Title: Thursday's Child
Author: Sita Z
Rating: T
AN: Thank you for leaving a review... I just -love- feedback!
Rinne (thank you! there'll be more details about everyone's history yet...), Gabi (Ich hoffe, du hattest einen schönen Urlaub ;-)! ), stage manager (thank you, here goes!), Tata (my best story so far? wow, thank you!), Luna (I can see why the last chapter left you with a lot of questions... well, at least some of them should be answered in the chapters to come :-)!), JadziaKathryn (exactly my thoughts, "Sev" doesn't fit at all), The Libran Iniquity (right, let's see what else he remembers... und zu unserer geplanten Geschichte, ich hätte schon ein paar nette Ideen -unheilverkündendes Lächeln-...), Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain (exactly... please let me know what you think of this chapter!), Virgo (hey, you're back :-)! Glad you like it so far!), BananaTrip (Malcolm? Flirting? Hmmm... yeah, I guess he is ;-) ), firebirdgirl (yes, he's going to need a friend to help him deal with his past...), RoaringMice (thank you... no, it won't be "happy days and laughter", in more respect than one...), Emiliana Keladry (I guess he doesn't want to, but I guess there's no way around it), MuseUrania (thank you... yes, I guess they could have spent a little more time researching, that's right...)
Please keep the feedback coming!
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Chapter 8
Malcolm found Sev in the nearby conference room. He almost missed him, and was about to leave again when he spotted the huddled figure sitting on the floor next to the window, his knees drawn to his chest. When Malcolm approached, Sev raised his head and began to get to his feet.
"Please," Malcolm gestured for him to stay where he was. "Don't have to."
He sat down on the floor next to Sev and earned a surprised look. Malcolm had half-expected to find traces of tears on Sev's face, but there were none. The man's eyes were dry, his features expressionless like they had been when he had walked out of the situation room.
"I'm sorry," Sev said with no particular emotion in his voice. "It was rude to walk out on you and the Captain."
Malcolm shook his head. "Don't apologize. This isn't easy for you, and the Captain understands that as well."
He listened to his own, seemingly empty words, and wished that there had been more occasions in his life when someone had needed his comfort. Or advice. Or both. Hell, Malcolm didn't even know what exactly it was that Sev needed, except that he probably needed someone to be his friend. Malcolm was more than willing to comply, but what was he going to say? He couldn't start with telling him off, as he had done when Archer had almost starved himself to death after Mike's accident. Malcolm had never hugged anyone except for the two girlfriends he'd had, and even with them the gesture had seemed weird, almost awkward. One of them had split up with him because, as she said, Malcolm wouldn't allow anyone to get close to him. He had been heartbroken when she left, but deep down, he couldn't really blame her. She was right; even though he loved her, he had never really let her in, let her come close.
And as to hugging a friend, Malcolm could not imagine himself doing that. He could not even imagine himself laying a comforting arm around anyone's shoulders. Not because he resented the idea; he just didn't know how to begin, and how to proceed once he had started. And if you had to think about these things, then they wouldn't feel right, anyway.
"Hoshi agreed to watch Sara and Sammy for a while," he said after a moment's silence. Best to start with the simplest things. "So... there's enough time if you want to talk."
Oh great. For a brief moment, Malcolm hated himself for being so hopelessly clumsy about these things.
Sev turned his head to look at him. "Thank you."
It was not a "thanks, but no thanks" sort of thank you; not what Malcolm had expected.
"What for?"
"For being friends with me." Sev hesitated. "You don't need me. I'm of no use to you, and you're still... you're still here."
"Sev..." Saying the name, Malcolm realized that this wasn't right; the man next to him wasn't called Sev. "I don't really have a name", had been his reply when Malcolm had first asked. "Trip? Can I call you Trip?"
The man was silent for a long moment, and Malcolm was afraid he had gone too far. Then, however, the man nodded slowly, speaking more to himself than to Malcolm.
"Yes," he said. "Call me Trip. I always hated 'Sev', anyway."
"Trip," Malcolm said, and for some reason the name made him smile. Their eyes met, and Malcolm saw that the man's features had softened, his lips curving upward in a careful answering smile.
"I believe it's because of 'Charles Tucker III'," Malcolm said, and at the other man's confused expression explained: "The Third. Triple. Trip."
"So that would make my father Charles Tucker II." He stumbled over the syllables.
Malcolm nodded. "Sound any familiar?"
Trip's smile vanished and he shook his head. "No."
His sad expression remembered Malcolm of their earlier conversation. "Listen, Trip..." he began. "I told you before, this isn't about you being useful. And even if it were... you saved my life back on Kareedia. I'd say that's a lot more than just "being useful". But that's not the reason why I want to be your friend."
"Why would you want to be my friend?" The way he said it, he made it sound like he could think of no reason why anyone would possibly want such a thing.
