Chapter 6 – Inside the Wire
"Welcome to Mokan, Mr. Paris, and to the beginning of the rest of your life." The voice was brisk, cool and officious, tinged with boredom, but – surprisingly - not overtly malicious. The voice of a man doing his job.
Tom's head, still buzzing from the after-effect of Beverly Crusher's hypospray, began to clear slowly but steadily. He opened his eyes to find himself looking at a nondescript, grey ceiling bathed in a harsh white light that seemed to emanate from the corners where wall and ceiling met. Clouds of insects danced in the brightest corners, individual specimen making buzzing sounds and drifting down like blackened snow whenever one came into contact with the energy field that provided the illumination.
He tentatively tried to move his arms and legs, but found that he was still strapped to the gurney on which he had been transported down to the moon. For a moment, blind panic threatened to overtake him. The feeling of helplessness, complete vulnerability and exposure to the man beside him washed over him with a sickening force, and his heart suddenly hammered in his breast.
Breathe.
Tom closed his eyes and tried to relax, forcing his breath into a deep, steady rhythm. When he felt another needle press unexpectedly into his neck he nearly lost control again, but a sense of artificial calm descended upon him almost instantly as whatever drug the Romulan had just administered entered his bloodstream. His mind was still racing, but it was almost as if it were attempting to do so underwater. Not exactly an improvement, all things considered.
Taking advantage of his slower breathing, Tom found that turning his head was possible despite the restraints; he did so, only to feel a sudden wave of nausea wash over him. He knew that the hypospray Dr. Crusher had given him aboard ship shouldn't have had this effect, so it had to be whatever had just been injected into his body. Or perhaps it was the cumulative effect of the two. Tom closed his eyes again to allow his stomach to regain its equilibrium.
"You have been injected with a mild tranquilizer in order to ensure a … smoother transition to your new circumstances, Mr. Paris. The nausea is a side effect, due to your slightly different physiology from that of Romulans. It only leads to actual vomiting in the rarest of cases. The effects will wear off in approximately two hours, at which point you will find yourself resting comfortably and securely in your new quarters."
Some consolation. Tom opened his eyes again and turned his head towards the voice, slowly, swallowing down the excess saliva that even this small movement seemed to generate. A Romulan officer stood beside the gurney – not Talar, based on the description the Captain had given him; this man was short and slight, despite the heavy shoulder padding of the standard Romulan jacket, and bore the insignia of a lieutenant as well as the Romulan designation for medical personnel. The man took the measure of his prisoner with cool detachment; he did not introduce himself. Another Romulan, disruptor cocked in the crook of his arm, stood guard in a shaded corner of the room.
"Unfortunately Commander Talar is too … busy to welcome you in person, and has left it to me. I am not certain what, if anything, your Captain has told you, but we are not barbarians here. You will find that you will have few reasons to complain, provided you comply with the rules. And they are very simple." He ticked items off the fingers of his left hand. "One. Attempts to escape or to establish contact with anyone outside the prison are punishable by death. Two. No fighting among inmates. Three. No questioning of orders from guard personnel. Four. No hoarding or stealing of things. Five. Physical punishment will be administered for breaches of discipline, in varying degrees of severity, as the Commander sees fit."
The man's voice was a monotone; he had obviously recited this litany a few times before. "Because you are a very lucky man and the Commander likes your Captain, you will be put into Ulak One. That facility is graded for cooperative human prisoners; consider yourself on probation. Non-compliance will lead to removal to a less pleasant environment, with some of our Cardassian inmates, for such time as the Commander sees fit. If you behave, you will receive three meals a day and the worst thing you will have to contend with is boredom. Do you understand?"
Tom tried to nod, only to feel the bile rise in his throat as his inner ear failed to compensate for the movement. The better course of action was to hold still, and to simply croak out a "yes". Besides, he was here to obtain information; might as well start now.
Injecting what he thought would be just the right amount of confusion, fear and anger into a voice that as yet seemed unable to project very far he whispered, "What is this place? Why am I here?"
"Why you are here is something you will need to answer yourself, Mr. Paris. I do not keep track of prisoners' charges or convictions, provided there are any, whom they might have offended, or of any other reasons they might be here. Suffice it to say, whatever you did has made you … unpopular in certain circles, but insufficiently so to make you into a candidate for outright execution. Or perhaps there has been a calculation that you would be more trouble dead than alive, and may need to be procured some day. Personally I do not understand these qualms, but then I am not a politician."
