Chapter Two
The setting sun doused the ocean in a myriad of color. Reds. Pinks. Oranges. Nyota stared towards it. It was a beautiful sight. She hadn't had the opportunity to witness a sunset since boarding the Khosaar. This was what she'd been missing, holed up behind the massive walls of Dahhana'Kahr's factories and cathedrals for several years. The beauty. Beauty still existed. The dirty grim back alleys of Dahanna'Kahr strangled that beauty. And it became so easy to forget its existence. The ship lurched to one side, caught on a rolling wave. Nyota stumbled, catching herself before she fell to her hands. She steadied herself on her knees, clasping her hands behind her head, her trembling fingers clenching in her hair. Tears leaked from her eyes, but she kept her gaze steady on the ocean and setting sun.
If she kept looking at them, nothing else around her existed. If she kept gazing at the sunset, she could be a pier. She could be in bed, with an attentive lover. She could be in the massive library of the University. This wasn't happening.
Her eyes slipped to the dead body of Captain Robau. A man who had been kind to her, concerned for her safety though he knew nothing about her. Even if his rules frustrated her. Even if he was misguided in his belief that she was a demure child.
A small cry escaped her mouth and Nyota's eyes darted back to the ocean.
If she only looked at the sun, then he didn't lay on the deck, blood seeping from the bullet wound in his head, staining the wooden planks. Staring blankly into the sky above.
A body swayed into her side. "Hey. It'll be alright."
No. If she stared at the ocean, then she could ignore the man on his knees to her right. Large twitching metallic spikes erupting from his back like grotesque xirahanah wings, glinting in the light. His own arm removed, replaced by the forelimb of a le-matya, the sharp claws dripping green poison, hanging limply at his side.
Can he even control it? Or does it control him?
A vavesh-tor. A criminal. A criminal caught by the government of Dahhana'Kahr and punished for his crimes, through the splicing and grafting of metal and animal flesh to his body. Remade. No longer human. Now, everyone knew what he was. A vile person. A criminal. He could not escape the judgment of those around him.
Nyota, if she stared long and hard at the sea and the sun, could ignore his unnerving presence. What had he done to deserve such punishment; was he a murderer, a thief? A rapist?
She could ignore his fellow criminal to his right. A man whose legs were no longer his own. Once, they belonged to a d'rachanya, the feared reptilian creature that roamed the Go'an Desert. Thick scales. Long spindles down the backs of the legs. Now, they hung from his waist unnaturally, twisted, monstrous. Large glistening sehlat fangs peered from his mouth, dripping and glistening with saliva.
To her left, a Denobulan man. His face, enlarged, denoting his fear and anxiety. His torn shirt—torn in his desperate attempt to escape—revealed the ridges along his spine.
She never should have left Dahhana'Kahr. She should have taken her chances. She should have told her father the truth about the letters. He could have helped her. The Prime Minister liked him. He respected him. If her father vouched for her, she could be at the University now, learning the proper syntax and translation for a sensual and passionate Romulan poem.
Around them, the pirates moved down the line, speaking to everyone, kneeling down in front of them, whispering. Whispering what, Nyota could only guess; she looked only at the sunset.
"Think I could take 'em?"
That voice again.
She jerked her head in his direction. "What?" she hissed.
He laughed. His bright blue eyes squinting closed, mouth wide. Who the hell was this guy? She looked away.
"There's only two. I can take 'em." He leaned in closer to her, the spikes on his back twitching toward her. "Name's Kirk, by the way. Jim Kirk."
Nyota arched her body away from his as best as she could, without falling into the shaking Denobulan. Her own body trembled, the cooling air brushing against her damp skin.
"Aren't you going to tell me your name?"
She returned her gaze in front of her, beyond the ship, out to sea. To the horizon, to the low sun. The pirates were coming closer. She didn't want them to see her fear. When they killed her.