"Just because." Malcolm shrugged. "You don't need a reason why you're friends with someone. It's just the way it is." Not that I would know that much about it.
"That's what Sarin said. The Vulcan back at the farm," Trip explained. "I think he was my friend - sort of."
"Sort of?"
Trip shrugged and said something in Kareedian which the UT translated as "It's a long story."
"I'd like to hear it," Malcolm said.
"You would?" Trip sounded genuinely surprised. "Why?"
"Because I want to know more about you. All you've told me so far is that you've worked on a farm for some time, and that a lady called Miss Elin sometimes allowed you to sleep in a room behind the kitchen." Malcolm smiled. "I'm sure there's more to tell than that."
Trip was silent for a while, thinking. "I'll tell you," he said finally. "If you really want to know..."
"I do," Malcolm said, and began to get to his feet. "Why don't we take a walk to the observation deck. It's a quiet place, and more comfortable than sitting on the floor."
Neither of them spoke on their way to the observation deck, but when they entered the lounge, Malcolm saw Trip's eyes widen.
"It's a great sight, isn't it?" he asked, allowing himself a moment's secret pride. Trip nodded, his eyes fixed on the streaming lines of light. Even as they sat down on two of the chairs that were arranged around a low table, he never took his eyes off the stars outside.
"It's beautiful," he said quietly. They sat in silence for a while. Malcolm didn't try to talk to Trip, realizing that the man needed to do this at his own pace. Then, after a few minutes, Trip began to speak, softly and haltingly at first, like someone who had never told a story before. After a while his voice grew more confident, however, and he seemed to forget about his surroundings as he told Malcolm the story that began on a hot day in August more than thirty years ago.
Part I
Strolling through the crowded hallways of Space Station Four, Colonel Ma'Khor finally admitted to himself that the diplomatic mission had been a mistake. His entire decision to leave home one last time before he retired to enjoy his well-earned Years of Peace had been a mistake, and he was going to pay for it.
Not that he had failed; Ma'Khor had never failed any important mission in his entire career, and it was fortunate that he hadn't, since there were no second chances once you had reached a certain rank in the Orion military hierarchy. You failed, and they locked you up in a cell with a weapon set to kill or a hypodermic spray containing a deadly poison. No honorable MoH'kwan left that cell on his own two feet. Over the years, Ma'Khor had seen several of his superiors die that way, but luck and a talent to be in the right place at the right time (or, rather, not to be found in the wrong places) had saved him from finding himself on the wrong side of that cell door.
Still, he should have declined when Admiral Khwan had offered him this last assignment. Escorting an ambassador to negotiations with the Klingons, those mindless savages who deemed themselves the conquerors of the galaxy. Of course, no self-respecting MoH'kwan would even sit at the same table with one of those animals, but the negotiations were necessary if the colonies at the fringes of the empire were to have a moment's peace.
Ma'Khor felt both compassion and contempt for the ambassador whose unenviable task it had been to ensure that the Klingons agreed to the conditions the MoH'kwan High Senate had made. And they had agreed; after long, trying weeks of accompanying the ambassador to endless conferences, the Klingon spokesman had finally signed the cease-fire agreement. Eighteen weeks. Ma'Khor, realizing how long he had actually been away, swallowed when he thought of what his wife was going to say when he returned home. She had not spoken to him for two days when he had told her about the assignment, and then he had still assumed he was only going to be away for six weeks, eight at the most. But it had been eighteen, and Ma'Khor wondered if she was still going to be there when he came back.
"You go away, all the time," she had complained in that whining tone of voice which he had found so endearing when they were young. Now, after so many years, it only made him think of a spoiled little girl who demanded that her every wish be considered a command. "Do you know how I feel having to tell the other Ladies that my husband isn't home yet again? If you loved me, you wouldn't go away all the time and leave me with no one to keep me company except for a house full of imbecile servants!"
Ma'Khor would have loved to say "That's right, if I loved you, I wouldn't", but of course that was out of the question. There was a reason he had married Be'Lin, and it wasn't her "sweet" pout or the fact that, in her time, she had been a pretty woman. There were certain advantages to being a Senator's son-in-law, and even in his Years of Peace, Ma'Khor had no intention of giving up those connections. Which meant, of course, that he was forever stuck with a wife who seemed set on making his life a living hell.
Ma'Khor's broodings were rudely interrupted when someone grabbed his sleeve.
"Klingon bloodwine, sir, freshly imported! I'll make you a special offer if you buy more than three bottles, sir!"
Angrily, Ma'Khor freed his arm and pushed the vendor with the foul breath aside. His absentminded wandering had taken him to the part of the space station where merchants from all over the empire sold their goods, and the air was filled with the chatter of hundreds of voices who praised the quality of their merchandise or haggled over the price.
