Trials 04 Shadow's Trial

by Terri Zavaleta

  be hurt in some way. Everyone but him. He felt stiff and sore, but

  had no obvious injuries. The lieutenant moved restlessly to the next

  section. He still hadn't located Malista.

  The next panel slid away to reveal Sven Haldersen seated on the floor,

  leaning back against the bed. He was naked from the waist up and his

  boots were missing. His uniform trousers had been precisely sliced

  away just above his knees and his feet were a deep shade of

  blue---from his ankles to the soles of his feet. There was a line of

  demarcation that seemed to indicate the coloring had been placed there

  deliberately.

  Tom stared, trying to make sense of what his eyes were telling him.

  Haldersen didn't appear to be injured, but he wasn't moving. Sweat was

  pouring from his body in rivulets. While Janine's room was colder than

  normal, it appeared that Sven's was much warmer. From his point of

  view, Paris couldn't tell if the other man had other injuries or if he

  was even conscious.

  Shaking his head, the lieutenant gave up and moved to the next

  section. Nothing. He stepped back and forward again. Waved his arms

  trying to find a trigger. Nothing. There was no panel there? Or had

  he done something differently this time?

  He moved to the next section of the wall. A panel slid down. He moved

  in as close as possible. Finally. There she was. Malista was lying on

  her side on the bed. She was facing him, eyes closed. Unconscious?

  Asleep?

  But unlike the other rooms, there was someone else in there with her.

  One of their captors? The figure advancing toward Malista had its back

  to Paris. It was at least eight feet tall and was enveloped in some

  kind of shroud of dark brown material, like a hooded robe. What were

  they going to do to her? The pilot slammed his hand on the panel,

  hoping he could awaken Malista----warn her. He knew it was futile. But

  he had to try.

  "Malista!" he shouted. He even tried thinking loudly, hoping somehow

  that telepathy would kick in, though he'd never been telepathic

  before. "Damn it! Get away from her!"

  The figure stopped next to the bed. A slender, green, tentacle-like

  limb extended a four-fingered hand toward her.

  The young woman suddenly exploded into a flurry of motion. Her

  uppermost leg snapped out to kick and her booted foot sent the alien

  lurching backwards, nearly toppling it to the floor. Shadow did a

  rolling back flip off the bed, landing on her feet beside it on the

  opposite side from the alien. She moved to keep the bed between them

  as the hooded figure stumbled forward once more.

  Another hooded figure appeared behind her. Tom held his breath,

  willing her to turn around, to notice. She did, but it was too late.

  The second alien had wrapped a tentacle around her waist and was

  lifting her from the floor. It was his mistake that he didn't pin her

  arms or legs. She was struggling wildly---kicking, wriggling, hitting

  fiercely, gouging with her fingertips and nails. The alien's grasp on

  her faltered under the ferocity of her attack.

  She abruptly dipped her head and bit the tentacle that was holding

  her! The alien lost its grip and she squirmed free, slithering

  bonelessly out of its hold. She dodged around him and managed to get

  her back to the wall opposite Tom's position.

  She was cornered. The aliens on either side of her were moving towards

  her now. Her hand flashed down as she raised her right knee. She

  pulled a knife out of her boot!

  A big wicked-looking knife with an eight inch blade. The aliens

  hesitated. They must have recognized it as a weapon.

  Paris choked on his indrawn breath. "Damn! Where did that come from?"

  She was holding it as if she knew how to use it. He thought they'd

  taken that knife away from her after her suicide attempt. Evidently

  she'd gotten it back. But what was she doing with it in her boot? Did

  she carry it all the time? Now that was a scary thought for several

  reasons. More importantly, would she have the nerve to use it to

  defend herself?

  That question was answered immediately. The aliens halted their

  advance toward her and turned toward each other. From their attitude,

  they seemed to be conferring. Malista never took her eyes off them.

  Her features were contorted into a mask of resolute fury, almost as if

  she was daring them to get near her again.

  The aliens backed away from her and stepped apart, going to either

  side of the room, leaving her a clear pathway between them. They

  started toward her in a pincer movement, forcing her to move away from

  the wall to get away from them. Shadow watched them suspiciously, as

  did Paris. She moved to the center of the room and jumped up onto the

  hexagon-shaped bed, ready to move in any direction.

  The aliens kept coming, as if shepherding her in the direction they

  wanted her to go. Which seemed to be toward Paris' cell.

  The lieutenant heard a faint noise. The wall to his left, the one that

  hadn't had a viewing section, abruptly slid away, forming a portal

  between the two rooms. The aliens stopped moving. They seemed to be

  waiting for something.

  Paris stepped to the doorway. "Malista!"

