Warning: Sex, consent is complicated.
Chapter 4: Bruises and Bitemarks
"What is this place?" Lorca asked.
"Empty," was Culber's laconic reply, being picked up as dull echo thrown around a dust-covered warehouse floor.
They had driven through the night, further and further away from New Anchorage and its military force, which curiously seemed unable to mount a pursuit. Fields of a variety of crops stretched to the horizon on either side of the road, some of them of earth origin, genetically modified to grow as tall as trees. They had reached a mountain range at dusk, the metallic deposits in the rock more than sufficient to block out sensor scans from orbital satellites or ships.
Culber and Balayna had taken turns at the wheel. Lorca neither offered to nor was asked to share in the burden. The overland buggy had no trouble climbing a steep, narrow path into the mountains, leaving the well-kept road far behind. Throughout the night, they had followed the mountain ridge.
Just before dawn, they had reached the open plain again on the other side of the ridge and quite a bit further to the north than they had been.
Amidst the fields, a building hunched large and inelegant close to the ground. A square of unadorned concrete at the hub of the narrow pathways cutting across the sprawling fields.
"Before the famine," Balayna said with a smugness entirely directed at what she perceived as Lorca's hidden discomfort. "It used to be labourer housing. The famine decimated the population and the Empire has started a resettlement programme, but large parts have instead been automated. No one uses this place anymore."
The central area of the building looked to have been used as storage for machinery, some of which still remained forlornly along the walls, farm equipment Lorca lacked the expertise to identify. Metal walkways lined the walls and allowed access to rows of doors more akin to a prison than just quarters for workers.
"Kelpien stables are behind the kitchen," Balayna added with a look at Irsa, who trailed a few steps behind them in deference. Even though Balayna wasn't even looking at her, she nodded.
They had parked the buggy just inside the sprawling, central hall. At the other end, walls had been set up to split off the back of the building on either side, leaving just a narrow gap between to allow access presumably to the kitchen and the 'stables'.
Lorca refused to let her bait him.
"I want to talk to Landry," he said. "Is there a way?"
Culber looked at him, face full of suspicion. He bared his teeth and picked up the pace, overtaking Lorca and Balayna. He stopped by a wall panel and it slid back at the touch of his hand, crumbling dust falling to the floor. Behind was a shelf containing several large crates.
"Then help me set up," Culber said as he hauled one of the crates out by its handholds.
As Lorca helped him pull out the next crate, he saw Balayna walk over to another wall panel. It slid open and unfolded a rack of two dozen terran carbines, phasers and rifles. He even spotted a row of vicious little knives in their sheaths along the side near the bottom.
"Are you sure you come from a pacifist universe?" Balayna inquired sweetly mocking. "Because you look like you're ready to drool."
"It's just the company I keep," he replied, forcing himself to hold her gaze long enough to make his point before he brought it back to the crates. She made a better point than she realised, though, and he couldn't bear the thought that she might read the truth of it in his face. It had taken him years to shake the events of Tarsus IV from his reflexes and instincts, give himself a reason to push past the seething anger instead of giving in to it. Starfleet had made it very clear what was expected of him if they were to give him a captaincy.
They had, ever so slightly, begun to let him off the leash after the start of the klingon war, but he hadn't been in it long enough, perhaps it was just the ugly part of his psyche seeing its chance to reassert itself and get away with it.
With all the large crates on the floor, Culber opened the first and Lorca leaned forward for a look. Equipment was packed in insulation foil for long-term storage, technical components disassembled to allow them to fit neatly into the crate.
"What do you want with Landry, anyway?" Culber asked as he began emptying the crate and assemble the pieces.
Lorca sat back on an yet unopened crate, hung his hands loosely over his knees and fixed the doctor for just long enough, Culber's movements faltered just a little.
"It's obvious, isn't it?" Lorca said.
Balayna had crossed her arms over her chest and wandered back over to them. She made no attempt to help, gaze hovering in midair in contemplation.
Culber scowled at Lorca, but when that wasn't enough to get an answer, he said, "Not really that obvious."
Lorca sighed, narrowed his eyes at him, brushed his gaze over Balayna very briefly.
"Look at you," he said, mildly. "You have no idea how screwed you are."
"Whatever happens to us, happens to you," Balayna pointed out.
"Doesn't matter, I've been screwed for months," Lorca shook his head. "But up until a day ago, the two of you had lives, careers, a home. Granted, you were sleeper agents, but I bet you didn't expect it to fall apart so quickly. How do you think this is going to end?"