Mostly because it kept his mind off other things, Ma'Khor strolled across the huge market, and stopped from time to time to look at a display of Andorian combat daggers or a stall offering exotic birds from Denobula.
Idly stroking a bale of Tyrellian silk, Ma'Khor wondered if Be'Lin would be more inclined to forgive him if he came back with a little something to get back into her good graces. It had worked in the past; that time when she had threatened to divorce him after the embarrassing incident with the servant girl, his offer of conciliation (an expensive flitter) had convinced her to give their marriage another try.
Maybe that wasn't such a bad idea, after all. But if he really wanted to seek Be'Lin's forgiveness with a gift, he needed to find something better than Tyrellian silk.
Ma'Khor left before the salesman noticed him looking at the silk and continued his way, now stopping more often to have a look at the things displayed in the stalls. At the far end of the hall, he noticed a slave trader and his henchmen herding a group of strange-looking beings towards the exit. Ma'Khor knew they were only passing by on their way from the hangar bay; the slave market was located in another part of the space station. Still, the aliens caught his interest and, stepping closer, he saw that they were Human. He had seen Humans before and knew that they had been in great demand for some time, when there had still been only few of them. Among the rich families, it was a status symbol to acquire exotic servants, and not too long ago Humans had still been all the fashion. Ma'Khor was well informed about these things, since Be'Lin was forever bothering him to buy more servants so she could show them off to her lady friends. Sometimes, Ma'Khor felt that his house was crawling with these creatures who stole whatever they got their hands on and filled the rooms with their unclean alien stink.
The slave trader had noticed the wealthy-looking officer scrutinizing his merchandise, and gestured for his men to bring the group to a halt.
"Sir?" he asked, adopting the ingratiating manner that was so typical of the merchant profession. "Do you wish to inspect the merchandise? I can make you a special offer..."
If I hear that line one more time I believe I'm going to throttle someone.
With deliberate indifference, Ma'Khor nodded at the trader and gave the huddled group a brief look-over. He saw at once why the man had volunteered to make him a special offer; saying that the Humans were a sorry sight would have been putting it mildly. Little more than walking skeletons, they were covered with a layer of grime and dirt that made it impossible to tell whether their skin was pale pink or brown (Ma'Khor knew that with this race several shades existed). They look mangy, he thought, disgusted, and found himself beginning to regret that he had paid any attention to them in the first place.
The trader had noticed his less-than-impressed reaction.
"They're a little dirty, sir, but they're quality goods, freshly caught."
Ma'Khor threw him a disbelieving glance and was already about to excuse himself when he noticed the little one. It was very small, hardly reaching up to the hip of the old female whose hand it was holding, and looked less scraggy and ill than the adult Humans. In fact, underneath all the dirt it was what Be'Lin would have called "cute".
"That one," he said, nodding at the little Human. "How old is it?"
"I don't know, sir," the trader said. "But it can't be older than a few years. It's only a pup."
His tone said that the Colonel would be better off purchasing one of the adults, but Ma'Khor knew his wife wouldn't thank him if he brought her one of those filthy, emaciated creatures. That little one, however...
"How much do you want for it?" he asked the trader, pretending to be only half-interested in the man's answer. The trader, resigning to the fact that it was going to be the little Human or no deal at all, began to haggle over the price before Ma'Khor had even mentioned how much he was willing to pay.
"Well, sir, it's quite exotic-looking with those blue eyes and yellow hair... " To prove his point, the trader pulled a rag from his pocket and roughly rubbed some of the dirt out of the little one's hair. It shrank back from the touch and tried to hide behind the female, but Ma'Khor saw that its hair was indeed of a pale shade of yellow. Be'Lin will love it, he thought, and the idea lifted his mood considerably.
"I think you're still making a good deal if I sell it to you for 60 ne'an," the trader said. Ma'Khor knew that it was far too high a price for the dirty little thing, but he wasn't in the mood for lengthy discussions with the man.
"Agreed," he said, earning a surprised look from the trader. "Is there any way you can clean it up and find some new clothes for it? I want to give it to my wife and she won't be happy if it looks like I pulled it out of a waste disposal."
The trader's lips tightened at Ma'Khor's description of his merchandise. He made no comment, however, and motioned to one of his men who was standing nearby.
"S'kren, you go and take it back to the ship. Wash it, and see if you can find some clean things for it to wear. Just a few minutes, sir," he added to Ma'Khor.
S'kren was visibly disgusted with the job, but all the same, he stepped forward and reached out to pull the little one away from the old female. Ma'Khor was surprised at the commotion his move caused among the Humans. Several of them began talking at once, their alien words sounding agitated and even angry, and the old female rested a protective hand on the little one's back. In the end, S'kren had to use force to separate them. Not surprisingly, the small Human began to cry and squirmed in the man's grip to get away.
