II. Use or Be Used

She likes it in the dark. Some feminine vanity that won't allow her to show her battle scars? More likely, Lorca thinks, she doesn't want the vulnerability, the intimacy, that comes with nakedness. She sits astride him but although she will let him hold her hips or her ass, or sometimes attend to her breasts, she remains in complete control of everything that they're doing. In the early days, Lorca couldn't believe his luck when the Emperor invited her to her bed: she was (and still is) a beautiful, powerful woman, and a woman who hungers for you is the best aphrodisiac. Over time, of course, Lorca realised she wasn't hungry for him, as such, although obviously she found him attractive. She wanted sex and she wanted to show him that she hungered, full stop. That hers was an unstoppable, unrelenting appetite. Everyone and everything was prey. She would never slack or tire.

Now he doesn't mind the darkness, even if watching pleasure etch itself across a woman's body is more than half the fun for him, because he can think more easily of other things, of other women, so he can be what Georgiou needs him to be in that moment. It's not different from the nights when he's on his own with his imagination, except more satisfying because someone else doing the work is always more satisfying than doing it yourself.

Georgiou finishes and he manages to follow quickly. She clicks her fingers and a little more light settles over them, the dusky kind that makes everything look dull and grey. She stares at him for a moment, her long hair falling to his chest, her eyes very much like a tiger's in the night. Then she is off him and reaching for her dressing gown, and he gets into his clothes as quickly as he can.

"How is Michael getting on?" she asks as he puts his boots on.

It has been six months, more or less, since Lorca has begun to spend time with the girl. He tends to leave the physical training to others, and instead he has been teaching her chess, some basic piloting and battle strategies. To his surprise, he enjoys the lessons. Michael is a diligent, hard-working child; she's clever, too.

"Very well. She likes to please. Teaching her is easy."

"Yes. Yes, I have found that to be so, as well. But just because she's easy to teach, does not mean she learns easily." Lorca frowns, unsure of what she means. "Can you imagine the chaos if I went tomorrow, Gabriel? There are many people who long to take my place. I doubt any of them could."

"I agree," he replies, and he really does. Whenever the Emperor has been replaced violently, all the jostling's for power, all the petty grievances and grudges, that normally get resolved one knife in the back at a time explode to the surface as factions seek to re-imagine the Empire in their image. It never gets better, only worse.

Emperor Georgiou has presided over one of the most stable time in the Empire's history. And there are none other like her. That's worth something more than anyone's ambition, and why she has his loyalty.

"Do you know why I adopted Michael?" she asks.

Not because you longed to be a mother, he thinks. Which leaves... "You wanted an heir, a successor. Didn't want to leave it to chance."

"Exactly right. But if that was the only reason, I could have picked – say, you. If it wasn't for the fact you are not interested." She gives him a slight, bemused smile. He knows she doesn't understand him fully and that's why she only trusts him ninety-five per cent of the time. Still, it is a lot more than she trusts anyone else. "There is no greater loyalty than that of a child for its parent. Children are clay to be moulded, iron to be forged. I need someone who believes, as I do." Lorca nods. "I know you had your doubts about what I'm asking you to do. But do you understand now the responsibility on your shoulders?"

He does. He doesn't like it one bit, because of the scrutiny that comes with it. "It's an honour, Your Majesty."

"You're a smart man, Gabriel. More than that, you are wise. One of the many reasons I trust you as I do."

Lorca bows and leaves. He has just passed Michael's quarters when he hears a sharp cry from inside.

"What are you waiting for?" he snaps to the guards as he spins around only to find them not moving.

"Miss Burnham is just having a nightmare. We checked - " the guard points to the surveillance monitor.

Lorca takes a deep breath. "Let me in."

"Sir –"

"You are aware, no doubt, that I am tasked with this girl's welfare. And you must also realise that I have just left the Emperor, and I am quite happy to return to her if I need to?" The guards look at each other, frozen. When he pulls the knife from his belt, one of them finally complies, quickly entering the code on the door pad.

Unlike Georgiou's bed chamber, the lights are on. It's odd to think a child lives here: her quarters are comfortably fitted but have that impersonal aura of a hotel room. Lorca goes to her bedroom and finds Michael almost buried her sheets. He wonders if she's asleep, until the tell-tale shaking of shoulders. Lorca doesn't want to be here and isn't sure why he is. Nevertheless he sits on the edge of the bed and gently uncovers her face. She's crying, eyes screwed shut.

"Hey," he says. "Playing possum is fine, Michael, but by now I could have killed you several times over." She says something but the words get lost in cotton. "Hey, look at me, Princess. I can't understand what you're saying."

It takes a few moments but finally Michael moves, sitting up and wiping her face on her pyjama sleeves. "I knew it was you."

"How?"

"I heard you outside." Ah yes. No access to the codes for the privacy shields.

"Want me to check for Klingons under the bed?"

Michael gives him an angry look. "I know I'm crying but I'm not a baby."

"There's no shame in crying. Your mother herself said so."

"She was talking about getting punched in the face. Not crying because you're scared or sad."

Ah crap. "There's no shame in being scared or sad, either. But you need to keep it to yourself, that's all. Not let it get in the way."

"You sound like a Vulcan."

He raises an eyebrow at that. He's been called many things but never that. "You should never let emotions guide you. But you need them to drive you. Fear is what keeps us alive, Michael."

"What about love?"

Lorca lets out a laugh, then realises she is quite serious. Of course she would be, she's eleven years-old. That's too young for sarcasm. "Love of things and ideas, yes. Love for people... People don't last, Michael."

She looks at him, growing still, and then past him, to the sparkling darkness outside the Palace. She seems suddenly older than her years and he worries that the Emperor has chosen too well.

"Would you read something to me?"

"Sure. What have you got?" Michael hands him her PADD then settles down under the sheet. It's a history book, which doesn't seem conducive to happy dreams to him. But he suspects it will work just fine to get her back to sleep.

It works too well, because at some point he falls asleep, too. He startles himself awake in the chair he was using and it takes him a moment to get his bearings. He checks the time; he's not been gone too long. Soft snoring draws his attention to the bed. Michael is asleep, and in her slumber has crept to the edge of her mattress and somehow draped an arm around Lorca's leg, her face resting against his thigh.

The poor girl is desperate for affection, he thinks. Georgiou has chosen well in that regard, too. He understands now the greater opportunity, to ensure his survival beyond the Emperor if he makes it that long.

There is no greater loyalty than that of a child for its parent. Children are clay to be moulded, iron to be forged.

Lorca carefully extracts himself from Michael's embrace. A little shiver runs up his leg at the sudden loss of warmth. He doesn't remember the last time someone touched him in a way that not sexual or murderous.

He thinks that maybe he should get a cat.