Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 15 May 2004 17:39:27 -0700 In: alt.startrek.creative From: daria@ameritech.net (Daria) Title: Salvage Author: Daria Series: ENT Part: 1/11 Rating: [PG-13] Codes: Tu,R Summary: After the disasterous mission on Dorlog, Trip and Reed try Beta: This was beta'ed by A. who did an amazing job. You have no idea how much she improved this story. Absolutely fabulous beta reader. The mistakes are mine for continuing to mess with it. Spoilers: Notably Minefield, Desert Crossing, Silent Enemy, The Catwalk, Shuttlepod One, The Communicator, and possibly other eps from the first two seasons. Disclaimer: All the characters belong to Paramount, not me. This is just for fun, not for profit. Archive: EntSTFic, ff.net and ASC. Others ask first, please. A/N: This is a sequel to "Loss". I thought there was more story to be told, and couldn't stop wondering what happened next. You probably could follow the story without reading "Loss" first, but you'll wonder about some stuff and parts may not make sense, so this is fair warning. Set before the second season finale., since when I started this the third season hadn't begun. So... no Xindi, no attack on Earth, no MACOs, no T'Pol addiction to trellium, none of that. Oh, text between // would be in italics if I could figure out how to make that happen. If anyone wants to enlighten me, feel free. Feedback, particularly constructive criticism, always welcomed. *** The hot spray pounded Trip's body, relaxing his tight muscles and driving away the mud. He tipped his head forward, letting the water strike his neck and work its magic there, before tilting it back to rinse away the shampoo. He took a deep breath, inhaling the steam. There was something about standing in a near scalding shower when you were really, really dirty. Hot showers always felt good, but the dirtier you were at the start, the more coated in grime, the more exhausted, the better the shower felt. To follow that up by collapsing into bed, letting weary muscles melt into the mattress-- well, it was one of the more under appreciated pleasures in life. He hadn't expected to get so dirty. Sweaty and tired, yes. Filthy, no. After all, what were the odds that he'd get so muddy on a simple hike? On the Nexallian map, the climb had looked simple. Five kilometers up a path, not too steep a grade, and then another kilometer along a ridge to the waterfall. Just downstream from the falls was a reputedly excellent fishing spot. With no reason to anticipate trouble, he and Malcolm had purchased fishing poles at the trading station and boarded the station-to-planet transit. The ride had been short, and within an hour they were on the path. What hadn't been obvious on the map was that the route was neither smooth nor in good repair. Reaching the waterfall, and then the fishing spot, had required crawling over, under, and around a variety of obstacles. At one point, they'd slithered on their bellies under a fallen tree. Admittedly, the waterfall had been worth every bit of the effort. Trip had seen some incredible waterfalls on Earth, but Nexallian waterfall was the most impressive he'd encountered. The water fell hundreds of meters to pound on the rocks below and creat a mist that reached all the way back up to the viewing site. The tiny droplets of water had settled on him, creating a thin film of mud from the dust that already coated him. The engineer in Trip couldn't help but think of all the things that could be powered by the tremendous amount of stored energy. He could envision a large city powered by the falling water, imagining the schematics of the powerplants that would convert the energy. It would be an engineering marvel, but it would destroy the natural beauty of the area. The Nexallians had instead chosen to preserve the magnificent beauty of the site. As they'd hiked through the preserve, Trip was glad of the Nexallian's decision. // "Catching anything?" Trip gave up on the spot he was fishing and moved downstream, closer to where Malcolm was casting his line. Malcolm shook his head and offered a half-smile. "Not so much as a nibble. I haven't fished in years, but I don't remember my luck every being so poor." "Whatcha using for bait?" "These rather smelly little balls of goo. The man at the trading station said they're very effective on both lake and stream fish on this part of the planet." Trip had no idea what might be effective bait on Nexal, so he just nodded wisely. "Ah. Well, I'm using this live bait the other guy was selling. But I haven't had much luck either. It's too bad-- I was hoping for some fresh fish. I'm sure Chef could find a recipe for Nexallian trout." Malcolm reeled in his line to check the hook. Finding it empty, he deftly re-baited it, and cast out again. "Something is getting a free meal. That's the third time I've found an empty hook." "Are you sure you're getting the bait on real secure?" Malcolm shot him a look. "Of course I'm sure, Commander. I do know how to bait