S'kren slapped it, which made it cry even harder. "Stop that, you-"
He didn't get very far. One of the adults, a tall, broad shouldered male, had managed to get past the other guards and attacked S'kren with a viciousness that surprised Ma'Khor, shouting something in an alien language as he pushed him away from the little one. The small Human immediately scurried back to the female, hiding its face in her leg.
Several of the guards grabbed the adult and began to beat him with their clubs, while the rest of them drew their weapons and aimed them at the Humans. The slave trader sighed, disgusted.
"I don't know why I put up with these incompetents. S'kren," he nodded at the guard to try again. The female wouldn't let go, and only loosened her grip when S'kren drew his weapon and aimed it at her charge. The guard grabbed the little one and threw it over his shoulder.
"Sir?"
The trader made a weary gesture. "Take it away. But don't damage it, understood?"
"Yes sir." S'kren disappeared in the direction from where the group had come, maintaining a firm hold on Ma'Khor's purchase as it cried and weakly squirmed in his grip. The few people who had stopped to watch the small drama laughed and went back to their shopping.
"It's always the same," the trader told Ma'Khor with the air of someone who is about to launch into a long, often-repeated litany. "And not only with the Humans, mind you. Try to sell one of their pups and they-"
"Do you accept electronic credits?" Ma'Khor interrupted. He wasn't interested in listening to that idiot talking shop. The trader pulled out a padd, a little miffed at being cut off in mid-sentence.
"That'd be 65 ne'an, sir."
Ma'Khor raised an eyebrow. "I thought we agreed on sixty. Or do you charge for the show as well?"
The man ignored his sarcasm. "I cannot afford to give away a whole set of new clothes for free, sir."
Ma'Khor refused to dignify that remark with an answer. He watched the trader draw the 65 ne'an from his electronic pay chip and was just about to ask for a signed confirmation when someone spit onto the deck next to his feet. Ma'Khor looked up and saw the male Human staring at him, his brown eyes full of hate. The guard who held him dealt him a blow on the head and jerked him forward, but the Human's eyes were still fixed on Ma'Khor as he whispered a single, hissing word. And even though Ma'Khor didn't understand the alien language, he had a pretty good idea what the Human had said.
Finally, S'kren came back with the little Human in tow. Now that grimy layer of dirt was gone, Ma'Khor saw that the trader had been right about its exotic looks; the fair complexion and yellow hair would certainly find Be'Lin's appreciation. The plain clothes weren't quite what he'd had in mind (even less so since he had paid 5 ne'an for them), but for the time being they would have to suffice.
"Oh no you don't!"
On seeing the other Humans, the little one made a run for the old female, but the trader caught its arm before the whole tug of war could start again. For a few seconds it struggled in his grip, then it gave up and its eyes began to fill with fresh tears.
"If you don't mind, sir," the trader said, glancing at the Humans, "I'd rather you take it away now. I don't want any more unpleasant scenes."
"Neither do I," Ma'Khor said dryly. "My confirmation?"
"Oh. Yes. Here you go." He gave Ma'Khor a small electronic chip. "A pleasure doing business with you, sir."
"Same here," Ma'Khor said, not being quite honest, and grabbed the little one's wrist at the same moment the trader let go of it. "Come on, you."
Up until now, the little Human didn't seem to have realized that they were actually going to leave, but when Ma'Khor started to walk away it understood what was going on and began to cry noisily.
"Be quiet!" Ma'Khor hissed. "People are staring!"
It didn't understand, of course, sobbing loudly and talking rapidly in its language at the same time. Ma'Khor resigned to the fact that there was nothing he could do about the racket it was making, and continued to drag it along between the rows of market vendors until they had reached the exit.
Once outside, he allowed himself a moment's rest. In the meantime, the little Human's noisy sobs had turned into a quiet sniffling, and Ma'Khor felt a slight tugging as it tried to free its hand.
"Stop that," he told it although he knew it didn't understand him. All the same, it stopped squirming and looked up at him, its lower lip quivering as it said a few words in its language. It sounded like a question, but Ma'Khor had no idea what the words meant and he wouldn't have cared either way. Taking a closer look at his new purchase, he saw that it held a bundle of dirty fabric close to its chest. He hadn't noticed before, but apparently the little one had brought along its old clothes, the grimy, yellow shirt and blue trousers it had worn when Ma'Khor had first seen it.
"Give me that," he ordered, holding out a hand. The little Human seemed to understand what Ma'Khor wanted, but shook its head and pressed the clothes even closer to its chest.
"You mustn't disobey me," Ma'Khor said sternly. "You can't keep these things, they're dirty. Now give them to me or I'm going to have to punish you."
The little one was still shaking its head, holding on to the stinking clothes as if they were a lifeline. Ma'Khor's patience wore thin and he snatched the bundle in one quick movement, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he carried it over to a waste chute.
