Note: I've finally managed to invent another mirrorverse swear word! Grace yours. Basically, fuck you, but less polite.

Chapter 8: Turn to Erosion

Irsa was absent from outside the Captain's Quarter, as Tyler had known she would be. No doubt, she would be back come morning, pinned behind Lorca's shoulder as a tangible reminder of his alienness. Tyler had ordered her to rest for the night. Now, Tyler stood just outside the range of Lorca's door sensor, close enough to see the door along the gentle bent of the corridor. It had been a little over an hour since the end of his shift, a little less than an hour since Lorca had withdrawn to his quarters.

Earlier, the Captain had made a short announcement to the crew, merely confirming his return and a quick summary of their current status and nothing particularly personable. Tyler had expected for Lorca to acknowledge the increasing voices of discord that had spread on the ship during his absence, but he hadn't. He had to have seen the signs of it in Tyler's report, though, so it had to be either wilful ignorance or he had other plans to deal with the problem. Unless, of course, he considered it part of Tyler's failure of leadership and expected things to return to normal, now that he was back on the ship. This last grated on Tyler. Was it true? Could it be?

The two aliens Lorca had brought back with him were to be treated with absolute respect. Lorca had made no threats in case of disobedience, it was well understood regardless.

Tyler took a step forward, paced back a little and abruptly decided he had given Lorca enough time. He walked the rest of the way, letting the sensor pick him up.

The door opened almost immediately, letting Tyler through only to snap back closed behind him, seemingly barely waiting for him to pass. In a brief bout of paranoia, Tyler wondered if Lorca had done something to the door's programming, nudging his visitors slightly off guard.

It was warm inside Lorca's quarters, the faint scent of soap and steam still waiting for the ventilation to filter them out.

"Ah, Tyler," Lorca greeted him with barely a glance in his direction.

Lorca stood next to the desk, opposite the door. He looked perfectly fresh again, the eyepatch gone, hair still a little damp from the recent shower. He pushed the black sleeves of his shirt up on his forearms and finally turned to face Tyler, smiling, welcoming.

The empty holster at his hip briefly spiked in Tyler's attention.

"Captain," Tyler inclined his head and didn't salute.

"I know we haven't had a chance to talk," Lorca said as he stepped towards Tyler, arms stretched out to usher him back towards the door. "Tell you what, let's have a nightcap later and catch up."

Tyler didn't budge and watched the subtle change in Lorca's face as he picked up on Tyler's mood.

"This can't wait," Tyler said, holding his ground against Lorca's easy dismissal.

"This?" Lorca asked and the smile lingered, still with that friendly warmth, though Tyler was sure he felt the jagged edges sliding in behind it.

"What's this? The number of violent incidents?" Lorca asked. "The number of people in the brig? The way you've been attempting to undermine Chief Bell in favour of Commander Kriger?"

"I simply found Commander Kriger qualified," Tyler said, knowing he was making a weak argument because Lorca had already seen through it. "Chief Bell cannot be on duty 24/7, you yourself..."

"What about Lieutenant Alibali?" Lorca asked. "You've given her some special task, specifically meant to undermine me."

The edges were out then, undiluted and sharp. It was not an accusation Tyler was willing to let go.

"Absolutely not!" he said, raising his voice, pulling himself up and slightly into Lorca's personal space. "The way you left, with the self-destruct? You put a target on my back and risked the entire ship. Sir. Everyone knows you don't trust me."

"Oh Tyler," Lorca said with affected mildness. "Of course I trust you."

The blow hadn't come quite from the direction Tyler had expected, but it connected nonetheless. "So you don't trust my ability to lead in your stead for ten days. What did you think I would do? Take the ship and make a run for it?"

"No," Lorca shook his head. "But you people need that sort of pressure, I couldn't risk leaving without."

"What if it had malfunctioned?" Tyler demanded.

Lorca smiled. Tyler didn't know if it was meant to be amiable or mockery or both, something condescending either way, something so often laced in his expressions, when he forgot to pretend he didn't despise the terrans milling at his feet.

"I thought of that," Lorca said. "That's why there is no self-destruct."