The captain of the Khosaar was dead, murdered in cold blood by these pirates. Along with his crew. No one who could save them was left. Yes, she was going to die tonight. She needed to accept that.
"You know, in polite society, when someone introduces himself, the lovely woman would honor him with her name."
She rolled her eyes. Their lives were in the hands of these pirates and he wanted her name?
The pirates moved closer, their dirty bodies catching the remaining sunlight, glinting off the sweat on their brows. She could see them out of the corner of her eye, kneeling in front of the Denobulan, whispering to him. The Denobulan grew more tense. His face grew exponentially, the ridges around his eyes stretching to their limits. He jumped to his feet, swinging his fists at the pirates.
They were quick to retaliate, pulling their swords from their sheaths. It was a dreadfully uneven fight.
Nyota jerked away, her body falling against Kirk's. He wrapped a hand around her waist, steadying her, and she squirmed away from him.
The pirates slashed their swords at the unarmed but terrified Denobulan, slicing his skin. He wailed.
A pirate yelled.
A woman screamed.
Nyota glanced up, her initial fear subsiding as her focus was redirected away from the vavesh-tor, from Kirk.
The yelling pirate, a young man with a scar framing the side of his face, curling around his eye and brow before receding down the side of his neck and disappearing under his shirt, held the woman's arms.
T'Pring.
She struggled against his grasp but in her weakened state, she could not defend herself. The young pirate threw her to the ground and she cried out, her hands clutching her abdomen.
The vavesh-tor beside Nyota—Kirk and his companion—got to their feet and charged the pirates, Kirk's le-matya arm swinging and the other's fangs gnashing.
And a fight broke out.
Nyota seized the distraction and ran across the deck, desperate to protect the pregnant priestess. T'Pring groaned, curling around herself.
"T'Pring! Are you hurt?" Nyota fell to the ground beside her, her skirts billowing behind her.
T'Pring shook her head, her veil falling across her face. She took a deep breath and released it. Her eyes closed and her mantra began anew. Did she know what was happening? The danger they were all in? Or was she so lost in her own pain, her own sickness? Was it a blessing that she not know? The goddess Valdena would not heed her call, for she had been forsaken. Nyota took T'Pring in her arms, pulling her close and closing her own eyes. Joining her in prayer. Would the goddess listen to two scorned women? Did it matter?
A vibrant whistle. Bodies falling with load thuds against the wooden deck.
Nyota dared open her eyes, sitting up, leaning back on her haunches, keeping her hands on the priestess' back. She caught sight of a man, hair graying at the sides, eyes piercing. A jagged scar marred his face, cutting from his forehead, across his eye, to his cheek. He wore a dark uniform, pressed and clean.
"What the hell is this?" he demanded, his voice loud and angry.
The pirates released their captives: the dead Denobulan and the fighting vavesh-tor. They pressed the sides of their hands to their foreheads in awkward salutes. "Sir!" they sounded in tandem.
The man—their leader, Nyota was sure—stepped forward. "I didn't give you the order to kill any of the passengers."
"They attacked us first!"
The man chuckled. "Well, we did invade their ship." The well-dressed pirate stepped past them to look at the two vavesh-tor. He knelt in front of Kirk, avoiding his poison-riddled limb. He whispered to him, his words lost to Nyota in the blowing wind.
She clung to T'Pring. The pregnant woman might not have asked for her help, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to give it. Nyota didn't want to watch the priestess die. It would be a senseless death. There have been too many already tonight.
The pirates' leader stood and turned to Nyota and T'Pring, approaching them.
Nyota held her breath. What would pirates want with two women? One thing. They only want one thing. She trembled. Tears pooled in her eyes. Her father had warned her. Act like a whore, then you'll be a whore.
"My dears—" the man started.
A loud yell behind him. A pirate tumbling to the ground, screaming, clutching his neck. Behind the leader's feet, Nyota could see the blood pooling.
The pirates' leader jerked around face the charging vavesh-tor—the one with the reptile legs and the blood-stained sehlat fangs. He stumbled back.