The little Human's face turned chalk-white when Ma'Khor stuffed the dirty clothes down the chute. The Colonel braced himself for the screaming he was sure would follow, but the little one didn't even make a sound. Its hand had grown limp in Ma'Khor's fist, and when he continued down the corridor, it stumbled along without so much as a single protest.
Ma'Khor was surprised, but if the little one had decided that discretion was the better part of valor he was certainly not going to object. The idea of punishing the little Human only to listen to its bawling all the way down to the surface hadn't struck him as very appealing, anyway.
Thinking of what Be'Lin was going to say when she saw his gift, Ma'Khor smiled. For the first time in eighteen weeks he was actually looking forward to going home again.
-------
Entering his wife's suite four hours later, Ma'Khor was greeted by the silence he had expected. Of course, Be'Lin wouldn't bid him a warm welcome when he was ten weeks late; he could count himself lucky if she still talked to him at all.
The door of the bedroom was opened carefully from the inside, and Jin, his wife's personal maid, slipped out with a half-eaten dish of soup. When her eyes fell on him, she quickly set the soup down on a nearby table and bowed while touching her forehead with one hand.
"Jin," he said, allowing her to stand up again. "Is the lady resting?"
"Yes sir. But I am certain she will be delighted to welcome you at home, master."
Nobody knew better than Jin that the lady would be anything but delighted. Ma'Khor's lips twitched.
"I'm sure she will. Ask her if I may come in."
"Yes sir." The slender Andorian disappeared back into her mistress' bedroom. Next to the door, a servant was keeping a watchful eye on the little Human. Not that it was necessary; the little one seemed too frightened to move, its strange blue eyes wide with fear as it stared at the unfamiliar surroundings. Ma'Khor had ordered that it be dressed in an expensive garment made of Tyrellian silk, since he knew that his wife wouldn't appreciate any gift if it wasn't beautifully wrapped. The little Human had let it happen, not protesting when someone took away the clothes S'kren had given it. Strangely enough, it had only been with those tattered old rags that the Human had reacted so vehemently.
The bedroom door opened again, distracting Ma'Khor from his idle musings.
"The mistress says you may enter, sir," Jin said. Her expression told him that the mistress had said a lot more than that, and none of them things that Jin could possibly repeat to her master.
"Very well." He looked at the servant next to the door. "You wait right here, and send it in when I call, understood?"
The servant bowed his head. "Yes sir."
Ma'Khor took a deep breath and entered his wife's bedroom. She was reclining on the couch; a woman in her early fifties whose formerly velvet green skin was now painstakingly covered with several layers of cream each night to maintain at least part of its former beauty. Be'Lin was dressed in one of the flowing robes that she preferred, and on the table before her stood a large assembly of make-up toiletries and cream tubes. When Ma'Khor sat down in the armchair on the other side of the table, she still hadn't looked up from her contemplation of a small bottle of blue nail polish.
Again, he drew in a deep breath before he spoke. "Be'Lin, my love. It is so good to see you." He paused, waiting, but she continued to ignore him. "Love, I know you are angry with me-"
"Oh, do you?" Her eyes were still fixed on the nail polish. "Whyever would I be angry with you, Ma'Khor?"
He sighed inwardly. "Please, Lin. You're upset with me, and I guess you have every right to be. The negotiations took longer than I had expected-"
"Longer than you had expected?" Her voice rose to an unpleasant shrillness. "Eighteen weeks, Ma'Khor! You've been away for eighteen weeks! And then you have the gall to come here and say your negotiations took a little longer than you had expected!"
She slammed the nail polish down on the table, sending several cream tubes flying.
"Do you know that people were beginning to talk about us, saying that you weren't away on a mission but had taken the opportunity to get rid of me?"
Now there's an idea. Ma'Khor opened his mouth. "Listen, Lin-"
"No, you listen to me! I don't care what your reasons are, but I will not be treated like that! You think I'm so stupid that I don't notice when you're lying, but... oh..."
She covered her eyes with her hand, but Ma'Khor knew that she wasn't really hiding any tears. Be'Lin hardly ever cried, and certainly not because she thought her husband wasn't telling her the truth. All she was doing was going through the old routine, playing the game they had been playing together as long as he could remember.
"I'm so sorry, Be'Lin," he said, and even managed to sound like he meant it. "I never meant to upset you, or hurt your feelings. I love you, you know that."
"I wish I could believe you," Be'Lin said, sounding like a second-class actress rehearsing her role. "I do wish I could believe you, Ma'Khor."
Knowing that the divorce came next, Ma'Khor decided to skip that part of the game and get directly to the part where she began to reconsider her threat.
"You can believe me, love," he said, smiling. "All I ever thought about during all those weeks was you. I kept thinking how bad it must be for you, being all alone here..."
"Well, it was," she said, and seemed rather relieved herself that they were going to skip the divorce discussion this time. "I missed you, Ma'Khor."
