ACT FOUR

He floated in a sea of pain.

A great weight pressed down upon him, crushing him onto the unyielding floor and making the very act of breathing a near impossibility. Fire burned in his oxygen-starved lungs, accompanied by a hollow ache in his abdomen that felt as though someone had hit him in the gut with a sledgehammer a half dozen times. The stench of seared fabric and burnt flesh filled his nostrils, fouling what breaths he did manage to take. With agonizing slowness, consciousness returned and Rick Eisler opened his eyes to find himself staring at the floor.

Memory came more quickly; he recalled fighting with the lizard alien, remembered seeing a shadowy figure drawing a bead on Commander T'Pol and vividly recalled knocking her out of the way. Beyond that, his recollection was hazy and indistinct. He'd been shot, that much was clear, and the reflec-mesh he wore under the modified tac-vest had saved his life once more.

Called a 'twinkle suit' by some more vocal detractors for its distinctive appearance, the mesh was made up of thousands of tiny lenses atop a flexible underlay and immediately brought to mind an obnoxiously sequined shirt. The lenses were meant to absorb and disperse the lethal power of most particle beams, while the underlay was designed to reflect the killing heat of such an attack. Against blunt trauma such as a physical blow or slugthrower, however, the twinkle suit was worse than useless as the shattered lens fragments often became embedded in flesh wounds. MACO black ops had been experimenting with the twinkle suits for several years, but the prohibitively high price tag and the difficulty in maintaining them meant mass production was unlikely.

Forcing himself to concentrate on the here and now, Rick looked up, eyes seeking out the First Officer.

A Vulcan male - presumably the one they were after - knelt atop T'Pol, pinning her to the floor with his knee and left arm. The fingers of his right hand were pressed against her face - for what purpose Rick didn't know - and she struggled unsuccessfully to free herself, fighting against his hold. Soft words were exchanged in a tongue that Eisler did not understand, but the man's expression and T'Pol's obvious fear clearly declared the attacker's intent.

Rape.

Fury washed his pain away, fueled Rick's muscles and spurred him into action. For a split second, he was sixteen again and face down in a Frankfurt street, held in place by strong arms as his blood spilled onto the pavement and his baby sister shrieked for help against the gang that abused her. Never again, he snarled mentally, demanding obedience from uncooperative limbs. Up he pushed, up against the boxes that anchored him to the floor, up against the crushing weight of despair and guilt and madness, and his body quivered with strain. Unbalanced by his effort, the boxes that held him down slid to one side, smashing into the floor with a loud crash. He wasn't entirely free - his legs were still pinned - but it was enough for action. His hand darted into his torn jacket, ripping the laser from its holster and sliding the safety free in a smooth, practiced gesture. Hearing the boxes shift, the Vulcan looked up, fingers still pressing against T'Pol's face as Eisler drew the laser.

Though it was an illusion, time seemed to slow to a crawl. In what seemed to be a warped mirror of Rick's actions, the Vulcan drew his own weapon, leveling the disruptor at the tactical officer in an impossibly swift motion. Unhindered by the pain of injury or limited mobility, the Vulcan was much, much quicker and had Eisler dead to rights. The Vulcan's finger tightened on the trigger but he did not shoot.

Instead, he winced.

It was the briefest of hesitations, lasting perhaps half a second, and such a fractional tightening of the eyes that Rick wouldn't have even noticed had his gaze not been focused entirely on the Vulcan's face. The part of Eisler that wasn't running on pure instinct understood that somehow, in some way, Commander T'Pol was responsible, that in some unfathomable manner she was fighting the Vulcan herself. Giving it no further thought, Rick braced the laser with his left hand and fired.

It was an old weapon, first purchased and used by his grandfather nearly a century earlier, but excellent craftsmanship and careful maintenance had kept it in near-perfect working condition. Rick's father had christened it 'the Nailgun' due to its unusual look, and that unfortunate name had stuck; instead of the standard pistol configuration, the laser fit in the palm and was fired by a thumb stud on its top.

A pencil-thin beam of scarlet light flashed out, slicing through disruptor and bone alike with the ease of a white-hot knife through warm butter. The fingers of his right hand still welded to T'Pol's face, the Vulcan recoiled in pain. He opened his mouth ...

And T'Pol screamed.

