Chapter 10 – Extractions
"Approaching Kalpak, running parallel to outer ring," Tom said as he steered the Flyer on a course designed to run a large circle around the station. "Sue, anything yet?"
"Not yet, still scanning," the engineer responded. "It'll take a few minutes, since the Doc's emitter is so small."
"Private yacht, identify yourself," came the voice of the station dispatcher. Tom ignored it.
"Focus on the recycling systems in the outer rim," he reminded Nicoletti unnecessarily. "Can you tell when they had their last cycle?"
Thanks to the need to conserve energy, most stations and ships recycled waste at fixed intervals or when sufficient mass had been acquired, rather than on a per-item basis. Objects tossed into the smaller chutes would be suctioned into larger holding tanks for that purpose, and held until the next cycle.
"Judging by the energy output of the system, it's winding up for a new cycle in approximately ten minutes," Coulthard said, his forehead scrunched up in concentration. "Last cycle was about three hours ago, before the away team went down. If he did follow Plan B, he should still be in the chute."
One of the junior members of Baytart's conn department, Ensign Paul Coulthard was a recent Academy graduate and as such among the first pilots to have received formal training on the Delta Flyer model. Tom had taken him aboard as back-up to take the Flyer back to Voyager should the need arise, but with the boss at the helm, the young man was helping out at Ops, while Schmidt held Tactical.
"Captain," Schmidt interjected, his voice betraying his concern. "If the Doc did follow the plan and really is hiding in the recycling system, won't he get … decompiled when it cycles?"
"Shouldn't," Tom answered even as he maneuvered the Flyer around a docked ship. "The emitter is made of an advanced polydeutonic alloy that the Daystrom Institute itself hasn't been able to replicate yet. So there's nothing for the system to recycle – it won't recognize the substance, and so can't convert it into anything. If the cycle does go, the emitter will be filtered out and stored until enough non-recyclables have accumulated for a sun shoot. That's also why the recyclers are always located at the outer rim; easier to take out the garbage."
Schmidt and Coulthard looked at one another with widening eyes, both having essentially stopped listening after the first word: Shouldn't?
With a grim smile, Tom added, "But I hope we get him out before then – he's wearing my leather jacket and I'd hate to see that become someone's toast."
Nicoletti, who understood the principles involved and had been observing her companion's horror with detached amusement, gave an unladylike snort, and retorted, "Well, if something does go wrong, the Doc himself would probably come out as a dill pickle."
"Or a particularly wriggly dish of gagh, with a dash of Arcturian pepper?"
The ensuing back-and-forth speculation between Voyager's Captain and Deputy Chief Engineer of what replicated dishes a recycled EMH might come back as did not particularly serve to relieve Coulthard's concern. Nothing in his four years at the academy had ever suggested that Starfleet business should be conducted in anything but the most serious manner, but based on what he had seen and heard since, those of his crewmates who were veterans of the Delta Quadrant would habitually resort to black humour - in moments of crisis. His mouth went unaccountably dry as he internalized the fact that his very first away mission might not be without actual peril. The young ensign gripped the console a little harder as his body succumbed to a sudden rush of adrenaline.
"Unidentified Delta class yacht, state your purpose," the station dispatcher came on again, her voice almost threatening now.
"Sightseeing," Tom responded, sufficiently annoyed at the interruption to snap back. "Lovely place you got here. Thinking of buying shares."
He silenced the transmission with a slap of his palm. "Sue, anything yet?"
"There," Nicoletti's voice responded, the bantering tone gone. "Got him! Near external port Gamma Twelve."
"Can you lock in transport?"
"Negative, Captain," Coulthard said. Relieved that the unaccustomed outburst of gallows humour afflicting his senior officers seemed to have been a temporary phenomenon, he too was all business, and happily so.
"Too much interference from the phase oscillators in the recycler." He looked up from his console. "It would need to be switched off manually."
"Shit," Tom muttered, shaking his head in irritation. Nothing, but nothing, was ever easy, was it? Sometimes he wondered why portable communications devices and transporters were considered such milestones in technological development; they never seemed to work in a crunch.