Ma'Khor briefly debated whether it was too early to try and kiss her yet, and decided that it was. Still, she had thawed enough not to give him the cold shoulder treatment when he showed her his gift, and it was going to be all downhill from there.
"I've got a surprise for you, love," he said, relieved when he saw a flicker of genuine interest in her eyes. "You didn't think I'd come back empty-handed, did you?"
She reacted to his playful tone with a gracious little smile. "Well, then let's see what you've got."
Ma'Khor called, and a moment later the door opened again. The servant entered, pushing the little Human into the room, then disappeared again with a small bow of the head. The little one stared at its new surroundings with scared eyes, not moving as it stood next to the door. Ma'Khor was pleased to see an expression of delight cross his wife's face.
"Is that a Human?" she asked excitedly, never waiting for his confirmation. "It's beautiful! Where did you find it?"
"On the space station, love. I thought it might please you."
"It does." Her smile gained warmth. "Thank you, love." She glanced back at the small being that was trembling with fear. "It's still very young, isn't it?"
"Only a few years old, the trader said. It's still a pup."
"Oh." She regarded it for a moment. "Is it male or female?"
"Male, I believe. But I don't think it makes any difference at that age."
Be'Lin reached behind her and took a piece of fruit out of a bowl. Holding it out to the little one, she began to speak in a cooing tone.
"Come here, sweetie, let me look at you. Don't be shy, I'm not going to hurt you."
The little Human only stared at her. Ma'Khor gave it an encouraging look.
"Do what your Mistress says."
It didn't move, and Be'Lin's friendly expression faded. "It's not very well trained, is it?"
"It hasn't learned our language yet, love." Behind her back, Ma'Khor frowned at the little Human and raised a hand to demonstrate what was going to happen if it refused to obey. Its frightened expression told him that it understood. Slowly, reluctantly, it began to walk towards Be'Lin, and the smile returned to her face.
"That's a good boy." She ruffled its hair, turning its head from side to side. The little one didn't seem to enjoy the attention, but it didn't dare to pull away either. "Aren't you a cute little thing. And... it's got blue eyes!" She looked up. "You must have paid a fortune, Ma'Khor!"
"Oh, I think I made a good deal," he said dryly and accepted a quick hug and kiss from her. "I'm happy when you are, love."
Be'Lin smiled at him and turned back to her new object of affection. "Does it have a name?"
"I wouldn't know." Ma'Khor smiled thinly. "I never asked it."
Be'Lin frowned; she had never been one to appreciate irony. "I'm sure that it understands a little of our language," she said as if anything else were ridiculous. "What is your name, sweetie?"
The little Human, of course, didn't answer, staring back at her with wide, frightened eyes. Ma'Khor noticed that it was rather pale in the face, and clutching its stomach with one hand.
"Lin..." he began, but Be'Lin silenced him with a gesture.
"Wait, I think it understands what I'm saying. Come on, sweetie, tell me your name."
To Ma'Khor's surprise, the being did say a few words in its language, its voice sounding small and scared. He doubted that it had said its name, though - if it even had one, that was.
"No, dear," Be'Lin frowned. "Talk properly. What is your name?"
Ma'Khor saw the little Human draw a hitching breath and opened his mouth to warn her, but it was too late. The little one swayed, and a second later threw up all over the lady's elegant house slippers. Splotches of the watery vomit spattered her bare ankles, sprinkling the hem of her robe.
Be'Lin shrieked with anger and disgust, then slapped the little one so hard it went sprawling on the floor. Its sobs were drowned out by her angry yelling.
"Look at that! Look at my feet! Oh, that's disgusting-"
Ma'Khor called for Jin, and a few moments later the maid magically appeared with a towel and a wet cloth.
"Some present," Be'Lin said angrily while allowing the maid to clean her up. "I don't want that thing in here when it's sick."
The little Human was still curled up on the floor, hiding its face in its arms. Violent shudders ran through its small body. Ma'Khor, fearing for his expensive carpet, called for the servant who immediately appeared in the door.
"Sir?"
Ma'Khor nodded at the Human. "Take it away and lock it up somewhere. A place where there's no floor covering," he added as a second thought.
"Yes sir." The servant bent down and picked up the small being. It was trembling uncontrollably, and didn't offer any resistance when he hoisted it over his shoulder.
Watching the man walk out with the little Human, Ma'Khor sighed and prepared himself for another one of his wife's angry tirades. Next time he was going to stick to the flitters when he needed another gift of reconciliation.
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The door slammed shut, leaving only darkness behind. Trip sat on the cold hard floor where the man had dropped him, and for a moment all he saw were the bright, dancing spots in front of his eyes. His cheek was still throbbing where the green lady had hit him; it hurt bad enough to bring fresh tears to his eyes.
