Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 14 Jan 2004 14:31:18 -0800 In: alt.startrek.creative From: space_cowboy911@hotmail.com (SpaceCowboy) Title: Testament of the Spirit Author: SpaceCowboy Email: space_cowboy911@hotmail.com Series: ENT Part: 2 (plus prologue)/6 Rating: R for language Codes: Tu, R, A, Act, Angst Archive: ASC, others please ask Summary: The two Starfleet officers had just become the most hated, cbi"Don't serve your country, don't serve your king. Know your customs, but don't speak your tongue. White man came took everyone."/i/b/c cb-Midnight Oil/b/c cbi‘The Dead Heart'/i/b/c cbCHAPTER TWO/b/c LIEUTENANT MALCOLM REED COULD feel his skin burning. After several hours under the callous sun, spontaneous combustion was starting to sound like a good idea- and highly plausible. It would be an end to his misery, and that's all he cared about at this moment. That, and his friend and Commander, Charles Trip Tucker the III. He was quickly degenerating under this heat. There wasn't anything Reed could do except curse Phlox's non-presence, so he kept a watchful eye. And when Trip stumbled trying to lift one of the gigantic concrete slabs into place, Reed felt his own stomach lurch. He quickly scanned the area. It appeared none of the guards had noticed. And when Trip finally got the slab into place, Reed saw him bend over to recover, bracing his hands on his knees. "Trip," he cautioned in a restrained voice. Trip looked back with a nod. Then he rose, drawing in a deep breath. Reed didn't have to say anything further. But the contents of Trip's stomach could be stupid that way. They didn't care if anyone was watching. They were coming out regardless of place or time. Reed tensed as Trip stumbled behind a rock, using it to support himself as he bent down. Reed caught the tail end of Trip's regurgitation and coughed purposefully, masking the unmistakable sounds coming from his friend. Examining the rock concealing the commander, Reed peered over and watched his friend spit out the last of the bile remaining in his mouth. "You all right?" he asked. Trip wiped his mouth, kicking dirt over the mess at his feet. "What do you think?" he said, more bitterly than intended. "Let's get back to work before anyone notices." "Just try and take it easy." Trip smiled weakly. "Tell Blasius that," he replied, heading for another slab. "I'd like to tell Blasius a few other things as well," replied Reed. About to run down a list of complaints, he was interrupted by a commotion near one of the compound's perimeters. Several guards were ushering in a new group of prisoners. They were bound at their ankles by chains, their mouths gagged as they were led into the compound. Reed looked down at his feet shaking his head. There had to be at least fifty in the new group, each unaware of what was to come. He forced his breath out in a puff. iThere's has to be something I can do?/i Reed asked himself. iI can't let this continue, I'm a bloody armory officer!/i He looked around the compound, scoping the area for weaknesses. An instructor at the Academy had once taught him, i'You will know your enemies weaknesses when you find them and take advantage of them.'/i The only problem Reed found with that was, without his precious technology he couldn't find any weaknesses in Blasius' militaristic alliance. Malcolm Reed had to admit, as insane as the guy was, Blasius knew what he was doing. c~/c With night came the evacuation of the compound. Per Blasius' protocols, slaves were herded back underground to the intricate cave network. It was difficult to keep a watchful eye on the prisoners in the dark. They were harder to keep track of, and escape became more of a possibility. This also allowed Blasius' guards and retinue some rest time. A tyrant to his slaves he was, but to his men he was a benevolent leader- treating them to drink and stories as they relaxed amongst the grandiose tent city erected next to the budding fortress. Blasius understood the concept that a well treated apostle would be a loyal apostle. So each night he walked amongst them, ate with them, shared in their camaraderie and drank in their praise and worship like a gluttonous pig. But below was a different story all together. The guards on duty for the evening were beginning roll call. Taking each cavern scattered underneath the compound in groups, they rounded up the slaves in orderly lines. Here they were able to inspect the physical condition of each slave, and make sure no one had gone missing during the day. Reed pushed a few slaves into line as he heard the approaching guards. Then he quickly took his place amongst them, standing next to Trip on the end. "Are you going to be all right?" he asked, turning to his friend. Trip blinked, breaking his glazed stare into nothingness. "I haven't been sick in awhile," he responded slowly. "That's what I'm afraid of," replied Reed. "You're about due." Trip swallowed hard, and tasting bile, he figured he should change the topic. "I haven't seen any of the new comers, have you?" he asked quietly. "I heard through the grapevine most of ‘em were students." "I heard at least two made it through," replied Reed. "But I don't know if that's for the better. I guess it's a good thing we have strength on our side, or we might have been tortured and killed like the rest of the intellects in our group." "If