a hook." Trip took a step back, raising his hands in a warding off, placating gesture. "All right, all right! Just asking!" Malcolm relented. "I'm not feeling anything taking the bait either. I wonder..." he leaned his rod against a tree and took some of the bait in his fingers. Walking to the edge of the water he knelt down and placed his hand in it. His eyes narrowed. "What is it?" Trip joined him at the water's side. "That bloody idiot..." "What?" "Look!" Malcolm gestured at his hand. The bait had disappeared, completely dissolved in the water. "The bait falls apart in the water. No wonder the damn stuff won't stay on the hook." He rose and strode back to his rod and began reeling it in. "I've been fishing the whole bloody day without any bait on the hook!" Trip snorted. He covered his mouth, trying to stifle the laugh, but couldn't. The image of Malcolm patiently waiting for a fish to nibble his empty hook was just too funny. He snorted again, and it turned into a cough, which turned into a choking sound. Malcolm looked at him, at first with concern, and then when he realized the reason Trip couldn't breathe, with considerably less sympathy. "It isn't funny." "Yes," Trip could barely speak, he was trying so hard not to laugh. "It is." Malcolm studied him, and finally cracked a small smile. "I suppose it is." Trip managed to regain some control. "Would you like to try some of this live bait? It stays... on th ... hook," he managed. Unable to contain himself, he burst into a full laugh. After a moment, Malcolm joined in. *** "Your bait did, indeed, stay on the hook," Malcolm commented as they began packing up the gear and preparing to hike down the mountain. "As compared to into the mouths of the fish, where I was hoping it might go." Trip tensed slightly at the perceived criticism, but when he glanced at Malcolm he saw the barest hint of a smile and knew he was being teased. "I'm sorry! They said this was a no-fail fishing spot." He shrugged. "I guess we just didn't have luck with us today." "It's fine, Commander. It was a nice outing anyway. Really, a lovely day." Malcolm reassured him. Trip had tried, really tried, to come up with a fun way of spending the afternoon on the planet. Something that was relaxing, and unlikely to remind them of the last time they'd gone planet-side together. And, for the most part, he'd succeeded. There had been a brief disagreement when after a few hours of futility Trip had suggested renting a boat to fish further out on the lake. Malcolm had, without explanation, firmly vetoed the plan. Trip had been irked at his crewmate's refusal to even consider the idea, and for a brief period there had been the danger of a full-blown argument, but Trip had backed down. He had continued to make mumbled comments throughout the afternoon about how the deeper water was certain to hold a treasure trove of fish, but the grumbling was good natured. Other than that mini-conflict, the day had been uneventful. If it had been awkward at times, Trip could live with that. Gathering their equipment together, unburdened by any fish, they made the hike back to the station-to-planet transit departure pad while Trip invented "fish stories" he planned to tell the crew to explain their empty hands. Malcolm just listened.// *** On a starship showers had to be short-lived luxuries so Trip found his allotted time ending before he'd had the chance to fully enjoy it. Toweling off, Trip rolled his shoulders; even after the hot water, his muscles were stiffening from the unaccustomed exertions. He really needed to resume his fitness routine, he thought. A slight twinge over his ribs reminded him why he had abandoned it. It momentarily sobered him. He tried to push the thought away, but couldn't help wondering how Malcolm was faring; perhaps he should have picked something less strenuous. After all, the armory officer hadn't been working out recently either. Was Malcolm sitting in his quarters, aching and sore, blaming Trip for the discomfort? With an effort, Trip forced that line of thinking out of his mind; there was nothing to be gained by pursuing it, and his imaginings were unlikely to be true. Today had gone well, he told himself. It hadn't been perfect, but it had been a first step. Trip had been nervous about the outing. He'd wanted to go to the planet's surface, and was glad to have a companion to fish with, but that hadn't been his true motivation. The fishing trip had been a chance to do something with Malcolm away from the ship. It had been fun, but his crewmate had been quiet, a little distant. Oh, he'd been polite, and had even tried to hold up his end of the conversation, but at times the chatter had felt forced--they were doing this because they should. The natural camaraderie they had once shared was missing. Maybe the awkwardness was normal, Trip reflected. After all, on the ship they had their jobs and other duties to fall back on, a built in source of conversation. On the planet, it had only been the two of them; the