Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Nine
A Revelation From a Friend
Lieutenant Elizabeth Cutler
"I'm sorry, honey."
I sit back, trembling so hard it feels as if the entire station is quivering around me. "I don't believe you!"
Across subspace, Hernandez shrugs. "I'm not expecting you to take my word for it." There's a slight stir of her right wrist and a file flips up on the screen. "Take your time watching it. I've added the filepath it was routed through ... you might care to check the Jupiter comms records when you're done.
"Just make sure no-one happens to be looking over your shoulder when you do."
Hernandez was an attractive woman when she'd gotten control of Columbia, with a magnetic confidence that drew eyes as soon as she walked into a room. She was the first female captain in Starfleet, a real trailblazer, and admired by many, myself included. Even after Em Gomez's meteoric rise through the MACO ranks, Hernandez was more admired by the women of the Fleet because it was clear that, however capable Gomez was, she'd ridden her way to power on Malcolm's coattails.
Over the past several weeks, the admiral has befriended Malcolm and me, joining us for meals in the Mess Hall when her ship's coupled up to the station, inviting us to join her in her private dining room on the Revenge, or just seeking us out to socialize in the lounges and recreation rooms on the station. She tried more than once to include Trip, though he quite obviously made a point of avoiding her, even going so far as to leave the table and discard a half-eaten meal when she'd come into the Mess; but whatever his reasons for disliking her, I must say, I welcomed the friendship. More than once, she approached me in the gym when I was working out, offering to spot me when I was lifting weights and giving me pointers to improve my form and technique.
During those sessions she'd ask about my work in the hospital and the progress I was making on revising the nursing protocols and even offered the Revenge as a test ship to try out my ideas before I disseminated them to the fleet. I felt as though she was simultaneously acknowledging the influence I've acquired and taking me under her wing, mentoring me as one woman who had scratched and clawed her way to real power might do for another who showed the potential for obtaining it through different means. It was quite thrilling to have someone I'd long respected and admired take an interest in me, even if it was only due to my association with Malcolm; and while I didn't miss the irony of the similarities between my situation and that of the late General Gomez, I still felt honored to have the admiral treating me as a colleague, if not a peer and an equal. For all that she's kept herself fit and trim, however, and could still with justice be described as attractive, the years out on the front line and the work it took to get herself promoted to an admiralty and earn command of Revenge have hardened her face and hardened her tone. Her dark eyes now hold a hard gleam too, for all that they seem to soften momentarily as she watches me crumple.
"It's up to you what you decide to do about it," she adds. "But I'm afraid I've seen how clearly you're taken in by him, so I thought you ought to see it. I'm sure you're more than intelligent enough to recognize facts when they're staring up at you."
=/\=
Most vulnerable creatures know one or two dark places where they can hide if they have to, and I'm no exception.
The computer could find me out, of course, if anyone thinks to look for me; the Empire's never approved of secrets, except of course its own. But at this hour of the day nobody will be looking for me, so I'm free to seek out the little store-cupboard in a rarely-used section of the facility, wedging a heavy box across the door from the inside to make it appear as though it's locked or jammed if anyone does happen to try to enter. It has a surveillance camera of course, like every room in the facility, but after the conversation with Admiral Hernandez I'm too desperate to think of disabling it somehow – besides, it's a storage cupboard. Nobody's ever going to watch the footage unless something happens in the vicinity that gives them reason to want to see what was happening in here at the time. All I want is to somehow prove Hernandez wrong, to suffocate the worm of terrible doubt that the apparently sincere officer has set treacherously squirming in my breast. Whatever happens afterwards, I need privacy now – and afterwards, well, 'afterwards' will have to take care of itself.
One way or the other.
I'm carrying a PADD in my pocket, and only when I'm absolutely sure that nobody's passing in the corridor outside do I wedge myself into the corner opposite the surveillance camera, wriggling down behind the other end of the box so that it won't even be visible what I'm doing there. When at last I'm confident that I can do so unobserved, I slide the PADD from my pocket and press the button with unsteady fingers. I can't wait another second. I have to know now.
The picture isn't brilliant, but the man on the screen is instantly recognizable. He's sitting back in his chair, with the wolfish grin on his face that was so familiar to me back in the bad old days aboard Enterprise.