"I'll go in with Schmidt. Coulthard, you take the conn. Sue, see if you can beam us into the corridor, within a couple of feet of the recycler the Doc jumped into. I assume we can still use our transporters, at short range at least, or are they as useless as the comm system?"
Nicoletti nodded affirmatively. "That's a yes on the first. We're good on transport in, at least in this section. Whatever dampening capacity they have seems to be limited to critical ops and the command modules."
"Anyone else in the vicinity where we're going?"
"Two bio signs, Nausicaan by the look of things, by what should be the entrance to the public chute. Tom, are you sure …?" Nicoletti did not bother to hide the concern in her voice – concern for her old friend and erstwhile would-be suitor, rather than her Captain.
He threw her a shrug and drew his phaser, changing the setting to maximum stun and telling Schmidt to do the same. Nausicaans. The equivalent to Earth's pachyderms, when it came to the energy output required to knock one out.
"Okay, put Arno and me behind them by ten feet. Now." His voice brooked no dissent, and Nicoletti moved to enter the necessary commands into her console even as she shook her head in silent disapproval.
They materialized in the corridor, phasers ready. The two Nausicaans were standing by the opening of the recycling chute, apparently debating whether they should crawl inside, and if so, which of them would be the lucky one. They turned when they heard the tingle of the transport; one spat a guttural curse and reached for the phaser he had put back in its holster.
Tom fired off two quick shots, which were followed in rapid succession by two more from Schmidt. The aliens crumpled slowly, and Schmidt moved quickly to kick their weapons out of reach before delivering another shot to their heads to ensure they would remain unconscious for some time.
"Cover me," Tom ordered as he headed for the chute.
"Sir?"
"I have to go in to disable the phase oscillators," Tom explained. "If the controls for those things were on the outside, anyone could play with them for a lark. Those things can be used for all sorts of adventures in garbage disposal, if you know just what to do. You wouldn't believe the number of juvenile idiots running around on space stations, with more energy than sense and strange ideas of a good time. But the recycling system is an important part of the energy grid; they don't like people fucking with it, so they keep it out of reach."
Schmidt did not ask exactly how his Captain had come by this rather esoteric bit of information; by now he had learned enough about Tom Paris and his … creatively rebellious adolescence that he suspected it had probably been acquired first-hand. He smirked a little to himself, shook his head discreetly and took up his post at the entrance to the chute - back to the wall, one eye on the still-prone Nausicaans - as Tom climbed in.
"Five minutes to recycling, Captain," Nicoletti's voice came over their comm badges, its warning tone unmistakable.
Tom heard her through the crackle of interference, and nodded grimly to himself as he squatted in the narrow space behind the entrance panel, his rear end almost touching the closed entrance to the chute. Kahless, what was that smell? Had someone stuck their head in here after a sojourn at the bar, to dispose of excess Cardassian Sunrises?
The telltale rumble that preceded the regular suction action that would ensure everything in the chute would find its way to recycling made Tom lunge for one of the rungs embedded in the wall. His feet almost lifted off the ground with the force of the drag, and he breathed out in relief as the door to the chute hissed shut again. Shit, that was close. Tom resolutely suppressed the unbidden memories of another chute, in another time, where he had not been so lucky. Well, at least this time the refuse at the other end would not be armed, crazed and dangerous, and help was a little closer.
He almost gagged as he wiped the access panel down with the sleeve of his uniform, to get rid of the unidentifiable, but definitely slimy, substance he had picked up from the rung and that was now sabotaging his efforts at removing the cover.
Outside, the sound of new footsteps coming down the corridor drew Schmidt's attention like a laser beam. He did not bother to determine who the newcomers were; as far as he was concerned, anyone in the vicinity was deemed to be a threat to the man who had risked his own life to get him out of a Romulan hell, and who was now risking it again to rescue a member of his crew. And if protecting that man resulted in collateral damage to an innocent nighttime stroller, so be it. One, two, three shots fired in rapid succession, and silence reigned once again.