Tom detected an edge of resentment in the man's voice but was too groggy to analyze what it might mean. Was this … medic advocating execution over imprisonment? No matter. As long as he kept talking he was providing information.
The Romulan readied another hypospray as he spoke. "As for what this place is, consider it a dumping ground. And you, Mr. Paris, have been dumped."
He approached the gurney. In a monotone devoid of even the most basic professional sympathy he waved the syringe in front of Tom's face and stated, "This is an inoculation for some of the local diseases, mostly carried by insects and small mammals that get through the perimeter fence. Stay away from those for the next day or so, until this takes effect. We wouldn't want you to die on us prematurely now, would we."
Tom felt the cold needle press on his neck; later he was unable to say whether it was another onset of panic or the effect of the injection that caused the blackness that overtook him.
…..
"He's coming to. I should put on some tea." The eager voice seemed to come from right beside his head. Tom was dimly aware of someone's breath on his face, just before he felt the presence beside him retreat in something close to a scurrying motion.
Having learned his lesson from his previous attack of nausea, Tom moved his hands and fingers first this time, feeling for the straps that had held him to the gurney, finding them gone. His breath hissed out in relief. The light behind his closed eyelids was different, less harsh than before, and he felt more heat on his skin than he remembered from his first brief awakening. The nausea had abated, he found, but he still felt blurry around the edges from the various injections. The price of preservation, he thought with clinical detachment.
The bunk he was lying on was hard and covered with a thin mattress. He had no idea of the time. It had been evening hours on the ship, but who knew what 20:00 hours standard time translated to on Mokan. That said, he must have been lying there for sometime; his shirt – a short-sleeved, loosely fitted thing in khaki, matched by equally loose-fitting pants with an elastic waistband, was plastered to his torso in some places from the sweat he must have given off while he lay unconscious.
Tom slowly opened his eyes and tried to lift his head. He succeeded, but even though he did not suffer the expected punishment of nausea, a sudden stabbing pain in his head caused him to spit out an involuntary, "Oh, shit."
"You can say that again," another voice said, too bitter to allow for humour. "Welcome to hell."
Tom sat up gingerly, put his feet on the ground and looked around. He was in a room that was bare except for six bunks, including the one he was lying on; a box that seemed to contain bottles of water but no ice to keep it cool; and a crude auto-heater surrounded by a number of pots and cups, all metal, and a couple of screw-top jars that presumably held things to put in the pots. At the foot of four of the bunks - and his own, he suspected – sat open containers filled with what seemed like basic hygiene or convenience items.
The harshness of the light streaming in through the open door and two windows, combined with the blurriness he still felt behind his eyes, made it impossible for him to make out the figures in the room with him in any detail. There seemed to be three of them, the one crouched beside him; one standing in the middle of the room, backlit and only discernible in outline; and one lying on one of the other bunks.
"Cuppa tea?" The first voice asked brightly. The man to whom it belonged slowly stood up from where he had been squatting beside Tom's bunk, bracing himself against the edge as if the action presented a physical challenge. He walked slowly over to the other end of the hut. "My sincere apologies, but the only kinds we have on offer are a Romulan blend, and mint. At least we think of it as mint. It's green, anyway. Very good, all things considered. Light and refreshing."
"If you don't have any Earl Grey, mint sounds just fine, thanks. Straight, no sugar." Tom's voice came out in a rasp, and he realized his mouth was completely dry. One step away from serious dehydration, the medic in him assessed with clinical precision. He sat up slowly and deliberately. Probably swishing some water around in his mouth first would be a good idea.
"Oh great, a funny man. We needed one of those around here. 'Specially now that Gorman's gone." The bitter-sounding speaker appeared to be the man lying on the bunk. He was turning over now, onto his side, cupping his chin in his hand to get a better look at the newcomer.
As Tom's eyes adjusted to the light and the fact that his retinas no longer seemed to be gummed up from the inside, the faces of his three fellow inmates began to resolve. All three were gaunt, although not to the point of emaciation. The skin of the two Caucasians was darkly tanned and had assumed a slightly leathery look, no doubt due to prolonged exposure to Mokan's relentless sun and heat. The ebony skin of the third man, who had been standing in the middle of the room silently observing Tom, had benefited from his African heritage; as a result, he seemed younger than his companions despite the old, haunted look that dominated his dark eyes.