An almost feral cry bursts from my throat, but I choke it back. I have to hear what he's saying, have to know...
"I'm sure we can come to some mutually satisfactory ... or should that be satisfying? ... arrangement. I know both of us are practical people, but on the other hand I'm sure your memory of that night aboard Enterprise is as fresh as mine is. I look forward to renewing our acquaintance – repeatedly." He runs his tongue lecherously across his lips.
"As for the 'romantic interest' your informant mentions, I think we both know me well enough to know that for the nonsense it is. I use whatever comes to hand, and she was sitting up and begging for it just like she always did. Pathetic little slut. I can't tell you what a relief it will be to see the back of her when our plans come to fruition. I'd sell her to a comfort house except nobody'd pay to fuck her – even for free it was only one step up from wanking.
"And as for that misshapen oaf Tucker, with his ridiculous vision of some Paradise of Fools..."
=/\=
It's many hours later when I finally raise my head. I feel light, drained, unreal; as though I've wept out my blood as well as my heart.
There are no conscious thoughts left either. Only the words 'pathetic little slut' wander about my empty skull, sometimes performing slow arabesques and next moment picking up so much speed across the echoing space that they ricochet off the bone in a shower of blood-colored sparks.
After weeks of patient rehabilitation, finally the day had come when he could respond to desire again – a desire I'd thought was mutual. His palm had slid slowly, caressingly along my jaw…
As one of the medical experts in charge of his recovery, there were a dozen objections I could have raised. I already knew that he was psychologically vulnerable, far from recovered from the injuries that had been inflicted on him. But the first light touch of his fingers had poured fuel on the desire already roaring inside me – desire to be touched everywhere, touched, stroked, caressed; to feel his mouth on my breasts, his erection plunging into me.
And the night that followed had been a revelation: the familiar become unfamiliar, the pleasure mutually overwhelming, but more than anything the new tenderness, the new caring, the new gentleness in his eyes. Afterwards I'd wept with joy, and he'd stroked my hair, his lips against my forehead…
Pathetic little slut.
=/\=
T'Pol is in Trip's quarters.
…Isn't there something fundamentally wrong about that? About the way that the Vulcan's essentially imprisoned there, a sex slave because she's a member of a defeated alien species and a member of a failed rebellion against the Terran Empire to boot?
Trip's trying to portray himself as an essentially decent guy, whose behavior has been influenced like most everyone else's by the everyday realities of life in the Empire. So what's an 'essentially decent guy' doing treating a sentient being like she's some kind of breathing sex toy, violating her intelligence and her rights just as he violates her body every time he wants an itch scratched?
Malcolm told me a while ago that Erika had shown interest in her, so that for Trip's sake he'd agreed to pretend that he'd demanded the 'use' of her too – his superior rank and the budding friendship being the only available way of fending off any move that might materialize to snatch her away altogether. Though I wasn't too happy about it at the time, I let him persuade me that it was in name only; that he was only interested in me, and in keeping Trip happy by protecting his slave. Now I wonder if it was in name only – whether he's been sneaking away in my absence to sample more exotic fare. Maybe he wants a taste of something that actually is worth paying to fuck, or would be if she weren't already free for the taking.
Recently Trip's given me an access code for his quarters, just in case of emergencies. I use it now, and find his sex slave curled up on the bed, watching a gameshow.
A gameshow. A Vulcan watching a gameshow. A woman – no, an alien, who'd been one of Enterprise's senior officers, watching a fucking gameshow. At first I think she's naked, but as I step into the room I realize she's wearing sexy red lingerie, her sexuality a cheap titillation for her master's entertainment. He doesn't just keep her and use her as a slave, he even makes her wrap herself up like a gift for him. Filthy bastard, he's dressed her up like one of his paid whores!
T'Pol knew all about the arrangement that Trip and I shared a bed when we needed to communicate. It seems she knew she had to put up with it (what choice did she have?) but wasn't at all pleased by it. For all that her species famously eschews emotion, it seems that at least one of them knows what jealousy is, even though the arrangement's no longer necessary. The stare that shifts from the monitor screen to me is as flat and lidless as that of a python, and as the Vulcan uncoils and sits up, her body magnificent in the low light, its sinuous movement reinforces the impression. If a forked tongue flickered out to test the air the illusion would be complete.
