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16
Thump.
Metal impacted on metal, another sheet transformed and twisted into the shape of the component. There was a sound like a sigh when the press came up again, ready to bear down on the next workpiece, and a sharp clank as the excess metal dropped into the scrap container. He had come to know the sounds as well as his own heartbeat.
And he had to be a part of it. He had to function.
Limp forward, lift the component, place it on the conveyor.
Take a new sheet from the cart, place it on the bed of the press.
Press the controls.
Another thump.
It reverberated in his body, and not for the first time there was the mental image of the punch as it came down on his left foot, tearing skin, breaking bones with one swift stroke. Maybe, on the long run, it would be the better choice. The foot was dying, slowly but surely. The stumps of the toes had turned from red and swollen to purple and bloated to black and festering. Whenever he unwrapped the grimy, dirt-stained bandages, dark yellow pus dripped down from the infected wounds, and the necrotic skin came off in flakes. What was even worse, the toes next to the missing ones were beginning to get infected as well. Already they were swollen and tender, and he knew that it was only a matter of time until they would be dying as well. That was, if he didn't beat them to it. He was no doctor, but he was fairly sure what Phlox' diagnosis would have been. The grimy floor of the production hall was paradise for bacteria of all kinds, and it was no surprise that some of them had found their way into the open wounds and his bloodstream. Blood poisoning could kill a person pretty quick.
That was what he hoped, at least.
Thump.
The press rose again with a sigh, and he limped forward, trying to put his weight on the heel. At least the chain was attached to the other ankle. Ass Kisser had wanted to fit the cuff around the swollen ankle of his left leg, but one of the other overseers had stopped him.
"He can hardly walk as it is," the Vulcan had said, and Ass Kisser had no choice but to obey, albeit grudgingly.
It was now two days ago that they had chained him. In spite of Jackson's help, he had been hopelessly behind schedule again, and this time Ass Kisser had reported him to the foreman. After one look at his feverish face and sickly pallor, the Vulcan had come to the conclusion that there was no logic in letting him rest.
"He's dying," he had said. "He would be a useless drain on our resources, lounging about in the sleeping area. Better get out of him what we can."
They had tethered him to his station by means of a long heavy chain, and whenever he paused in his work only briefly, the overseer's whip would sting on his back, reminding him that he could only cease to function when he was dead, and not a moment sooner. Every twenty hours, he was allowed two hours of rest, which he spent passed out on the floor while another slave tended the press for him. He had not been given food in the two days that had passed, his only sustenance being handfuls of water from a bucket they had provided. Once, Jackson had managed to slip him a crust of bread, but he hadn't been able to keep it down.
Their intention was clear. They wanted to work him to death so that he could be substituted with a healthy, fully functioning slave. Trip had reached a point where he no longer really thought about it. He had long since stopped thinking of Enterprise or Malcolm, and from there it was only a small step to stop thinking at all. He merely functioned, moving in the rhythm of the machine in front of him, going through the same motions a thousand times while his mind was on the brink of slipping away. The press had become his heartbeat, quite literally. When it stopped, he would stop as well.
Thump.
It was his cue. He limped towards the machine, his eyes on the gray component. It was strangely distorted, seeming very large all of a sudden, and when he wanted to grasp it, his hands only met thin air. Blinking slowly, he tried again. He couldn't touch it, and yet it seemed to have grown, the gray fog hindering his view, and it was growing still. He shook his head, blinking to clear his vision, and hardly noticed that he had taken a stumbling step backwards.
The entire press had now disappeared behind a gray wall, and there was a strange roar in his ears that seemed to be getting louder, drowning out even the ever-present pounding of the production hall. He felt very light, the pain in his foot only a distant ache now, and if there was more pain, as if his head had hit the floor, he scarcely realized it. The gray was everywhere now, and he was floating on it, drifting-
"Get up!"
A sharp pain in his side brought him back. He blinked. Ass Kisser was standing over him, grinning as he pulled his foot back for another kick into Trip's ribcage.
"Get up, Fifteen! On your feet, now!"
Trip couldn't suppress a pained whimper, mostly because the overseer's kick had jostled his foot. Ass Kisser raised his whip.
"I'm counting to three. One, two..."
Behind the overseer's back, Jackson was looking at him, nodding. You can do it. Slowly, Trip pushed himself into a sitting position, his palms slipping on the greasy metal floor.