"We could just kill you," Balayna said. "And beg forgiveness of the emperor."
Lorca tilted his head at her, fixed her with a long look. "I'm not from around here, is your emperor the forgiving type?"
Culber's grimace was the only answer he got to the question. Balayna's look bored into him so hard, he thought he could feel it like an actual knife. He ignored her.
"She's not, then," Lorca said, still with the thin edge of mockery in his voice, letting it linger with all its implications in the heavy silence that followed.
As expected, Balayna was the one who broke the moment.
"You're sitting on the antenna," she said. "It needs to be set up on the roof."
Lorca shifted on his seat, arched a brow.
"I suggest," she sneered the word, "you take it up there and install it."
Must be hard for her to find herself so low on the pecking order.
Lorca hopped off the crate, found its handholds and hauled it up, straining as the weight threatened his balance. If he was fast setting up the antenna, he supposed he could still catch the tail end of the conversation Balayna wanted to have with Culber without him.
For the first time in his life, Ash Tyler had trouble summoning his anger. Something had so fundamentally changed, his emotions just lagged behind. It took him long minutes alone in his office, staring at the report hovering in front of him until he recognised the sick coiling feeling in his stomach was fear.
Whatever nefarious plans Captain Maddox had had for him, they had all been rendered void with the obvious betrayal of his own. Failure on this level would never be allowed to stand. No matter how much of his attention the fight with the loyalists required, Maddox would make time to deal with him.
Tyler searched the sparse data for clues. They didn't even know where the gunship was at the moment, didn't know if one or both pilots had betrayed them. Either way, both of them were Tyler's people, one of them even his designated second-in-command.
The door sensor announced a visitor and Tyler found himself frowning as he straightened away. Maddox's officers would simply override the door lock when they came to drag him away into a booth if they didn't just shoot him right there.
Tyler brushed the display aside and opened the door, hand crawling to rest on the hilt of his dagger.
Cadet Moreau leaned in the doorway, insolently graceful giving him a sultry look with her bruised face.
"Commander," she said, her tone all respect and deference when her attitude was anything but. "May I have a word?"
No salute, he noted with a scowl, but he was too preoccupied to reprimand her. He made an impatient gesture, waving her in and she stepped through. The door closed behind her.
He stared at her sharply.
"What do you know about Lieutenant Leighton?" he asked.
The way her expression barely changed told him that she knew a great deal indeed and he felt the urge to leap the desk, grip her and drag her to Maddox's officers as someone to blame. The only reason he did not was because, at this point, such a thing would only make him seem weaker and betray his desperation. He could never hope for leniency then.
"Don't worry about him," she said, a satisfied-kitten smile spread across her face. "Worry about yourself."
Tyler lifted his head to give her a haughty look. Whatever else had happened or was yet to happen, he was her commanding officer and he liked neither her tone nor her implication.
"Where is the gunship?" he demanded. "What did Leighton do?"
"What's it look like?" she asked sweetly and took a step forward. "He picked his side. The winning side."
When Tyler didn't interrupt her, her expression regained some earnestness, gaze digging into his in a way that was almost beseeching.
"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it," she said.
"Thought about what," he ground out past his clenched teeth. He didn't make it a question, she was going to go on regardless.
"Your place in the Empire, of course."
He frowned at her, shifted into motion against the angry tension in his body and stalked around the desk. "So, you're the one who corrupted Leighton."
She smiled. "In more ways than one, as you know."
"And it's my turn now?"
She shook her head. "If you want, but… I've watched you for months, I know you don't fuck anyone, nobody interests you. You hate this place, this command, you can't stand the planet. Someone like you, you need to be out there," she pointed her chin towards the sky, exposing her slender neck. "You need to make a name for yourself before the boredom gets you."
"I was making a name for myself," he snarled. "But now it's all gone to shit!"
She tittered a laugh, she knew as well as him that Maddox would never have let him have any share of the glory.
"They'll punish you as a traitor anyway," she said sweetly. "So why not take your chances?"
Fear spilt over back into anger from one moment to the next and closed the distance between them, drawing his dagger. He slammed her into the wall behind her, hard enough to make her head bounce and she winced in pain, the smug lasciviousness of her expression briefly wiped away. It almost made him do it again, but instead, he pointed the tip of his dagger underneath her chin, at the soft skin there.