I had some confused idea that I wanted to talk to Trip – it's late, well past his working hours, but the sight of his beautiful slave waiting for him to come home and live out his fantasies on her shrivels up any such plan like a blowtorch. Reed and Tucker, they're both bastards, using women like toys for their pleasure. Why the fuck should I think I could trust one more than the other?
"Did you want something, Lieutenant?" T'Pol asks with cold politeness.
Yeah. If you could turn back time and make me break that damn PADD before I switched it on, that would give me my life back. I'd sure appreciate that.
But on the other hand, that would leave me a fool, a dupe, licking the fist that was ready to draw back and smash me into pieces the instant I was no longer required.
"No, thanks." My reply is equally cold. "I'll see Commodore Tucker tomorrow. It's nothing that can't wait."
=/\=
His mom seemed a really sweet person. His dad was kind of quiet and retiring, but he seemed like a decent guy. I think about them while I bake.
How do they cope – how do they live with having produced a son like that?
Okay. So his Pack conditioning might have been horrific. He'd had to learn to live like a wolf and kill like a wolf or die, where he was brutalized into obedience. But ever since – certainly aboard Enterprise – he'd gone way past that, had taken an absolute joy in instilling more than obedience, in instilling terror into the people he was supposed to guard even while he watched them for the slightest sign of treachery.
He'd been loathed more than anyone I knew and he hadn't given a damn. He was treacherous and cruel. I remember the look on his face the day he came around a corner on the ship just in time to see young Martin Roberts touch me on the arm and tell me to come to him if I needed help. He hadn't said a word or given any sign that he'd heard Martin, had walked past without even breaking stride, but I'd known that Martin was now a dead man walking. And so it proved. The night the young crewman had supposedly 'shot himself' in the course of an interrogation, his inquisitor had raped me repeatedly. 'Anyone you'd like to call on for help?' the hateful voice had breathed in my ear. I can still hear the words clearly…
Victoria Sponge, his mom said he used to like when he was little. Just jelly in the middle, no buttercream. (It's cute how Brits say 'jam' when they mean jelly.)
Chef watches me, puzzled.
I ignore him.
While the two sponges are baking, I sit with my back to the wall. I hope everything will work okay; I can't remember baking anything since I was really small, helping my mom out in the kitchen. There was an enormous bush outside the kitchen window and in the autumn the spiky leaves were all the glorious shades of red and orange. My friend Jillian and I used to kick the mounds of fallen leaves high in the air and make great soft piles of them and throw ourselves in, almost burying ourselves in the bright colors under the high blue sky.
Jillian hadn't remembered about the leaves either, that day I hired her time away from the comfort house…
The timer goes off.
My hands only shake a little bit as I tip out the sponges onto the cooling rack. The paper's so hot it hurts my fingers as I peel it off, but I want the cake to cool quickly.
While I'm waiting again I check the rota to see where Tucker – I call him Tucker now – is this morning. Turns out he's busy with Reed, making plans. Always more plans. I wonder if Tucker has any idea at all of the plans Reed's making elsewhere, mocking the very idea of his 'paradise of fools'.
I haven't shared his bed in the couple of days since I found out. I've made excuses, pretending to be so tired from the long days I've been putting in revising the medical training protocols that I'll sleep better on the station, but promising I'll make up for it later – playing the loving little dupe for all I'm worth. I've smiled at his playful complaints, endured his caresses, somehow contrived to look back into his eyes without spitting into them, even let him shove his tongue into my mouth when he wanted to kiss me.
Fucking bastard.
'Time's a-wastin',' as Tucker would say.
I choose a nice plate. Chef has some he puts out for visitors. Once again I suspect he's on the verge of saying something, but I smile at him and he just nods and goes on preparing the batter.
He's just been gutting catfish. While his back's turned, I pick the knife up and run it under the hot tap. Hygiene is very important. It's quite a pretty knife, with different sorts of wood inlaid in the handle; the blade is about six inches long, perhaps a bit more, with a funny little extra bit right at the point that curves upward, probably designed to pry fish bones out of the flesh. It doesn't look unlike something you'd find on a surgeon's tray.