But then the vavesh-tor fell to the ground.
And behind him, another man stood, lowering his hand to his side. Regal. Elegant. He held himself straight, hands now clasped behind his back. Dark eyes. Eyebrows sweeping upwards towards dark hair, the bangs cut in a straight line across his forehead. Pointed ears. A Vulcan. Nyota's eyes widened. She had thought they all were wiped out by the devastating e'shua, a daemon miles long, that rose from the bottom of the ocean and engulfed the entire region of Shi'al and with it, the glorious Vulcan city of Shi'Kahr, famous for its art, its thaumaturgical endeavors, with one large swipe of its massive mouth. Famous for the Surakian line. And the legends surrounding the famed sa'te'kru—the king of Shi'al. All of it gone in a single horrifying instant.
The Vulcans were a notoriously secluded, private people. She had only seen one other in her life, when she was a child, during a rare visit of a Vulcan diplomat to her father's estate, there on behalf of his sa'te'kru. His king. She had been fascinated. Never had she seen someone so stoic, so regal. And elegant. And serious. She wondered what happened to him. Was he at home in the Shi'al Province when it disappeared in the sea? Or did he escape that fate because of his duties?
He was probably dead, like the others.
Unlike all the other races on An'rak, the Vulcans were the most unique. A race she yearned to learn from, to visit their home. The majestic Vulcans sought peace and harmony through logic and the suppression of their passionate emotions. A peaceful telepathic race that, through a cruel unimaginable act of nature, was wiped from the planet.
Or, Nyota thought, looking at the Vulcan standing before her, they were. Clearly some escaped.
"Spock! You killed him?" the leader asked.
"No, sir. He will regain consciousness in time." Spock scanned the line of passengers. His eyes settled on her, lingering and eying her dark hair, wet, matted and clinging to her face. Her soft brown skin. His eyes drifted downward to her charge and widened. But he did not speak. He walked toward the other man, the one with the grotesque scar, and whispered something in the man's ear.
The man stood, stepping away from Nyota and T'Pring, guiding the Vulcan to a spot away from the crowd. Nyota watched the two men converse. Twice, the scarred man looked back at her and T'Pring.
Finally the man nodded and returned to the pirates and captives. He cleared his throat. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Captain Christopher Pike. Now, I want you to listen to me and I want you to listen good. Your lives, as you know them, are over. You are no longer citizens of Dahhana'Kahr, Du'Leb, Shannai'Kahr, or wherever the hell else you hail from. Those lives are over. Done. Finite. You belong to us now. You belong to Armada. And you will work for Armada. And you will protect Armada. And when we arrive, you will pledge your allegiance to Armada. Do I make myself clear?"
Nyota shook her head. This couldn't be happening. Armada was supposed to be a fairytale, something parents told their children in order to scare them into obedience. It wasn't supposed to be real.
"And if we decline?" Kirk's voice rang out among the crowd.
Pike laughed. "Now, why would you want to do that? You're a vavesh-tor. You were headed to N'Klan to begin life as prisoner. A laborer." Pike stepped closer to Nyota, kneeling before her and T'Pring.
Nyota felt tears burn in the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
"And besides," the captain continued. "Anyone who protests will be thrown overboard."
A quiet sob escaped her lips.
*/*\*
It was a cool night. Cooler than usual on the vast never-ending ocean. But inside, it was stifling, the air thick with trapped heat and sex. And she usually relished the scent of sex. It floated to her nose and she'd feel a rush, a tingling. The green-skinned woman swung the door open and stepped out of her cabin and onto the Sekhat's deck. She let out a gasp when the cool air collided with her hot, naked body. She stretched her arms to the sky. She smiled. If Commander Spock were here, he'd lecture her on propriety and common public decency. But what difference did it make if she traipsed around the place with ten thick layers of fur or nothing but what the gods gave her? They'd all seen it. the most important of them enjoyed it. And she enjoyed it, as well, the pheromones wafting from their bodies as they caught sight of her tits and her quim.