He raised a hand and felt something warm and sticky on his upper lip, something that was coming out of his nose. Blood, he realized. There was blood on his face.
A low whimper rose in Trip's throat. Nosebleeds weren't dangerous, he knew that. Andy sometimes bled from the nose, and Mommy would give him a wet towel for his neck and tell him to sit still until it stopped. But he was bleeding because the lady had hit him, and that made it a lot worse.
The room around him was dark; darker even than the basement at home, and that was the scariest place Trip knew. There were no windows, and the only light was coming in through the small gap under the door. In the back of the room loomed the dark shape of... something, and for a brief, terrible moment Trip thought it was alive, moving and coming closer. He remembered that monster show Andy and he had watched when Mommy had been out shopping, how the fanged, hissing creatures had lurked in the dark waiting for their next victim. Then, with Andy sitting next to him, Trip had laughed and acted unimpressed, but now these monsters became terribly real. What if they were really waiting for him in here, ready to tear him apart because he had laughed at them?
Suddenly all Trip knew was that he needed to be out of here, now. He scrambled to his feet and almost was sick again, but there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up. Sobbing with terror, he ran to the door and pulled at the handle, but the door didn't move. It was locked. He was locked in here with a monster waiting to rip out his throat.
His own shriek startled him, and without realizing what he was doing he began to rattle the door handle, crying for his mom and dad. Andy would have said he was acting like one of those preschool crybabies, but Trip couldn't stop, even though deep down he knew that his Mommy and Daddy couldn't hear him, that there was no one out there who was going to open the door and let him out.
He screamed himself hoarse, and when he couldn't scream anymore he threw up a few drops of spit and curled up to a small ball next to the streak of light from under the door. Glancing at the monster in the back of the room, Trip saw that it looked very much like a huge cupboard, but he was too confused and terrified to draw the logical conclusion.
It's going to eat me later, he thought, and felt oddly resigned to the idea. They only come out at night, and it's not night yet..
But it would come. He knew that.
"I wanna go home," he whispered, talking to himself and his parents and the monster and at the same time to no one at all. "Please oh please oh please, I wanna go home again."
Mrs. Parson, his preschool teacher who had also been on the green people's ship, had told him that they were going to go home soon. "It's alright," she had said when he had cried, stroking his hair and hugging him. "It's alright, don't cry, honey. They're going to take us back home again."
One of the other grown-ups, a man Trip had sometimes seen working at the supermarket checkout, had become angry with Mrs. Parson. "What you're doing is cruel," he had said, although Trip had no idea why Mrs. Parson would be cruel. He hadn't caught her answer for she had spoken very softly, but after that the man had turned away without another word.
Every day, Trip had asked her when they were going to go home, and every day he had received the same answer: "Soon."
She'd never said "today" or "tomorrow", though, and now, sitting in the dark, he remembered how strange her voice had sounded. Like his parents' voices when they talked about Things The Kids Are Not Supposed To Know, and had to do so in front of Andy and Trip.
But Mrs. Parson wouldn't lie to him, would she? She had let him sleep next to her, had comforted him when he woke up at night and cried, so surely she wouldn't lie to him. No, she was a teacher; she wouldn't lie, of course not.
Trip shivered and hid his hands in his armpits to warm them up. It was cold in here, and the strange, smooth clothes felt icy on his skin. He hated them. He hated them, and he hated the man who had taken away his things - the cut-off jeans and Andy's old smiley tee-shirt - and stuffed them into the waste container as if they were nothing but garbage. Trip didn't know why thinking of his old clothes would hurt so much, but it did. It hurt worse than his swollen cheek, empty stomach and sore body put together, and he rested his head on his knees and cried a little, mostly so he could make himself forget about the hollow ache in his chest.
Mrs. Parson had lied to him. Trip didn't want to believe it, but a voice at the back of his mind, a voice that seemed to be a lot older than four years, told him that it was so. He wasn't going to go home soon, or in a few weeks. It wasn't going to happen.
Never Ever. That was a thing Andy and his friend Dave used to say. Never Ever would they lend their comic books to Trip (because he would only ruin them), and Never Ever would they go into the haunted house down in Calhoun Street where Dave's aunt had seen a ghost a few years ago.
Never Ever. It was what Andy had said when Mommy's Uncle Steve had died. After they had gone to bed that night, Trip had asked his big brother if dead people ever came back (secretly hoping that it was not so). Andy had shaken his head. "Never Ever," he had said. "They put 'em in a box an' then in a grave an' put earth on 'em an' they can't get out again. Never Ever."
Andy hadn't said "they put 'em in a dark room with a monster and lock the door", but it probably didn't matter. They couldn't get out again - Never Ever - and he couldn't get out of here, either. And no one was going to open the door and let him out. Trip had cried himself hoarse calling for someone to help him, but he had known all along that no one would come.