For a split second, Tyler thought he heard the weight of it crashing from his shoulders, giving him a moment of perfect, predatory clarity in which he could process everything around him in this moment and in all the hours and days before. It had been nothing but a farce, another game for Lorca, yanking a leash that existed only in the heads of the dogs. His memories unravelled backwards, feeling foolish and embarrassed for being tricked, for believing it, believing everything up until that point even when the lie was blatantly obvious.

Lorca stood too close, too defenceless in the cosiness of his own quarters. Tyler didn't think, the sense of betrayal and humiliation boiled over into instinct and then, hammered his fist into Lorca's face.

He'd built him up too much, a tiny thread of consciousness narrated at the back of Tyler's mind, had turned Lorca into some kind of idol made of ice and steel, but the skin of his face was soft and vulnerable, giving way over the brittle hardness of his teeth and the lower edge of his cheekbone.

Lorca staggered back, grunting more in surprise than pain, beginning to hiss an indignant question in Tyler's direction, but lost his breath to do so when Tyler followed up his first punch with a second one, aimed into his stomach, making him double over with a grunt.

Tyler would have brought his elbow down on Lorca's shoulder, but by then Lorca had gathered his wits and evaded the third blow. Without any other pause Lorca came back up, deflecting the blow Tyler had aimed at him and landing a hit of his own, though not as hard as Tyler had seen it coming.

Of course, they had fought before, if only in the mockery of a simulation or a sparring exercise. Tyler had seen Lorca fight when it mattered and knew enough to recognise the wide berth of difference between the two. And the key, Tyler knew, was that Lorca wasn't a fighter. He took little enjoyment from the contest, didn't revel in the exertion and violence of it. Lorca thrived on the outcome alone. He was only in it to win, as fast and as efficient as possible. To Lorca, sparring session were training exercises, intentionally drawn out because the desired outcome wasn't to win, but to keep fit.

And Lorca, in that moment, wasn't fighting. He was just sparring.

Tyler ignored Lorca's brief attempt to shout him down, a barked order in the second before Tyler kept coming at him. It wasn't a pretty fight, real ones never were, moving through the open space of the quarter. Lorca knew his place, used whatever he could for leverage — a chair, a table, a bulkhead beam. Weapons, the voice in Tyler's head whispered, there were weapons, but he was still stuck using his fists, messily, like a schoolboy. It didn't quite register. For now, the only thing he knew was the one lesson drilled into him since his first days at the Academy: If you start a fight with a superior, finish it, or they will finish it for you.

Nothing else mattered, only the slow, eroding give in Lorca's defence, the way the strength began to drain from his counterattacks, the way he lost his speed a millisecond at a time. Even the hardest muscle was neither ice nor steel, just yielding flesh. Tyler brought him down — a moan of pain from Lorca when his knee scratched past the edge of a low table — and the curious absence of a lightning reflex twist to free himself.

Tyler bore down over him, his full weight at his disposal, long arm slung around Lorca's throat, holding on tight in case there were any repercussions to letting go.

Tyler felt Lorca shift, in that distant past of his mind, it registered as a kind of movement his training hadn't told him to expect, something too slight to be meaningful, something wrong. The agony came on without any built-up, filling every fibre of his being. Prepared, he might have been able to maintain some semblance of control through it all, but like this, he was barely able to keep track of his body as it was shoved to the side.

The pain went away as abruptly as it had come, dropped his consciousness back into himself in a curled up position, watching white spots float across and then fade from his vision.

"I'm spending too much time on your floor," Tyler grunted. His voice had grown rough and his throat felt sore, proof of the screaming he had been doing, even if his memory supplied no confirmation of it.

"Or not enough," Lorca's voice came from across the room, sardonic and unsympathetic. Tyler forced his neck to move to see Lorca lean with his back against his desk. He was just finishing passing a dermal regenerator over his freshly bruised face and throat.

"What hap...?" Tyler started but stopped himself before he could embarrass himself further. What Lorca had done was quite obvious. Lorca had stuck a personal agoniser on his leg, Tyler could feel it now, at the back of his thigh, above the knee, where the pain continued to echo with every heartbeat and his trouser leg tucked, affixed to him beneath the device.

Tyler changed the question. "What now?"

He refused to flinch under Lorca's attention and the cool fury slowly seething away behind his composed exterior.

