Author's note: It's subtle, but there is a mention of Vulcans not seeing as well as Humans in the dark. This theory isn't mine, of course, it's from the talented Blackn'blue.
The last thing Trip remembered were his engines giving all kind of troublesome readings. Because Jon didn't love them, that was why. Trip was trying to keep everything working and in one piece, with Rostov at one side and Taylor at the other, on a platform over his head. Somebody shouted at the back of the room and more yells and shrieks followed it. He looked up and saw Taylor de-materializing into a green beam.
And then, he felt as if he was disintegrating molecule by molecule, in an eerie reminiscence of a full body shudder, but chillier. Teleportation. It didn't matter whose technology was being used. The experience was always the same. There was a moment, after the sensation of losing all touch, when you didn't feel anything at all. It was like that brief gap, when you are not totally sleeping, just about to wake, but not entirely conscious either. It wasn't exactly the same, because you were aware of everything while you didn't perceive anything, not even yourself. Very, very bizarre.
That quick insubstantiality gave way to what Trip called "body vomit," or the unpleasant feeling that you were regurgitating your own being.
In those seconds Trip understood Hoshi's disgust with the transporter.
When he was able to feel a floor under him and to move his fingers, he took a fast look at his surrounding. He had barely noticed the old condition of the booth where he had landed, when somebody opened the door and pushed him outside. He had time to think "The transporter isn't open; each beam comes from an individual cabin," before something with the force of a pneumatic drill hit his back, making him fall to the ground.
All the air left his lungs.
Strong hands grabbed him by his uniform's back and raised him to his feet. Trip bumped into three green giants, who showed all kinds of kinky piercings and very big smiles. Orions. Trip had never had many encounters with that species. Overall, he didn't like them or their way of life much, and right then, with a bunch of them surrounding him with wicked intentions, he liked them even less.
The Orion behind him passed his hands under Trip's armpits and immobilized him. Trip couldn't touch the floor with his feet. The other two Orions began to touch him.
"What are—? Stop, stop it!" The Orions ignored him and kept frisking him. "This is outrag— Ahhhh! No, that's not a weapon! I'd like to keep my capacity to become a father, thank you! Ouch, that hurts! You sonofa—"
One of the Orions elbowed him in the face. Trip almost felt his brain bouncing inside his skull.
Easy. Easy, Trip. Try to gain control.
"My name is Charles Tucker III," he hissed. "Rank, Commander. Service number: 125-43-5798. I demand to be treated as a prisoner of war!"
The Orion behind him pushed him to the floor again. Another kicked his stomach. Solely to maintain his dignity, he leapt and rose. The Orions laughed. One of them — Smiley, Trip called him — held out his hand and grabbed Trip by his neck effortlessly. He raised Trip from the ground, just to prove he could. Trip punched his big, big arm and kicked the air, uselessly. Smiley smiled even more. At his side, Fatty pinched Trip's cheek like an affectionate uncle. Trip began to feel the lack of oxygen. His head throbbed. On the other side, the third Orion, Slim, was manipulating some kind of device. After a while, he reached Trip's ear and stuck the device in it.
Trip felt excruciating agony, as if somebody had immersed each and every one of his cells in hydrochloric acid.
He momentarily lost consciousness. Next he knew, he was being dragged along a corridor. In front of him other Orions carried some other Human crewmen. Trip recognized Taylor.
"Jane! Are you all right?" he shouted.
She seemed disoriented, with clouded eyes under her brown curls, but was able to pinpoint him at last. "Commander! What's going on? What's going to happen to us?"
"Don't worry. Everything will be all right." He didn't believe it himself. "Just… be calm."
Smiley kneed him in the stomach. Trip spit up some bile. He was going to talk with the person in charge; the service left a lot to be desired.
While Taylor was being locked up in a different cell several meters further on, Trip's captors opened a door in front of him. The interior was completely dark. Fatty threw him inside. Trip literally flew through the air. He landed with a painful thud, his head missing a projecting hard surface by only two centimetres.
Trip collected himself and charged forward. The Orions shut the door in front of his nose. Trip punched it out of frustration. He yelled. He kicked the door. He yelled again.
