Caretaker - L. A. Graf [65]
For all her descriptions and cautions, the nurse still hadn't managed to capture the dank hopelessness of the place. The tunnels were barely high enough to stand upright in--some of them weren't. A rickety spiral of metal stairs climbed the sides of passages that faced straight upward, and the metal creaked and crackled with every bouncing step, as if gathering itself to plunge down into the darkness below.
Wetness dripped, dropped from the rock all around them, and Kim thought he smelled the peculiar sweetness of rotten fabric more than once as they crawled or climbed through the dampness. He didn't try to hunt down the source of the stench.
Torres insisted that they use their flashlights as sparingly as possible, since neither they nor the Ocampa had the faintest idea how long the old devices would last. "If we keep going up," the Maquis had stated quite reasonably, "we'll know we're going in the right direction." That seemed a little simplistic to Kim, but it wasn't any worse an assumption than the one that said they'd be able to climb out in the first place, so he didn't question it. It was cold and lonely in the darkness, though. He wished the single-file construction of the tunnels didn't keep them too separated to at least hold hands.
Kim's foot banged against a webbed metal runner, and he stumbled to his knees with a crash that echoed through the chamber so loudly that it completely drowned out his accompanying cry of pain. I don't want to do this, a weak little voice inside him said. I don't want to climb anymore. I don't want to hurt. I just want to go home and be done with all this. Instead, he remained crouched over the heavy tool pack he'd dropped onto the stair above him, and waited for the pain and dizziness to go away.
Light exploded like a bombshell in his head, and Kim groaned as he buried his face harder against his hands. On the other end of the newly lit flashlight, Torres came back down a few clanging steps to stand above him. "Come on."
The pure whiteness of the artificial light felt like it was burning through the back of his skull. Kim only shook his head.
He was ready to stay.
"Don't let it beat you, Starfleet." A startlingly gentle hand fitted itself under his elbow, encouraging him to stand without forcing him.
"Come on," Torres said again, more plaintively.
He lifted his head and made himself sit back until he could look up into Torres's eyes. She'd moved the flashlight behind her, so that the light was more diffuse. It set her off from the darkness like a wild-maned troll. Kim wanted to stand for her, wanted to be strong and angry as she was, so that he could earn the right to live and see his family again. But everything looped and pitched too sickly, and he couldn't force his breathing to slow down and clear the pain out of his thinking.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, sinking his head down into his hands again.
Torres's face creased with unaccustomed sensitivity, and she let go of his elbow as though afraid that moving too quickly would break him.
"It's all right. We'll rest a minute." She sat without taking her eyes off him, crossing her hands over her knees.
Kim tried to smile up at her, but was afraid the expression came closer to fear than friendliness. "Maybe I'd do better if I had a little Klingon blood in me."
She made a gruff sound of amusement for his benefit. "Trust me.
It's more trouble than it's worth."
As badly as he hurt now compared to her Amazonian composure, he had trouble believing that was true. Stiffening to will away another spasm of ghostly pain, he didn't even try to shrug off the hand she rested silently on his shoulder. He shook his head, choked with laughter at the irony of it all. "I spent my whole life getting ready for Starfleet. And on my very first mission..." He reached up blindly to twine his fingers with hers. "...
I'm going to