The pain was barely tolerable.
His arm hung limply at his side, a slab of dead meat that resisted nearly all efforts to lift it, and Tolaris ground his teeth against the sharp spikes of fire that raced through the limb when he shifted his shoulder. The human's laser had sliced cleanly through the clavicle, instantly cauterizing the fracture but vaporizing the half-centimeter wide slice and leaving his entire arm virtually useless. If the damaged collarbone wasn't bad enough, the human's first shot had taken off his index and middle finger along with much of the thumb; the continuing pain from that felt as if he had stuck his hand in a live warp plasma energy stream and then decided to leave it there.
Moving in a half-hunch, he darted from the turbolift that had carried him from Corridor GS-A. Tolaris was running on pure instinct, acting without a plan beyond carrying himself away from that lethal laser and the cold-eyed human, and he grimly forced himself to concentrate on his situation. Focus, he ordered himself as he entered the nearest tram and slid into an unoccupied seat.
Throbbing in time with his pulse, a hollow ache hammered through his skull and he closed his eyes in a vain attempt to control it. T'Pol had surprised him with her mental fortitude, and he loathed surprises. When his initial telepathic assaults were repulsed, he'd been immeasurably aroused by the promised challenge and found himself looking forward to breaching her barriers, mental and physical. She'd proven more than resilient, however, and when he'd channeled into her all of the pain that he had experienced from the first laser shot, T'Pol had done something completely unexpected.
She had retaliated.
Even now, as his damaged neurons struggled to compensate and recover, he could feel the after-effects of her telepathic assault; it hardly seemed possible that she would have been able to counterattack through the pain he'd caused her, but she had. If he let himself dwell on it, he would liken the sensation to having dozens of tiny nails driven into his cerebral cortex, resulting in massive sensory distortion. The result was not fatal - not yet, anyway - but the mental trauma some called shad'yontau had some immediate and potentially lethal results. Even now, his vision swam in and out of focus, a shrill ringing echoed in his ears, his sense of balance was radically off, and the smells that assaulted him could not be identified. The distortions would only increase if he didn't find an opportunity to meditate and focus himself on countering the unexpected assault.
He doubted that the humans intended to give him that time.
Capture was not an option. Apprehension would lead to interrogation and Tolaris had no delusions that he would last long under the less than gentle treatment that he would receive, especially once the Vulcans got involved.
And they would get involved.
The transition from dissident to traitor had been a smooth one for him. After he'd been diagnosed with advanced Pa'nar syndrome some weeks following his first interactions with the crew of Enterprise he'd been furious at the official indifference to finding a cure for the disease, and had fallen in with a group of like-minded individuals. Though they draped themselves in mostly honorable labels like patriot or freedom fighter or even insurgent, Tolaris had harbored no illusions that they were anything but terrorists. In the span of sixty Standard days from his introduction to them, he participated in no fewer than seven acts of mayhem against the Vulcan government, four of which resulted in deaths. In the wake of their abduction and murder of a high-ranking member of the Ministry of Security, the group found themselves suddenly promoted to 'high threat' status; Tolaris was among the few survivors of the Ministry's aggressive crackdown. On the run, he came into contact with agents of the Romulan Empire who offered him a potential cure for the debilitating disease in exchange for continued service. He'd accepted without hesitation.
Too late, he realized that the Romulans had deceived him about the cure. By the time he learned this, however, he was far too deep in the shadowy world of espionage for it to matter. Discovery of the Kir'shara led to a restructuring of the Vulcan government - and a cure for Pa'nar - but Tolaris had found his calling and embraced the role of spy. He no longer cared that he knew next to nothing about the Romulans, or that their motives remained enigmatic, or that he was just another tool in a game of deception that spanned light years. Ever a slave to sensation, he had discovered a new thrill, an addiction that nothing could replace.
The tram slowed to a halt and Tolaris struggled to his feet, ignoring the looks of curiosity on the faces of the five humans with whom he shared the interstation 'train.' Twice he stumbled on the short walk from the tram to the slidewalk that would carry him to Green Sector, and both times he was aware of the eyes of the humans on him. One of them took a step toward him, hand extended as if to help, but Tolaris gave the woman a glare so dark that she quickly reconsidered.