"Get up, soldier," Lorca ordered, without bark in his tone, he knew he didn't need it.

Tyler braced himself and hauled himself up, graceless but with determination. A distant spark of empty pleasure washed over him because standing upright, he was taller than Lorca and could look down on him even from across the room. Such pettiness, Tyler suspected, was all the satisfaction he was going to get for a while.

Lorca was still measuring him with that judging gaze, making it impossible to even guess at his line of thought.

"Computer," Lorca said and the computer chirped its affirmative. "Effective immediately, Commander Tyler is relieved of his duties. He is resigned to his quarters. No computer access except food, water, personal hygiene and climate control."

"Confirmed."

"Track his movements," Lorca added. "Let's make sure he doesn't get lost."

"Commander Tyler is currently in Captain Lorca's quarters."

Lorca smiled slightly, crossed his arms over his chest and said, "It's time to leave, commander."

Almost, almost, Tyler leapt at Lorca, the same ingrained, instinctual urge to finish what he'd started, the enraged betrayal beginning to foam again after the pain had made it subside. He could push on, he might have the second he needed to overpower Lorca and outrace the agoniser.

What stopped him was less the threat of the pain and the humiliation of failure, it was the bleakness of the intensity on Lorca's face as it contrasted the fever glint in his eyes. It was the kind of expression he had rarely seen in any superior and on the few occasions, it had been in those far higher up in the Empire. He thought he might have seen it in another Gabriel Lorca, once, a long time ago and from far away during a parade.

"Sir!" Tyler snapped briskly. Lorca waved him off, as careless as any gesture he had ever made, leaving him out of his sight before Tyler was even fully through the door.

Tyler left with the itchy feeling of the ship's sensors tracking his movements. He considered changing course, doing something other than willingly walking into his prison, but he couldn't come up with a better direction.

The door to his quarters opened in front of him and closed behind him with a finality he felt all the way to his bones. In an afterburner of unspent rage, he turned around and punched his fist into the closed door, relishing it as the pain travelled up into his shoulder and down his spine.

Zralisss, as well as Sennai next door, had been placed in spacious officer's quarters, offering enough room for her to move comfortably. At a guess, she suspected there would be other quarters, specifically designed to house gorn elsewhere on the ship. Not few terran captains liked to have gorn as their slave masters, keeping the mass of shook troops in line until they were ready to be burnt up.

Martia had decided not to believe a word Lorca said but had chosen to believe in his ambition. Besides, while Zralisss was always willing to listen to her partner, she retained the right to disagree and go her own way. The replicator matrix was important enough to risk a little more than usual in their dealings.

The door lock disengaged with a nearly inaudible sound — completely inaudible to terran ears — and Lorca took a few steps into the room, stopping at a careful distance. She couldn't smell any fear on him, but there was a slight lopsidedness to his movements.

"You're limping," she said. He hadn't before, so it would have to be a recent thing.

"It's nothing," he said with irritation at her observation, or possibly at the obviousness of his lie.

She thought about needling him on it a little further, see if she could break through his overacting docility and find the terran fury beneath. She was much less interested in what made Lorca tick than Martia was, but a passing interest was hard to deny.

"Emm doesn't believe a word you say," Zralisss said and watched with some pleasure as Lorca's expression changed. He'd been holding himself rigid, still angered from whatever had caused his limp and trying to hide it, hoping he wasn't going to get questioned on it and yet, here he was. That must rankle for a man who had once been the second most powerful person in the galaxy.

"What do you believe?" he asked.

Zralisss flicked her tail in a shrug, but of course, he wouldn't know that.

"I believe you're using us, and it's best to use you in return."

A slight smile stole itself onto his face. "I'm sure that's exactly what Emm believes, you were talking about what I told you about me."

Another tail flick. "Fair enough, but it's not important what story is true, really. It's how you act and how you honour our deal and I believe you will. I want to get a look at the matrix as soon as possible. You should set a course to Arc, you can drop me off there. We'll never bother each other ever again."

"Arc?"

"Ship like this?" Zralisss said, looking around. "With brand new dilithium crystals? It'll take about a week. You shouldn't have any trouble approaching Arc. You can buy yourself in. I take it that's not a problem?"

"You didn't want my money before."