"When are we going to let him out again?" the green man would say to the lady when they heard him begging them to open the door.
She'd consider, then frown angrily. "He was sick all over my shoes, remember? We're not going to let him out. Never Ever."
And the man would nod. "You're right. He can stay in there till he rots."
Trip didn't know what "till he rots" meant (it was another thing he had heard from Andy), but it sounded bad. Nasty. He had a vague idea that it had something to do with dead people, and it didn't surprise him at all. So maybe this wasn't a box with earth on it, but it still was a place where you couldn't get out. Dead people never came back, and he was never going to go home again. Never Ever.
After that, even the monster lost its fearfulness. Trip wouldn't have cared if it had come from its hiding place at the back of the room and ripped him open with its claws; maybe he wouldn't even have run from it. He buried his head in his arms and cried for what seemed like forever. Shortly after he finally fell asleep, someone switched off the light outside the room. The narrow streak of light next to the door disappeared, and for the next two days he was left in complete darkness.
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"They only got you out of there after two days?" Malcolm tried to imagine a four-year-old child locked up in a dark basement for two days, and found that he couldn't.
Trip nodded. "I think they just forgot about me. I guess there was a big party to welcome the Colonel at home, and they were too drunk to think of anything. It was probably by lucky coincidence that one of them went in there and found me."
Malcolm saw the pain in his eyes as he said it. Trip was carefully trying to hide it, relating his memories of being sold to the Orion officer in a soft, emotionless voice, but nevertheless it was there, hidden under the surface.
"And then?" he asked quietly. "After they'd let you out? Who took care of you?"
"No one." Trip shrugged. "A few times, the mistress dressed me up to show me off to some guests, but mostly I was left to my own devices. Spent most of the time trying to steal food. Later it was my job to help in the kitchen, but I often disappeared for a few days without anyone noticing. That house was so big, you could hide for weeks and no one noticed you were gone."
Reading between the lines, Malcolm could imagine what kind of life Trip had led at Ma'Khor's house; sleeping in a corner, snatching whatever scrap of food he could get and learning to hate the world he lived in.
"How did you come to be on Kareedia?" he asked.
Trip ran a hand over his face, and the UT kicked in when he answered in Kareedian: "Maybe I can tell you another day."
Malcolm realized how exhausting it must be to relive these doubtlessly traumatic experiences. Back at the foster home, a few of the older kids had once locked him into the basement as some sort of practical joke. Malcolm had only been five years old at the time, but he could still vividly remember the agony he had suffered in that dark, scary place. And he had been down there for only an hour before one of the caretakers found him.
Suddenly he felt the wish to do something nice for Trip; something that was completely different from situation room meetings and reliving nightmares from the past.
He smiled. "Have you ever been to a movie night, Trip?"
Trip shook his head. "What's that?"
"People gathering in a room to watch a film, usually in the evening. We have one every week; the human part of the crew, I mean. I believe they're showing a comedy tonight. Would you like to go?"
Trip nodded, and Malcolm noticed that the sad, faraway expression in his eyes had been replaced by curiosity. "Do you think Sara and Sammy would enjoy this... film as well?"
"Movie night starts at 2000, so it might be a little late for them. But you can always get it from the database so they can watch it in the afternoon."
"I will." Trip smiled at him. "Thank you. I would love to go to movie night."
From the way he said the word, Malcolm realized that he still had no idea what this film-watching business was about, but on the other hand he seemed genuinely pleased at the invitation.
"Good. I'll pick you up at your quarters at 1950."
Trip nodded and was silent for a while. Then he said, so softly that Malcolm almost missed the words: "Remember when I told you that I was glad we're here with you?"
Malcolm nodded.
Trip held his gaze. "I don't want Sara and Sammy to live like I have. It's not..." He struggled for the right words. "It makes you become a bad person."
Malcolm startled. "You're not a bad person, Trip."
"Maybe not. But maybe I am, too. Sometimes I'm so full of hate I can think of nothing else. And sometimes I hate myself." He paused. "I was always like that before I had the children. You wouldn't have wanted to be my friend then."
This time Malcolm didn't have to think about it, laying a hand on Trip's arm before he even realized what he was doing. "But I'm your friend now, and I don't think you're a bad person because you feel that way. Anyone would."
Again, he found himself unable to find the right words - like Hoshi or Jonathan undoubtedly would have - but it seemed enough for Trip, who nodded.
Together, they left the observation deck, and Malcolm was surprised when he saw that only an hour had passed. Trip's story was still vividly in his mind when he left for the Armory, and he couldn't stop thinking about it even when he went to the Captain's ready room for the confidential debriefing. He remembered what the other man had said about becoming a bad person, and tried not to think of what life might have done to his mother in all the years that she had been gone. For the first time, Malcolm began to understand why his father hadn't found the strength to go on.
TBC...
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