The cries echoed in the cell and were lost in the solitude.
Trip could hear his own breathing, fast and hoarse, and distantly, as if they were at the end of times, the wails of the other crewmen.
The door had a long horizontal sliding bar at the eyes' height that worked as a spyhole. It let in a thin crack of light. Trip moved his face as close to it as he could and tried to peek. The only thing he could see was a part of the long corridor, more or less as far as Taylor's cell door. Nothing more.
He turned around. His eyes were getting used to the darkness. He was in a roughly 2'5X3 cell, with a bunk attached to the right wall and another on the opposite side. At the back of the room a metallic kind of bolt. A faucet? And what looked like a sink under it, on the floor.
Trip walked toward it to take a look at it more closely. He heard noises then. They came from outside. It sounded like steps approaching. And voices. Trip looked through the spyhole.
It seemed that Orions were coming back, carrying more people.
Trip stepped back and got ready just in case they opened the door. There were some brisk noises just outside and the clang of the lock being unlocked. Trip charged as soon as the door slid open. He barged into Fatty. It was like hitting a wall. Fatty grabbed him by the collar of the uniform and threw him inside again. This time Trip hit his hip on the corner of the bunk and the pain made his eyes water. But that was nothing to the sudden spike of agony from the device. He collapsed on the floor, his eyes streaming with helpless tears.
He still noticed, however, that the Orions had another prisoner. A Vulcan. Short hair, pointed ears and quite petite. From what Trip could see he looked extremely young. A boy. It was just a boy. Were the Vulcans so ruthless — or desperate — that they were recruiting teens? Even if he seemed young, his stance was determined and even slightly aggressive. He was brave.
The Orions pushed the Vulcan inside and closed the door.
Trip and the stranger were left on their own in the dark cell. Trip was just too aching to even rise from the floor. His ears were ringing, his hip ached and tears still ran down his cheeks. The Vulcan boy remained an entire minute next to the door, probably to get used to the darkness. He looked through the crack of the spyhole, then turned his attention to the cell again. Trip, even in the middle of his agony, smiled: the Vulcan was doing exactly what he had done, except without the shouting and cursing. The boy went to the back wall, doing a more than necessary curve to avoid Trip, so he barged into the other bunk. A miscalculation? Could Vulcans miscalculate? Or perhaps they didn't see as well as Humans in the dark? Trip could see the obscure shape of the Vulcan as he bent down, feeling his way. He reached the back wall at last. The boy felt along it a little more and touched the bolt. He manipulated it. Trip heard the characteristic sound of a water stream. The Vulcan opened and closed the faucet several times, as if he wanted to find out if he could adjust the intensity. Apparently he couldn't.
Meanwhile, Trip's pain had subdued and he sat down on what he supposed was his bed.
The Vulcan opened and closed the faucet once more. The last drops disappeared in the sink with a gurgle. The Vulcan walked carefully toward his bulk and dropped into it. He sighed and cursed. He spoke Vulcan and Trip couldn't understand its meaning, but the tone was unmistakable. The boy's voice possessed that thin quality of teen voices that haven't completely changed yet. He was very young. Trip felt suddenly compassionate. Granted, he was a Vulcan, an enemy, but both of them were prisoners of a third species. Strangers in a strange place. So a mixture of his good nature and a universal comradeship made Trip say: "Everything will be all right, boy."
A tense silence. Then: "Boy?" the Vulcan said.
Trip was a little surprised, not just because the Vulcan understood his words, but because he sounded miffed. What? Had he offended him or something? Were Vulcans touchy?
"OK, I'm sure you consider yourself very mature and adult and probably you've passed a Vulcan mumbo-jumbo test of maturity consisting of walking naked in the desert while doing neperian logarithms or whatever is your stupid initiation rite. But let me tell you that anybody who hasn't changed his voice yet is a boy in my book."
Trip had expected a heated comeback, but he only received a calm reply: "I see that you are as perceptive as is to be expected in a Human."
"What does that mean?"
The Vulcan didn't answer.