Schmidt knew the respite would be brief, and adjusted his stance to face whatever came next. A least he would see them coming, and his present position have him a tactical advantage until such time as his phaser ran out of energy.
Inside the small recycling compartment, Tom's comm badge chirped, then hissed. The voice that came through was thin, and almost drowned out by crackling noise. He didn't waste any mental energy trying to figure out what might cause the interference, and focused instead on absorbing the information the voice provided.
"Asil to Captain Paris. Commander Tervellyan's bio signs have been shifted to the Rigellian freighter. Other bio signs are consistent with a combination of the original crew and individuals likely to have been in the escape pods. The vessel is powering up engines; the dampening fields they erected after the first away team was discovered are still in place and transport will not be possible. Shall we pursue?'
With a string of curses, directed indiscriminately at what he had just heard and the mechanical problems that tested his physical strength to its limit, Tom managed to pry the panel loose even as Asil was awaiting his response.
What was happening at this moment to Jarod? Was he being interrogated and subjected to … what? Tom closed his eyes against that last thought. His mind raced.
Time. No time to dwell. What were the four stages of fighting crime? Deter, delay, analyze, respond.
Time for the first two had passed before they had ever gotten to the Snowflakes, and deterrence did not seem to work against the Orion Syndicate at the best of times, nor could you take action to delay an enemy you didn't know was on the march.
Analyze. They needed to mine the data they had just obtained, thanks to the EMH. But there was no time – no time. His first officer was in their hands. Splitting the shuttle off from his ship was undesirable, but necessary under the circumstances.
Respond. What would Janeway do? Picard? Tom Paris …?
The speed of his answer belied the jumble of thought processes that had gone into it. "Yes, absolutely. We have a better chance of getting him back from that freighter than we do from this bloody rat's nest of a station. Go after them; incapacitate the ship if possible, board and use all necessary force if not. We'll catch up with the Flyer. Transmit your course and any required corrections to Coulthard."
"Three minutes to recycling," Nicoletti's voice came over his comm badge just as he dropped the panel on the floor, oblivious to the clattering sound. Kahless, the comm traffic interfering with his concentration was like Starfleet Ops Command during a Borg attack.
There. Tom located what must be the emergency shut-off lever. Unless it was the flush-everything-into-space-including-reckless-wannabe-Captains button? He cranked it down and hit his comm badge.
"I think I got it, Sue. Can you confirm that you have a lock on the Doc's emitter?"
A few seconds' silence stretched into an eternity before Nicoletti response crackled into the tiny room. "Affirmative, Captain. Initiating transport now."
"Make that a two cubic foot dispersal beam if you can, Sue. I'd like my jacket back." Tom cursed again as another pre-suction rumble warned him to grip the wall rungs. He raised his voice to enable it to be heard over the sound he knew would inevitably follow.
"Next, get Schmidt out of the corridor. He's too exposed. Then me. I'm climbing out of the recycler now and you should be able to get a lock on me in a second. Coulthard – you plan on getting the Flyer the hell away from this station as soon as we're all onboard. Coordinates coming from Voyager."
He materialized onboard the shuttle to the very smell he had so fervently hoped to leave behind, and the sight of his Deputy Chief Engineer pulling his sodden jacket out of a pile of refuse. With a determined look on her face that almost, but not quite, succeeded in masking her revulsion, she felt its front until she located the mobile emitter.
"Got it! Wait, there are a couple of PADDs in the pockets as well. Oh, ewww… This is so gross." Nicoletti swallowed, then cleared her throat to suppress her gag reflexes before continuing. "I assume you want your jacket in the refresher, Captain? I'll just beam the rest of the stuff into space. That smell …"
Despite her best efforts, she made a small retching sound, and Tom looked at her with a considerable sympathy as he stripped off his soiled – and none-too-sweet-smelling - uniform jacket.