"I'm not a traitor," he hissed at her. "My faith belongs to the Emperor!"
"What's she ever done for you?" Moreau asked, a little subdued, frightened to move too much lest the blade pierced her skin.
"Nothing!" he spat. "Just like Lorca."
"Captain Lorca…" she started and Tyler almost pitied that she never got to spew her sweet lies and he didn't find out what she thought he wanted to hear, because then the door slid open. No warning this time and Tyler reacted instantly.
Two of Maddox's officers burst into the room, ready to fight, but perhaps not quite expecting Tyler so close to the door. Tyler let go of Moreau abruptly, flipped the dagger in his hand and drew it across the officer before he even had a chance.
The second one was on him then, larger and heavier than Tyler, he could afford to simply barrel into him before Tyler could bring his dagger to bear. The officer took him to the ground, punched a gloved fist into his head while he caught Tyler's wrist with his other hand and smashed it on the ground several times until Tyler's fingers opened despite his best attempts.
Over the officer's shoulder, Tyler made eye-contact with Moreau. She'd stayed still at first, the officers' might not even have had time to notice her. She watched Tyler struggle against the larger man as if contemplating if it was worth helping him if he couldn't even help himself.
Tyler managed to rip his hand free and balled it into a fist even as the officer's hand found his throat. Tyler kept punching the man's side until the pressure on his throat lessen just enough to allow him to catch a ragged breath. His wandering fingers found the officer's own dagger, still unused in its sheath. The officer noticed the triumphant flare in Tyler's eyes just as he pulled the dagger free and slammed it right into his side, then twisted it for added damage. It wouldn't be enough to take him out of the fight quickly, though.
A moment later, Moreau stepped close behind the officer, gripped his hair and pulled his head back, slicing open his throat with a swift cut.
Blood rushed over Tyler's face and chest. He caught some of it in his mouth, still catching his breath. He coughed.
Moreau gave the officer a shove but didn't manage to move him far. Tyler struggled free and stood, staring down at the two officers, then lifted his gaze at Moreau.
"Captain Lorca," Tyler said, breathing hard, surprised he had no mockery to put into his use of the rank. "I'll hear him out."
Lorca either had some very good arguments, or Tyler could come back with Lorca's head and buy himself back into the emperor's good graces. Both were certainly more promising than resigning himself to a meaningless, painful death in an agony booth.
Lorca reclined in the folding chair, cradling a cup of replicated and disgusting coffee in his hand while Culber and Balayna finished the set-up of the communications equipment. They had declined his help because they rather didn't allow him a peek at their codes and security measures. He hadn't found it worth fighting them for, so he'd let it go without argument.
The state of the fighting over the base was crucial. Everything he did next would depend on whether Landry was coming out on top or whether the Empire would wipe them out. Both would be coming for him once that battle was done, threatening his short taste of freedom. He was too much of a pessimist to expect another chance like this to ever come again, but his position was weak no matter how he looked at it.
His greatest problem was his lack of allies. Landry — and by extension Culber and Balayna — were keeping him alive and safe, for a certain measure of safe, but they were hardly on his side. Finding aid with the Empire seemed even more doomed to failure. Landry had made a good point, the Empire would just string him up for another man's crimes, use him as propaganda or revenge or something as trivial as personal gratification. He'd lose first his dignity, and then his sanity, and then his life. In the end, he'd probably thank them for the privilege of death.
"Okay," Culber said, a PADD in his hand, attached by a wire to the portable computer console they had set up. Balayna opened a folding chair of her own next to him, fingers resting on the controls, keeping her attention on the screen. The setup either had no holographic display or it was turned off as a safety measure. Increased energy consumption in an ostensibly abandoned building could easily trigger an alert.
"Let me see," Lorca said and took a sip from the strong, bitter liquid in his hand. Like all replicated coffee, it cooled much too fast, turning stale by a matter of mere minutes. Irsa has tried setting up a real kitchen, but although they were surrounded by crops, only nutrition packages for use in replicators had been stored.
Culber stood up, put the PADD aside and put his hands on the screen, pulling it upward so he could rotate it around. He picked up his chair and dragged it next to Lorca.
"I should be getting a signal," he said. Lorca stole a look at the PADD in the doctor's hand.
Communication was established via a micro-satellite in stationary orbit right above them. Due to its small size and low signal strength, even a concerted effort to detect it would most likely fail, securing the connection as well as could be under the circumstances. The downside was they could only talk to the base or ships on a direct line, not while they were behind the sun or facing away from their target.