"Yeah, because who knows where it's been, but I won't be taking it, just some idiot on border patrol. It gets tracked, they're fucked. That's all."

She stepped forward, a little faster than necessary to see if she could make him flinch, but there was no reaction she could determine. For a terran, he was remarkably laid-back about these things. He would certainly point to his more egregious story and say something like in my universe we don't threaten each other or something to that effect. It didn't necessarily make it believable. Martia thought he was overplaying his act and had easily put the finger on the instances when he had dropped the act like shedding a piece of clothing.

Lorca nodded, changed his posture, ready to go. She should let him be, she knew. If he wanted to play magnanimous pacifist the better for her deal with him.

However, it only mattered if he stayed alive long enough to finish it.

"Someone attacked you," Zralisss said and his smile faltered just slightly.

"I said it's nothing," the first step in slipping off that mask, the outline of a sneer whittling on his expression, the hint of a growl scratching at his voice.

"Oh come on, it's still a terran ship, you show weakness, you get replaced." Zralisss shook her head. "I'm not worried about you, you probably deserve whatever's coming for you. But I want to be off the ship with the matrix when it happens, so watch it."

For a moment he said nothing, going still and just watching her, clearly searching her face for any underlying meaning. Zralisss guessed he wouldn't be able to read much, her species' facial expressions were minimal and usually not clear to outsiders. He would be better served to look at her tail.

"You can move freely on the ship," Lorca said, tone a little clipped but otherwise he was the perfect image of composure once again. "The crew won't hurt you, but I'm afraid they'll gawk a bit. You should lock your door behind you, just as a precaution."

He straightened and stepped to the door. "I'll assign a technician to you, they can go over the matrix with you. We'll drop you off at Arc as soon as possible."

He moved into the door sensor and it opened. He gave a curt nod at her before he went through and it slid closed. Amused, Zralisss considered his hasty retreat. Oh, he had hated the tone she had taken, giving him orders like this, but he hadn't wanted the argument, almost as if he was afraid of it. She shouldn't find the entire affair nearly as entertaining as she did, Martia would have a few things to say about it, but watching someone like Lorca struggle like this, it was quite satisfying. He had, quite obviously, not just lost a war, he was even struggling to hold on to his control of surroundings, too. If this was indeed the sight of a great man falling, Zralisss would like to see it to the end. But then, of course, it'd be a lot smarter not to be around for it.

In the comforts of his private lab, Culber raised his legs against the wall at the end of the bed and relaxed into the upholstery. He'd been drifting for a while in a chemical haze, occasionally even dozing off. This was all the vacation he was going to get for a while. Shore-leave, that's what it was called on ships. When they abandon you on some party planet to be fleeced by some con-artist and their gorgeous deltan pit-fighter…

He'd been ignoring the buzzing of the comm channel for some time. Every time it made itself known, the thought crossed his mind that he needed to respond. When the sound passed, he forgot all about it. Blissful ignorance, they called it. It was a quite common cause of death in certain circles.

The buzzing changed to the more immediate sound of the door and since his haze had started to fade — he tried to only test his product for short durations — he finally got around to putting his feet down, rolling on his stomach and from there to his feet. The room didn't spin and he felt perfectly steady, which was a nice effect.

"Computer, unlock the lab door," he said.

Ferasini didn't look pleased as she walked in. Culber assumed it was because he'd been brushing her off for the past half hour or so.

She regarded him with displeasure, frown edged into her face.

She said, "I thought you might know where Lorca is, but I'd be surprised if you even remembered who that is."

Culber gave her a toothy grin. "He doesn't even let you use his first name?"

He ambled to a lab table and the hypospray there. He let the device rest in his hand for a moment, wistfully bidding goodbye to his feel-good evening. He put it to his neck.

The sobering effect was gentle, the muffling veil drawing back from his perception only slowly, leaving a languid sense of relaxation in its wake.

Ferasini watched him, frowning, and said nothing, waiting with uncharacteristic patience for his thoughts to clear up.

"What about Lorca?" he asked.

"I don't know!" she snapped. "The computer won't tell, but I know he was attacked."

Culber shrugged. "It's probably only a medical emergency for the attacker, so what's the problem?"

"It was Tyler."