I remember correctly," started Trip, with a frown. "We weren't the most intelligent victims in our group. It couldn't have been too difficult for the guards to determine which group we belonged too." Reed held back a laugh. "Ah yes," he said. "You answered the guard's questions with such wisdom and persuasiveness- a blank stare. Remind me to thank you later for not studying Hexite culture before we came down here." Trip made a face but didn't have a chance to reply. The guards entered the cavern expecting complete silence and co-operation. As if their task were demeaning and redundant, the guards picked over the slaves and checked their lists for the correct count. They paused at a few slaves, but only long enough to shout unanswered questions concerning any form of treason against Blasius. By the end of the ordeal, it appeared the count was right and no one had any conspiratorial information, so the guards started towards the exit. But one remained behind, holding his chin in hand while scrutinizing the line of slaves. The guard stepped toward Trip, and Reed snapped his head around to face his friend. His commander was starring back at him, his eyes apprehensive with a hint of fear. iDamn/i. Thought Reed, thinning his lips. iThey've noticed/i. "I see we've learned to co-operate now," chided the guard, sizing Trip up with his eyes. This caught the attention of the other guards as they came to stand behind their apparent leader- adding more anxiety to an already tense situation. Trip furrowed his brow. "You don't remember me?" asked the guard, placing his nose inches from the engineers. Trip pulled his head back unsure. The guard laughed and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh, but you must," he replied boisterously. "We had such a lovely little chat this afternoon in the compound." Trip swallowed hard, now recognizing the guard's face. "Well, you're all so ugly it's hard to tell you apart," he rebuked. The guard quickly dropped his friendly facade, balling his hands into fists. In a quick, smooth motion, he lashed out with his right hand. His fist landed squarely in the middle of Reed's face. The armoury officer staggered from the blow, landing sprawled on the ground behind the line. Trip charged the guard. Two of the guards grabbed the commander, locking his arms behind his back. Trip tried to struggle, but they were strong, not giving him much leeway. Then one of them wrapped a hand around his head, covering his mouth in a tight grip. Trip was silenced and restrained, and unable to break free. Lieutenant Reed slowly picked himself off the ground, stunned, angry and carefully tugging on his right earlobe to check the translator. Every part of him wanted to rush the guards- possibly shove a phase torpedo up their ass, but that little display made him reconsider. They weren't going to play fair, so he took a deep breath and tried to contain himself. But there was only so much self restraint a man could have. "Bastard," he mumbled under his breath. The head guard squared his jaw, defining the muscles in his chin. "Did I say you could speak?" he hissed between yellow teeth. "You can't...!" began Reed. "Again you speak!" shouted the guard, keeping his eyes trained on Reed, but pointing to another prisoner down the line. "Kill him," he ordered evenly. Two guards rushed the unsuspecting prisoner being singled out. Reed tried to stop them before they had a chance to carry out the order, but he was quickly restrained by the head guard. "You can't do this!" screamed Reed, trying to free himself. But he was also silenced with a hand clamped over his mouth. "You speak again," snarled the head guard, twisting Reed's arm up his back. "You will learn," he threatened, nodding his head at another innocent prisoner. "Kill him too." Reed was forced to watch as the two prisoners were killed. Two guards, each grabbing a prisoner from behind, wrapped an arm around their victim's shoulder and the other in the opposite direction around their head and grabbing their chin. In one quick move the guards snapped the necks. iCrack. Crack/i. It was so quick the victims didn't have a chance to scream. The guards had done it with practiced accuracy, like they had done it so many times before now. Reed closed his eyes as the two dead bodies slumped to the ground in a heap at the guard's feet. He felt like he was going to pass out. He had seen people killed before, it was an unfortunate part of the job as a Starfleet officer, but this was different. These victims had not been killed in a war, or in self-defence, but because of him. Because he couldn't keep his mouth shut and control himself. He felt himself weaken and leaned his weight back on the guard holding him. His legs wouldn't support him any longer. He wanted to fall to the ground and melt into the earth. Hide forever. He hit the ground hard when the guard finally released him. On his knees, Reed buried his head in his hands, unable to look at anyone. "Now that you know how things work around here," started the head guard, walking back to the cavern's entrance. "We shouldn't have anymore problems." Reed didn't respond. He kept his face and guilt hidden. "Grab those bodies," ordered the guard. "We need to make room in here for two more slaves... Live ones would be nice, don't you think?" he chided, receiving a chorus of laughs from the other guards. But Reed didn't hear him. His mind screamed too loud to hear any outside noise. