Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Gabi (hoffentlich klappts diesmal mit dem Alert), The Flaming Dragonfly (thank you so much, it means a lot to get feedback like that), Tata (ja, Malcolm geht es wieder besser ;-)... hope you can still read the chapter before you leave), Antares Star (well, they did escape, but whether it's going to be easy... read and see ;-) ), KaliedescopeCat (you should have Trip over to repair your chair ;-)...on second thought, why waste any time having him -repairing chairs-... sorry, couldn't resist ;-) ), Buggles 586 (maybe ;-)...), Luna (as I said, maybe it's not going to be so easy, after all), highonscifi (I dare say I have...), stage manager (blackmail me all you want, as long as you keep reviewing -g-), Ocean (we'll see about that...), Rinne (glad you liked them!), Reedie (good guess... well, there are going to be -some- similarities), AquaSox (sorry about the delay... fanfiction net seems to be having server trouble lately, and has been down for some time), LoveChilde (keep your fingers crossed is all I can say -g-) and Eyes on Tactical (the boys do need a break, don't they?) for reviewing.

Please read and review!

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Chapter 15

Stars.

It seemed he never got tired of watching them. Some might think it dull, a waste of time to be watching those white streaks of light passing by, but Trip found that the sight gave him a sense of peace. The pattern never changed - a small shining dot in the very middle of the view screen which turned into a bright line, whizzing past and finally disappearing at the very edge of his vision. The universe at warp speed. In its own way, it was a beautiful sight.

During the last three days, Trip had spend a lot of time sitting in the pilot chair, checking the controls from time to time, and the rest of the time just gazing at the stars. Letting his thoughts drift. Thinking of nothing at all.

It wasn't that he had to sit here; the flitter was running on autopilot, and so far, there hadn't been so much as a sensor glitch. Not even a malfunctioning circuit. Somehow, miraculously, the engines were coping with the warp speed, and coping better than he had dared to hope. Which was fortunate; so far the scanners hadn't picked up any inhabited planets within the near vicinity. Ever since they had left K'tera, most of the systems they had passed featured one dimly glowing sun and a few barren rocks that passed for its planets. No M-class worlds, no colonized asteroids. Nothing.

In a way, watching the stars had become his way of easing his mind. There was so much buried beneath the surface that threatened to come up at times, and the fact that they were in unknown space, heading for an unknown destination, wasn't helping. Sometimes, Trip wondered what they were going to do when their water supplies ran short and there was still no planet in sight. They had still seven of the ten bottles left, but even seven liters of water wouldn't last forever. They drank as little of it as possible, but seven liters were seven liters. Malcolm still needed a steady supply of fluids, and it wouldn't do for him to drink less than half a liter a day.

Well, Trip thought wryly, at least this gave them something to do. Arguing about Malcolm's water consumption (or lack thereof) had become a steady part of their daily routine, and he had soon found out that despite the loss of speech the Lieutenant was still able to put up quite a fight.

Instead of getting sarky, Malcolm would simply press his lips together and pull his hand away when Trip tried to give him a glass of water, shaking his head in that infuriating, stubborn way of his. At times, Trip had come close to shouting at the man; they still had several liters left, for God's sake, and Malcolm needed the water. But the Lieutenant simply ignored this fact, drinking two glasses a day and not a single drop more. At one point, Trip had actually lost his temper, and accused Malcolm of being careless about his health. Malcolm's lips had become a thin, angry line, and Trip knew only too well what his answer would have been, had the Lieutenant been able to talk.

Still, in a way Trip was glad to see part of Malcolm's old self returning. Malcolm was still blind and not talking, but the flashbacks became fewer as the days went by, and he was less pale, less disoriented than he had been. He didn't tire as easily anymore, and was beginning to move around the shuttle on his own, using his hands for orientation. Trip was surprised how well the Lieutenant knew his way around a place he had never laid eyes on.