Sometimes, Culber decided, he didn't know why he bothered with the slow, gentle comedown when some verbal and mental ice-water would do the trick fully naturally.

"That doesn't seem right," Culber said.

"Tyler has been relieved of duty and locked up in his quarters."

"Well, in that case, it seems like the captain handled it. What's the problem?"

She eyed him like she would an imbecile. "You need another shot of whatever's in that hypospray."

Culber eyed her back, searching her face for her intentions and for all her aggression and impatient frown, worry was lurking just underneath her facade. He wondered what Lorca really was to her — what they were to each other, as it were — and whether his loss would hurt her in far different ways than the rest of the crew. Which was to say, somewhat more on an emotional level. The rest of them would just suffer the conventional way.

He had no intention of letting Ferasini see his considerations and how they might apply to the ship's microcosmos. He shrugged as he turned away from her.

"Follow me," he said with a patronising little drawl and walked past her to the door that connected his private lab to sickbay.

Sickbay was blissfully empty of patients. Mostly because Culber didn't like them hanging around and he usually just patched them up and send them back to their stations or — in bad cases — to their quarters to take care of their recuperation in whatever way they pleased.

Ferasini did follow him, though, and because she was behind him she had no chance to see his surprise.

Behind the transparent wall separating the treatment beds from his office, Lorca sat on his chair. One of his legs rested extended on another chair while the medic on nightshift passed a deep tissue regenerator over his knee.

Grinning, Culber spread out his arms and turned to Ferasini.

"Ta!" he announced as if Lorca's presence was somehow due to some special talent of his. Ferasini seemed expectedly unimpressed by his mocking cheerfulness. In fact, he might as well have turned invisible to her, the way she focussed on Lorca, walked past Culber and into the office.

The medic caught between them edged to the side, trying to finish his work without getting in the way. Culber watched his struggle only briefly, looking over Ferasini to get a handle on her state of mind — not much more to read there than usual — to look at Lorca.

Ever since he'd taken command of the Defiant, Lorca had engaged in a long series of self-indulgent power-plays to keep his crew on edge and — even though he would never admit it — himself entertained. Lorca had very carefully constructed the image of someone struggling with a drug addiction, just narrowly keeping his habits under control, presenting a weakness to his potential enemies, always knowing where they would strike, if or when someone dared. Culber knew Lorca didn't have issues like that, but it didn't mean he never overindulged when the situation demanded it. Culber actually had a lot of respect for a man who could bend his principles according to necessity. Lorca, as he was sitting there, slouched back with his leg extended and one arm raised behind his neck, had a telltale glint in his eyes as he met Ferasini's glare.

"What happened?" Ferasini demanded.

Lorca tilted his head and smiled like a shark. "A mass murdering war criminal abducted me to his barbaric universe," he drawled. "Everything is his fault, think on that."

"Be more specific," Ferasini said through her teeth.

Some of Lorca's smile, unpleasant as it had been, faded and Culber instantly missed it.

"Be more respectful," Lorca said.

Ferasini refused the bait. Although her stance barely changed a concerted effort to relax ran the width of her shoulders and down the length of her back.

Getting annoyed with the medic ruining the atmosphere, Culber reached forward to take the tissue regenerator from his unresisting hand before he shooed the man from the room. Once they were alone, Culber raised the privacy screen around the office. News of this was already on the run, of course, but it made Culber feel slightly better anyway.

"You were attacked," Ferasini said. "And Tyler has been replaced by Leighton. What happened?"

Lorca passed a brief glance over Culber as the doctor finished with the device, then returned his focus to Ferasini. Rather than take his leg down, he settled his other leg over it, crossed at the ankles, allowing him to lounge even more insolently in Culber's chair.

"You're right," Lorca finally said. "But you wanna know why it happened and I don't know. You tell me, isn't it what you people do when you want to advance."

"Tyler admires you," Ferasini said.

Lorca arched a sceptical brow in response.

Culber picked up a tricorder and passed the scanner past behind Lorca's head and along his shoulders. The arch of Lorca's eyebrows increased as he tilted his head slightly towards the doctor but he left his comment unvoiced.

The tricorder picked up on a handful of freshly healed bruises, telltale of having been in a scuffle. All other stats were normal, for the somewhat elated type of normal of someone who had been under constant stress for months. Commanding officers all tended to have these stats, according to the medical database.

