A World for Dreams
Chapter One
Arrival
(General Malcolm Reed)
Ah. Here we are at last: the Jupiter yards.
Last time I was here it was a right mess, filled with quarter-finished ships swarmed over by half-arsed repair and construction teams who got in each other's way more than they co-operated to achieve anything. Today – it must be said, even if I certainly don't say it aloud – it looks good. Damned good.
Worryingly damned good, in fact.
We had been kept informed that excellent progress was being made. We naturally discounted at least half of the praise the narrator lavished on the project; humans are such romanticisers. But even with this elimination, when we sat down to review the end-of-year reports it surprised both of us that so much could have been done in so short a time.
With the war still very much in the balance, it seemed only wise for one of us to carry out a personal inspection. After all, although we trust our own, there are only two people whose judgment we trust implicitly.
Each other.
I lean against the viewing port, studying the station, and yes – I'm impressed. Seriously impressed, and more bothered than I care to admit.
Naturally I'm more than pleased by the progress, but control and organisation on this scale indicates the presence of power. And power is not something we encourage in the Empire. Except our own, of course.
I don't say anything. Silence is one of my deadliest weapons. I just look, and keep my counsel.
=/\=
It was brought to my attention a while ago that the captain of the Sirius had recently described me (at a private function) as a 'delicious little asshole'. On my coming on board I showed my appreciation of this description; first I nailed her on the bed, and then after testing the ship's Agony Booth on her to the maximum I nailed what was left of her to the wall at the back of the Bridge. I've always believed in posting reminders of the respect due to your betters.
(Alpha thought my reprisal was 'piquant'. I'm so glad we share the same sense of humour.)
So I've a sort of fondness for the Sirius, and it made me happy to promote Em to the newly-vacant captain's chair for the duration of the voyage. It wasn't as if she was likely to need to do any captaining (she's got a SiC to do that sort of thing if it needs doing), what with three fairly handy-looking warships as escort. She could just sit in the chair and look deliciously fuckable, a feat which she manages to achieve almost without trying even when she's not in my quarters wearing skimpy lace undies and a 'Come on, if you think you're hard enough' expression. As a matter of fact she was so delighted by this arrangement that on the first day I accepted her kind offer of borrowing the aforementioned chair for an extraordinarily pleasurable twenty minutes while she knelt happily in front of me and demonstrated her gratitude for favours received, to which the previous occupant's sound-effects made an intermittent background.
This sort of introduction to the new command structure always produces a gratifying degree of efficiency in the lower orders of the hierarchy. As I stroll onto the Bridge now, it's quite remarkable how everyone present straightens up and becomes even more assiduously busy than they've been beforehand. Em, of course, is cheerfully practising her knife throwing, though she has the grace to look slightly sheepish when I catch her at it. After all, the captain's chair is generally supposed to face forward, just in case, and really the body's starting to look a bit ... well ... punctured, as well as not smelling all that nice by this time. But I'm prepared to cut her a little slack in the circumstances, though I make a note to order somebody to clear the mess up before I get back. It's just not tidy.
So. As Em rises out of respect for her commanding officer, I nod to her to resume her seat. She swings it around and we both contemplate the view-screen, though I won't deny that some of my attention wanders occasionally in the direction of her splendid cleavage, which is now directly below and in front of me. She really has the most magnificent...
Ahem. The shipyards. Yes.
Tucker was Forrest's protégé. Archer tolerated him, mostly because he hadn't got anyone better and Tucker knew how to talk himself into appearing indispensable. Forrest, though, had a real belief in the misshapen oaf's talents – it was he who put him in charge of Enterprise, giving him a delusion of his own importance in the scheme of things.