She was good. And she knew it. They all knew it.
Well, most of them did.
Behind her, the door opened again and a young man exited, his opened shirt draped over his shoulders.
He met her gaze for a moment, before dropping his eyes to the buttons on his shirt.
His sharp blue eyes unnerved her still. And she hated that. He was kind and gentle. A genuinely good person. A sight so rare, particularly in her line of work. Particularly here. But those metallic eyes—thaumaturgical marvels, she knew—scared her. Two twin signs that technology was wrong. That nothing good could ever come from thaumaturges locked in tiny laboratories in monstrous government buildings in Dahhana'Kahr, laughing manically as they created defilement after defilement. With magic and knowledge stolen from a dead race.
But she kept that feeling buried. He hadn't deserved what happened to him—no one did—and she was grateful that Captain Pike busted through the doors and shot every thaumaturge in the lab dead, bullets in between their eyes. His father was a good man, he had said. Captain Pike had sacrificed his illustrious career in the Fleet for this boy, a dead friend's son. And brought him here to Armada.
The Prime Minister was a vile disgusting man if he thought sweet Pavel deserved the life of a vavesh-tor. What Pavel did, Gaila didn't know. He wouldn't talk about it. And she tried all she could, because she knew it was something that still weighed heavily on his mind. Five years later, the boy of fifteen was now a man of twenty and the flashbacks and nightly terrors had lessened to simply bi-weekly nightmares. And last night was one of the worst in months.
So he had sought her out. She helped him. It was her job, after all.
Gaila smiled at him, wrapping a long translucent robe around her green body and flipping her red hair over her shoulder. He didn't see her smile, of course, looking downward, his fingers working the buttons of his shirt. It was doubtful he'd be able to discern it anyway. His man-made eyes gave him unnatural vision—no one could hide behind walls without him knowing—but he still struggled with simple things. Struggled to find a small button hole in a muddled sea of greens and blues and reds.
"Here, let me." She reached for the buttons and finished slipping them through the small holes of his shirt.
Young Pavel blushed. "Thank you, Miss Gaila." His voice carried a thick accent, evidence of his Aba'kurian upbringing.
She smiled again. She adored him. In her profession, having favorites could be dangerous. Reckless. Irresponsible. Because feelings weren't allowed for Courtesans—it was ingrained since the first day she set foot in the guild's home in Sura'Kahr. It was a great honor for an Orion girl to be invited to join. But there were rules. And she was treading dangerously close to breaking them. Gaila rose on her toes and brought his forehead to her lips, kissing him gently.
A loud holler. She turned from him and looked to the sky. A dirigible—the Fletan—sailed in the sky. Captain Pike and his crew have returned.
"Finally!" Gaila exclaimed. "They better have brought back Rillian melon. I told Christopher that I needed more. I have clients with needs. Does he not understand how difficult it is to use gespar for pleasure? Far too sticky and acidic. I want people to scream in pleasure when I finish them, not because their sex parts are on fire."
Pavel cleared his throat. "I thought they were seeking a new library."
She waved a hand at him. "Oh, yes. That, too." A look at the ocean below the Fletan and she could see a rough-looking ship sailing. That's what they found? Gaila scoffed. How could it stand to replace the Kau, how could it stand to hold Commander Spock's vast library of saved books when it looked inches away from sinking into the ocean itself?
Weeks ago, someone had set the library alight. On accident or purposely, Gaila did not know. Commander Spock perhaps could inform her of the cause if she cared enough to ask him. But she failed to understand the importance of his collection and, in turn, he cared little for her many appeals to get him in her bed. He needed it—the release. He was wound far too tight. There was pain there, as well. She could see it in his eyes. His human eyes. Yes, she knew his secret. It was her job to know these things, to read these things. Men—and women and everyone in between—came to her, often weighed down by such heavy secrets that could kill if they came to light. And Gaila knew how to relieve them of that burden. Oftentimes, yes, she would lay with them and they would seek enjoyment and peace in her arms. But sometimes, they simply needed to talk. And she'd listen.