"Lieutenant – suggest you beam the stuff into the corridor where you got me from," Schmidt interjected laconically, his deadpan expression giving nothing away. "It'll go perfectly with the Nausicaans and those other goons."
"Other goons?" Tom turned to his security officer, eyebrow raised in question. Nonetheless, he nodded his approval of the Ensign's request to Nicoletti, who shrugged and entered the reverse coordinates.
Schmidt shrugged. "Couple small squads of 'em came down the hall while you were sorting out the garbage, Captain. Free range shooting, as soon as they came round the bend. Piece of cake." He mimicked a shooting action with his right finger, then blew on it. A slightly malicious grin flashed across his face as he added, "I imagined every one of them was a Romulan."
Tom raised an eyebrow at the somewhat understated report, of what must have been a harrowing few minutes for his security officer, and made a mental note to advise Ayala of Schmidt's coolness under fire. The Ensign's mental associations, on the other hand, did not faze him in the least – he had used this particular technique himself at a few critical junctions in his life.
He took the mobile emitter from Nicoletti, and wiped it on his already compromised jacket; it was bound for the 'fresher in any event, as soon as he could find a second to toss it in. He pressed the little indentation that would recall the EMH, as well as the reset function that would re-establish the hologram's normal physical parameters.
The Doc materialized, looking around wildly; his shoulders sagged in relief when he saw the familiar surroundings. He inspected his uniform sleeves and touched his face with both hands, to confirm that he had regained his usual appearance, and took a deep holographic breath through his familiar respiratory sub-matrices.
"What about Commander Tervellyan?" he asked, as soon as he had regained his composure. "Is he …"
"Still alive, yes, according to the bio reading. He's apparently being held hostage on that Rigellian freighter. No idea what they want with him, but the Syndicate has a history of kidnappings, usually for quid pro quos like certain actions being overlooked. They may not have figured that he's Starfleet yet. They'd know that the Fleet has a policy of never giving in to blackmail demands so we may not hear from them anyway."
Tom swallowed briefly as he considered the long list of brave and doomed souls who had given their lives, or their mental health, in the cause of not setting the precedent that Starfleet would enter into bargains with criminals or political thugs. He agreed with the policy, but was only too familiar with the price that had been paid - including by families far away from any decisions being made, and with no opportunity to voice an opinion on their loved one's fate.
And reverberating through it all, unbidden, ever-present, was the thought of what Tervellyan's captors might want to learn, and how … and his own role in placing his XO into their hands, with a simple command.
Don't think about that now, Paris … there'll be time for regrets and recrimination later. Oh, he recognized that voice, tried hard to swallow its venom. For now. Yes, the time would come.
"We're going after them, with Voyager and now that we have you, with the Flyer. We will get him back, Doc," Tom said, putting as much confidence into the spoken words as he could muster. "Whatever it takes."
The comm crackled slightly, the proximity of the Snowflakes' dance leaving its apparently ubiquitous sensory footprints even in near-open space. Tom had never appreciated clean communications more than he had in the last few days, when they had been virtually impossible to maintain.
"Voyager to Delta Flyer. The Rigellian has gone to warp. Its course vector indicates that it is headed into the Narov system. The distortions will make it difficult to trace it once she gets into the gravimetric pulls caused by the current alignment. I assume you orders to pursue hold nonetheless?"
"Affirmative, Asil. Set course to follow; we'll do likewise but come in from a different angle. I assume they're headed into the Snowflakes to shake us off, but are probably aiming to go elsewhere, may Orion where we can't get at them without causing a ruckus. Hopefully one of us will catch up with them before that; once the EM emissions get too wild, they probably won't be able to hold a stable warp field."
He waited for Asil to acknowledge her instructions and close the line, but the Vulcan seemed to hesitate. Was there anything else? Tom recalled the privacy screen she had invoked in his ready room, and allowed himself the ghost of a grim smile. He punched a few buttons and retrieved an earpiece from under the console.
"Go ahead, my ears only. Relocate to my ready room if required."
Could Vulcans sound relieved? "Thank you, sir. One moment."