Without stretching out his hand, and with ill-concealed suspicion in his voice, he introduced himself. "Lieutenant Mbako Nyere, Chief Science Officer, USS Hiroshima. Now ranking Officer in this camp." His voice caught a little at this statement. "These two gentlemen are Ensigns Janne Karsgaard, our resident Master of the Tea Ceremony, and Arno Schmidt, over on the bunk. Lieutenant Toller, Jason Toller, has elected to remain outside for the day. He … has decided he likes to be out in the sunshine. You may get to meet him later, if he survives the experience. And you are …?"
USS Hiroshima? Tom's eyes widened, but until he was certain that their conversation wasn't being monitored, he wasn't about to start with the detailed enquiries. For the benefit of any potential audience he would, at first instance, need to keep up the indignation at his displacement. Conversely, of course, failure to ask general questions and to provide basic information would be noted. Yet another Goldilocks scenario – getting it just right was key.
"Paris. Tom Paris. USS Enterprise. Looks like we all used to serve the same happy outfit. And I haven't a fucking clue where I am or why, so I'd be grateful if you could enlighten me. Last thing I know, I'm in the brig of the Enterprise, the Doc giving me some kind of injection supposedly against a flu outbreak onboard, next thing I wake up with a Romulan staring me in the face."
Nyere looked at him, temporarily speechless, then incandescent with rage, but not on Tom's behalf. "The Enterprise – the bloody flagship of Starfleet - was right here, and all they fucking did was drop you off? Aww, shit…"
He continued to curse in a language unknown to Tom; probably Swahili or some other African dialect. His hands clenched and unclenched compulsively, until finally he punched the metal wall of the hut so hard that he caused it to shudder.
Tom shrugged. "Yeah. Bastards. I have no idea why we even came near this place; I don't think it was on our original flight plan. Maybe the Captain knew something the rest of us didn't, like the fact that this place exists. But I've been in the brig since Andor, and no one's been talking to me."
Nyere seemed to have collected himself after briefly closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He turned to Tom, slightly more sympathetically now. "Someone up high must have a serious hate-on for you, buddy, to fly all the way out here to drop you off. Some of the Cardassians and one of the Remans we've run into in the infirmary have been claiming all along that the Federation is involved in this joint, but I never thought … I mean, surely, if anyone knew about this place back home, Starfleet would have gotten us out long ago, or at least now while they dropped you off. Shit. None of this makes any sense."
He shook his head in disbelief, still digesting the fact that Starfleet had been here, and had left them behind.
"This hell-hole is where the Romulans send people that are too inconvenient to keep around, but that would acquire a major following if there were dead - like the ones who were trying to make peace with Vulcan a few years back - or else people that are still useful for something. Like the Remans. Rumour has it they staged a rebellion a couple of years ago. The ones that are here are being kept alive in case they're needed for information. But the Federation involved? Starfleet? What the hell do they care about Romulans, Remans or Cardassians? No, no fucking way anyone at home knew of this place."
Tom nodded his head in agreement to a conclusion Nyere clearly had to make for his own sanity's sake, and accepted a mug of greenish-brown liquid from Karsgaard. He doubted the latter had been following the discussion, focused as he had been on meticulously measuring leaves and twigs into the pot, before judiciously pouring its contents into three cups. Tom nodded his thanks to the man, whose gray eyes briefly lit up in expectation as Tom brought the cup to his lips. When Tom nodded and smiled at him, Karsgaard's head bobbed up and down excitedly. "Good, isn't it?" Cradling his own cup, Karsgaard retreated to his bunk and started to hum tunelessly to himself.
The other inmate, Schmidt, hadn't budged from his bunk and instead had flopped back down after his brief initial – and rather perfunctory - show of interest in Tom, resuming his study of a large, brown insect that was crawling along the ceiling. Clearly, the novelty and excitement of having a newcomer had worn off rather quickly, or else he was beyond caring. After ten years, who could blame him?
