new; it had been dark for quite a while now, and Malcolm had almost forgotten the time when it had been different. Sometimes, the darkness changed its colors, turning from a red black to a blue black, but colors were something he was starting to forget as well.

Malcolm knew that he was blind. Trip had mentioned it and he had seemed rather worried, had asked him what "they" had done to him. But Malcolm had no answers to give. He had tried; every time Trip came and talked to him he tried to speak, but he couldn't. He couldn't even produce a sound, thus at least indicating that he was willing to speak. It was as if his mind had forgotten how to do this, make his lips form words, and so all Malcolm could do was nod or shake his head.

The first few days he had mostly been sleeping. It was very quiet in this place where Trip had taken him, and Malcolm found he liked the silence. The distant murmur of voices was more reassuring than frightening, and only when steps approached his bed he tensed, adrenaline flooding his body as he expected someone to open the cell door and press another hypo spray against his neck. That was another thing he couldn't help, his body going rigid with fear even when he realized that the approaching steps belonged to Trip.

Trip. He seemed to be always near, talking, bringing him food, helping him up to use the bathroom facilities and staying close when that doctor examined him again. Malcolm hated and feared those examinations, hands touching his body and applying substances to his skin. Trip had told him that the doctor needed to put ointment on his burn wounds so they wouldn't get infected, but Malcolm still couldn't stop his heart from pounding wildly in his chest every time he felt that cool gel on his skin. Part of him always waited for it to turn into acid, eating into his skin and burning as if someone had dropped liquid metal onto his chest.

He hardly ever left the bed these days. There were times when he felt too weak even to move, and there were times when he was floating again, feeling as if his body weighed nothing at all. Afterwards he always felt rather sick, and more than once Trip had to help him out of bed and guide him to the bucket so he could vomit. The doctor said this was an after-effect of the drugs and that he was probably going to experience frequent attacks of nausea for quite some time. Malcolm didn't care. As long as he wasn't having one of those nightmares again, none of the "after-effects" bothered him too much.

Quite often, there were voices coming and going in the place where he slept. Trip had told him the names of the people living in this camp, but Malcolm had a hard time remembering which voice belonged to which name. It didn't matter, though, since he wasn't talking to them anyway. At one time, when he had been feeling a little better, Trip had taken him someplace else to sit at a table and eat some soup, and then he had heard a woman talking to Trip. She had lowered her voice so he couldn't understand what she was saying, but she had sounded urgent, almost angry. And Trip, who usually told him in detail about everything that was said and done around him, had never mentioned this conversation again.

Since Malcolm couldn't ask him, however, there was no way for him to find out what they had been talking about, and he forgot about the incident. He tended to forget a lot of things, maybe another after-effect of the drugs. Or maybe he was just too tired these days to remember things correctly.

This morning, however, for the first time in several days, Malcolm had felt strangely alert after waking up, and even the awkward procedure of washing and shaving with Trip's help hadn't left him as tired and worn-out as it usually did. He had even agreed to sit at the table and have some of that awful puree the doctor had said he should eat. Later, when Trip had taken him back to his bed, Malcolm had found to his surprise that for once eating breakfast hadn't left him feeling sick. His stomach didn't seem to resent the idea of food anymore, and, having eaten his fill, Malcolm had no trouble at all falling asleep again.

"Malcolm?"

Steps were approaching, and Malcolm heard the soft rustle of fabric being pushed aside. Involuntarily, he tensed, a familiar surge of panic jolting him out of his doze.

"It's me, Trip," a voice said somewhere above him, and even though Malcolm had already known that, the familiar words allowed him to relax. He nodded as a way of greeting and pushed himself to a sitting position, feeling the mattress beneath him move slightly as Trip sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Sleep well?"

Again, Malcolm nodded, and realized that he had indeed slept well. No nightmares this morning.

"Good." Trip sounded genuinely relieved. "I brought you some tea, the closest thing to chamomile I could find in the kitchen. Tastes pretty good, actually."

Malcolm wasn't really thirsty, but knew that he had no choice. The doctor had told Trip that Malcolm needed a steady fluid supply, and the Commander would not budge until Malcolm had finished the last drop of that close-to-chamomile tea. He nodded and a moment later felt a hand on his fingers, closing them around a warm mug. The tea did taste quite good, and Malcolm took another careful sip.

"Lanja said that you can start eatin' solid food in a few days," Trip said, sounding happy at the prospect. "He said you're doin' a lot better. Another three or four days, and he can start cuttin' down on the medication."

Malcolm was rather relieved to hear that; the medication the doctor made him take was some sour smelling substance that tasted vaguely of old toothpaste, and always left him feeling slightly sick to the stomach.

He took another sip of his tea, and heard Trip clear his throat.