"Three!" Ass Kisser crowed, grabbed Trip's hair and pulled him to his feet. "You look like shit, Fifteen. And I think you need a reminder of how things work round here. When I tell you to get up, you're on your feet in an instant, is that clear?"
Trip said nothing. Fragments of gray were still drifting at the edges of his vision, and his mouth seemed to have forgotten how to formulate a reply, let alone remember the right words.
"Okay, that's it." The overseer let go of his hair, and Trip swayed on his feet for a moment, the gray threatening to engulf him again. A boot connected with his swollen ankle and he fell down with a strangled cry of pain. It was as if a knife had sliced through his leg.
"... shut your goddamn mouth," the overseer's voice was saying somewhere far away, and then he felt hands at the back of his shirt, tearing it open. There was a whistling sound as the whip cut through the air, and Trip screamed as the first blow tore into his bare skin.
"No!"
When Trip raised his head again, he knew that he was really going mad. Malcolm was there, but of course he was not, he was a figment of Trip's imagination which seemed to have gone haywire, showing him things that could not be real. Ass Kisser was no longer standing. The overseer was on his back, straddled by Malcolm who was beating the living daylights out of him, each punch into Ass Kisser's face accompanied by a hissed word.
"Bloody – fucking – bastard –"
You go, Mal. The gray fog was back once more, and Trip didn't fight it. He laid his head down on the floor, and, just as the other overseers pulled Malcolm off the sobbing man on the floor, quietly passed out, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Your crazy pau'kaluk almost killed one of my overseers, Lady!"
The foreman's face was flushed an angry green, but T'Var didn't seem very impressed. "Judging by the volume of his complaints, he seems very much alive to me." Out of the corners of his eyes, Malcolm saw her raise an eyebrow. "It may be... educational for him to get a dose of his own medicine."
"Lady..."
Malcolm didn't bother to listen to the foreman's reply. He was kneeling next to Trip on the floor, still trying to get over the shock of seeing him like this. Trip looked like hell, his chest torn and bloodied by dozens of welts and cuts, his thin face dripping with sweat. It was obvious that he had had no chance to wash or shave since he had come here, and his clothes were mere rags, holes gaping where the whip had torn through the thin fabric. Worst of all was his injured foot; even through the filthy bandage, Malcolm could smell the sickly odor of dying flesh.
"You came just in time."
Malcolm looked up, and into a familiar face.
"They were going to kill him," Jackson said. "Ass Kisser was going to beat him to death."
"Ass Kisser" obviously referred to the human overseer, who, at a safe distance, was nursing his broken nose. Malcolm rubbed over his sore knuckles. He had no illusions that he might have killed the man, if the Vulcans hadn't pulled him back.
"...believe there are those who would be interested in the way you are running this factory." T'Var's tone was calm, but Malcolm sensed the underlying fury. When they had entered the production hall, passing row after row of miserable, underfed human slaves sweating away at the machines and conveyor belts, her face had grown rigid, and she had not spoken until the foreman had come to meet them.
The plump Vulcan seemed unsure how to deal with the old lady, who quite clearly did not belong in a place like this. "Lady, I think you should speak with Aylak. He's in his office in the administration building."
"Then please ask him to come here," T'Var said, still quite calm. She looked at Trip. "I do not think that this poor man can walk anywhere."
"Lady..." Had the foreman been human, he would have been wringing his hands. "K'lek Aylak does not conduct business in the production halls."
"Well, maybe he should. Maybe he should set up his desk right here, where he can see just how those under him benefit from his generosity."
"Lady..."
"Please ask K'lek Aylak to come here to speak to T'Sai T'Var of the Noble House of Sreman," T'Var said, her tone allowing no room for argument. "I will be waiting for him."
The foreman sighed. "I will see what I can do, T'Sai."
"Thank you."
She watched him leave, then turned around to Malcolm. "How is your friend?"
"His wounds are infected." Malcolm pointed at the grimy bandage, afraid to think of what it might conceal. "He's very ill."
"Healer Sten will know what to do," she said. "I only wish I could bring him here to tend to the rest of these poor people as well. It is a shame," she added with unusual vehemence. "I knew Aylak's factories were sub-standard, but I had no idea that it was so bad."
One of the other overseers had stepped closer, prodding Jackson with his whip. "You, back to work! Now!"
T'Var raised a hand. "Wait! I want to speak with this man."