Commander Spock had done neither. The Kau had been aflame, dancing flames so hot she could feel them from a hundred yards away, and the Vulcan stood by on the stern of a nearby ship. Captain Pike had ordered men to retrieve what they could. Some never made it back. But they could not save it all and Pike was forced to cut the Kau loose from Armada, to save the floating city. And the Commander said nothing. Did nothing. Nothing but watch the ship sink into its watery grave. When its crow's nest slipped below, he turned, took claim of the paltry remaining books and went to sleep.
The Fletan landed on the large deck of the Oekon—the largest ship of Armada. Gaila tightened her robe's sash around her waist and headed towards it, weaving in and out on the ships' decks.
*/*\*
Nyota clung to the ropes, staring at the massive city of ships below. Armada was real. It wasn't just a story. Hundreds and hundreds of ships, roped together, anchored below, swaying together on the dark ocean.
The dirigible dipped slightly in the light breeze, moving closer and closer towards her new home. I didn't run fast enough. She ran for her life, only to be taken hostage by pirates—she'd heard of the stories; how could she not, but she believed them to be just that: stories—and press-ganged into joining their twisted Armada? No. She didn't want that. She didn't want to be a pirate. When she was younger, not much younger than she was now, she had big dreams. She went to university, a privilege not bestowed on just anyone of Dahhana'Kahr. She studied diligently. She wanted to be a linguist, to study the languages of the various races inhabiting An'rak. She didn't want to be a pirate.
She didn't want to be a criminal.
She clung to the edge of the dirigible, the ropes providing such little protection against a fall into the ocean below. Her skirts rustled in the wind, dancing around her legs; her hair swirled around her face, now dried but heavy with the ocean's salt. With her fingers clenching the ropes, she risked a look up. At the huge hot air balloons held to the flying ship with precious few ropes. Immediately, her eyes closed and she dropped her head, unable to watch anymore. Her corset felt tight. Or perhaps it was her anxiety. Behind her, she could hear the vavesh-tor—his name is Kirk—whooping and hollering, chattering with the crew. He was not in the same position as she. He did not feel alarm; that was clear.
Of course, he wouldn't. Armada would be a blessing for him. How many more of his kind wandered the ships? He was among peers. Fellow criminals, who relished in the crimes. Soon, he would be joining them on their ships, seeking to terrorize hardworking, law-abiding An'rakian citizens.
Nyota was not among friends.
Behind her, someone approached. She turned her head, looking at them through a veil of wet hair. The priestess. She stood with an arm carefully linked with the Vulcan's. He guided her gingerly to stand beside Nyota and T'Pring let go of his arm. She reached for the same ropes Nyota grasped, her hands unsteady.
The Commander remained slightly behind them, his presence an unmoving stone. Nyota looked at him. He stood, silent, hands clasped behind his back, his weight shifting to counteract the dirigible's shifts. He was handsome, there was no denying. Soft features. Alabaster skin stretched across a wiry frame. The sharply pointed ears and arched eyebrows that she'd seen mostly in tintypes and illustrations in academic texts.
He met her gaze. And held it.
A challenge?
Nyota returned her gaze to Armada.
T'Pring turned. "I am grateful for your aid, Commander."
On the large ship's deck, Captain Pike waved at the Vulcan. "Spock! Come here."
"Of course, reldai. Dif-tor heh smusma." Spock bowed his head and turned on his heel, disembarking the ship and approaching his captain.
"It has been twenty-seven years since I've heard my mother tongue." T'Pring shook her head. "To hear it after so long from a…mongrel is undesirable."