"You know," he said, and for some reason hesitated before he continued, "I've been talkin' to Lanja about... about your eyes."

Malcolm tensed and lowered the mug again. He remembered the time when the doctor had examined his eyes; the feeling of hands touching his face and eyelids had been nothing short of terrifying, and Malcolm had no wish to repeat the procedure.

Trip shifted slightly on the bed. "He doesn't really know what's wrong, but he thinks the damage might not necessarily be permanent. He might even be able to help you. I realize this isn't somethin' you want to talk about, but it would be really helpful if he knew what... has happened."

Malcolm noticed that his hands were beginning to tremble and clenched his fingers around the mug. Stop, he thought. Please stop. I don't want to think about that. But of course he couldn't say so, and Trip continued.

"Malcolm, I'm sorry, but I need to ask you this: Did they... inject you with somethin' that made you lose your sight?"

The trembling got worse, and Malcolm felt some of the warm liquid spill over, dripping down on his hands.

I don't want to talk about that.

Trip seemed to have noticed. He laid a hand on Malcolm's arm, and gently took the mug from his hands.

"I'm sorry. Lanja told me to ask you, but if you don't feel up to-"

Malcolm held up a hand, and then, slowly, shook his head. Trip understood immediately.

"So it wasn't an injection?"

Again he shook his head, wrapping his arms around himself to stop the trembling. He heard Trip swallow before he asked quietly: "Did they... put some kind of substance into your eyes?"

Malcolm nodded, involuntarily clenching his hands to fists. The scene he had relived over and over again in his nightmares came back to his mind, and he lowered his head so Trip wouldn't see the anguish on his face.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. "It's okay, Mal," Trip said. "It's okay."

The physical contact helped him calm down somewhat. Trip sat quietly, waiting for the trembling to subside before he spoke again.

"I'm sorry."

Malcolm kept his head down, feeling the warmth rise in his cheeks. Trip must be thinking he was weak, a coward. But he couldn't help it. The memories were always there, ready to pounce on him whenever he started feeling safe and at ease, and he couldn't even tell Trip that he was sorry. Sorry for being a burden, and sorry for not being able to cope, for waking up with tears streaming down his face almost every night when the dreams made him go through the whole thing again and again.

"Why don't you try and get some rest," Trip said gently. "We can talk about this later, okay?"

Malcolm swallowed hard, and nodded. Later. Later he would be prepared. He would pull himself together, and give them the information they needed. Maybe even let that doctor examine his eyes again. Later.

With Trip's help, he lay down again, pulling the covers up to his chin and closing his eyes. Again, the mattress moved as Trip got up. For a moment his hand lingered on Malcolm's shoulder, then, after adjusting the blankets one more time, he pulled it back.

"I'll be back later."

Malcolm nodded, still feeling ashamed although there was no hint of anger or impatience in Trip's voice. The steps retreated, and Malcolm clenched his hand around the sheets.

I'm so sorry.

XXX

Quietly, Trip left the room he shared with Malcolm and the other two men, making sure to push the curtains back into place. He shouldn't have brought this up just yet, he knew that now. Malcolm seemed to be doing well enough; eating, beginning to wash and dress himself instead of passively letting it happen, and responding more and more often when Trip asked him a question. But these things were only superficial, a proof of Malcolm Reed's self-sufficiency that was an integral part of his nature. His body was also beginning to heal; the burn wounds the acid had caused on his skin had not become infected, and two days ago Malcolm had finally been able to pass water without the urine being stained with blood.

But he would not speak. Not even in his nightmares did Malcolm utter a sound, except for the occasional whimper or low sob. Sometimes Trip had the impression that Malcolm was trying to say something; the Lieutenant would get that look of pain and frustration and bite down on his lips, but it was obvious that he just couldn't do it. Trip never pushed him, seeing that the situation caused Malcolm enough distress as it was. Still, he was beginning to get worried. Lanja said that it might be the drugs doing something to Malcolm's brain, but lacking all but the most basic of medical equipment there was no way to find out. All they could do was restore his body fluids, keep him in bed and hope for the best. More than anything else, Trip wished he could take Malcolm back to Enterprise and have Dr.Phlox examine him. Malcolm might trust someone he knew to do something about his eyes, for it was obvious that he was still terrified of strangers touching him. He seemed to be alright with Trip helping him, but still shrank back whenever Lanja came to apply more ointment to his burns.

The Xyrillian doctor said that it was a normal reaction to the trauma he'd been through, and that Malcolm was going to become less touch-shy as time went by. Still, it wasn't always easy for Trip to see the Lieutenant like that, to get used to a Malcolm Reed who never spoke, slept for the most part of the day and woke up at night struggling against invisible restraints, tears running down his thin face. And even though Trip still had nightmares himself of the time when he had shot the Sar'veen woman, there were times when he was glad that he had done it.