In a blur of motion, the Vulcan ripped his hand free of her face and dove to one side, the ruined disruptor clattering to the floor. As Commander T'Pol slumped to the floor, Eisler tracked the Vulcan male with the laser, sliding its selector switch off 'pulse' mode and onto 'continuous.' Designed more for use against solid objects like doors or locks, continuous mode was generally inefficient against a living target for a number of reasons, not the least of which was its voracious power consumption. Eisler had used it only once against another sentient being, an Andorian mercenary who had been intent on taking Rick's head off with a dull knife.

The wisdom of using a continuous-beam laser inside a space station didn't bother him too much; he'd never managed to burn through more than ten centimeters of durasteel before the charge ran out, and the station's hull was significantly thicker than that. He depressed the firing stud as the Vulcan dove toward the exit; a solid stream of searing light lanced out once more and Eisler scythed it across the room like a burning whip. It sliced through nearly everything that it crossed and briefly caressed the Vulcan's left shoulder before he vanished through the doorway. A cry of pain followed him out of the warehouse.

"Scheisse!" Rick growled as he struggled to free himself. It took long moments, a span that seemed to stretch on for an eternity, but he finally struggled to his feet. His head swam and he squeezed his eyes shut in a brief effort to recover his equilibrium. Staggering to the door, he triggered its release, bracing the laser for a sudden attack by the Vulcan as the hatch slid open.

The corridor was empty.

Eisler cursed again, shooting a glance back at the unmoving form of Commander T'Pol. Quickly he limped to her side, hoping that she was still alive even as he realized he had no idea how to check her vitals. He was no medic. Were her organs even in the same place as a human's? Her breathing was steady and calm but her features were scrunched up in a grimace. She clearly needed medical attention he couldn't provide.

His eyes roamed around the darkened warehouse, noting with some surprise two still forms secured to a pair of chairs. Near the chairs and concealed from the main entrance by a stack of crates, a table was covered with what appeared to be blocks of detonex. He could see two vests resting atop the table as well, both covered with strips of the volatile explosive. His eyes widening, he took another look around the warehouse; his stomach lurched as he calculated just how much explosive material was present. Suddenly, using the laser on continuous didn't seem like such a wise decision. In fact, getting clear of this building seemed like an idea whose time had come. Kneeling down, he reached out to pick up Commander T'Pol when his gaze fell upon something lying alongside the halved disruptor.

Fingers.

With a cold smile, Eisler pocketed the three digits. The mystery Vulcan may have escaped for now, but the fingers could be used to identify him. And once that was done, Rick intended to retaliate with the full might and power of Starfleet.

There would be no mercy.

A groan snapped his attention to the lizard that T'Pol had stunned, and Eisler readjusted his grip on the laser. Incredibly, the creature was beginning to stir, prompting Rick to wonder if the stun setting on the damned phase pistols even worked. He glanced at the commander again, weighing his options: she didn't appear to be getting any worse, and they needed answers. Taking three quick steps, he approached the waking lizard and gave it a strong kick to the chest.

"Wake up," he snapped. He was done playing by the rules; it was time to get intel his way. The lizard groaned but did not open its eyes so he kicked it again. "Wake up," he repeated a bit louder as his foot hammered into its torso. This time, the alien opened its eyes, tensing to act but instead freezing in place at the sight of the laser pointing at it. "You have answers," Eisler said in an icy voice. "I have questions, so let's talk."

"You Starfleet!" the lizard hissed, speaking Standard through a mouth that was never meant to utter such words. It bared its teeth in what Rick took to be a smile. "You no hurt!"

"I'm a different kind of Starfleet," Eisler replied coldly. "Answer my questions and there will be no pain." He glared at the alien. "What was the Vulcan's plan? How many suicide vests are active?" The lizard's smile-like expression faded.

"No talk," it responded almost defiantly. "Want deal." Without hesitation, Eisler shifted aim and thumbed the firing stud on the laser. The scarlet beam - still set on continuous - slashed through scale and bone like a scalpel of fire. Shrieking, the lizard hugged its wounded limb to its chest, staring at him in surprised terror.

"Talk," Rick ordered, his expression perfectly blank. "Or I take off your other hand." There was no rancor in his voice, no malice or anger, just a simple statement of fact.

The lizard whimpered in pain.