Mother tongue? Nyota turned to T'Pring. A Vulcan priestess? How did she miss it? The arched brows, sweeping under her veil. Of course. Her face flushed hot. She should not have needed to see her ears to know. She was a linguist. Studying language and culture—and she couldn't identity a Vulcan standing in front of her? But—the Shi'al Province was obliterated. The odds of meeting two Vulcans in one day—hell, she didn't think even one lived. "You're Vulcan, as well?"
"As well? I suppose for a non-Vulcan, that would be an accurate assessment." A brow rose. And T'Pring looked at Armada and its bustling activity on the Oekon's deck, eyes settling on Spock, who stood stoically as Pike spoke animatedly. "This is the time that you stare then express condolences, is it not? For the loss of Shi'al? For the Suraks?"
Contrite, Nyota shuffled on her feet. "I'm—"
"—Sorry. Yes. I am aware."
Nyota cleared her throat. Her face still burned. Hotter. T'Pring was cold. Maybe even cruel. But that didn't feel right either. Ungrateful, perhaps. Who would refuse the aid of a person trying to help? Did she want to die? Truly? Why? She glanced at T'Pring's swollen belly. Did she even desire the child? Desire is a human emotion. No, she didn't desire it. She would do what is only logical.
Was it logical to not wish medical treatment? Nyota looked back at Armada. They would have to disembark. "Um, how did you end up so far away from the Temple?"
"That is none of your concern." T'Pring's voice was sharp with anger. So, she feels after all. The priestess touched her stomach.
"Sor—" Nyota fell silent.
"I suspect you are now awaiting my thanks for your actions on the Khosaar."
Nyota tore her eyes away from Pike and Spock, now standing in front of the growing line of press-ganged captives. The Vulcan held a board and parchment in his hand, scribbling with wet ink. "It's not—"
"You will not receive it."
Startled, Nyota stared. "I'm…I'm sorry?"
"You interfered with the gods' plan."
Nyota scoffed. Yes, this Vulcan was ungrateful. "You were ill. Do you think your gods' would really let your unborn child die? Or is your pride too much—"
"Live long and prosper." She turned away and disembarked, her movements unsteady. She swayed on her feet, nearly collapsing.
But Nyota knew better than to ask if she wanted to help. Let her suffer on her own then. Nyota let out a huff.
The svelte antelopian pirate—Robau's murderer, don't forget, Nyota—approached her. The vavesh-tor must have been altered many years ago. His gait was smooth and graceful. He'd had the time to adjust to his new life. He pushed her forward. "Let's go."
She had no choice.
She disembarked and queued with the rest of the Khosaar's survivors.
*/*\*
Gaila crossed the ships to each the Oekon. The cool breeze brought forth goosebumps across her naked legs and arms and she regretted wearing only the thin robe.
Twenty new Armadans. That was what she counted. That was what they brought. What about my—
Captain Pike caught sight of her and smiled.
"Ah, my dear captain." Gaila held her hand out to him.
"Sweet Gaila." Pike took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. His eyes swept across her body. "Aren't you freezing in that?"
She smiled sardonically. That was all he had to say? "You betcha. Now, did you bring me my melons?"
Pike looked away from her, clearing his throat. "Uh, well—"
"You didn't. You specifically told me you would. But instead, all you bring is—" She waved her hand at the Khosaar, now attached to Armada. "—the shittiest excuse of a ship ever and not one fucking melon? I have clients, as you well know, seeing as you are one. They have needs. And they tend to grow very angry when their cocks are on fire. I'm sure you can understand."
Pike's face grew red.
Gaila held back her laughter. Really, he could be such a godsforsaken prude. Except she knew the truth. The dirty litany of words he spouted every godsdamn time she was on her knees before him. "Well, what do you have to say?" There was great power in knowing people when they were at their most vulnerable, when they were caught in the waves of undulating pleasure. She relished it, there was no point in denying that.
"Yes. Ah, forgive me, Miss Gaila. We were forced to change our plans."
"Meaning?"
He glanced at his Commander. Gaila followed.
Spock stood in front of a young woman—gorgeous, Gaila thought, if a little weather-beaten—clutching his board and parchment.
