Testament of the Spirit- Chapter 3

Testament of the Spirit
by SpaceCowboy

Disclaimers in Author's Note/Prologue.

"There's thunder all around me, and there's poison in the air.
There's a lousy smell that smacks of hell, and dust all in me hair.
And it's go boys go, they'll time your every breath.
And everyday you're in this place, you're two days nearer death.
But you go..."
-Great Big Sea
'Chemical Workers Song’

CHAPTER THREE

"GIVE IT UP, COMMANDER. You're never going to catch one as big as mine."

A crushing pain exploded at the base of his neck.

Reed’s eyes flew open, his internal clock waking him before the morning guards arrived. It had been the same dream he'd had since their capture. It always started in the same place, and it always ended with the same crushing blow. He was getting tired of seeing his mistakes play over and over again in his mind. But he was thankful it wasn't last night's incident he had dreamt about.

Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he reached for his belt buckle. It was an unconscious move, and one he never gave much thought to- he merely did it when he felt despondent.

The buckle was his talisman. A gift from Commander Tucker.

After learning the hard way, time alone with Trip in Shuttlepod One, Reed had begun to believe in optimism. And according to Trip, a talisman was an excellent focal point when strength was needed. So when they had returned to Enterprise after that frozen adventure, Trip had pulled off one of the StarFleet emblems from the com-panel Reed had used to record his dreary letters of death, and fashioned it into a belt buckle in remembrance of their survival.

And now it was Reed’s amulet of optimism and strength.

Thinking of Trip, Reed turned over. He squeezed his eyes shut, thankful his commander was still there. He gave him a nudge, but Trip didn't respond. Reed sat up and rolled him onto his back, careful to support his head. The commander felt limp, damp and considerably light in his arms.

A few weeks ago Charles Tucker had been a sturdy guy, a competitor to reckon with. But now he was thin and weak. Reed looked himself over, noting he faired no better himself. But at least he wasn't sick.

Some of the other prisoners were also rising, but making it obviously clear they wanted nothing to do with them. No one would even make eye contact with Reed, let alone help.

"Come on, Commander," Reed pleaded, feeling his forehead with the palm of his hand. "How can you have a fever...? It's freezing in here." He looked over his shoulder. "Someone get that fire started!" he ordered, to no one in particular.

"Shut up!" replied a voice in the crowd. "You don't give orders 'round here!"

Reed squinted in the dim light trying to put a face with the voice. A young wiry man stepped forward, barefoot, his face dirty and scowling as he bent beside Trip.

"And since he won't be needing these no more," the prisoner said, untying the commander’s boots as others gathered around.

Reed shoved him away, using the thief to knock the others back. "Touch him, and you'll have to deal with me!" he threatened, re-lacing his friend's boots. Then he stood to confront them head on. But they were retreating. Turning their backs once again on the ones in need.

"Damn it, Commander," Reed sighed, turning back to his friend. "Just wake up. That’s an order." He saw his friend open his eyes. Trip raised his arm, indicating a help up.

Reed grabbed the hand and hoisted the commander to his feet. He pulled him close, their foreheads almost touching, and he could feel the heat emanating from his friend's body. "You have to do this, Mr. Tucker," Reed said quietly. "Don't leave me now. I can't handle all these thugs on my own."

Trip pulled his head back to look over Reed’s shoulder. “They look like a real mob to reckon with,” he said playfully.

"We shouldn't joke," replied Reed, following Trip's gaze. "I mean, I can't blame them for hating me."

Trip placed a hand on Reed’s shoulder. “It's over. Let it go. You couldn't know what was going to happen last night.”

"Maybe. But..."

“But nothing, Lieutenant. It's not your fault. Blame it all on Blasius. Without him, none of this would be happening. Just let it go.”

"On one condition, " responded Reed with a smile. "I'll try and stop blaming myself, and you make it through the day without being sick?"

Trip winked. “That would be up to my stomach,” he said wryly.

*** *** ***

At the edge of another town, Captain Archer readied his group to enter. As they headed down the trail, a heavily cloaked figure flew past them on a burly four-legged animal, kicking up a dust cloud behind him.

Ensign Sato covered her mouth, coughing as the dust entered her lungs. "Like they couldn't see us here!" she choked, waving her hand to disperse the lingering dust.

"Maybe he has an agenda?" questioned Phlox. "Like news?"