Trip wasn't fooling himself. The superficial treatment Lanja had been able to provide would only heal Malcolm's physical injuries; his psyche was an entirely different thing. Malcolm had been terribly hurt in body and mind, and waiting for these wounds to take care of themselves was pulling the wool over both their eyes.

It wasn't easy, of course. Sometimes, Trip believed the silence interrupted only by his own voice was going to drive him crazy, and when he woke up, sweating, the image of the dead woman crashing into that table still vivid in his mind's eye, he often wished there was someone he could talk to, someone who would not only listen but also respond. But Malcolm couldn't, and Trip wasn't going to burden him with his nightmares on top of everything else. At these times, he simply got up and looked out at the stars, waiting for the images to fade. And after a while, he found, they usually did.

Not this time, however. The dream had been bad; no, worse than that. It had been horrible. Trip had woken up soaked in sweat and trembling, and to his dismay he had found that his cheeks were wet, as was the blanket he had used for a pillow. For a moment or two he had lain in silence and listened to his heart pounding in his chest. Then he had gotten up, thrown a brief look at Malcolm who was sleeping peacefully for once, and had gone to sit in the pilot chair, a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders to keep himself from shivering. Trip always felt cold when he woke up from one of those wretched dreams.

The dreams. They always began with the same image; the lab, the rifle in his hand, Chi'an ordering him to shoot. The woman knocking over the table with the lab samples as he hit her in the back. Then blood, sticky orange blood spreading on every surface until it covered the floor and his feet. But it wouldn't stop, rising and rising until they stood waist-deep in it. His feet were caught in the mudlike substance, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move, had to watch helplessly as the blood rose to his chest and further up to his neck. It smelled just like human blood and tasted like it too when it got into his mouth, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't pull in a goddamn breath of air, the sticky liquid filling his lungs and throat and mouth until it closed over his head and he was buried alive in a sea of blood.

That was when he usually woke up, shaking, telling himself that it hadn't been real, that the vile taste in his mouth was not real either, that none of the Sar'veen blood had ever come near his lips. And after a while he even believed it.

This time, however, it had been different. The image had changed and suddenly he had been able to breathe again. He had been able to breathe, but for some reason unable to move, and then he realized that he was back on his knees, tied to the fence that surrounded Orven's patio. He heard the crowd behind him laughing, and then a white bolt of pain seemed to rip him in two when the whip was brought down for the first time. The crowd laughed at his suffering, and he hated them, hated them so much, and hated himself for screaming out loud when he couldn't bear it any longer. They laughed even harder, and suddenly he could see their faces. Human faces. The crew of the Enterprise. They were laughing, calling him names, and there were Malcolm and Jon standing next to him, both grinning when they saw the tears on his face.

"Now that was a lesson he won't soon forget," Malcolm said, and the words echoed in his mind, even when he had already awoken with a start.

A lesson he won't soon forget.

Trip rested his forehead on the edge of the console, and tried to will away the image. The dried tears itched on his skin, so he wet a finger on his tongue and began to rub them off. They couldn't waste any of their limited water supplies for washing, and Trip wasn't surprised when his finger came away smeared with dirt. For a moment he thought how the cool water would feel on his hot, sweaty face, then shook off the idea. The smell in the shuttle was getting worse, a combined mixture of sweat, damp clothes and urine from the toilet bucket, but it was best not to think about it. There was nothing they could do about it, anyway.

A sound in the back caught his attention. It started as a low whimper, then grew louder into a sob. Malcolm was crying in his sleep. Again.

For a moment or so Trip simply sat there, gathering his strength, then he got up and walked over to where Malcolm was sleeping on the floor. Or rather, tossing and turning on the floor. The Lieutenant had wrapped himself up in a wild tangle of blankets, and only part of his face was still visible. Trip could see tears welling out from under his closed eyelids, and as he approached, Malcolm tried to raise his hands, struggling when the blankets got in his way. Between the sobs, he gasped for air as if he were in pain, and it wasn't hard for Trip to guess what the nightmare was about.