Psha. I've heard the odd whisper that there were those who saw him as some kind of White Knight, some would-be hero who'd have rid the world of me if he'd only had the chance. Me! Personally I never bought that (he'd have been dead long ago if I had) – he was one of life's sullen little haters, mostly content to loathe from a distance. I wonder how he enjoyed watching the transmissions as Alpha and I took our places at either side of the Empress's throne. If he thought her having her arse on the velvet was any sign of her having power over us, though, he was even more delusional than I'd imagined. Sato's our figurehead now, our pawn. People are used to her, and she gets most of the blame for the Empire's little faults; and besides, if anyone gets around to arranging a successful assassination (unlikely, but never say 'never'), it's most likely Hoshi who'll be the target. We don't mind not being centre stage, and after all, it keeps her amused and out of trouble. We even fuck her occasionally, when we're not fucking each other.
(Mayweather... now I have to admit, he was fun. While he lasted, of course. A lot of fun. I always knew he had stamina.)
Tucker as a hero, though! I laugh silently at the thought. There are security tapes from half a dozen not-so-discreet 'establishments' that could give the lie to that. Has some unusual tastes, does Charles Tucker III. I wonder how T'Pol fares o'nights, sharing his quarters, and whether she really knew what she was letting herself in for when she opted to accept him as her protector (insofar as she had the choice, which she didn't, much). Considering that Vulcans are notoriously strait-laced in other ways, I hope she enjoys variety in the bedroom.
She could have surrendered herself to my tender mercies instead. But there again, maybe not.
Sirius slows slightly to allow Dreadnaught to approach the yards' command centre first. Invictus glides into position, every weapon trained at a different part of the structure. One blink from Dreadnaught to show her scanners indicate the presence of a threat in there, and the whole centre will disappear in a fiery inferno. Conqueror remains beside us, ever vigilant. I'm so touched Alpha assigned her to me. He's an absolute softie, when you get to know him... well, that's the sort of thing people usually say about the strong silent type, though I'm not sure he'd thank me for applying it to him, even if it was accurate.
A wash of memory assails me: the morning I left him back on Earth. His immaculate white bedding, and his beautiful body naked in it. The morning sunshine slanting through the window making his blue eyes more luminous than ever as we made love. He bit my shoulder blades, making me shudder with lust.
Dreadnaught reports in. "All clear, Sirius."
"Acknowledged." Em looks up at me. "Your escort's waiting, sir."
"Accompany me to the shuttlebay, Captain."
"Sir."
She knows perfectly well why, of course. The turbo-lift doors are hardly shut before she slaps a hand on the emergency stop panel and unzips her uniform jacket.
Being captain, she can excuse herself from wearing the regulation undershirt. Being familiar with my little ways, she has taken this precaution. I can only applaud her foresight. Happily she also elected to dispense with a bra as well, and so the parting of the two sides of the overburdened jacket is a sight guaranteed to bring instant life to any male organ still attached to the parent groin.
I render due appreciation during the very few moments it takes for her deft hands to remove any other barriers to our mutual satisfaction. Very shortly after that both of her long legs are wrapped around my hips and the lift cabin is juddering to the impacts.
We're both restored to respectability when the turbo-lift finally arrives at H Deck, though the MACO guard of honour there probably appreciate the fact that her face is becomingly flushed and her re-confined bosom is still heaving like a stormy sea. An attractive woman, is Em, and no doubt when she comes off shift and goes on the prowl there will be few cabins where she won't receive an enthusiastic welcome that's rather more than dutiful. I'd take her with me, but she and Tucker never got on and this is supposed to be a fact-finding mission rather than a bear-baiting. Not that I'm claiming he and I ever got on either, but I'm probably a bit more subtle than Em; I can slip a needle under a nail where she'd have the fingers torn off. And little as I like the man in the general way, I'm a realist, and Tucker's fingers are useful where they are. On principle, I prefer to leave particularly skilled digits attached if at all possible.
She escorts us to the shuttlebay, and waits while the standard checks are performed. As soon as my transport is declared safe and ready to fly, I step on board.