But there was a quality to Schmidt's listlessness that suggested to Tom that this was a recent development. Resignation. Based on Nyere's reaction to the Enterprise's supposedly temporary visit, he could guess why; his story had briefly raised, then dashed again any hope that their Captain's and Gorman's plan to summon help had somehow worked. It stung more bitterly than Tom had thought possible that he could not tell the survivors of the Hiroshima, right here and right now, that it had …
How the Lieutenant had managed to keep himself together this long was astonishing, although it was already clear to Tom, after only a few minutes of acquaintance, that the other man did not wear the mantle of command over his small team easily or particularly willingly. And yet, as Tom sipped his tea – or whatever the indeed surprisingly refreshing concoction Karsgaard had given him was – Nyere filled him in on the history of the four human inhabitants of Ulak One.
When the Hiroshima had surrendered, she had a crew complement of sixty-five. All the male officers, eight of them, had been brought here. A female lieutenant and ensign, as well as the rest of the crew, hadn't been seen since. Nyere stared into his own teacup for a moment, as if to count the twigs floating at the top, and continued.
"We – the officers – spent the first few weeks on some Romulan ship. Not sure how long that was. I think when we were brought here this place was pretty new. It's grown since then, like they keep adding new camps, expanding the population."
"Our First Officer, a Bajoran, didn't take well to being imprisoned. Kal Tokor, his name was. He'd grown up in a Cardassian displacement camp and had almost constant nightmares and flashbacks; the razor wire, he said. So pretty early on he kind of blew a relay and attacked a guard. They executed him in front of us. Captain Patel offered to take his place, but …" His voice trailed off and he was silent for a bit, his eyes far away.
"Then in the third year Toller and Massoud, our pilot, got in a fight over something stupid and were sent to the punishment cells. Massoud didn't come back. Toller – well, he's been off ever since, not that he was ever a prince to begin with. So the rest of us mostly kept our noses clean, except for Gorman. The smartass. He made more trips to the Cardassian side than any of us. That's where they send you when they don't like your attitude, but when whatever you've done doesn't warrant the punishment cells. They let the snakes play with you for a night, or a week." He didn't continue, looking up at the ceiling and raising his chin slightly.
Tom understood immediately, his suspicions confirmed. There were listening devices embedded in the hut; Nyere's story would be coloured by that knowledge, tailored to the unseen listeners. But the questions needed to continue; anything else would raise suspicion in equal measure.
"What about the Cardassians? What are they doing here?"
The Lieutenant chuckled mirthlessly. "Most of them are thugs and war criminals from the Bajoran occupation, according to Gorman. The Cardassians he talked to claim that those guys were sent here by the current government, to keep them from exposing past sins and wrecking attempts at - what do they call this sort of thing - 'national reconciliation'. They're all in Ulak Two. The rest of the Cardassians, the ones in Ulak Three, started arriving only about three years ago, and continued during the last couple of years. They claim it's because they were at odds with whoever was working on reconstructing their planet after the, what's-it-called, the Dominion obliterated it. Or something like that."
"Shit," Tom snarled, for the benefit of those listening through the cracks in the wall. "And to think - all I did was have consensual sex with the wrong girl. Just my fucking luck. So to speak." He made a show of swatting away a non-existing fly, and looked at Nyere meaningfully. "Bugs in here are driving me nuts. I'm going outside, heat or no."
He lifted himself off his bunk, testing his legs for steadiness and headed for the door, carefully balancing his mug of "mint" tea – he was afraid to ask what it really was, but it tasted a lot better than it looked and did miracles for his parched throat. He allowed a beaming Karsgaard to pour him a refill on his way out. After a minute or so, Nyere followed.
'Outside' was a small area about the size of half a basketball court, surrounded by tall fencing topped with three rolls of razor wire that shimmered in the heat. Through the wire Tom could see a corridor that seemed to be patrolled by guards at irregular intervals. Right behind the corridor was fencing for the next enclosure, which looked like one discrete camp that seemed to consist of several pods, with adjacent yards that were smaller than the one he was in. The fencing at the back of that area was still visible but less distinct; at the greater distance, the force fields were beginning to affect transparency.
What was clear, though, was that Ulak One was located near the centre of a facility that seemed to now extend around it like layer upon layer of wire, steel and sand. Tom recalled Nyere's comments about the facility having been extended after the Hiroshima officers had been deposited there; certainly the layout of the place, from what little he could see from his current vantage point, lent credence to that claim.