"Malcolm!" He knew Malcolm always startled at his touch when he was dreaming, and so he carefully pulled aside the blanket, gently closing his fingers around the Lieutenant's shoulder. "Malcolm, wake up! It's only a dream. They're gone. Nobody's gonna hurt you anymore."

Malcolm stiffened at the contact, but did not wake up.

"Malcolm!"

Malcolm's eyes flew open, still dreaming and wide with fear. The plain terror in his eyes stirred something within Trip, and suddenly his own nightmare was back, the pain and hate and humiliation that wouldn't go away, no matter how often he told himself that the dreams were not real. Dealing with Malcolm's pain as well, reassuring him and talking in a soothing voice until he went back to sleep was suddenly too much, and Trip did the only thing he could think of. He gathered Malcolm into his arms and held him, hoping the physical contact would provide some comfort, at least. After only a short moment the Lieutenant grew still, the sobs and gasps subsiding. He relaxed against Trip, his wet face buried in Trip's shoulder, his shoulders still shaking slightly when he drew in another hitching breath. Trip didn't let go, realizing that he needed this almost as much as Malcolm did. Their touch wasn't about physical attraction, it wasn't even about friendship; it was the simple need to know that they weren't alone, like two frightened animals huddling together in a lightning storm.

Trip felt Malcolm shake his head, an almost imperceptible movement, and understood.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "We're such a mess, aren't we?"

Malcolm took another shaking breath, then nodded. Trip smiled slightly and continued to rock slowly back and forward, losing himself in the movement. After a while Malcolm's breathing grew quiet again, but he made no move to disentangle himself from Trip's embrace. And Trip also found himself feeling strangely reluctant to let go. It would be so easy not to, so easy stay like that and maybe allow their desperate clinging together to turn into something else - something neither of them wanted nor had ever considered, something that would only happen because they were both so desperate to feel good again, no matter how shortlived that feeling would be.

No. No need to add this to the long list of things that they needed to forget about, a thing that would only be the source of pain and shame in the future. Very carefully, he let go of Malcolm, and the Lieutenant sat back, his eyes still red from crying. Trip saw the traces the tears had left in the dirt on his face. For a moment, neither of them moved, then Malcolm nodded once. And Trip understood. There was enough hurt already.

He got up. "Think you can go back to sleep?"

Malcolm nodded, and for once, Trip didn't ask him if he wanted a glass of water. He knew what the Lieutenant's answer would be, anyway. He picked up his blanket, thinking he might just as well spend a few more hours in the pilot chair -

- and suddenly the shuttle was shaken by a strong lurch. Malcolm gasped for air and Trip stumbled, seeing at the same time how several lights lit up on the helm console. And then he saw them on the scanners. A ship, approaching their position. Firing at them. A Sar'veen ship.

"Goddammit!"

Not bothering to explain to Malcolm what was happening, Trip was at the helm in one single stride. For one terrible moment, he didn't remember which sign symbolized the speed control, but then it came back to him and with trembling hands he pressed the button. Warp four. Malcolm had scrambled to his feet and was holding on to the back rest of the pilot chair, his face white.

"It's them," Trip said, and clutched the edge of the helm as the flitter lurched again. "They're hailin' us."

Briefly, his hand hesitated over the board, then he opened a channel, not really thinking about what he was doing. A male voice came from the speaker.

"We've picked up no Sar'veen life signs aboard your vessel," it said. "Drop out of warp, and we will not destroy you."

Now this is when I hold my "liberty or death" speech, Trip thought with a frantic touch of humor, but what came out was something entirely different.

"Fuck off!"

The answer was another lurch as they fired again. Trip didn't even try to use the flitters weapons, knowing their range wasn't wide enough to hit the vessel which was still several thousand kilometers away.

He increased their speed again - warp 5 - and heard the flitter creak and groan as it adjusted to a speed it wasn't designed for. Malcolm was still gripping the back rest of the chair, the muscles in his jaw working.