The knife Mama used to cut cake was quite different – longer, serrated, and rounded at the tip. But this one is kind of nice. I slip it carefully into the pocket of my apron.
The cake isn't quite cool yet, but it's close enough.
Strawberry jam – red is such an amazing color. I open a new jar. A special cake deserves to have some of that color, and for it to be fresh.
That's the problem with strawberry jam: the bits of fruit are so big and inconvenient. I pick them out with a spoon and put them to one side before carefully settling the top sponge onto the lower one.
"Caster sugar, sweetie." Chef chortles at his own pun as he sets the jar down beside me. "Always gives it a nice finishing touch.
"Did you see where I put that fish knife?"
"I didn't see you put it anywhere," I say truthfully. It had been lying next to the board when I'd picked it up.
I have to use a different spoon for the sugar, or the grains would stick to the smears of jam. Too much would look garish, so I sprinkle sparingly.
"You're forgetting something!" The voice from behind me almost makes me drop the plate as I turn towards the door.
With an effort, I turn back again. Chef's holding out three side plates and a knife – long and serrated, with a rounded point. Just the same as mama used to use for cutting cake.
"Oh yes – how stupid of me!" I take them with a tremulous smile and hunt out a tray to carry everything, while Chef beams upon this evidence of Young Love.
=/\=
They're in the Observation Lounge. Various PADDs are scattered on the table in front of them, and to one side a computer monitor displays a planetary system. Too few planets for the star to be Sol, and the biggest is the second in line; it probably eclipses the sun from the outer worlds on a regular basis.
Someone or other has just brought them a coffee each. The mugs are on a side table, safely out of the way, but the liquid in them is still warm; I can see steam rising from the surface.
"Hey, what are you, a mind-reader?" Tucker beams at me. "I was just sayin' to Mal here, this coffee's too wet without a bite to eat."
Mal. I'd called out that name, twisting my fingers in his hair, feeling its springy softness. His mouth, unbelievably skilled on my most sensitive places, while inside he gibed that fucking me was only one step up from masturbating…
He stands up. If you didn't know better, you'd mistake his smile for genuine. You'd melt at how it softens his face, lightens his eyes.
Fucking bastard.
"My favourite!" He steps forward, but after a glance at the cake, his eyes are all for me. Grey, like thunderclouds with the sun behind them. Like the skin of a shark, cruising beneath the water, with its mouth hiding row on row of serrated, razor-sharp teeth, ready to rend and lacerate.
"Why don't you give one of us that knife before you have an accident?" Tucker teases, stretching out his hand for it. "Wouldn't want to waste all of Miguel's hard work." The knife has a stainless steel handle and spins a bit on the tray, gently, as my hands wobble, presenting its tip in Malcolm's direction like a prophecy.
I balance the tray on one hand and pass over the cake knife with the other. Properly, the way sharp instruments should be passed from hand to hand: hilt first, with the blunt side of the blade against the palm and fingers and thumb held safely away from the sharp side.
He takes the plates. Turns aside to put them on the table, beside the coffee cups…
A career in medicine gives certain advantages when it comes to inserting a filleting knife. You know where to slide it in so that it avoids major arteries, and how to twist it to inflict maximum damage.
The cake drops to the floor, where it explodes into a mess of red-streaked sponge and broken china.
Pathetic little slut.
There's surprisingly little blood, considering, at least at first. As the pain hits him, his body twists away in pure reflex, but it's far too late; even that tears the blade through flesh as it rips out of him.
Sheer amazement is printed on his face as he doubles up, pressing his hands uselessly to his belly.
Even as Tucker leaps up, his face incredulous and appalled, I reverse the knife and offer the hilt. It's slippery with blood, but that has never stopped Malcolm. He'll have time, and he has more than enough skill.
His red-stained fingers close around it and for an instant he stares at me, his face creased with pain and anguish; and then he moves, but only to hurl the knife away before he buckles to the floor, clasping his belly again.
"Jesus Christ, Liz!" Tucker pushes me away violently before he leaps to the comm. and slaps his hand down on it. "Medical emergency in Room E15! MEDICAL EMERGENCY!"
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