Culber fiddled with the controls, but then Landry came on in a frazzling image, surrounded by smoke on the bridge of the Buran.
"Can I get a status report, commander?" Lorca asked, fully aware that he might be putting too much stress on a rank in a hierarchy he had no claim to.
He saw the annoyance cross Landry's tired face, but she knew his game well enough to dismiss it. She fixed on the screen and seemed to be taking in his surroundings in turn, Balayna and Culber next to him.
Balayna hissed at his posturing, but she kept quiet otherwise.
"The ISS Tarleton has been disabled, but we couldn't finish the job. The ISS Defiant under Captain Maddox has engaged us in battle and we couldn't hold our position. The ISS Khumaro maintains its attack on the base."
"You're still holding the base?"
"Yes, but that's because the ground forces have withdrawn. The Khumaro's constant attack will destroy the base in under six hours if we haven't gotten rid of the Defiant."
"Your Buran was a formidable ship," Lorca said, not unaware of how much pride he'd taken in his own formidable Buran. Even now, a slice of proprietary anger cut through his nerve-endings at the damage this Buran was suffering, the knee-jerk need to be there, on that bridge, to turn her fate around. "Why the problems with Defiant?"
Landry paused locked eyes with Culber.
"You're hesitating, commander," Lorca pointed out. "There's something you don't want me to know."
He watched her. "Is it really worth it?" he asked.
Landry took a deep breath. "The Defiant is one of yours."
"One of mine?" Lorca asked, arching a brow.
"A Federation ship. Dropped from your future into our past."
An impact shook the image of Landry and she barked several orders into the bridge, fingers gripping the armrest of the chair hard as she braced herself for another impact.
"The Defiant I know of is a Constitution-class deep space explorer, not a warship."
"It was, maybe, now it's the most powerful ship in the fleet."
"What about your spore drive and weapon?"
Landry's expression darkened at the question, but she was saved from an immediate answer by another impact. Behind her, almost entirely hidden behind a veil of smoke, a console overheated and went dark.
Lorca caught a growl in his throat, curled his upper lip in response. He considered his chances of Landry actually letting him have the bridge, any logistical issues notwithstanding.
"Non-functional. Stamets took everything when he betrayed us."
Lorca put his head to the side, too playfully for Landry's taste if her renewed scowl was any indication.
"What's your plan?" he asked.
This time, when she didn't answer, it wasn't because of any information she wanted to withhold from him. She had no plans other than fighting it out to the bitter end and her chances of coming out alive were slim. Once the base and the Buran were defeated, nothing would stop this Captain Maddox from taking Tarsus apart bit by bit looking for Lorca. He couldn't run away forever, they'd run out of planet.
"When we left New Anchorage, I saw ground to orbit phaser banks," Lorca said.
"Three," Culber interjected. "New Anchorage has three."
Lorca nodded, "If you get the Defiant within range, we could help you out."
"We couldn't," Balayna said. "How do you propose we take control?"
Lorca passed a glance over her, looked at Landry and tilted his head the other way.
"Do you have long distance transporters on your base?"
"You have a plan."
Landry tried and failed to hide her eagerness to hear it, her desperation having eroded her distrust of him and his motives.
He said, "Abandon the base, keep some personnel on it so it's functional, but bring the rest down here. We'll take New Anchorage and get control of the guns, you bring Defiant to us and we help you shoot it down. By then, I expect, the Khumaro will have noticed what's going on and come running. And we take it apart, too."
"We can't drop the shields around the base," Landry said. "They will know what's going on immediately."
"They're pretty busy, we'll have a little time to make our move. The military complement in New Anchorage is minimal and disorganised, we can overwhelm them, but you need to give me the material. And you need to draw their fire until then."
"We can't engage the Defiant and the Khumaro."
Lorca tucked the corner of his mouth into an unpleasant smile. "Where's that terran love for battle when you need it?" he asked. "Are you afraid, commander?"
She scowled. "No, I'm realistic."
She took a deep breath, gaze drifting around the bridge, coming to rest on the reports scrolling down the display in armrests of her chair.
"It's the best option you have," he pointed out. "You were planning to hold out as long as you could anyway, might as well make it count."
Still, she hesitated, perhaps less out of fear or realism but because she was realising who was giving the orders and her reluctance to let him built influence among people loyal to one Gabriel Lorca, especially if he managed to deliver a daring victory, though that was still a distant possibility.