"We don't know if anyone from this town is missing," pointed out Archer. Then he walked ahead, taking the lead as the group entered the town.

The residents ceased their daily activities. Woman dropped their bags, elderly men stowed their tools and children stopped playing their games. All eyes reverted to the large entourage bearing stern faces and invading their town. It had been just over a month since their invasion, and for all they knew these determined strangers were amongst the culprits.

The town’s magistrate and numerous families- including new born children, had disappeared one night, never to be seen again. Aside from the empty beds and derelict stores and establishments that did not open the next morning, there had been few clues left behind.

Finally one of the women stepped forward, singling out the front man of the gang as the leader. She approached tentatively, her hands shaking. "Hello," she said.

Archer noted the woman's apprehension and smiled warmly. "Hello," he began. "It's a very nice town you have here. And rest assured, we mean you know harm." He paused, looking at the faces staring and watching him closely. "I believe we may actually be of some service."

*** *** ***

The morning had passed without incident for the slaves, but a certain tension hung in the air. Reed couldn't put his finger on it, but somehow the guards seemed a little more on edge, a little more alert and attentive to their duties. Not that they were ever dismissive about their jobs, but today they appeared to take them a bit more seriously. Standing a little closer as they worked. Brandishing their weapons a tad more ferociously. Shouting more threats than normal.

There was also a large placard hanging on one of the fortress walls. It was new, and according to one of the few slaves who could read, it was a list of regulations.

You must answer all questions without hesitation.
You are strictly prohibited to dispute me.
You are a slave of the new revolution and are refused any rights under it.
If you know anything about a revolution against me, speak now and punishment will be less severe.
During lesson time or interrogation, you must not cry out.
Do nothing until my orders are given. And you must comply without protest.
Any disobedience will result in punishment.

And finally, which Reed found amusing...

If you can read this, you will most likely be killed tomorrow.

Reed sensed their situation becoming gravely worse.

He tried to stay as close to his commander as possible. Trip hadn't been sick yet, but there was also another matter that concerned Reed. His friend could be just as pig headed as him, and Reed didn't want there to be anymore trouble. Especially after last night's demonstration.

The lieutenant patted his chest, discharging puffs of white smoke into the air. The dust particles settled on his clothes and stuck to his sweaty skin. He was filthy, and covered head to toe in dry powder from the concrete slabs. And he was pretty sure he smelled bad too. Coughing, he bent down to catch his breath.

Rope.

The rope he had been using to tow the larger slabs was lying at his feet. Confident no one was watching, he seized the rope and tucked it into his shirt. He made sure it was completely hidden, adjusting his belts accordingly and stood up. Spotting Trip working on top the fortress wall, Reed headed over.

~

Trip had learned it was easier if he just didn't think about it; ignore his queasy stomach, the heavy work and the sweltering heat. Just concentrate on spreading the mortar.

Scoop. Plop. Spread. Scoop. Plop. Spread.

He repeated the actions over and over again like a drill. He was so into his routine he didn't notice Reed approaching. And when his friend called his name, Trip jumped, dropping his spade over the edge of the wall inside the fortress.

Trip hunched his shoulders, watching the tool miss a guard's head by mere inches. Then he turned to Reed. “Thank you. Now why don't you just kill me before that guy comes up here and does it himself.”

Reed made a face and peered over the wall's edge. "Sorry," he replied sheepishly. "So, how are you doing?" he asked.

Trip rested his elbows on the wall, careful not to lean too far. “I’m ready to get out of here,” he replied, hanging his head. “You saw that sign. We can't stay here. This is pathetic. It's unreal. We've been here for... for... I can't even remember how long we've been here. And I can't believe we haven't done anything. There's gotta be a way outta here.”

Reed joined him on the wall. "We've gone over this," he said. "And you saw what happens when one person acts up. Can you imagine what would happen if two of us escaped? It would be a massacre. And I couldn't live with myself."

Trip slammed his fist on the wall, pushed himself back and started pacing. “What if we all worked together?”

Reed stepped to the other side of the wall overlooking the compound. "Oh yes," he mused, watching the prisoners skulking about their work. "An army any General would be proud to take into battle." He turned back to Trip, crossing his arms over his chest. "Most of them couldn't fight even if they were given the chance. I'd bet more than half of them have already given up any hope of getting out of here."

Stopping mid pace, Trip clenched his fists. “What if we snuck out at daybreak and made it back before evening count? The guards wouldn't know we were gone.”

