Caretaker - L. A. Graf [48]
"Still there," he whispered to himself wryly. The rest of him couldn't seem to think up a clever reply.
The rash of warty flesh didn't seem to have spread, but, then, Kim hadn't been able to conduct any sort of systematic study with only the occasional peek now and then. It sort of fell into the category of "didn't want to know." He felt a little guilty about that--he couldn't help thinking Paris would have owned up to every ounce of the unpleasantness, and even made a joke about it, to boot. But Kim could only finger these unfamiliar additions to his arms and chest and neck, and wail somewhere deep inside himself, I'm only just an ensign! I'm not supposed to die--not yet! Honest, perhaps, but far from very helpful.
A groggy snarl from the other side of the infirmary snagged his attention, and Kim froze with his gown bunched up in his fist, glancing nervously toward the sound. He listened tensely for a moment, then relaxed with a silent laugh when the broken cry sounded again and he recognized the voice as coming from the swarthy Maquis who had tried so desperately to escape the night before. Hell, I probably wouldn't know what she sounded like if she actually talked! She'd certainly been vocal enough up to now, although not exactly communicative.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Kim tossed a quick glance toward the closed infirmary door before padding barefoot across the cold floor to the only other occupied bed in the room.
She lay as stiffly as if she were struggling, even with the alien knockout drug still tying her to drowsiness. Kim thanked his own better instincts that he hadn't exploded, too, upon first coming around; if he had, both of them would be fighting their way toward consciousness, not just her. He studied her dark face and ridged brow, and wondered what bloodlines had carved such permanent fury into her face, painted such a dark luster through her raven-black hair.
"It's okay. ..." A waft of chilly air hiked up the back of his gown, and Kim reached back to clutch it shut as he sidled a little closer to her shoulder. "It's okay," he soothed.
The Maquis jerked upright with a horrified gasp. Kim jumped back, suddenly glad he hadn't tried to touch her, and found himself meeting her accusing glare with what he was sure was a look of stunned utter innocence. "Who are you?" she hissed, kicking her blankets aside.
"What is this place?" The growths on her arms and neck were more livid and extensive than his own.
Kim, his hand still knotted in the gown behind his back, shrugged and offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "My name is Kim--Harry Kim. I'm an ensign on the Starship Voyager. I was kidnapped from the Array, just like you." He glanced around at the primitive room. "I don't know where we are," he had to admit.
She surged out of her bed with the power of a young lion, and set out across the room as though fixed on a purpose Kim could only surmise.
"What was Starfleet doing at the Array?" she demanded as she swept the closest table clear of debris.
"We were looking for you, actually." Kim watched her prowl from bed to table, table to wall, and realized that what he'd taken for direction was nothing more than frustration screaming for a way to get out. "One minute, we were in the Badlands. The next..." He threw his arms wide for lack of any better way to express their predicament, and his gown flapped open again.
Just as inelegantly dressed as Kim, the Maquis seemed unmoved by his half-clad state. She ripped a drawer half off its runners and pawed through the clutter inside. "You mean you were trying to capture us."
"Yeah." Considering the results, Kim couldn't help smiling dryly at the irony. "Consider yourself captured." He made a show of patting around at his skimpy gown. "I know I have a phaser here somewhere."
The Maquis glared at him before beelining for the only door. "I don't find this at all amusing, Starfleet."
He had a feeling