"I'll talk to the base commander," she said through clenched teeth. "You'll get the boots on the ground. They should be arriving within the next few hours, but we'll need to funnel them down gradually."
He gave her a nod, captain to commander. This time, she didn't bark at his presumption and only returned the gesture. Evidence, if nothing else, of just how desperate things were getting out there.
When the channel closed, Balayna's attention was hard as a touch on his face. Infuriated underneath a veneer of scientifically detached calm. It was easy to guess what was going on in her head. She had herself convinced she was seeing right through him, to the core of his plans and what he intended to do.
He waited for her to say something, refusing to look back at her. If she wanted his attention, she would have to act first, give him the advantage of seeing her move before he made his own.
Culber cleared his throat and Lorca found himself more amenable to the doctor.
"What?" he asked.
"Are you in charge now?" Culber asked, not beating around the bush and putting the finger where it hurt. Lorca rather wished Culber had waited until he could answer it without having to resort to bluster.
Lorca leaned back in his seat, turned his head to face him.
"Yes," Balayna said. "Are you in charge now?"
He took a breath, blinked his attention away from Culber and at Balayna. The disfigurement of the dermal lattice on her face should help distinguish her from his memories, but instead, his senses completely bypassed such a superficial difference. It was her posture, her words, though laced with malice now rather than teasing warmth. Her eyes, deep green to fall into and get lost in.
"Let me ask you something," he said. "Given what Landry just told us, given what you know — more than I do — about the Defiant under Captain Maddox and the capabilities of the imperial ships attacking your base. Do you not want me in charge?"
"It's really a weird question," Balayna said. "You're a prisoner. You're only alive because Captain Lorca wanted you alive. You should be in an agony booth. I don't know what Landry's problem is. Why should we want you in charge?"
"Because he's not here. Because he's ran off to another universe and left you behind, fighting his losing battles. He's not going to come and save you ."
Balayna sucked in a sharp breath, looked at Culber and said, "We really should just kill him."
"Try it," Lorca said, sliding his hand to his weapon just to make the point.
Culber cleared his throat, breaking up the threatening stalemate.
"I actually agree with him," he said. "I'm not a soldier and neither are you, Dr Ferasini. I don't feel like leading the charge, it'd ruin my day more than the enemies'. So why not let him fight for us?"
"You understand what he's doing, right?" Balayna challenged. "He's trying to co-opt the captain's own people. It's madness to let him have them."
Her green eyes dug into him, then turned at Lorca and it felt like a laser cutting through him. "When this goes bad and it will don't say I didn't warn you."
She brushed a strand of dark hair from her face and got up, squared her shoulders and marched off towards the kitchen, leaving the two men sitting in an uncomfortable silence.
Culber glanced after her, then looked back at Lorca. "Just for the record," he said. "I think she got it in one. That's what you're doing. A 'friendly' takeover," he said, drawing quotation marks into the air.
"Can you blame me?" Lorca asked.
"Never said I did," Culber shrugged. "You're trying to survive and get the upper hand while you're at it. It's very terran of you."
"Was that an insult, doctor?" Lorca said, couldn't quite stop a trace of amusement to colour his voice and threaten his expression.
"It's true. It's why I think we'll stand a better chance with you. Gotta use what we can, including you."
He shrugged again, paused for a moment.
"So what's next?"
"This place," Lorca made a gesture with one hand. "Needs to be ready for when the troops arrive. We can't wait around for long, but they won't be getting here in one rush. The ones who come first should take the chance to take a breather. Set up an infirmary, too. They've been fighting for over two days straight, there are going be signs of wear and tear you should be patching up while you get the chance."
"I'm not that kind of medical doctor," Culber said. "I could hand out some uppers."
If Culber expected Lorca to be shocked by the suggestion, he would be disappointed.
"Whatever gets us through," Lorca said. "But I prefer them clean and sober."
Culber raised his eyebrows in surprise. Lorca gave him no time to ponder and said, "Your Lieutenant Leighton, where is he right now?"
"Probably keeping his head down. The gunship is hard to hide from the sensors, can't risk leading them straight here."
Lorca shook his head. "He needs to get here. As soon as they start beaming people down alerts will go off like fireworks. The gunship is the only heavy support we have. We'll need it."
Nodding, Culber said, "Good point, I'll let him know."