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He could only remain on his knees, face buried and frozen in that moment- when he heard the necks snap, one after the other. iCrack. Crack/i. It wasn't until Trip came and knelt beside him that he moved, and then, only slightly. He felt an arm drape over his shoulder. And the two of them remained that way for some time. For nothing could be said. Nothing could be done. The rest of the cavern's residents left them, walking away in silence. The two Starfleet officers had just become the most hated, and most feared, prisoners in the cave. c*** *** ***/c Night could be such an oddity. It could be your best friend, displaying magnificent stars and bringing with it peaceful dreams. Or it could be your worst enemy, creating a blackened earth and too much time to think. Looking to the stars usually eased the pain inside Archer, but on this night they only taunted him. Sparkling high above in the heavens, they reflected a sense that everything was all right with the universe. They were too beautiful to reflect anything else. But Archer couldn't find it in himself to share in their optimism. Instead, he felt more in tune with the dark matter between them- the empty, black spaces that seemed to go on forever. He threw another pebble into the fire, watching as tiny orange and white sparks flickered and faded. Several search parties had congregated for the evening- to share information. Archer had tried to convince everyone to keep searching through the night, but most had been too tired. Some had been on his side, wanting to push ahead with the search, but reason had a way of changing one's mind. And reason was usually a wise Vulcan urging everyone to get some sleep. Even though he was the captain, Archer had lost his battle with T'Pol, and was stubbornly beginning to think he should leave the rest behind and set out after his crew members alone. "Do you require company?" came a soft voice across the fire. "I've heard it is customary for humans to console with each other during times of... distress." Archer squinted through the smoke till he recognized T'Pol's angular face. "Sure. Why not," he replied, making room on his log. T'Pol walked around the fire carrying a blanket, and took a seat next to her captain. She wrapped the blanket over his shoulders. "Dr. Phlox thought you might be cold," she said, with a raised eyebrow. "Thanks," mumbled Archer, pulling the blanket tighter around his body. T'Pol stretched her legs out in front of her, letting her feet feel the heat from the fire. "Humans have an uncanny ability to project their thoughts on their face. Captain, I believe I could accurately assume what you are thinking at this precise moment," she said, cocking her head to face him. "Is that a Vulcan's way of asking what's on my mind?" T'Pol ignored the question. "You are considering setting out on your own." Archer didn't respond. "But you need not worry," continued T'Pol. "Because I'm not going to allow you to make such a foolish mistake." Archer looked at her. "What makes you think you could?" he asked. "If that was what I was thinking, there's no way you could stop me." T'Pol cocked an eyebrow. "It is possible to stop the mighty Captain Archer," she replied. "I know a few things..." "And what would they be, T'Pol?" "I know you," replied the female sub-commander, receiving a confused look from her captain. "And I know that you would do anything you could to find Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed. So when I tell you the best thing you can do for them is get some sleep, I know you will listen to me." Archer shook his head, furrowed his brow. "How can sleeping help them?" he questioned. "We're just wasting time-" T'Pol cut him off before his voice grew loud enough to wake the others. "What happens to you when you do not get your required sleep?" she asked, not waiting for a response. "You become phlegmatic. Your alertness diminishes. You are no longer attentive. It's the way the body works; human or Vulcan." "What's your point?" "My point," she stated, drawing in her legs. "Is that if you do not get some sleep, give yourself time to rest, you might miss something when we are actively searching. You might miss that track in the ground. You might not hear that whisper in the crowd, or that smell floating on a breeze. And these are the things we need to take notice of if we're going to find the Commander and Lieutenant." Archer pushed his breath out and closed his eyes. Lacing his fingers behind his neck, he bowed his head. "You're right as always," he replied. "But just promise me one thing?" "What is that, Captain?" "Don't ever go anywhere without me?" T'Pol drew her head back, the closest look to puzzlement as a Vulcan could get. "That is an illogical request," she replied. "I know," sighed Archer, slumping his shoulders. "But I'm feeling cynical, humour me." T'Pol stood up. "You can not protect the universe, Captain." "Maybe not," he replied, turning to face her. "But at least I can try and protect the ones in my crew." biTBC/i/b -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Stories Only Forwarding In the Pattern Buffer at: http//trekiverse.crosswinds.net/feed/ Yahoo! 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