The line went dead as Asil removed herself from the curious eyes and ears on the bridge, and came back to life moments later with a sharp crackle - deep inside his ear - that almost caused Tom to jump out of his seat.
"Further to our earlier discussion, Captain, I thought you would be interested to hear that based on crew rosters and authorization levels, the only individuals with sufficient time to access and/or modify the transporter coordinates prior to our respective deliveries, apart from myself, were Commander Tervellyan, Lieutenant Commander Torres, Lieutenants Ayala and Nicoletti, Ensign Schmidt, and Crewman Cor Zelis."
She cleared her throat. "And you, sir. Begging your pardon, Captain."
Well, I think we can rule out myself and B'Elanna. Tom dismissed any further speculation as counter-productive for the time being, even as the list of names burrowed deep into his brain where he knew it would fester and gnaw.
"Thanks, Lieutenant. That was … enlightening. I'll reflect on what you told me. Try and correlate that information with external transmissions, if you can; maybe that'll help further refine your search. You have your other instructions. Paris out."
Tom ignored the questioning glances thrown at him by Nicoletti and the EMH; since it was his personal vessel, the Flyer was not equipped with the silencer – even if it had the space to create the necessary field – and privacy was strictly a one-way street, in favour of the caller. It was a good thing that Captains didn't have to justify themselves to their crew …
Pretending that the one-sided conversation had been a matter of routine, Tom paused for a moment to observe Coulthard handling the Flyer. The young man did so with reasonable competence, if little of the grace her owner would have brought to the task; the temptation to slide into the pilot's seat was considerable. But there were other matters for the Captain to attend to; flying he could delegate, regardless of how his instincts screamed otherwise.
"So, tell us what happened, Doc. Just the facts, though, please. Did you get the data?"
The Doctor briefly stared into space, as if checking something inside his head. "Yes, there is a considerable increase in volume in my matrix. In fact, I am beginning to appreciate what it feels like to have a brain tumour; I have difficulties focusing and carrying out more than one or two complex functions at the same time. The sooner Lieutenant Nicoletti can remove the files, the happier I'll be. And just what is that smell?""
"Never mind the smell, Doc. As for the data clogging up your memory banks, we'll get it out as soon as possible. Tell us what happened?"
As the EMH recounted his perspective on the events of the last – had it really been only a couple of hours? - Nicoletti's head whipped up.
"You mean one of the Orion slaves pulled a phaser? I find that hard to believe."
"Who knows what one of them might feel compelled to do," the Doctor replied. "It's well-established fact that severe trauma can lead to some form of identification with your abuser. Although I have to say, she sounded as if she meant it."
"And who's to say that a woman can't be a member of the Syndicate?" Tom interjected. "Remember that freighter had escape pods for eight people, but the DNA samples Tval found came from only seven males? I've been thinking about that. Either one of the pods only had one person aboard, or one of the crew was female."
The EMH gave Tom a quizzical look "Or abstinent. That has been known to happen on occasion, Captain, even if you may find that notion absurd. But yes, that is a possibility. And if that female was one of those rescued in the escape pods and working with Syndicate members on Kalpak Station, there could certainly be reasons for her to be housed in the quarters of a senior official."
"Exactly!" Despite his own relentless doubts and the seriousness of the situation, Tom could feel himself getting intrigued by this game of following clues; in fact, he was beginning to appreciate just what Admiral Picard saw in those detective holonovels of his. The data the Doc had brought back would hopefully yield more information; he knew himself well enough to admit that his curiosity went far beyond the basic need to plan Voyager's next move. Down, Proton, down …
"That still doesn't explain why a woman would want to participate in the … abuse of other women," Nicoletti frowned.
"And just what makes you think men have cornered the market on ruthlessness?" The Doctor's voice, although it was starting to slow down perceptibly now under the weight of the unexpurgated data from Kalpak Station, still managed to hold a measure of acerbity.