Culber turned back to the console and Lorca watched his fingers sliding over the controls as he sent a coded message on whatever hidden frequency they were using.
Turning his head, he spotted Balayna leaning in the archway leading to the kitchen. She had a bottle in her hand, light breaking through it in golden reflections.
Making a decision, Lorca got and strode towards her, making it a point to meet her gaze evenly and never stopping until he was right in front of her. This close, he caught the scent of her shampoo lingering around her dark hair.
She lifted the bottle in her hand and he flicked his gaze over it before returning it to her.
"Drink?" she asked, less antagonistic than she had been with him ever since they had first seen each other. "I found it stashed away in a cabinet."
He inclined his head, slightly, but enough to make a smile cross her face, she stepped back and he followed her into the kitchen where she pulled two drinking glasses from a shelf, too large for whiskey by far, graceless like this entire planet and the galaxy it was in. She poured the rich liquid into the glasses, generous even given their size.
She put the bottle on the counter next to it, picked up both glasses and held one out to him. It had all the appearances of a peace offering, though whether a terran knew how to be honest about these, Lorca didn't dare to even contemplate. She certainly was planning at something and he didn't believe she had given up her opposition to his leadership. This was an opening move.
His instincts told him to play along, make nice with her until she revealed her true purpose, keep her close where he could see her so when she eventually betrayed him, he would at least see it coming.
He ignored the offered glass and reached for the bottle.
"Thanks," he said casually, turning away as if she meant nothing. "I'll catch some shut-eye while there's still time."
The sleeping quarters were split into windowless cells, furnished with rows of bunk beds, for eight people each. Most of them had been stripped of mattresses and blankets, but the replicator was up to even large pieces and something as simple as fabric was only a low energy drain.
It had been hours since Lorca had withdrawn to one of the rooms. The doors only had a central lock, so they stood wide open. The bottle he had taken from Balayna so insolently stood next to the bed and there was just enough light to make out its barely depleted contents, the only point of colour in the otherwise dark room.
Balayna picked her steps carefully, mindful of the sounds she made and of Culber who had gone to sleep several rooms over. As she walked inside, she stepped out of her shoes and flexed her toes on the dry, dusty floor as she walked. She'd need to get better clothes, something for fighting in, not to be breathtaking at work and functions at the colonial offices. She allowed her tunic to slip off her shoulders, get caught around her feet before she stepped past it. Her wide, flowing trousers slid down her long legs just as smoothly, leaving her standing next to Lorca's bed in the thin, black straps of her underwear.
The man himself was asleep on his side, one arm hung limply over the edge of the mattress, the other one tucked under his head.
She contemplated him in silence, the unkind shadows on his face, failing to detract from the patrician features she had rather admired that first and only time she had met Gabriel Lorca. He'd come to Tarsus to establish the base and set-up the organisation on the planet. There had only been Culber and her, the only followers he had in the entire star system and the base was nothing but a promisingly dead rock in space. She hadn't made any advances toward Captain Lorca, then, perhaps foolishly expecting him to make a move. But he'd been all business throughout the one night he'd been on Tarsus. It had been a different sort of seduction, though, watching this supremely clever man's plan form at his finger-tips, one tiny, seemingly insignificant piece at a time. For the first time in her life, she had not only been allowed to be part of something glorious, she was being given the chance to put her hands on it and help shape it to her will.
She understood the powers of attraction well enough. It was hormones and chemistry, genetic compatibility and a need for survival. Love, she knew, had nothing at all to do with love. She had felt it then and there was attraction here now, no matter the differences of similarities between these two men. He wouldn't consistently run from her if it were only one-sided.
She closed her fingers around the wrist by his head, pinning his hand to the mattress so he couldn't reach for the phaser he had stashed under the pillow. She folded her hand over his mouth and swung her leg over his body, straddling his hips as he shifted to his back in waking. Even through that first motion, through the layers of blankets and his clothes, they fit together as if made for each other. A pleased sigh escaped her at the thought.
She pulled her hand away and kissed him, forestalling any protests by claiming his mouth. His lips were pliant from sleep at first, willingly parted under her attack, but as he woke fully, tension ran the length of his body underneath her all the way to his lips and tongue. His neck pulled taught, pushed his head back into the pillow to draw back from her.
She let him draw back just a little, trailing her tongue to the edge of his mouth.
"I've noticed the way you avoid looking at me," she whispered. "You're terrified of me."