What the hell? It was time for Trip to curse. Of all people, he had to be shut away with a Vulcan. It was horrible. They couldn't even argue appropriately. OK, he didn't like arguing, but right then it would help him ease the stress.
He heard a soft slithering sound, like two pieces of fabric rubbing against each other. In the low light he could make out that the boy had crossed his legs Indian style on the bed.
Trip relaxed a little. He hadn't been aware that he was tense until then. It was amazing how the Vulcan seemed completely unflappable in that situation. Maybe it was because he didn't sense Trip was a threatening opponent or maybe it was a common trait in all the Vulcans in situations like that. For all he knew… Being an Engineer, he had never been on the front, so to speak, always confined to the four walls of Engineering while battles happened outside. Malcolm jokingly used to accuse him of being "sheltered." Well, not anymore.
Trip lay down on the bed with his hands behind his nape. He had always liked to meet new people and civilizations, but this wasn't his idea of a pleasant immersion into another culture. He would have been content with a postcard. He sighed. What would happen to him now? The database said that Orion's economy was greatly based on piracy, even if the Orion Government officially condemned it. Pirates traded anything, but especially slaves, because that was what earned them more income. So he had to expect to be sold as a slave. It was almost ironic. He was the Chief Engineer of the most modern Human spaceship, and he was going to end being something as archaic as a slave. Whose slave, anyway? Who would be his owner? Of what species? Would he —or she— live far, far away? At least he hoped he could work in what he liked. Maybe he could use new alien technology. But what would happen with the war? With his friends? And would he be able to see his family ever again? Dad, Mom, Sharon, Jamie, Lizzie…
He leapt from the bed. He noticed the Vulcan flinch.
"Don't worry. I just want to stretch my legs."
Trip walked up and down in the cell. He needed to move. He needed to do something. Anything. Although he knew it was useless, he operated the faucet. It was activated by a button, so the stream's intensity was indeed automatic. The water hit the sink forcefully and spattered his boots. Trip knelt down. The sink had a bigger than usual hole. He suspected it was used as a toilet too. He opened the faucet again. The water stream splashed once more. Trip had some very ugly glimpses of future scenes.
He tried to pull off or move the faucet. Useless.
Trip rubbed his face with both palms, desperate. He couldn't stand the waiting. Working for hours on a problem or a breakdown? Easy. Listening to one of the President's interminable speeches? No worries. Enduring torture? He was ready for it. But waiting? Just waiting for an unknown fate? Insufferable.
He had always been like that, since he was a hyperactive child. Long quiet waits got on his nerves. When he was seven he had taken apart his late grandfather's clock during his wake.
He dropped into the bunk again. There was no helping it. He grabbed the bed frame with both hands and tried to shake it, even if he knew it was totally pointless. Just to convince himself he was trying.
He could sense the Vulcan's stare.
Trip opened his mouth to tell him a couple of things when the lights turned on and a deafening horn began to sound without a break. He needed some time to get used to such brightness. The horn was really, really loud, almost intolerably so.
Trip looked at the Vulcan to see his reaction.
It was then that he realized he had made a stupid mistake.
The Vulcan's stance in front of the Orions had fooled him completely. And there was that little detail of all Vulcans having exactly the same haircut and uniform. And his sight had been clouded when they met for the first time, so it was understandable. You could take the Vulcan for a male.
Even now, it would be easy. There was something very androgynous about the Vulcans. But, Trip noticed, not that much. There were boys with hazel big eyes and big lashes, but never just above so delicately sculpted cheeks. And although boys with fleshy lips existed in the universe, that combination of fleshy and silky was very uncommon in a male. The long swan neck was possible in a teen, of course, even if it didn't have an Adam's apple. Maybe Vulcans didn't have one. But what was indisputable was that no Vulcan male, no matter how androgynous he was, could have a pair of those on his chest. Not unless Vulcans changed sex during puberty.
So what Trip had in front of him was a Vulcan female.
And automatically Trip's mind remembered the Vulcan's commentary about his "insight."
She was a Vulcan female who knew how to use irony.
Oh. Holy. Shit!