"Remember Seska? She happily abandoned the Voyager crew, including Ensign Wildman who had just given birth, on that primitive planet that I and Mr. … Captain Paris managed to rescue you all from. Woman, crewmate, supposed friend – none of it made one iota of difference."
Tom briefly wondered if the Doctor would ever be able to speak his rank without hesitation, or audible quotation marks. He shook off the unproductive thought as an unpleasant theory began weaving the first disquieting tendril of an as-yet-unformed thought inside his head. The only individuals with sufficient time to access and/or modify the transporter coordinates …
A thought not to be examined too closely – not yet.
"Whatever. Let's assume that this unknown female is a member of the Syndicate. There's certainly enough evidence to suggest that she is the one who has taken Commander Tervellyan … hostage. We would certainly want to locate heron that ship before we board, if that what it comes to; there's a number of questions I'd like to ask her, so it's imperative we try and extract her."
He turned to the engineer. "In the meantime, Sue, can you download the data from the Doc's emitter into the Flyer's computer? I'd like to look at them and shoot them over to Voyager for secondary analysis, plus I don't want to risk overloading him."
For once, the Doctor – who was getting ever closer to complaining about feeling … unwell - submitted to the engineer's ministrations without complaint. Fortunately, Nicoletti's tinkering with the emitter did not require him to be taken offline, and he continued to regale the other officers with his exploits on the station. Despite the excessive pressure on his memory banks, he managed to infuse his tale in equal measure with satisfaction concerning his own ingenuity, and resentment at the … undignified escape plan to which Tom Paris had subjected him.
"Hey, the experience may have been humbling and odiferous, but it worked. You're here, aren't you?" Tom protested automatically, although his heart wasn't really in it. Something about the Doctor's tale nagged at him, the whispering thought he had tried to suppress earlier snaking more deeply, more insistently, into his mind.
Darmoth Krall. The man Jarod Tervellyan had talked to for virtually the entire time he was in that bar. It was almost as if a cold hand had reached into his stomach and was gripping his guts, as he replayed Asil's words in his mind:
The only individuals with sufficient time to access and/or modify the transporter coordinates prior to our respective deliveries, apart from myself, were Commander Tervellyan, Lieutenant Commander Torres, Lieutenants Ayala and Nicoletti, Ensign Schmidt, and Crewman Cor Zelis …
With clenched teeth and a determined frown, Tom punched his codes into the console for a private subspace link to Voyager. He turned his attention to the monitor, to ask the question to which he almost feared getting the answer.
"Asil, Paris here. Can you please check with our Orion guest what she knows of a man by the name of Darmoth Krall? Not sure if the name's real, but that's how he's apparently known on the station. Apparently he was the guy the Commander spoke with in the bar, but it seems he comes with … a bit of baggage. Needless to say, I'd like to know just how much. Paris out."
He sat back in his chair with a sigh, eyeing Coulthard at the conn with a pang of envy. There were too many balls in the air, at least one of them coated in poison. Too many questions unanswered.
Flying, by comparison, was easy …
…..
Asil stood at the entrance to the guest quarters assigned to Lemarr Valon. Had she been human, she might have hesitated, to wonder briefly whether her presence would be welcome, and how best to approach the young woman who had come to Voyager under such extraordinary circumstances. But she was not human, and she had a mission to fulfill. She chimed the door.
No response.
"Computer, locate Lemarr Valon."
The uninflected, but surprisingly warm, voice of the computer responded immediately.
"Lemarr Valon is in the nursery."
Asil raised an eyebrow and turned on her heel to re-enter the turbolift.
Her eyebrow shot up even higher when she arrived at the nursery. There was the young Orion woman, sitting cross-legged on the floor – still wrapped in Mike Ayala's jacket - trying her very best to reassemble a model of the enterprise under the expert tutelage of a two-and-a-half-year-old. A security officer stood discreetly in a corner, arms behind his back, in classic at-ease position; he came to attention at the Lieutenant's entrance.
"This is the port nacelle, Lemarr," Miral Paris said seriously, holding out a piece of her favourite toy. "It got damaged in a space a-mo-na-ly, but Mommy fixed it and now it's working again."