"And do what?"

“I don't know! Find someone! Tell someone what's going on here and to get help!”

"I think it's better if we wait," replied Reed, shocked by his own sensibility.

“Wait for what, Lieutenant?!”

"The captain. T’Pol. Enterprise," stated Reed. "I know they're still out there looking for us." He paused, trying to lock eyes with Trip. "And you of all people know it too."

Trip swallowed and closed his eyes. A wave of dizziness swept over him and he wavered. Grabbing for the wall, he missed, and slumped to the ground. Dazed, Trip shook his head, trying to regain his senses. But his head felt heavy, it lolled to the side. And the contents of his stomach began to reel. He clutched his abdomen, tucking into the fetal position.

That was when Reed grabbed him by the shoulders and roughly hoisted him to his feet. Trip tried to stand on wobbly legs, but it was a tiring job and he started to collapse again.

Reed grabbed him harder, shaking him. "Hey," he whispered. "The guards are coming. Don't let this happen now. Get a grip." He let go, waiting to see if Trip could stand on his own.

Trip snapped his eyes open. His vision was blurry, but he could see three approaching figures coming across the wall. He couldn't let them see him falter or he wouldn't live to see the next sunrise. And by the time the guards were in front of him he had regained his composure. Or at least, a reasonable facsimile.

"Down into the compound!" ordered one of the guards as they walked past. "And get a move on!"

Reed watched over his shoulder as the guards continued down the wall, repeating the order to the rest of the slaves. He turned to Trip just as he slumped back against the wall. Reed grabbed him by the utility belt and pulled him upright. "Just make it to the compound," he said, pulling him along. "We can get lost in the crowd and then you can collapse all you want. Just stay with me till then.”

~

As if it weren't hot enough, being squished amongst several hundred sweaty slaves was down right unbearable. Trip, using the crowd as camouflage, squatted beside Reed. Here, there was a little shade. It wasn't much, but it was something.

“What's going on?” he asked.

Reed raised on his toes, his head poking above the throng of other heads in the crowd. "It's hard to tell," he replied, straining his neck. "There's a group of guards milling about up there by the wall, and... And..." his voice trailed off, unable to escape his lips. His heart began slamming in his chest.

Trip’s queasy stomach was momentarily forgotten, replaced by fear.

Reed lowered himself, running a hand through his greasy hair. When the guards had parted, he had recognized the equipment set up against the fortress wall. He figured most of the other prisoners did as well, but Reed knew more. He knew that inconspicuous piece of junk had more than one purpose. "It looks like lesson time again," he said. "It's a wheel."

At the words, Trip sprang up a little too quickly and staggered. He steadied himself using Reed's shoulder, and hoisted his head above the crowd. But blinding pain seared through his head, forcing him back. He grabbed his head, doubling over and grimacing at the pain. He squeezed his eyes tight, mumbling what few words he could manage to articulate.

“Make it stop...”

The crowd scuttled back, frightened to be seen with the sick slave. Reed stepped over his friend and wrapped his arms under Trip's shoulders. He hoisted him up, dragging him back into the crowd. He had to keep his friend hidden. He had to make sure the guards didn't see how sick he was. He had to ignore his friend's plea- which was difficult since the commander was still writhing in pain and clutching his head.

Finding a new spot amongst the crowd, Reed deposited Trip on the ground, lying him on his back at everyone's feet.

Trip rolled over, curling into the fetal position. “Just get away from me,” he said. “You can't do anything... I'll just be your burden.” Then he covered his head with his arms.

Reed dropped to his knees, grabbed Trip by his shirt. "Don't you ever say that," he stated, clenching his jaw. "I’m not leaving you."

Trip shook his head. “Go... Please...”

Reed found his friend's hand and wrapped it in his. "I can't tell you I'm not scared," he said, leaning over Trip. "But we have to do this. Together. Where's that stubborn southerner we all know and love?" he asked, trying unsuccessfully to lighten his tone. "Huh? I know he's in there."

Trip laughed, but the effort hurt his head. He knew if he looked hard enough, he could find a little fight left in himself. And when he found it, the pounding in his head didn't feel quite so bad. He forced himself to get up, but what energy he did find wasn't quite enough to get him to his feet. He contented himself, and Reed, to remaining on his knees.

Reed patted his friend on the head playfully. "There, that's a good little engineer."