The overseer didn't dare argue with her. "On your feet," he hissed at Jackson. "Keep your eyes down when the Lady speaks to you!"
"No need," T'Var said dryly. "I rather prefer to look at the people I speak with."
Her hard expression softened a little as she met Jackson's eyes. "You are a friend?" she asked quietly.
"Yes, Trip's my friend." Jackson glanced at Malcolm. "And Malcolm, too."
"How dare you use human names in front of the Lady!" The overseer raised his whip. "You-"
"You will desist!"
At her tone, the overseer immediately lowered his hand and took a step back. "I beg forgiveness, Lady, but-"
"What is going on here?"
Malcolm turned his head. Aylak was coming towards them, followed by the foreman who looked as if he wished for a hole to open up and swallow him. The frown on Aylak's round face turned into an expression of surprise when he became aware of T'Var.
"Lady T'Var! I thought my foreman hadn't caught your name right."
"I am here, Aylak," she replied. "And I am very interested in how you explain all this." Her gesture included the entire production hall.
Aylak stared at her. "I am not sure I can follow, Noble Lady."
"Indeed." T'Var's voice was cold. "Let me explain it to you then, Aylak. There are authorities who would be very interested to find out about your safety precautions – or should I say, the lack thereof," she added. "And assuming someone took pictures of this place and sent them to the media... I daresay many citizens would be disturbed to see how you are treating your workers."
"Those workers are my property, Lady, as is everything else in here." Aylak drew himself to his full height. "How I run my factories is no one's business but my own."
"Is that so." T'Var's eyebrows twitched; the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug. "Well, I will leave it to you to explain to the media why your workers are malnourished to the point of starvation, and chained to the machines when they are hardly able to stand."
Aylak licked his lips. "Are you threatening me, Lady?"
"Do you feel threatened, Aylak?"
He paused. "What do you want?"
She lifted an eyebrow at him. "I want nothing from you, Aylak. I have come to take these two men with me," she indicated Trip and Jackson, whose eyes grew wide. "You shall receive a sufficient compensation in due time. That will be all."
Aylak's face seemed to swell with anger. "Lady, if you think you can march in here and just take two of my workers- "
"Yes, Aylak?" she asked, very quietly. "If I think I can do that, then what?"
The Vulcan's two chins were quivering with fury, but he seemed unable to think of an appropriate comeback.
T'Var ignored him and turned to Malcolm. "I believe it is time we took your friend out of here."
"Yes, T'Sai."
She turned to the human overseer. "Unchain this man."
The man glanced at Aylak, who moved his hand in a quick, cutting gesture. "Do as she says, idiot."
Ass Kisser, as Jackson had so aptly called him, hurried to obey. As soon as Trip's ankle was free of the cuff, Malcolm grabbed the chain and tossed it aside. With Jackson's help, he moved Trip into a sitting position and wrapped one of Trip's arms around his shoulders. Jackson did the same with the other arm, and soon they were on their feet, Trip hanging between them like a limp rag doll.
"I take it you are leaving, Lady?" Aylak asked.
T'Var ignored his sarcasm. "Indeed I am, Aylak. Good day to you."
Aylak said nothing, his fat hands balled to fists. For a moment or two, he stood in silence, then he turned around and glared at the workers at the surrounding machines, who were staring wide-eyed at the strange old lady and her little entourage.
"What are you looking at, pau'kaluku? Get back to work!"
To Malcolm's surprise, none of them did. They continued to stare at T'Var, trying to catch her eyes, and suddenly he realized that they were begging. The rich lady had taken two of their fellow slaves for no apparent reason, so why shouldn't she purchase a third, or a fourth?
"T'Sai," one of the men they passed stepped closer and touched her sleeve. "Please, I – I'm a friend of his, too!" He pointed at Trip. "I shared my rations with him. Please, T'Sai!"
"I am sorry," T'Var said quietly. The fierceness of before had left her voice, and she looked old and sad. "I cannot help you."
The man lowered his head, stepping back. A moment later, he was pushed back to his work station by the overseer.
"Leave the Lady alone, pau'kaluk! Back to work!"
Malcolm could have sworn that he had seen a wet glint in T'Var's eyes. She said nothing, and did not look at anyone as the four of them left the production hall, stepping into a mild summer day.
TBC...
This was one of my favorite chapters to write (I know, I know, but it wasn't just the whumping :) – I love Malcolm-to-the-rescue! ), and I'd really like to know what you think of it! Thank you!