The unit they had just left now shaded about a third of the yard area in Ulak One; by the looks of it, Tom judged that the time was going on early evening. He guessed that he had probably spent close to the promised two hours unconscious, in the intake facility and then in the hut. He recalled nothing about being transported in between.
A trampled down area in the sand closest to the perimeter showed that someone – likely Nyere, given that he seemed in better physical shape than the others – was using the limited facilities as an occasional running track. A slumped over figure sat in the hottest, sunniest part of the yard. Tom pointed his chin at the man.
"That Toller? What's with him? Is he crazy?"
"Yes," Nyere replied matter-of-factly. "He is. Has been trying to get himself to die of heat stroke for years now, although he always somehow manages to drag himself back in just before he succeeds. None of us pay much attention anymore. But it's been getting worse ever since … ever since the Captain and Gorman went. Maybe he actually means it now. Problem is, if you're too obvious about trying to kill yourself, all they do it put you in the punishment unit, or give you to the really hardass Cardassians to play with overnight. And believe me, you'll really wish you were dead then, except the Romulans will take great pleasure in keeping you alive. They were seriously pissed when Massoud died on them."
Despite the heat, Tom shivered at the images the man's flat statement conjured up behind his retinas. They give you to some of the really hardass Cardassians to play with overnight. His breath came out a little faster as he remembered the smell of the big Bolian … the weight of the other two, holding him down … being tied to the bed with his own clothing … the taste of the gag in his mouth … the helplessness … the feeling of being ripped in … Steady, Paris.
A deep sip of tea and years of practice allowed him to swallow the memory, and brought him back to the shimmering heat of a different prison. He lifted his cup in a mock salute. "This is not bad stuff." Nyere chortled without humour. "It blows in occasionally from up there," he nodded at the hills, covered in gray-green shrubbery, and at a ball of twigs, vaguely reminiscent of tumbleweed, now rolling around in the otherwise empty yard.
"Winds here can be pretty ferocious at times. Karsgaard tried to make us soup one day when we caught one of those iguana things that sometimes crawl in under the fence, just to add some extra protein to our diet. The thing tasted disgusting, the texture was even worse, but he'd added those twigs based on how they smelled and the liquid didn't seem so bad. He's been making it ever since, minus the lizards; even seems to have some useful vitamins. I think the Romulans let us have the auto-heater so they don't have to come by so often to keep us hydrated. Hot beverages …"
"… Are supposed to be better for that. I know. I trained as a medic for a while. Although personally I think there's no basis for that; what I do believe, though, is that drinking things made with freshly boiled water is a good thing for other reasons."
Clearly, if Toller was unstable and suicidal and Karsgaard and Schmidt were, respectively, detaching themselves from reality or lapsing into near-total apathy, this was the man he would need to work with. But there was no point in raising hopes of a rescue too soon, too fast. Getting information had to come before providing it; that was what he had come here for, after all, and if a rescue proved impossible, he'd still have the intel.
"Bugs better out here?" he asked, carefully. Nyere gave him a long, hard stare, not free from suspicion, before nodding. "Much. But best to keep your back to the tower that's behind us now. You do it too long though, they get suspicious. So let's walk and shut up or change topic when we face the tower."
Tom nodded his assent, and the two men started a slow circle around the yard, along the track left by Nyere's feet. The heat was stifling, even the small breeze he could feel on his exposed skin felt more like a blast from an open furnace than something that might offer relief. Within minutes, sweat poured down their faces, and their loose shirts stuck to their backs.
Turn. "Any idea why the new bunch of Cardassians are here, and not in one of their own highly effective labour camps?"
"From what I gather, those went out of fashion under the new government; too much Federation scrutiny. Guess Romulus and Cardassia are buddies now, too, and the Romulans for whatever reasons are helping the Cardassians take out the garbage, out of Federation sight."
"Interesting. You mentioned the Captain and Gorman 'going'. There are six bunks in the hut. Assume they're for you four, and those two. What exactly happened?" Time to get that part of the story, from the inside.
Nyere snorted. "Tim Gorman was our Chief Engineer. He had this bright idea to call for help. When you first mentioned you'd come with the Enterprise I thought it might have worked, but I guess not. That's why I was so pissed off with you coming. Nothing personal."