In trembling hands.
Oh, no.
"Name," Spock intoned.
"Nyota Uhura," the beauty said, her arms wrapped around her waist. She was one of two new female citizens. Gaila eyed the priestess beside the girl. No, he wouldn't be interested in a pregnant girl—that priestess, she had pain.
"Any specialties?"
"Linguistics," Nyota said.
"Very well. You will be assigned to the Khosaar when its conversion is complete."
The girl had wet eyes. "And what will I be doing?"
"Assisting me." He wiped his brow.
Oh, no.
Gaila stormed toward him. "Commander Spock. A word?"
He sighed. How quaint. An irritated Vulcan. "Very well."
He stepped away from Nyota and the priestess, the board falling to his side, moving out of earshot. Gaila took in his appearance. Sallow skin. Gray sunken eyes. Sweat-soaked brow.
"How long have you been in plak-tow?"
"How—we do not—I have not entered plak-tow." Spock's face flushed a deep green. Loss of emotional control. Yes. She was right. "How have you come to know—" he glanced around them, his voice dropping to a whisper. "—the blood fever?"
Gaila sighed, crossing her arms. "I'm a Courtesan. A prostitute. A whore. A toffer. I believe they call me a kosu'guvik in your dead language. Whatever you want to call me. It's my job to know sex things. So you haven't entered it yet. How long until you do? A week? A day? Two days?"
"It is not your concern."
"If you need my help, I am more than willing to help." She smiled. "I've never had a Vulcan before. Or at least—wait, no. There was that one." She waved a hand, dismissing it. She stepped closer. "Could be fun."
He shifted his eyes behind her. She glanced back. He stared at the two women.
"The priestess is in no condition to help you," Gaila said. The Vulcan priestess was ill. Hurting. It was clear.
"I have no interest in Miss T'Pring. And I doubt she has an interest in me."
"Then—" Gaila spun back around to face him. "You're going to ask a human woman to be your sex slave?"
"Do not be vulgar."
Gaila shook her head. "No. You're the one being vulgar. Just fuck me and be done with it." She walked away, moving to the two women. "Hey, girls. You're coming with me."
T'Pring bristled. "I am a priestess of Valdena. Not a whore. I will not follow you."
Gaila laughed. "Oh, honey. Nobody said you were." She stepped between the two, looping her arms around them. "Now, you girls and I, we're going to have a lot of fun."
Spock would not hurt the human. She would make sure of that.
*/*\*
Rehkuh'gad, 28th of Re'T'Khuta, Armada
I never made it to N'Klan-ne. The Khosaar was attacked. The captain was killed. And I, I don't know. They took us away. Took the ship. They took us to Armada. Did you know it was real? You always told me it wasn't. That it was just a folktale. There was no way something like that could actually exist. A city of floating ships in the middle of the Voroth Sea. Of course, it couldn't be real.
Hundreds and hundreds of ships—bedraggled and clean—strapped together by fraying ropes. It shouldn't exist. But it does. How does it?
I am scared. Scared is too vague a term. It doesn't do the heart-pounding, the gut-wrenching overwhelming terror that threatens to take over every waking moment. These people are criminals and whores, the very dredges of society.
It was fun to see them with you. To navigate their trenches to join you in your bed, but I knew I was safe. That you would keep me safe.
Now, I am alone. And my only companions are an Orion whore and a pregnant Vulcan priestess.
A Vulcan. Two Vulcans, actually. There are survivors. But they are nothing like I imagined. Cold. Harsh. They aren't the majestic race I wanted them to be. It's rather disappointing.
I want to go home. I hated it. Despised how I was watched by my father. Hated how Dahhana'Kahr was dank and dirty and full of secrets. But it was a place I knew. I knew the rules. I knew the game. But you took that from me. You and your monster.
I think I hate you.
I hate what you did.
I hate that you ran. That you left me behind.
But then, sometimes I am thankful for that.