"Fine," Ferasini conceded. "But I doubt Tyler has any ambitions to take your place. Really, no one wants your place."

"Good point," Culber agreed, put the tricorder away and changed his position so he wasn't right behind Lorca anymore. Although the captain hadn't seemed to mind, it was still the polite thing to do.

Lorca hummed to himself in the mockery of thoughtfulness. "It's because no one can."

He sighed and shook his head. "Look, I don't know. Tyler needs to cool his head, let's give him that time. The ship can function without him."

Lorca paused to study Ferasini's face, tracing the fading scar with his gaze as if he wanted to burn it deeper into her skin. Culber knew he would have flinched in her stead, but Ferasini showed no reaction. Force of habit, Culber supposed.

"You wanted the command," Lorca said and Ferasini stiffened. "It's yours. You can take over Tyler's shifts on the Bridge, starting tomorrow."

Ferasini's expression barely changed, she was well enough in control of herself, but her silence stretched on for too long and she had stopped blinking for the duration, going too still.

Culber smirked to himself and said nothing, savouring the moment.

"I…" she opened her mouth and seemed grateful for Lorca to silence her with a raised hand.

"I'm not done," he said. "I have another job for you."

Finally, Lorca settled his feet back on the floor and stood up. No trace of his injured knee remained. He nodded at Culber, "Thanks."

"Grace yours," Culber muttered.

Lorca ignored him and said to Ferasini, "Walk with me."

For a moment she looked like she might refuse, but she fell into step right behind him instantly, following him through the privacy screen.

"Ah, wait!" Culber called and hurried after them. He caught them just by the door, Ferasini already out in the corridor.

"Captain? A word," Culber added and retreated back into his office, hoping Lorca had enough sense to follow him there without arguing. This was for his benefit, dammit.

"What is it?" Lorca asked, the drawl and the impatience was back. He'd stopped just inside the screen.

Culber was already busy by the hypospray synthesiser.

"How long?" he asked.

A moment's puzzled silence behind him. "What?"

Culber sighed. "How long do you want to keep going like this?" He looked over his shoulder at the captain. "The pins aren't meant to be used long-term. You've pumped yourself full of chemicals that don't play too nice with each other. So, how long do you need?"

He kept himself focused on the machine in front of him, courtesy to Lorca's sense of paranoia, making it easier for him to be honest.

"Another five days," Lorca finally said. "I can't let Balay… Dr Ferasini do the heavy-lifting on the bridge, too inexperienced, and I don't know what mess I'm in with Tyler."

"Not to mention our special guests," Culber added as he adjusted the drug composition, took the cartridge from the synthesiser and snapped it into the hypospray.

"You can get by on four hours of sleep a day," Culber said. Lorca willingly exposed his neck. "This neutralises the other substances, you'll have headaches and nausea for a few hours before your body is rebalanced."

At Lorca's indrawn breath, Culber added, "And if you thank me, I'll make it hurt."

"It's just habit, it means nothing."

Culber met Lorca's gaze. "Well, I have different habits."

Lorca nodded and Culber released the hypospray's contents. The effect was immediate, Lorca swayed on his feet, then caught himself and sucked in a steadying breath.

"So this is not hurting, right?"

Culber chuckled. "Got it in one."

Once the first wash of the drug had passed over him, Lorca had himself under control again, though Culber suspected he wasn't enjoying himself particularly much right then.

"I may need your assistance with the spore drive project," Lorca said. "It's probably not medical, but in case…"

"You're the captain," Culber said. "Tell me to jump and I will. I'll just let you know what I think about it before I do. Maybe curse you a little."

Another indrawn breath and the unspoken 'thank you' hung in the air, nearly as annoying as if he'd said it, but Culber didn't want to be petty about it.

Lorca smiled, somewhat self-depreciating, but genuine nonetheless. Lorca didn't have a lot of people left he could trust, Culber thought as Lorca left to rejoin Ferasini. One less, starting today.

End of Chapter 8

Author's Note: Look, I don't know what's going on with this story. I won't apologise for the slow updates, because there's no excuses. It's not even writer's block at this point.

I gotta ask, do you guys think this is even worth continuing? Because it reads to mediocre to me…