Turn; they were under observation. "So what happened to you on Andor?" Tom shrugged. "Met this girl who practically threw herself at me. Andorians have a thing about blue eyes, I found out, and this one wanted to be in Starfleet pretty badly, so the uniform was additional turn-on. Cute little thing, told me she was twenty. Turns out she lied. I wasn't about to say no; had no idea she was, like, the bloody heiress to the throne looking for excitement."
"Whoa."
"Yeah, whoa. I mean the sex was pretty good, but seriously not worth this." Tom made an expansive movement with the hand not holding a teacup, and sent a silent apology to Princess Lissan of Andoria up into the ether. Although truth be told, the enterprising teen would probably find her indirect role in his present mission more exciting than upsetting.
Both men fell silent for the remaining steps.
Turn. Nyere switched topics without transition, obviously used to the technique. "Gorman, as I said, he was a smartass. Always talking back to the guards, like he needed to show them that they hadn't broken him, or something. Got punished a lot for it, too. They'd send him to Ulak Two if they were really pissed at him, but mostly to Ulak Three. Never shut him up, though. Almost as if he went to the Cardassians to see if he could make allies. As it turned out, he may have. But they still roughed him up each time, if only for show."
Turn. Nyere fell silent again as they were facing the tower, making a few stretching movements with his arms and legs to justify their continued turns around the yard. Tom winced a little; the kindred spirit he sensed in the late Chief Engineer made him all the more eager to ensure that his sacrifices were not in vain.
Nyere, unaware of the nature of Tom's reflections, continued as they turned again. "Gorman heard during one of his … nights with the Cardassians in Ulak Two that there were some scientists in Ulak Three, and he started to tone down the attitude a little, so that's where they sent him most of the time after that. Then, about ten days ago, both he and the Captain got themselves thrown into Ulak Three - for a week. I have no idea what happened, whether they got some of the Cardassians to help them, or whether they started an inter-species riot. But a couple of days ago the Romulans went totally nuts and incinerated part of Ulak Three with one of those fucking plasma cannons up there."
Turn. Tom nodded and changed the topic, as the guard tower hove into view. Binoculars, it looked like. How endearingly old-fashioned. "Anyway, you may be happy to know that the Kinshasa Warriors won three of the last seven Parrisses Squares world championships. Or so I was told; I wasn't around much myself."
Nyere stared pointedly at Tom's neck, and the blue numbers now glistening with sweat. "Pen?" he asked. Tom shrugged diffidently.
"Eighteen months worth of rehab, so-called. Then got thrown into a deep space mission for a while, sort of on probation. Trying to make a new start on the Enterprise and – boom. Fucked up, and here I am. Story of my life."
He looked up at the tower, where the reflection of the watcher's glasses showed the duty guard's continued interest in whatever he might have to say. "Guess now I should be pissed off that they didn't send me back to Auckland, huh. No visits from the Interplanetary Committee of the Red Crystal here, I bet."
Nyere snorted. "Arno was right. You're a funny man. Just watch it, or you'll end up like Gorman."
A turn brought them back to their main conversation, and Tom asked, "And I guess the apparent … failure of your colleagues' bright idea is what sent Toller over the edge?"
"Yeah. You could say that. Although he's been hanging on by his fingernails the last couple of years, barely. In the early years he had a violent streak, would occasionally attack one of us if we came too close to his toothbrush, or killed a bug he was keeping as a pet. Like he did with Massoud. Spent time in the punishment cells rather than with the Cardassians, when given the choice. When Massoud died, he put a lid on it though. Not sure which I prefer frankly – the way he was then, or how he got after …" his voice trailed off.
Turn. Ask the obvious questions, the ones they'd expect. Tom ploughed on, determined to elicit as much information as he could. "You said you're from the Hiroshima. I vaguely remember when your ship disappeared; reports were it was shot down by Romulans inside the Neutral Zone. Obviously that's not so?"
Nyere shook his head. "Nav system malfunctioned and before Massoud realized it, we were in the Zone and the Romulans were on us. Captain surrendered. Figured the Romulans would deal. I mean, we were a science vessel, no real strategic value, and the whole idea of the Zone was that we wouldn't shoot at each other."