  One tentacle came up slowly and gestured in the direction of Tom's

  position. They were telling her to join Tom? Now that was an order she

  could live with. Keeping a cautious eye on the aliens, she bounced off

  the bed and sprinted to the doorway.

  Before Paris could do more than blink, Shadow was across the room and

  had thrown her arms around him, her weight driving him back a step

  into the room. The door panel slid shut behind them. "Tom! Are you all

  right?"

  He fought back a wince as his sore muscles and stiff neck rebelled

  against being jostled by her embrace. He was devoutly grateful she had

  the presence of mind to keep the knife turned away from his body.

  She tucked her head into the curve of his neck. The young man dropped

  his gaze to the top of her head. Her arms were wrapped around him, her

  head resting on his chest. His arms encircled her and squeezed gently.

  "I'm fine. Are you okay?"

  "I'm much better now that I know you're all right. Oh, Tom!" She

  exhaled on a shaky sigh as she squeezed him a little more tightly.

  "Yeah, Sis, but if you break my ribs, B'Elanna's going to be really

  ticked at you!" he murmured, easing her away to arm's length so he

  could examine her. "She thinks they're *her* special target."

  "Are we the only ones? Or---" She lifted her knee and slid the knife

  back into its sheath in her boot.

  Tom's eyes followed her actions and he made a mental note to ask her

  about that later. She was carrying a knife? He hadn't expected that.

  Damn. He'd told the EMH that she wasn't dangerous. She must have been

  more frightened of her harassers than she had led him to believe.

  Tom shook his head in answer to her question. He stepped back, took

  her hand and turned them towards the other window panels. There were

  only smooth walls facing him on all sides once more. "Malista, I

  swea
r, there were windows here a minute ago. All six of us are here. I

  saw the others and they may have been injured. Are you sure you're all

  right?"

  She held up her left hand for his inspection. "Someone gave me an

  unscheduled manicure." The fingernail on her left index finger had

  been chopped off, almost to the tip of her finger. There was a hint of

  bleeding around the rough edges.

  "Your hair is falling down, Sis," Tom noted. Her bun of steel looked

  more like a disintegrating ponytail now. "And you're missing a big old

  swack of hair here, girl." He lifted a thick tress of the soft black

  curls in his hand.

  "A swack of hair?" she repeated scornfully, as she lifted her hand to

  check it out. "It's called a lock of hair, Tom. Or a tress. Not a

  'swack'."

  About three inches was missing from the length of one section of her

  now unruly mane. She pulled the pins and ties from her hair, and

  finger-combed it as well as she could, trying to restore some

  semblance of order. She settled for trapping the long strands in a

  loose ponytail at the base of her neck and pinned the short strands

  out of her eyes.

  "Details, details. Why would someone want a fingernail and a

  swack---oh, all right!" He corrected himself as she gave him 'a look'.

  "A lock of hair?"

  She shrugged. She couldn't think of a good answer for that one.

  "Souvenirs?"

  If only The Six were taken, then Tom Paris was the senior officer

  present. Though he hadn't thought about it consciously, he'd already

  begun to take charge of the situation. He was responsible for his

  fellow crewmen and he wanted to check on 'his' people. Frustrated by

  his lack of information, Tom turned and strode toward the wall, hoping

  to trigger the panel once more. He stopped in his tracks at Shadow's

  horrified gasp.

  "Tom!"

  He spun on his heel, looking for a threat to her. "What?"

  She was staring wide-eyed at him. "Come sit on the bed," she directed.

  "Why?"

  "Just do it." She'd never been so bossy with him before. Something was

  wrong. And it had to do with him. He was sure he wasn't going to like

  this, but he obediently sat on the edge of the bed. She knelt next to

  him and slightly behind him. He felt her hands tugging at his collar,

  brushing his blond curls aside. He'd been meaning to get a haircut,

  but....

  "Tom," she said in carefully measure tones. "You have a circular

  bruise on the back of your neck. Just at the base of your skull. It's

  a bright purplish blue and about an inch in diameter."

  "Can you tell what caused it?" He kept his own voice level with

  difficulty. He wished they had a mirror. He wanted to see for himself.

  It unnerved him to know that someone had been tampering with his body

  while he was unconscious. He should have suspected something of the

  sort when he'd seen the condition of his fellow prisoners.

  Her hand closed on his shoulder, simultaneously offering and seeking

  comfort. "If I had to guess, I would say someone took a sample.

  Possibly of spinal fluid?"

  "No wonder my neck is stiff," he commented, cautiously turning his

  head from side to side.

  "Tom, I want you to take your shirt off. I want to make sure this is

  all there is to find. You weren't aware of this?"

