—Chapter 14—
Operation G-String, as the crew had started calling it was due to commence in a few hours and the crew was gathered in the Galley to discuss things over coffee.
"So Travis and I are monitoring you guys from aboard the ship," said Hoshi.
"Right," said Trip. "We'll leave our comm units on so you can hear what's going on. If we get in serious trouble you guys can hopefully position the ship in a place from which you can transport us out of there."
"Still don't feel right about using that thing," said Malcolm. "I know it saved the Captain's life, but it's still not a proven tech as far as I'm concerned."
"It was good enough for the Happa," said Trip.
"Their transporters may be more advanced, Commander."
"Well, Malcolm, given the choice between the transporter or having my head split open by a Happa, I'll take my chances," said Trip.
"Now why is the SubCommander going with you guys?" said Hoshi. "Won't it put the crimp in your festivities?"
"Slaves accompany their masters everywhere in the Badlands, Hoshi," said Malcolm. "No one will blink and eye at it, and we may stumble into a Happa while there. She'll make a conversation starter, if they're interested in her."
"Anyway, the Orions see the Vulcans as sexless computers," said Trip with an impish smile just barely restrained as he looked at T'Pol, "cold, logical, mechanical…"
Trip waited, but T'Pol refused to rise to the bait.
"Given that fact, it would seem natural that I seek out the warm embrace of an Orion dancer, even though I could make use of Polly."
"We must get ready," said T'Pol. "We have a long dreary night ahead of us."
"Aye, sir," said Malcolm with a wink at Travis, "dreary."
"T'Pol, she wants to bang me," said Trip. "I don't want to have to put that in my report to StarFleet. First I'm hanging out in strip joints, now I'm sexing up Orion dancers. I got to tell you, T'Pol, that's not gonna look great on my record."
Their night had turned out just about as one would have imagined it would. Trip, Malcolm and T'Pol had spent the past five hours bouncing in and out of crowded Orion joints which functioned as operations to efficiently fleece their customers of credits by combining the functions of a bar/casino/strip joint and brothel all rolled into one large building. Once there they watched for Happa, listened for any background chatter in which Happa were involved, bought drinks for other patrons and dancers for information of the Badlands which they eventually brought around the Happa, and the end result of it all was the suggestion, from several different sources to come to the Steel Cat and speak to Misri. And meeting Misri had led to this, for it seemed the Orion was taken with Trip's blue eyes and wholesome demeanor. She'd had extensive contact with the Happa, she said, and would share her knowledge with Trip for a price: five hundred Ketsemi strips and a night of passion.
"No one will care how we got the information, Commander. In any case, I order you to do what it takes to interrogate this Orion female."
"Really? You're ordering me."
"Yes, Commander. As regrettable as you may find this task, it must be done."
"Ok, I'm in."
"What?"
"I stand ready to follow your orders, SubCommander. You win."
"Yes, Commander Tucker," said T'Pol, and only a lifetime of discipline kept sarcasm from coloring her tone, save in the slightest. "I win."
So there they were, in Misri's suite, while the Orion showered and slipped into something less restrictive, though how an item of clothing could be less restrictive than the tiny dress she was already wearing, was beyond T'Pol. This place was still within the boundaries of the marketplace, so Trip was still without weapon, but things had gone well enough, all things considered.
"Ok, she could come back any second, T'Pol, so listen. I'll leave my comm unit in my left pocket. Malcolm is in the lobby. Call him if we get in some kind of trouble."
T'Pol was distracted. Her keen sense of smell was overpowered by the sickly sweet scent of the Orion's pheromones, but beneath that, more subtle, but also much more fascinating was the Commander's scent. It was a clean scent, but there was something in it which drew her, and she could only catch a hint of it, which frustrated the Vulcan. She breathed in deeper and deeper, unconsciously, trying to inhale enough of his scent to identify what she found so attractive about it.
"T'Pol! Are you listening?"
"I apologize, Commander. I was distracted."
"By what! Jeez, T'Pol, if you're working out the ratios of—"
"I apologize."
"Right. Ok, sorry. You heard me about Malcolm and my comm unit."