"And that attracts you?" his voice was rough, his captured wrist flexed under her grip, but his free hand had come up to trail up her thigh and rest on her hip, timidly without applying any pressure.
"No," the truth spilt from her lips before she could stop herself.
"Yes," she corrected herself, but his dry chuckle told her he'd long since noticed the slip-up.
She bit the side of his neck. It didn't matter. She was no ideological purist, she knew that fear alone wouldn't turn a dangerous man into a harmless one, far from it, and possibly even the opposite.
Her hand lets go of his wrist, content with his passivity and the way his body relaxed when she did, sinking back into the mattress leisurely. His freed hand came up, tracing a similar line up her thighs to her hips. His fingers were clever, though, even light as their touch was, mesmerising little caresses that made her slow down and linger. She had wanted to just take him, hard and fast, and leave him.
She sat up on her knees, just enough room for her to pull the sheet away from between them, then slid out of his loose hold. Quickly, she dipped forward to steal another kiss as her fingers made short work of the drawstrings keeping his pants up.
She chuckled and he gasped. There was just enough light to see his eyes widen, breath caught in his throat, as he made a sound closer to desperation than surprise, but he arched his hips to help her slide the pants down and out of the way, eager moans spilling from his mouth.
If she hadn't been so far gone already, so nonsensically needy, she'd have sneered or joked at how fast his body responded, but right then, it was just right. Rocking down for a first, long slide of perfect bliss, she was grateful that there were no mattresses in the upper beds, giving her all the space she wanted to toss her head back.
She had thought she wanted his submission right until he came alive. He closed his idly caressing fingers around her hips and held her there, almost to a standstill until, whimpering, her body shook with the need to move and for him to move.
He shifted his feet, found some purchase and leverage on the blanket to thrust into her. His hands had found their strength again, the feathery caresses intensifying until they left heated trails along her skin. Reaching up, he curled an arm around her waist and pulled himself up, never quite enforcing his slow rhythm, never quite letting her have her own.
Maddening.
And utterly exhilarating.
He found the sensitive spots on her, as surely as no other lover ever had — along the curve of her lower rip, on the side just above the small of her back — he laved the inside of her upper arm with lips and tongue before down a sharper line with his teeth to her chest. His hard breath tickled her breast, his low voice spilt over her as yet another touch.
Rolling her hips in his grip, mewling, she finally got him to pick up speed. He dropped his hands to her waist, one curling up along her spine to rest against her neck, letting her arch her head back.
She dug her nails into his back, carved down into unexpectedly unscarred flesh, muscles jumping with the mounting power of his thrusts. He drove himself so deep into her, she lost her grip on him, desperately clamping her hands around the unfeeling bed-frame next to her.
Everything broke all at once. His rhythm, his cries, the fleeting remnants of her control and her skin under his teeth. They could do nothing but cling to each other, spasm of pleasure so intense, in any other place — in any other universe — it would have razed the borders between gratification and suffering.
Under the rush of sheer ecstasy, folded her body over him, boneless and breathing hard, flecks of light sparkling behind her heavy-lidded eyes. Her muscles still quivering inside, pleasurable little spasms tickling her even as the ongoing stimulation wrenched a low groan from him.
Rather than push her away, he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her closer, rocking into her, unable or unwilling to stop himself, dragging the sensation out for as long as it will let him.
She slipped off him almost by accident, her arms tense to push herself up, but he held her fast and rolled them to the side, trapping her between him and the wall. At that moment, even the shock of getting captured was nothing but an added thrill.
Sensing her tension and beginning resistance, he just tightened his arms, he buried his face in her hair and whispered, "You've gotten yours. Just let me hold you now."
Balayna eventually fell asleep in his arms, reluctantly trapped by his memories of a lost love she cared nothing about. Her scent filled his nostrils, sex and sweat and her, all of her and blessedly alive. His mind could pick out the points of divergence, but his body just reacted until his mind spun out of control. And beyond all this, there was the primal sense of heat and solidity of a body next to him, the living breathing warmth of skin on skin. He hadn't realised how distant that sense had grown, how sensitive his nerves had grown in just two months with barely a touch.
A distant part of him knew, even as he held her tighter, that she could easily reach over his shoulder for the weapon under his pillow and make good on her earlier threat. He pushed the thought aside and inhaled deeply. She was asleep, as guileless as she could ever be.
He let himself be lulled into a dreamless sleep.