Tom nodded. "As I said earlier, there were sixty-five of us on board. They stuck all the male officers, eight of us, in here. The two female officers and the crew, I have no idea what happened to them. We'd been hoping they at least had been exchanged in some kind of deal, but based on what you said that doesn't seem to be the case."
His voice cracked momentarily. "My wife worked in Astrometrics. She was pregnant with our first. A boy."
"I'm so sorry." Tom paused for a moment, imagining the loss the man must have felt, every hour of every day, for the last ten years.
"And the ship …?" He prodded gently, if only just to take the Lieutenant's mind off his current path. Some old wounds were sometimes best not touched, in his own experience.
Nyere shrugged. "Who the hell knows. Probably flew her to Romulus and took her apart for the greater glory of the Empire and whatever technology they could scrounge. Captain did make us ditch all the files and smoke what we had for weapons systems before surrendering."
Turn. "Main reason the Captain followed along with that crazy idea of Gorman's: He felt guilty about handing her over. Wallowed in it. Marinated, for ten fucking years. Guess suicide must have looked pretty good. Me, I refuse to give up hope that someone will find out about this place some day and do something about it. But I'm not a hero either, so maybe I should start. Giving up, I mean."
Turn after turn they took in the blazing heat, Tom trading news from home – much of it second-hand, as he himself had heard it after Voyager's return – for information about the camp. Until a small moan escaped from the man who had been sitting with his back to the hut in the burning sand, either dozing or watching them in brooding silence.
Toller's head lolled forward, and he collapsed slowly, gracelessly, onto his side. His mouth was open but not drooling; he was clearly dehydrated. "Shit," Nyere spat, but made no move to assist.
Tom grabbed him by the arm. "What's the protocol here, are we in worse crap if we don't help and let him die, or if we do and he survives? My guess would be the former." Nyere thought for a second, then nodded. It was all the encouragement Tom needed to run over to the collapsed man. He picked him up, threw him over his shoulder and carried him into the relatively more moderate temperature inside the hut, amazed at how light he was. Practically desiccated, he thought with clinical detachment.
Tom spent the next hour trying to bring Toller's temperature down by making a makeshift compresses out of the small towels each inmate had in their personal boxes. He liberally doused them in water from the cooler beside the auto-heater and applied them to his temples, neck and forearm. Intermittently, he stuck a moistened towel in the man's mouth to rehydrate him, feeling inordinately pleased when, after a few times, the barely conscious man started to suck reflexively at the cloths. After a while he managed to dribble some actual fluid into his mouth, and motioned Nyere to take over this part of the treatment.
Only the Lieutenant seemed to take an interest in what Tom was doing; the other two men lay on their respective bunks, dozing or staring impassively at the ceiling. Schmidt managed a brief "Shoulda let him die, if that's what he wanted," before turning his face to the wall in a show of disinterest. Tom resisted the temptation to snarl back that the man probably was in no condition to know what he wanted; he did not, as understanding dawned that Schmidt was likely already a ways down that same road himself.
Once Toller seemed to have stabilized somewhat and with Nyere seemingly having lost interest in conversation for the time being, Tom went back to his bunk and flopped down. He spent a few minutes contemplating the ceiling above, trying to see what Schmidt found so fascinating in it.
It was really the underside of the roof, rather than a ceiling, made of dull grey metal, constructed out of a number of fitted panels, each of which had a small imprinted trademark in the corner. Instead of absorbing the sun's heat and radiating it out into the room, something in the composition of the panels – a special alloy? - seemed to either block or reflect it. It wasn't exactly air conditioning, but allowed the hut to maintain a somewhat more tolerable temperature than it would otherwise have had. When asked about it, Nyere shrugged but opined that only Ulak One seemed to enjoy this particular luxury, a fact Tom filed away carefully.
He tried to focus on the small mark; from the bunk, it looked like the letter 'C', with a smaller capital 'B' set into the curve. Not a script symbol he was familiar with from his six-week nighttime subliminal-instruction course in Basic Romulan he had volunteered for at the Kirk Centre (over B'Elanna's protests, as it had made him talk in his sleep).
But this was not the time to figure out the intricacies of fanciful Romulan manufacturing marks. Before long, Tom found his vision starting to blur with fatigue, and he dozed off.