"They're gettin' closer." Panic crept into his voice. "Dammit, Mal, they're-"

"Drop out of warp!" Trip had forgotten that the channel was still open. "This vessel and its cargo are the property of the Sar'veen Dominion, and will not be illegally removed from Sar'veen space!"

Trip felt a surge of hate that momentarily blotted out his panic. "We're not your property!" he yelled into the speaker. "Do you hear me, we're not-"

A crackling sound indicated that they had closed the channel. The flitter shook again, harder this time. The hull plating wasn't going to withstand these weapon blasts forever, and the Sar'veen ship was steadily drawing closer. Knowing that this might as well blow up the engines, Trip pressed the panel again. Warp 6. Faster than any human had gone before, and still not fast enough. The thought caused a burst of hysterical laughter to rise in Trip's throat, but he bit down on it. Not this time, he thought. This time you won't get us.

The flitter groaned and the Sar'veen fired again. Trip wasn't able to understand most of the readings on the displays, but knew that it would take only one or two more hits like that to either destroy them or leave them drifting aimlessly in space.

"They're not going to get us," he said, hardly noticing that his voice was cracking. "I still got the rifle. They're not going to get us this time."

At that point, he finally became aware of Malcolm's hand squeezing his arm. The Lieutenant's face was flushed, his lips parted, and he seemed to be desperately trying to say something.

No sound came out, and Trip saw tears of frustration well up in Malcolm's eyes.

"Mal..."

The Lieutenant grabbed his arm again, hard, and stepped closer to the console, one hand extended so his finger tips touched the smooth metal. And then Malcolm began to write, his shaking finger drawing invisible letters on the surface of the console. Two words. Plasma fire.

Trip's breath caught in his throat as he understood.

During one of Malcolm's tactical briefings, years ago, the Lieutenant had mentioned a trick to shake off enemy pursuers. A crazy and dangerous trick, and Trip had only been half joking when he threatened to have Malcolm's head if he ever tried such a thing with Enterprise's warp engine. He remembered Malcolm's indignantly raised eyebrow.

"Releasing part of the warp plasma into space will hardly do any damage to the engines, Commander."

"No," Trip had retorted. "But firin' at it may just as well rip off one of the warp nacelles."

The idea was to light a gigantic plasma torch right behind the ship, then get away at top speed while your pursuers flew right into the exploding ball of fire which - hopefully - did the greatest possible damage to their engines. A crazy idea indeed. One worthy of an explosion-loving Lieutenant whose disregard for the safety of Trip's beloved engines was disturbing at times.

Another glance at the display told Trip that the Sar'veen ship was now close enough to destroy them with a single blast of their weapons. But they had stopped firing, and a moment later he realized why. Of course. They were the property of the Sar'veen Dominion, and you didn't destroy your property if it might still be of use to you.

Trip did a quick calculation in his head. "Ten thousand meters."

Malcolm acknowledged this with a nod. When the Sar'veen ship was only ten thousand meters away, there would be no way for them to dodge the explosion.

"Fifty percent of the plasma should be enough," Trip said, but Malcolm shook his head, holding up his left hand and extending two fingers on his right. Seventy percent.

The idea of losing seventy percent of their warp plasma didn't sit well with Trip, but there was no time to argue. He had to trust Malcolm on this one.

"Fifteen thousand meters and approachin'," he announced. Malcolm's hands were clenched to fists.

"Twelve thousand."

Trip's hand was hovering over the controls, and he could smell the sweaty fear that filled the shuttle. Come on, he thought. Just a little closer. Just a little...

"Ten thousand!"

Malcolm brought his hand down on the console, and Trip hit the panel, watching the display's indicator drop as most of their warp plasma was expelled into space. He wasted no time, aimed and fired, and a split second later was thrown out of his chair as the blast of the explosion hit the flitter. The small craft shook and lurched, and with shaking legs, Trip climbed back into the pilot chair to check the displays. And let out a wild, triumphant cry.