onus was on them to keep the conversation going. And that, Trip had discovered, was not an easy task. He couldn't remember ever having so much difficulty making conversation. So many topics held potential danger-- things they didn't want to comment on, for fear of where the conversation might lead, and the memories that might be invoked. They had steered the discussion away from anything even remotely threatening... and that didn't really leave very much to talk about. There was an elephant in the living room, but no one was mentioning it. *** // Malcolm couldn't scream anymore. His throat had simply stopped making sound, the abused vocal cords so swollen they could no longer vibrate properly against one another-- yet he was unable to stop trying to make the noise as his body protested the abuse. They wanted answers, but how was he going to be able to speak? He writhed in pain, as the hot poker touched his skin, scalding his flesh, marring it. He was no longer aware of the tears streaming from his eyes; he was unable to control them and they were the least of his concerns. "Are you sure you don't have something you'd like to share with us, Mr. Reed?" a voice taunted. He did have something he wanted to tell. Anything they wanted to know, as a matter of fact. But he couldn't. His ship-- his friends-- would be in danger. His head was fuzzy and he knew he was about to lose consciousness. He longed for the surcease of the pain that the blackness would bring, but it was denied him; a harsh slap and a sluicing of ice cold water brought him back to unpleasant reality. "You're sure you don't have anything to say?" the Dorlogian's voice dripped with false concern. "I can't imagine you'd like to go on with this. Nothing to share? No? All right then, I guess we'll keep going." He gasped for breath, desperate. The poker came down again, hit another tender piece of skin. He was unable to see, his rapidly swelling eyes having finally closed, and not being able to see what was coming fed his fear. "Really, Mr. Reed. I would think you could give me just a bit of information. One question. Just answer one question for me." Malcolm nodded agreement. He hadn't meant to. His head moved, seemingly on its own, as his body betrayed him in a desperate ploy to survive. "Very well." A cup was held to his lips. He swallowed eagerly, and then nearly spat the bitter liquid out. "I know it isn't very nice, but it should reduce the swelling in your throat a little. For now." And it had. Within five minutes, Malcolm could speak enough to form soft words. Ten minutes later he'd known he was a traitor. After he answered the first question, they asked another, and then another. He answered them all, struggling to keep his head, to not sink into the dark depths of panic. He wanted to stop talking, to catch his breath and regroup, but having achieved a tiny respite from the pain he was unable to gather the strength needed to face it again. He knew that refusing to answer would bring back the agony and this time he feared it would pull him under, stealing his sanity. He tried to slow the interrogation, but it was futile-- when he hesitated they simply raised the hot poker, letting him hear the hiss of steam, and he began speaking rapidly once more.// *** Reed woke with a start and sat up, his eyes moving rapidly as he scanned the small room. He was soaked with sweat and his heart was racing. Recognizing his quarters, he managed a deep breath and lay back down, tense muscles slowly relaxing at the realization that he'd been dreaming. It was several minutes more before his heart stopped pounding. He shifted in his bunk, trying to get comfortable, sore from the day's exertions. He wondered if it was this discomfort, or the fact that he had spent the whole day with Trip, that had caused the nightmare-- he hadn't had one in two weeks, and had thought they were a thing of the past. Restless, he rose and went to the sink to splash his face with cool water, rinsing away the perspiration. He downed a glass of cold water before returning to bed, hoping to sleep but knowing he probably wouldn't; the dream lingered, and the reawakened memories threatened to keep him awake. Malcolm had been able to forgive himself for answering that first question, gradually coming to understand that it had been a matter of survival. It was answering the questions that followed that had taken him longer to come to terms with. He thought he had managed to put it behind him, but his disrupted sleep indicated otherwise. He thumped his pillow, and then hit it again for good measure, before turning it cool side up and beginning the age-old ritual of counting sheep. -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Awards Tech Support http://www.trekiverse.us/ASCAwards/commenting/ No Tribbles were harmed in the running of these Awards ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek.creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? 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