I don't know why I turn around and look at her. It's not something I'd normally do, and with my desire temporarily sated it's not as if I find her any more than aesthetically pleasing. But she's there, and I don't know, she's...
Getting soft in your old age, aren't you?
She sees me looking and snaps off a salute. She's so rigid now you'd never believe that less than ten minutes ago she was a series of liquid, writhing curves in my grip. I acknowledge the salute with a brief nod, and then the shuttle door closes, cutting her off from my sight.
In the aftermath of sex I feel relaxed. I make my way to the seat from which I can watch the pilot and weapons officer; not that I suspect them of any lack of efficiency, but I like to keep an eye on things anyway. It keeps people on their toes, which is where I like them to be, and I'm perfectly happy to suspend them by their wrists to get them there, if that's what it takes.
The shuttlepod drops away from Sirius's underbelly and curves smoothly towards the control centre's landing pad. As we approach, I break into the station's security feed with the shuttle's sophisticated spy systems and skim rapidly over the images. Only one makes me pause briefly: a naked figure lying on a rumpled bed. It's T'Pol. Her hair's loose and tangled, and as she shifts I bring the image in closer. Evidently Tucker hasn't lost his appetite for her, though there again I don't suppose he spends much time admiring her face. So much for the White Knight...
Her body's as magnificent as ever, but her face ... even I feel a faint shudder run through me, seeing how the once smouldering intelligence in it has been washed away into a kind of blank despair. She was an officer, she had responsibilities, work to do that kept her brain functioning. Now she's reduced to the intellectual challenge of servicing her protector's sexual needs.
Though as I restore the feed to standard, I see something that makes me pause momentarily. For all that the evidence is clear that she's very much subservient to him, there are a couple of touches I didn't expect to see. On the desk there are two meal trays and two chairs facing each other – an image of charming domesticity if I didn't know better, and as if half of the charming couple wasn't effectively a sex toy with a pulse. More: I know of old that for all that Tucker's computer files are as utterly well-organised as though filed by a machine, his personal space was never tidy. Now, however, the cabin is surprisingly neat and clean.
Well, well. Tucker's taming the fuck-object in more ways than one, eh? Perhaps he's not the one-trick pony I always thought him. She spreads her legs for him at night and cleans his quarters by day. How charmingly wifely.
A wedge of the pad's domed cover opens to admit us, and as the shuttle lands as lightly as a butterfly on the grating it closes again overhead. The external O2 readings begin rising as air is pumped in. The figures spool quickly, even quicker than they used to on Enterprise, and I wonder if it's just the fact that a larger facility allows for more powerful ventilation equipment or if, perhaps, this is another dividend paid out from the Defiant. Whatever the case, this site doesn't waste time, and reluctantly I chalk up another plus for Tucker's improvements.
Green lights come on above the door, including the one that says the external atmosphere contains no unexpectedly unfriendly substances; considering how easy it would be to introduce an airborne toxin into the shuttlebay by way of an extra greeting, I prefer not to take chances. It's safe for us to leave.
One of the escort pushes the lever to open the hatch, which slides smoothly to one side with a pneumatic hiss as the seals disengage.
Several people are stepping down from the control booth. One of them is instantly recognisable; with his new-found status (and presumably wealth), Tucker's had some reconstructive surgery to the side of his face, but it's not really enough to hide the damage. He probably still fucks with the light off, unless it's T'Pol, whose opinion of his looks is completely irrelevant. At a guess, the other two, Hess and Rostov if I recall correctly, are his deputies – he'll be quite aware that it's diplomatic to put on some kind of a welcoming committee for me. I remind myself, though, that here is the centre of that power that can make such revolutionary changes to a massive station. It may pay us to keep a far closer eye than we have done up till now on our Commander Tucker.
In the meantime, however, he has to exercise his always acute talent for self-preservation, and accord me the appropriate respect.
Lord, how he must be hating every minute of it... it's all I can do not to laugh.