Trip didn't look up, he merely raised a single finger, communicating a very distinct message.

Reed ignored it and turned his attention to the commotion at the base of the fortress. Amongst the guards now stood a figure draped in a long, thick black coat, a tall hat tilted slightly askew on his head, and a cane hanging from the crook of his arm. Reed squinted as the sun's rays bounced off the shiny tip of the cane, reflecting back over the crowd.

Oh, that must be Blasius. Reed thought to himself.

A hush fell over the compound as the man stepped onto a concrete slab, holding his head high as he looked over his subjects. The man's arrogance made Reed want to wretch. But he watched and listened anyway, for this was the first time Blasius had ever shown his face.

The man stood on his make-shift podium smiling out at the crowd for several moments before addressing them. "You are my slaves!" he bellowed, holding the last word for several beats. "You are nothing! And you come from nothing!"

“Don't tell me,” said Trip from his knees. “Blasius?”

Reed nodded exasperated and turned back to the psychopath and his touching speech.

"But through me you will become legend!" continued Blasius, raising his arms in a 'V' over his head. "I will reshape this world in a way never seen before. I will reduce it to nothing, and start a new beginning. And through your hard work, sacrifice and dedication you will build my empire!"

"Dedication, my ass," mumbled Reed.

"And I give you this privilege... I allow you to be part of something greater than this world has ever seen before, and how do you repay me?!" shouted Blasius, his face contorting in anger and resentment. "With insolence and impertinence! You show me no respect and act against my guards! You will give me my due admiration! You will praise me as your new sovereign!"

The guards surrounding the crowd rushed forth, knocking the prisoners to their knees with the ends of their weapons. "Bow before your leader!" they screamed, making their way through the mob. "Kneel!"

“Where does he get off calling himself a sovereign?” rebuked Trip.

"Must be a Vulcan," mused Reed, whipping around to keep a watchful eye on the approaching guards.

"You'll show your respect!" boomed the guard's voices, rising high above the murmurs of the frightened crowd. "On your knees!"

Seeing several guards a few paces to his left, Reed dropped to his knees. "I never thought I'd bow down to anyone," he cursed with venom.

Trip shrugged. “Well, seeing how I'm already down here...”

Reed shot him a dry look before bowing his own head. A moment later a pair of dusty black boots appeared below his face. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to look up, but his curiosity got the better of him. Raising his head slowly, his eyes traced the boots up to the legs, and then higher to the guard's face.

"So, it is you," said the guard, smiling down at him. "Oh, this will be fun," he laughed, reaching his muscular arms for both Reed and Trip.

*** *** ***

"Your town is not alone," explained Captain Archer to the gathering town's folk. "Young men and families have gone missing all across the countryside. Sons, fathers, sisters, merchants and anyone who dared an education... Even two of my own crew...friends."

"It's the Gods!" shouted an old woman.

"No," replied Sub-Commander T’Pol, pushing her way to her captain. She turned to the mob, pausing briefly as she confronted the fear and sadness etched on all their faces. "No, this was not the Gods."

"How do you know?!" the woman spat back. “They are punishing us for challenging their power! We’ve grown too strong, and they want us to repent!”

"I just know," T’Pol stated, arching an eyebrow. Unfamiliar with the particulars of this planet’s religious icons, she hoped they would buy her claims if she put enough conviction behind them. "This isn't their style."

"And what is their style?!"

"I do not know exactly," replied T’Pol. "We all know the Gods work in mysterious ways. But do you truly believe we have committed such atrocities that the Gods would punish us? They nourish development, not condemn it."

"She's right," Archer said. "This wasn't the work of Gods. This is the work of a fellow Hexite, and we must stop it before it’s too late. We have other town folk such as yourselves all out looking for our missing people."

"And we will not stop until we find them," added T’Pol, albeit not as convincing as she had hoped.

Archer nodded. "And you should do the same," he suggested to the crowd. "Join the search, and return your people to their rightful places."

"It's not that easy," stated a young woman, breaking from the crowd. She looked back at the members of her town. "Most of us are too old, too weak to stray far from our homes... And some of us have small children to care for. With our learned leaders and patrons missing, we have so few to manage the town. Most of us fear our own captures, and punishment for defiance. We can't just go rushing off to search."