  "No," he muttered. "I didn't notice anything. I thought I was fine.

  Just sore from being in one position too long while I was

  unconscious." He tugged at the hem of his black tee-shirt, groaning as

  his aches and pains protested the movement.

  She helped him as much as she could, then checked his smoothly muscled

  back. "Tom, there are a series of---puncture marks up and down your

  spine and several bruises on your back."

  "So someone used me as a dart board while I was out? Can you tell if

  they were taking things out or putting things in?" Unsurprisingly, his

  attempt at humor fell flat.

  "No. But I don't like this," Malista said grimly. "You'll catch a

  chill. Here, put your shirt back on." She handed it to him and

  suddenly giggled.

  He stared at her in disbelief as he took the shirt from her hand.

  "What? What's so funny?"

  She ran teasing fingertips over the red gold curls that covered his

  muscled chest.

  He captured her hand, then released it as he pushed it away,

  admonishing, "That tickles."

  "I know it's silly, but it just popped into my head---" She giggled

  again as she helped him pull the shirt on so he wouldn't have to

  stress his sore muscles.

  "What?" he asked patiently. He braced himself for an awful pun.

  Malista was almost as bad as he was about cracking jokes when she was

  uncomfortable.

  "It just seems ironic that you're so---hairy. And Harry---isn't." Her

  voice spluttered with girlish giggles.

  "You little brat! I don't *believe* you. Bad jokes at a time like

  this?" He rolled his eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck slightly and

  groaned.

  She grew serious immediately. "I'm sorry, Tom. Are you in pain? I wish

  I had a medkit," she remarked contritely.

  "There's no point in worrying. We can't worry about things we can't

  control," he said. "What I want to know is: what was done to the

  others? Wait! Let me see your neck!"

  She plopped down next to him on the bed and obligingly turned. He

  lifted her hair aside and peeked down the back of the collar of her

  uniform.

  "Nothing," he said on a relieved sigh. "I guess you were the swack of

  hair and fingernail samples and I was the spinal sample. Samples? This

  reminds me of something. I can't think of---"

  "Tom, to tell you the truth, I'm scared." She seemed slightly ashamed

  of the admission.

  "You didn't look too scared when you pulled that knife!" he replied

  with a proud grin. "I thought B'Ella said you wouldn't fight."

  She held up her hands, palms upward. "This isn't a simulation. I woke

  up and didn't know where I was or who they were. I pretended to be

  asleep for a while, hoping they'd leave me alone. I didn't know what

  had happened to you or if I was the only one here or not. But I

  couldn't just lie there when they started coming at me. I didn't know

  what they were going to do to me. Besides, George Natwick told me I

  needed to use my fear to give me strength. He said I had to turn the

  fear into anger and use it."

  Paris tilted his head to one side consideringly. "Natwick just may not

  be as big a nitwit as I thought."

  "He is not a nitwit. He's a very nice person, once you get to know

  him. He sort of reminds me of my brother Demetrios. Anyway, when I

  woke up there, in that cell or whatever, I was so afraid that I had to

  do something or go crazy. Then I remembered what George had said and

  began to deliberately make myself mad."

  "How did you do that?" Amusement shone through Tom's curious

  expression, but she didn't mind. She knew it sounded strange.

  "While I was lying there, pretending to be unconscious, I started

  listing all the reasons I was angry with whoever had done this
."

  "For example?"

  "For example, how dare they kidnap us off our own ship? We didn't do

  anything to them."

  "You got that right!" Paris agreed, starting to feel a tingle of

  irritation himself at the thought.

  "And how it's all their fault that Harry is going to worry. About you.

  About me. About us. He's going to be so upset. And no one is allowed

  to upset Harry! Not if I have anything to say about it!" Her indignant

  tone struck Tom as being funny.

  Maybe he was more exhausted than he thought. He was getting loopy. He

  started to grin again. "That's right. You're the only one allowed to

  upset Harry. You're cute when you're mad, Sis." He chucked her chin

  with his index finger.

  "I'm not cute. Overgrown women are not cute," she muttered grumpily,

  pulling her face away from his hand.

  "Knock it off!" he growled irritably, gently grabbing her chin and

  forcing her to meet his eyes.

  "What?" She pulled away from him again, not meeting his eyes. She

  recognized that tone of voice. She'd heard it from him before.

  "Stop making fun of yourself. You are NOT overgrown." He paused. "It's

  a matter of point of view. You and I are the right height. Everyone

  else is undergrown."

  "I can't *wait* to hear you tell B'Elanna that *she's* undergrown. Can

  I sell tickets?" Shadow commented dryly, touched nonetheless by his