The Klingon woman they had rescued together with Malcolm showed similar symptoms, internal bleeding, nightmares and disorientation, but unlike the Lieutenant she would not let Lanja come near her. When she had first woken up, she had threatened to kill the doctor if he ever touched her again, and had refused to accept any of his medication. As a consequence, her condition was getting worse, but she would not let anyone come near her to help. Attempts to talk to her about what had happened at the lab had failed; if she did respond to any questions, then her answer consisted mostly of a flood of expletives and threats what she was going to do to anyone who dared to lay a hand on her. Lanja said that she was going to die if she continued to refuse medical treatment, but except for him, no one seemed to be bothered too much by that fact. Most of the campers were afraid of the woman and avoided her the best they could.

Trip felt sorry for her, but as time went by realized that he had other things to worry about. Like Chi'an, for example. She was becoming more persistent, insisting that Trip fulfill his part of the deal and take care of that "business" she wanted him to do. Even now, she had not let him in on the details yet. Trip told her time and again that it was too early, that Malcolm still needed him and wasn't ready to be left alone yet. If he left now, leaving Malcolm with people he neither knew nor trusted, the Lieutenant's hard-won confidence might be destroyed altogether. Lanja confirmed this, but Chi'an would have none of that. She got angry with both of them, and Trip knew that soon his strategy of stalling for time would no longer work. Chi'an was not the sort of person who took kindly to disobedience. He was going to have to do whatever she ordered him to.

Fortunately, though, Malcolm didn't know about their deal. It would only serve to upset him, and the last thing Malcolm needed right now was having to worry about Trip as well. At some point, Trip knew he was going to have to tell him, but not now. Not when Malcolm was only just starting to eat, and was becoming interested in his surroundings again instead of passively staring into nothingness, as he had been doing the first two or three days after his rescue.

Maybe, Trip mused, after a while Malcolm would even agree to let Lanja do something about his eyes. Assuming, of course, that the damage wasn't permanent. He was still hoping the Lieutenant's sight might return as time went by, but so far there had been no improvement. The idea of Malcolm Reed staying blind for the rest of his life made Trip shudder. He wasn't ready to accept it yet, even though Malcolm seemed to be doing just that. If anything, his inability to speak bothered the Lieutenant more than the loss of his eyesight.

"Tucker."

Trip turned around and saw that it was Chi'an who had spoken. He sighed inwardly, preparing himself for another argument.

"Yeah?"

"I need to talk to you."

She gestured at him to follow her, not waiting for an answer. Trip's unease increased as he saw that she was walking towards her room, a small chamber at the back of the main hall. Chi'an hardly ever allowed anyone to enter her private living space, and the fact that she did so now confirmed his guess that this time she meant business.

She went inside without looking back, leaving the door open behind her. After a brief moment of hesitation he followed her inside.

The room didn't look very different from those of the other campers; there was a narrow bunk and a chair, an old wooden box where she kept her belongings and several old magazine cut outs on the wall. Trip noticed that most of those pictures showed forests, deserts, wide open spaces and untouched landscapes. No people.

"Sit down."

Her voice startled him, and Trip quickly looked away, feeling almost guilty for staring at her private possessions. He sat down on the very edge of her bed, and watched as she took a seat on the chair opposite to him.

"Your friend is getting better."

It wasn't a question. Trip forced himself to meet her eyes and keep his voice calm as he answered.

"That's right. But he still needs my help. He-"

"Listen, Tucker," she cut him off, and he heard the first trace of anger creep into her voice. "We have a deal. I helped you get your friend out of there. He's alive, and it's not my fault he can't see or talk. I told you it was going to be like that, and you'd probably have done him a favor, leaving him where he was."

Trip flinched, but she went on before he could say something. "But that's your business, not mine. All I want you to do is fulfill your part of the bargain, and I need you to do so tomorrow. It would be too dangerous to wait any longer."

"What do you want me to do?" Trip clenched his hands around the edge of the bunk. Tomorrow. Not even a few days, maybe a week to break the news gently, allow Malcolm to get used to the thought that he was going to leave.

"You know how an air filter works, don't you, Tucker?"

Trip nodded mutely.

"Good." Chi'an pulled a piece of paper from her pocket, unfolding it and placing it on the bed next to him. It was a map, drawn with pencil and labeled with letters that were unfamiliar to him. Still, the drawing reminded him of something he had seen before, on the display of the flitter's scanners.