She paused as a young boy ran up to her, wrapping his tiny arms around her legs. She brushed the hair off his face as he stared up at her. Then she looked back to the two forthright strangers. "As much as we'd like to preserve our futures.”

Archer stepped forward, placing a hand on the young boy's head. Looking at the woman, he said, "We'll do everything we can to find them, and bring them back."

*** *** ***

Malcolm and Trip were dropped at Blasius' feet, erecting a dust cloud as their bodies hit the dirt. Blasius laughed, throwing his head back. But as he bent down over them, his eyebrows knotted together.

"Unacceptable!" he howled, bounding to his feet. He stuck his right foot out, displaying his boot to the guards. "Are you waiting for an invitation, or am I suppose to do this myself?" he scoffed haughtily, hiking up his long coat as he turned his foot over to display the damage.

"Sorry, sir," croaked one of the flustered guards. Then he grabbed one of the slave servants and threw him too the ground. The slave pulled out a rag from his leather pouch and began polishing. "It will not happen again," apologized the guard, bowing his head.

"See that it doesn't," replied Blasius, pulling his foot back. Then he turned to Trip and Malcolm, now on their feet. He looked them over with mock sympathy, fingering their dirty clothes with a sigh.

Trip drew his head back when Blasius reached for his face. A guard, hand laced through the commander’s hair, yanked his head back. "This is the one from yesterday," informed the guard. "The one with the big mouth."

"The one with the all the spunk?" asked Blasius, running a hand down Trip's face, caressing his cheek and holding his chin. The guard nodded, provoking a smile from his leader.

Trip tried to move away.

"Don't," warned Blasius, shaking his head. "It's so unbecoming." Then he stepped back, roughly releasing Trip’s chin. "Tie him up!" ordered Blasius with a flick of his wrist.

The guard obeyed, dragging Trip to the wheel.

"No!" cried Malcolm, but he stopped himself immediately. Memories from the previous night slammed into his mind. Speaking up would only make if worse for his friend. As hard as it was for Malcolm, he kept his mouth closed. He bit his lip till he drew blood. Anything to keep himself from repeating last night's incident.

Trip’s shirt was removed, then he was thrown against the wheel by the guard. Being too sick to fight back, he decided he didn't have to help either. He used his sickness as an aid and let his body go limp, making it difficult for the guard to strap him to the spokes. It was a small thing, but frustrating the guard gave him a little joy.

And when the guard raised Trip’s arm to tie to a spoke, the commander let it fall to his side. He even let his knees buckle, playing the role of the passive resistor. It finally took four guards to get the commander into position. Two of them tied him up, as the other two held him upright.

And when the show was over, and the guard was in position- whip in hand...

Malcolm closed his eyes.

The slaves watched in silence from their knees.

And Blasius admired his manicured nails.

Trip heard the crack of the whip. His muscles tensed.

Nothing.

Crack.

Nothing again.

Trip gritted his teeth. The guard was toying with him. The commander pressed his forehead against the rim of the wheel and heard someone laugh, either the guard with the whip or Blasius, he couldn't be sure. And he didn't much care. He just wanted it over with. And the sooner they started, the sooner he would get his wish.

"Oh, I bet you'd just love to get a piece of me now, wouldn't you boy?" teased Blasius, stroking the bare back of the slave on the wheel. And when Trip opened his eyes, Blasius was smiling back mockingly. "You're a fighter aren't you?" the tyrant asked. "I can see it in your eyes. But you won't be for very long. Zenill here will make sure of that," he finished, turning to the guard with the whip.

Crack.

Trip squeezed his eyes shut. But again, nothing.

"Oh, I'm so enjoying this," sang Blasius. "You see, the anticipation can be so much worse than the punishment itself, don't you agree?" He paused, cleared his throat. "When I'm done with you, they're gonna crown you the 'Ghost of Hexite'. Through you, I will teach everyone who the Almighty is around here."

Trip swallowed hard and turned away.

Blasius stepped back slowly, smoothing down his coat. "You may proceed, Zenill," he said, the words rolling off his tongue like syrup- thick with disdain and repulsion.

Crack.

Malcolm’s eyes flew open.

*More to Come*

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One person has made comments

I read this on FF.net and I have to say it is one of my all-time favorites! I absolutely love this story! You have an amazing talent! I'm glad you're posting it here so others can enjoy it as well!

Side note, you should also post your hilarious story "As Flies to Wanton Boys" here. I think people would enjoy that one as well.:-)