It lasted barely an hour before she tensed and stirred in his arms. He was wide awake in an instant, already slipping back into a newly-developed habit of anticipating attack vectors. Though, her only attack was sliding her hand down his flank to his thigh.
She pulled back from him, just far enough to look at his face. There wouldn't have been room for more, either, he'd crowded her into the corner as he slept.
Her expression tucked into a lopsided smirk as she continued to stroke the inside of his thigh.
"You know the other me, don't you? That's how you know how to touch me," she said.
He shifted his legs, but not far enough to make her stop her insidious ministrations. She was too close to miss his reaction or the stutter in his breathing or the too-long pause as he failed to answer.
Deflect, he told himself, found a growl that made a serviceable laugh. He loosened his grip and rolled away from her, tossed an arm over his eyes.
He said, "Or I'm just good in bed."
She dug her fingers into his side, bare skin and muscle unyielding under her touch.
"What's she like?" she asked, completely undeterred. Her voice and the sense of her body next to him was nothing but challenge and possessive lust.
He lost the thread, the willingness to pretend, especially for her benefit.
"She was killed," he said.
He heard her laugh, a grating, sardonic sound and the stroking she had ceased briefly returned. She pushed herself up on her elbows and her breath ghosted over his face and throat as she leaned over him.
Something kept him in place as she brushed her lips over his, beginning to respond to the kiss, the surge of memory overwhelming him.
He drew a sharp breath, took his arm away and reached up to grip her shoulders, pushing her to arms' length as he felt his upper lip curl into a sneer.
"I've mocked him for it, your captain," he said. "You know? On the bridge. On my ship. I killed his lover and I mocked him because he'd be looking for her doppelganger."
The expression on her face made no sense to him, looking at him as if he was a meal she intended to gorge herself on, whether he wanted her to or not.
He felt the resistance under his fingers, knew he was beginning to hurt her, but her only response was a quickening of her breathing and a hot spark of greed in her eyes.
"I hope he's just as disappointed," he added.
He dropped her back to the bed as he got up to his feet abruptly, heard her wince when her head scraped along some hard edge of the bed-frame.
He swiped the bottle of whiskey from the floor and took it with him, several steps away from her and the bed, unable to bear the sense of closeness and the vicinity of her hungry gaze, even now following the outlines of his body.
Away from the heated discomfort of the bed, the cool air hit him with almost the same force as the woman had and with much the same effect. He took a deep sip from the bottle, not quite sure if he hoped the alcohol would help clear his head or take everything else away, too.
"That's all?" Balayna sneered, coming up behind. "That's the best you can do?"
He couldn't bear to look at her.
"You all disgust me," he hissed, the mere thought of it making his lips curl and nostrils flare. "Every single one of you, everything you stand for."
He gathered his courage to look at her, pleased and repulsed himself as the look finally made her draw back from him, finally realising that none of this was a game to him, and it never would be.
"Do you, you pathetic liar?" she asked, contempt thick in her voice. Her gaze flicked down to the whiskey. "Trying to hide in a bottle from the truth?"
He was still for a moment, focussed instead on the burning taste as it ran down his throat and pool in his belly, where his muscles tensed involuntarily at the fresh memory of her touch.
He reached back and flung the bottle past her head with all the force he could muster. The bottle crashed past the bed-frame and changed it's trajectory before it hit the wall, sending a spray of liquid bronze and sparking shards all over the bed and making her flinch when some of it hit her exposed back.
"I'm taking a shower," he said, not sure why he even offered her the explanation, but glad he could turn his back to her and leave the room, feeling her attention burn after him.
The bathroom was a communal room of long rows of shower-heads, two centuries out of date, with mouldy discolourations and layers of limescale.
If there was a lock, he neither saw it nor would have bothered with it. He didn't care about the dirt or the smell. He crossed the room, turned on the shower and didn't care about the too cold sting of the water on his oversensitive skin, letting it rinse away the last vestiges of arousal and hoping the cruel spray would block out the mounting white-noise hissing in his ears. He leaned his forehead against the tiled wall, folded his arms over his head and prayed for the breakdown to finally come.
End of Chapter 4: Bruises and Bitemarks
References: "Bruises and Bitemarks" is a song by Good With Grenades; the ISS Tarleton is named after British officer Banastre Tarleton (because Tavington wouldn't be nearly pretentious enough); the ISS Khumaro is a reference to Richard K. Morgan's Altered Carbon.
Last revised on 02/February/2019