"I told you that most of the factory complex belongs to that large pharmaceutical group. Here," Chian pointed at a rectangle in the middle of the map, "is their main building, and here are the production halls and the storage houses." She pointed at the adjoining buildings. "All of them are connected by an air duct system that constantly filters the atmosphere, to decrease the risk of a bacterial contamination. This," her finger moved to a small square between the main building and one of the storage houses, "is the central filtration plant where the air passes through the filters and all impure substances are removed."

Trip's heart sank as he realized what this was all about.

"You want me to put somethin' into that filter."

"You are the only one of us who knows enough about technology to make sure that it works. All you'll have to do is get access to the filtration plant and release the substance into the filters before anyone notices."

"What... what kind of substance?" Trip asked quietly, staring down at the map where Chi'an's finger still rested on the small, pencil-drawn square.

"It's a nerve poison, and will kill anyone inside the complex within minutes. They'll be dead as soon as the poison gets into their lungs."

Silence followed. Trip watched as she folded up the map and slipped it back into her pocket. For some reason he couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes.

"Chi'an," he said after a while. "There're hundreds of people workin' in that factory."

"I know." He sensed that her calm tone was only a facade, that she wasn't nearly as indifferent as she pretended to be. "But they're Sar'veen, Tucker. Most of the pharmaceuticals they're producing have been tested on people like your friend, people who suffer and die just so these people can assure their customers there will be no unpleasant side effects to the drugs they're selling. And not all of their products are used for medical purposes. You said you've been on a slave ship. The drugs they gave you there were most likely produced in a factory like this one, designed for the sole purpose of making people compliant and minimizing the risk of a revolt. These people don't give a shit how many of us they're hurting or killing."

"But some of the workers are slaves," Trip said, heat rising in his voice. "You'd be killin' them as well, ever thought of that?"

"Of course I have." Chi'an got up. "Do you know that there are dozens of test subjects killed every day in those labs, and tons of drugs sold all over the planet to be used on people like us, to keep us quiet and under their control? And according to their laws it's perfectly legal what they're doing." She turned around to face him. "I know that innocent people are going to die. But if I have to kill a few dozen to save hundreds of people from being used for tests or abducted into slavery, then I'll do so."

"You mean, you'll make me do so." Trip had gotten up as well. "If I poison the air filters, I'm not goin' to kill a few dozen people. I'm going to kill several hundred of them, and-"

"They're Sar'veen!" Chi'an cheeks were flushed, and her white scars stood out more than ever before. "They wouldn't hesitate to kill you or me, or anyone who wasn't born one of them! Do you know, Tucker, that according to the Sar'veen law an alien doesn't have any more rights than an animal? I read their damn statute books, and it says there that all Sar'veen were created equal, and that they're meant to be the dominant race throughout the galaxy, and all that shit. Any Sar'veen can torture and kill his slaves as he pleases, did you know that?"

"I did." Trip noticed that his hands were shaking. "But I'm not gonna murder all those people, Chi'an. You can't make me do that."

"You are going to do what I say, Tucker." She came to stand right in front of him, her black eyes full of anger and hate. "We have a deal, and you agreed to do this."

"I never agreed to poison a building full of people!" Trip backed away from her, edging closer to the door. "And I'm not gonna-"

"You are." Suddenly she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and shoved him up against the wall. Trip tried to squirm away, but Chi'an was faster, pulling out a knife and pressing the tip of its blade against his neck.

"Don't think you can get out of this, Tucker. I helped you save your friend, but that doesn't mean that I can't kill him if you don't keep your part of the bargain. And I'll find you. Even if you run away I'm going to find you, and then I'm going to kill your friend whether you agree to help me or not."

"You bitch," he whispered. The corner of her mouth twitched, and she let go of him, the tip of her knife still pointed at his chest.

"I've been called that before. It changes nothing. I don't want to kill your friend, Tucker, but I will if you don't fulfill your part of the deal. Don't ever think I'm not going to do it."

Trip stared at her and knew that she was telling the truth. This woman would carry out her threat and kill Malcolm, no doubt about that. Slowly, he nodded, his eyes never leaving the knife that was still only centimeters away from his chest.

"Good." She gestured at the door. "Now go, and remember. Tomorrow afternoon."

He backed away, opened the door and stepped outside without ever turning his back to her. The door closed behind him, and for a moment Trip leaned against the wall, eyes closed and heart pounding in his chest. The place where her knife had pierced his skin hurt and as he raised a hand, he brought his fingers away covered in blood.

Tomorrow afternoon. That meant he had still time left, time to think over the few options he had. Running away was not one of them. Malcolm was still too weak, and it would be child's play for Sepek and Chian to find them and drag them back to the camp. Briefly, Trip thought about going back into her room to try and talk to her. But he knew that it was no use. Chi'an would never listen to him, no matter what he said.

He stood there for quite a while, waiting for his heart to slow down again. And finally it occurred to him that there was really only one thing left for him to do.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!