"Yes, Commander."
"Good. Now—"
T'Pol's earlier question on the topic of Orion dancers and restrictive clothing was answered when the Misri returned quite naked, save for what seemed to be an orange silk sash around her hips.
"What's the sash for?" said Trip.
He'd intended to make a joke of it, but the sight of the naked dancer moving towards him with catlike grace had made quite an impact, for his words came out in a strangled croak. His whole body was suddenly coiled, like a steel spring, his hands tightening into claws, his teeth grinding.
What the hell is going on? thought Trip. Did she slip me something?
He didn't think Misri could have slipped something past him, Malcolm and T'Pol, but perhaps… All he knew was that he wanted to bite her, kiss her, fuck her, all at once, and it was overpowering. Her scent was overpowering. That was it, perhaps.
T'Pol olfactory sense was now flooded with the Commander's scent and the scent of his arousal was intoxicating, though it infuriated T'Pol that the Orion had been the cause of that arousal.
Could this be jealousy I'm feeling? she wondered. Impossible. Is it? Perhaps not… Fascinating.
"I'll show you what the sash is for, upstairs," said Misri. "Unless you want your pet to watch and learn how to truly satisfy a man?"
Trip winked at T'Pol, did his best robot dance and said in a monotone, "I am a Vulcan. I am not programmed for pleasure. Hit Alt-CNTRL-Delete to REBOOT. REBOOT. REBOOT."
Misri laughed and said, "We'll go upstairs to my bedroom then, human. Let me get a bottle of Gorn branswa, first."
The Orion headed for her kitchen and Trip looked after her admiringly.
"Allright, Mi— Arrrgghh! Damn it, T'Pol!" said Trip, startled and pained, for T'Pol had sunk her teeth into him. "What the hell?!"
"Apologies, Commander. It must be a flaw in my programming. I shall REBOOT."
"That's not funny, T'Pol!"
Misri had returned to find Trip glaring at T'Pol, while holding his neck. The bite mark she saw on the human's neck said it all.
"She knows what I'm going to do to you and she wanted to mark you as hers. This little Vulcan wildcat needs a lesson in respect, Tucker-Trip," said Misri.
"I told you, it's either Trip, or Tucker. Pick one. Anyway, forget it. Let's open that booze."
"No, human. Treachery must be repaid in full. Give me the base unit if you will not use the neural whip on her."
Trip might not have had much experience with Orion females, but he knew enough by now that they were fiercely jealous of every other female, other Orions included. If he handed her the unit, T'Pol would suffer quite badly.
"I'll do it," he said, partly to move things along, partly because he was still annoyed at the pain from T'Pol's wicked bite, but mostly because he felt compelled to do as the Orion asked: perhaps she had drugged him, after all.
He manipulated the neural whip through his base unit, but he used pleasure to discipline, rather than pain. T'Pol's body stiffened at the unexpected sensations, and Misri laughed with delight, mistaking what she saw.
"Harder, Tucker! Make her really feel it."
"Enough, please. Stop, master," said T'Pol, panting.
"That's it? Vulcans and their pain management techniques squeeze every bit of fun out punishment, no?" said Misri. "You would enjoy punishing me, I promise. Sell her, Tucker! Please! Sell her tomorrow. Buy my contract. I'll make you happy, I promise."
"Show me," said Trip and nodded towards the stairs, rubbing his neck.
As Misri bounced towards the stairs, Trip spared one last narrow-eyed look for T'Pol, but the Vulcan merely raised a brow in return, poised as ever. As soon as the Commander climbed the stairs though, T'Pol's mind started racing.
Oh, why did I tell the Commander to pleasure that Orion? How could I ask that of him? No, I didn't ask, I pressured the good Commander into it all, I misused my command authority to order the man into a terrible situation… I should march in there, now, and drag that Orion hussy off my—
T'Pol was spared from herself by the subtle vibration of the Commander's comm unit. Moving swiftly she activated it.
"T'Pol."
"SubCommander," said Malcolm. "We have trouble."
"Elaborate."