The expression on Lemarr's face was not quite a smile, but as she inspected the chewed-up piece Miral had given her, she appeared to Asil less tense already than when she had first seen her cross the bridge to enter the Captain's ready room.
"I regret the interruption," Asil said politely. "May I have a moment of your time, Miss Valon?"
Lemarr raised her dark green eyes to the Vulcan. "I prefer to be addressed as Lemarr," she said softly, inclining her head politely. "I am at your service."
She rose gracefully to her feet, handing the port nacelle back to Miral with a smile. "Here you go, Miral," she said. "I will be right back."
Asil waved off the security and, as was her habit, proceeded straight to her point.
"Captain Paris has requested me to inquire whether you are familiar with an individual by the name of Darmoth Krall."
There was no mistaking Lemarr's hissed intake of breath in reaction to the name. She turned a pale green and her hands clenched into involuntary fists, pulling Ayala's jacket more tightly around her shoulders. She swallowed convulsively and looked around, a cornered animal, trying to find a place to hide.
"There is no need to worry, Miss … Lemarr." Asil may not be inclined to show emotions of her own, but certainly recognized them in others. She inflected her voice in as reassuring a tone as she was able to muster. "I only require information about Darmoth Krall. You are in no danger from him on this ship."
Miral looked up from her toy Enterprise, having noticed the changed mood in her shy playmate.
Finally, the young Orion found her voice. "He is the owner," she breathed, barely audible. "Of lodubyaln."
Miral, who had been watching her playmate intently, stood up and took her hand. "Don't worry, Lemarr, my Daddy will keep you safe from the bad men. He's a brave warrior and likes to help people. Sometimes he gets hurt doing it and then Mommy says he's an idiot, and Uncle Doc has to fix him up. But he'll try his best to make sure you won't get hurt."
Lemarr hesitated, not sure how to react to Miral's promise - so trustingly given, so far beyond her own experience. Her eyes cast around, finally coming to rest on Asil, who had remained perfectly still during the exchange. The Vulcan nodded solemnly, focusing her dark, serene eyes on Miral, and the woman whom the little girl had decided to take under her small but fiercely beating wings.
One who knew the Lieutenant well, might have detected a gleam of amusement in them, perhaps something else. Her voice, when she spoke, was even.
"Based on what my own father has told me, that is an apt description of Captain Paris, in all respects. He will indeed ensure that no harm will befall you while you are onboard this ship. You have my word on that as well. As the Acting Captain during his absence, I speak for him in this."
She waited to let her words sink in, watching the young woman's tense shoulders relax a little, her hand still in Miral's. Almost gently, she added, "Do I have your permission to pass this information on to the Captain, Miss … Lemarr?"
Lemarr's mouth opened, then closed as she blinked back a sudden tear.
Do I have your permission, Lemarr?
She swallowed, then licked her lips a little, unconsciously. Savouring the unexpected question like the gift it was, more precious because given without a thought: The possibility to say, No.
Do I have your permission, Lemarr?
Slowly she nodded, her lip pulled firmly between her teeth.
Yes.
It was a gift in return, that nod. Her gift. Willingly given, to these people who asked her will; who made promises that she knew beyond a doubt would be kept.
Yes.
"Yes." Softly at first, then more firmly, as her voice became infused with the strength of her decision.
"Yes. Please, tell Captain Paris that Darmoth Krall is the man who bought my services, and those of the others. He profits from … from what we are forced to give, and from what is taken from us."
Then, as Asil turned to leave with a slight bow of acknowledgment and thanks, Lemarr Valon chose to give more - her life, should she be reclaimed by those who would own her.
A gift, and a weapon.
"Tell Captain Paris, beware. Darmoth Krall is not from Orion, but he is of the Syndicate. There are many more like him now, who are not Orion, who are from other worlds. From your own worlds: Rigel, Earth, Tellar Prime.
"Tell Captain Paris, the Syndicate grows."