Gripping the slidewalk's moving handrail to keep himself upright, he frowned and struggled to formulate a plan through his mental pain. Clearly his links to the late and unlamented Perkins had brought T'Pol to the warehouse at GS-A-19C, so any other locations the human had helped him acquire were now suspect. Briefly, he considered the two aliens in the warehouse; at least one of them was still alive, but the knowledge that Red possessed was negligible at best. The two derelicts were equally irrelevant; Tolaris had not even Touched them yet, so they would know nothing.
A member of Station Security gave him a once-over as the slidewalk ended and Tolaris said nothing as he offered a cred-stick; the dark-skinned human accepted with a nod and let him pass without incident. Vulcan security would never be so lax and, though Tolaris exploited it without remorse, that he was able to do so filled him with disgust. Greed seemed to dominate everything these humans did, and it was yet another reason to see them scourged from the galaxy ...
The hulking Orion bartender gave him a look of surprise as Tolaris entered the bar for the second time this night, but the shock was quickly replaced by concern and caution. Without hesitation the Vulcan approached him, trying desperately to ignore the raucous noise from the bar proper.
"I require medical attention," Tolaris said softly, dropping another cred-stick on the bar, and the Orion gave it a long look. One could almost sense the wheels turning in the green-skinned humanoid's brain, and Tolaris placed another cred-stick beside the first. The Orion finally glanced up, nodding once to a female of his species; the creds vanished as if suddenly beamed away.
"D'Kesh will take you upstairs," the bartender said, then turned his attention away from the injured Vulcan, appearing uninterested in Tolaris' fate; but the Vulcan knew better.
It was fortunate that the stairs had been designed for intoxicated visitors to the second-story brothel, or Tolaris would have been unable to navigate them as the shad'yontau wreaked havoc on his internal sense of balance. He ignored the Orion whore's offer of assistance and silently cursed T'Pol's very existence. Vengeance would be sweet, he promised himself as he staggered into an empty bedroom and sank onto the floor.
Minutes crept by as he struggled against mental collapse, and he was vaguely aware of someone manipulating his arm. Voices drifted to him and he forced himself to focus on them, gradually resurfacing from the partial meditative state that he'd allowed himself to slip into. Normally, he loathed the practice of meditation but there were times that he had to admit its uses. The hiss of a hypospray at his neck fully roused him and he found himself staring into the green eyes of an old Orion woman.
The bartender stood at the doorway of the small room - a cell, really - as the crone leaned back from the immobilizing strap that she had attached to Tolaris. It was wrapped around the Vulcan's body and shoulders but allowed use of the hand and lower arm. Tolaris frowned at the gauze that enclosed his left hand and slowly rotated his wrist to test the mobility. Much of his pain was dulled, even the needles in his brain, but his mental faculties remained clear; whatever pain suppressor the woman had used, it was efficient. Satisfied, he gave her a discreet nod. The ostensible medic said nothing as she silently left the room.
"Was it Starfleet?" the bartender asked as he sealed the door behind the medic, and Tolaris gave him a glance.
"I need to arrange transport off the station," the Vulcan said in response and the bartender glowered, recognizing the unspoken 'yes.' He started to speak but Tolaris continued over him. "It would be wise for you to do so as well." Locking gazes with the hulking man, he waited.
"Why?" the Orion asked after a moment of contemplation, and Tolaris inclined an eyebrow. For a heartbeat, the bartender looked ready to ask another question, but understanding dawned immediately. Better than anyone else, the Orion knew - or at least strongly suspected - whom Tolaris worked for. "I'll need some time to get a ship for you," the bartender said instead, and Tolaris gave him another expressionless look.
"It would also be helpful to have access to a comm panel," the Vulcan said softly, his face betraying nothing. It was time, Tolaris decided, to bring his sleepers into play. If nothing else, they would sow sufficient chaos to hinder Starfleet's investigation and perhaps provide him the opportunity to escape.
"Encrypted or unencrypted?" the Orion asked without pause, and Tolaris nearly smiled.