"Malcolm!" Trip whirled around, grabbed Malcolm's shoulders and shook him. "They're driftin'! The explosion disabled their engines! You did it!"

He was laughing and crying at the same time, hugging Malcolm, and for the first time in ages saw a real grin spread on the Lieutenant's dirty, tear-stained face. On the display, the distance between their shuttle and the Sar'veen ship was growing larger, and soon their pursuers were only a small mark on the very edge of the screen.

XXX

"Want some more?"

Trip took another piece of dried fruit out of their ration bag, but Malcolm shook his head. Judging from the Lieutenant's grimace, he didn't care much for the taste of dried kel'ho, and Trip couldn't blame him. The stuff did taste like something fished out of a puddle on a rainy day. Maybe that was just as well; you couldn't eat more than four or five of these things without feeling sick, which meant that they had still quite a supply left.

Trip leaned back against the bulkhead behind him and watched Malcolm wash down the awful fruit with a sip of water.

"Too bad we don't have any bourbon," he said. "Might kill the taste."

Malcolm smiled, and Trip felt a silly grin tug at his own lips. It was eight hours ago that they had left the Sar'veen ship behind - no sign of them ever since - and even though the first euphoria had worn off, he still caught himself smiling for no reason at all. The sight of the Sar'veen ship drifting in space kept coming back to his mind, never mind that they had only been a reading on a small display, and he felt like laughing out loud every time he thought about it, wishing he'd seen the face of the bastard in the captain's chair when a cloud of plasma fire had suddenly enveloped their view screen.

He was pretty sure that by now they had left the Sar'veen space behind. They had met no other ships after that first one, which Trip guessed had been a patrol ship guarding the border of the Sar'veen territory. Or maybe even a slave ship returning from its latest "tour".

In the meantime, Malcolm had finished his water, and Trip leaned forward to pick up the glass. The kel'ho fruit had left a bad taste in his mouth, and since he couldn't brush his teeth, a mouthful of water would have to do. He poured himself a glass, then set the now-empty bottle aside.

"You know, Mal," he said between sips, "that was pretty fast thinkin' of you back then. That trick with the plasma, and... writin' it down on the console."

He always felt a little reluctant to bring up the topic of Malcolm not being able to talk, but the Lieutenant didn't seem to mind. His cheeks flushed with pride, and he smiled a little, shrugging and gesturing in Trip's direction.

"Uh-uh," Trip said, knowing what Malcolm was trying to tell him. "You thought of that trick, and you knew how much plasma we had to release to do the job right; I only did what you told me to do. It's thanks to you that we're still sittin' here."

Again, Malcolm shook his head, more emphatically this time. But Trip saw that at the same time the Lieutenant was proud of what he had done. Remembering the frightened and desperate man he had woken from his nightmare only a little more than eight hours ago, he smiled. So much had changed in a very short time, and for the first time Trip had a feeling that they were going to be alright. Both of them.

Setting down his glass again, he stretched and gathered up one of the blankets.

"I think I'm gonna get me some sleep." He yawned. "I'm dead b-"

A bleep from the helm console interrupted him. They froze at the sound, and Trip felt like he had been punched in the chest.

That's not fair.

The sound repeated itself, and somehow, Trip managed to get to his feet. And felt his hands grow cold when he saw the readings.

"Oh my God."

The ship was huge, at least six times as large as the other ship had been, and he knew at once that this time, they weren't going to escape. They wouldn't even survive a single hit from these weapons.

The console was still beeping, and Trip realized that they were being hailed. He hesitated, maybe it would be best not to answer and get this over with quickly. But the beeping persisted, and Trip decided that it probably didn't matter either way.

A moment's silence followed after he had opened a channel, neither of them daring to move or breathe. Then a calm, emotionless voice began to speak.

"This is the Vulcan science vessel S'task. Are you in need of assistance?"

Trip stared. And then, helplessly, he began to laugh.

TBC....

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