"I see a Happa, along with a half dozen Orion security guards. It looks like they're waiting for someone, and I think they're coming for you, or Trip, or both."
"Why?"
"Just a gut feeling that the Happa found out someone was asking questions about them, SubCommander."
"You are speculating, Lieutenant."
"Aye, sir. And that's saved my life, now and then."
T'Pol had seen the Vulcan files on the officers of the Enterprise, before she boarded the ship. Lieutenant Reed's file raised a big red flag. Officially, his file showed him working as an MP and then a secondary Tactical officer in several unimportant postings, then he just gets a bump to Tactical officer of the pride of StarFleet, the best space ship the humans had. Discreet inquiries showed a pattern of praise for Lieutenant Reed's performance, though few seemed to remember anything of the man himself. The Vulcans were many things, but they were not fools. Reed was, as humans would say, a spook, so T'Pol was inclined to trust his hunch.
"Suggestions."
"Head for the roof. I can meet you there. Travis can bring the ship down to us and Hoshi can transport us all aboard the ship and out of here."
Their ship was suited to enter a planet's atmosphere, unlike some of the larger freighters than remained in space their entire lives, and Misri's place was in a two hundred story high-rise, so Travis would have no problems finding it. It was a viable suggestion, but…
"That gives us nothing, Lieutenant. We came here for information."
"I've thought of that. Lure the Happa to the roof. We snatch them up as well and get the hell out of here. Your people can interrogate them at their leisure."
"We have already decided that the Happa are too dangerous to keep prisoner, Lieutenant."
"You don't understand, SubCommander. We save their patterns in our transporter buffer, but we do not re-materialize them until we get back to Vulcan, or at least make contact with a Vulcan battle-cruiser with the facilities and people to properly restrain the Happa. I've already filled Hoshi in on that part of the plan."
T'Pol was stunned. It was so elegant, yet so simple. She should have thought of it herself. She'd have to keep her eye on Lieutenant Reed.
"Excellent idea, Lieutenant. How do you—"
"Two more Happa just joined the group, SubCommander, and they're on the move. Heading for Turbo-Lift One. Decision time, SubCommander. It might be nothing. It might be something."
"Suggestions, Lieutenant."
"Get Commander Tucker, now. I've timed the transit from the lobby to Misrin's place. You now have just over three minutes before they show up at your door. Leave your comm unit on."
"Understood," said T'Pol and moved quickly for the Orion's bedroom, only to walk in on a most unsavory sight.
A shirtless Commander Tucker was embraced by that shameless hussy!… by the Orion Misri. His calloused hands cupped her breasts as his lips tasted those same breasts. A slight growl came from T'Pol, though she was not aware of it. The Orion heard T'Pol enter and turned to face the Vulcan, a look of anger on her face.
"You silly bitch! Get out!," said the Orion, a moment before T'Pol caught the Orion across the face with an open hand slap that knocked the Orion to the ground.
Vulcan strength being what it is, T'Pol could just as well have knocked the Orion unconscious with that slap, but it was necessary that Misri remain conscious.
"Not a good time, T'Pol," said Trip calmly.
The Commander's calm was at odds with the intensity of his scent which struck T'Pol like the heat of a furnace. She breathed in deeply and whimpered slightly.
"We have to go, Commander. Now," said T'Pol, then looked at Misri. "To the roof."
"What—"
"Now, Commander. To the roof."
Trip stepped into his boots and said, "All right. Let's go."
"Maybe you want to put a shirt on, Commander? Or would you rather flaunt the fact that you were about to disgrace yourself with this—"
Trip gave an exasperated sigh, grabbed his shirt and said, "Fine. Let's go."
They reached the doorway just as the elevator chime sounded. T'Pol stopped, looked back, just as the Happa and Orions which Lieutenant Reed had warned of stepped out. For a short eternity, both sides looked at each other, then T'Pol broke out in a run for the staircase, followed closely by Trip.
The shrill whine of Orion phasers shredded the silence just as Misri's voice sounded.
"The roof. They're headed for the roof, but take that Vulcan bitch alive! I want her!"