Revision Changelog: The character of Romeo Laing's name was changed to Romeo Zhang (too many names starting with L). He's the guy who nearly decked Lorca in chapter six. Landry's memory of Mirror Lorca (the naked in furs one) now took place over Pacifica (it was Risa, but I prefer Risa as pirate heaven…)
Chapter 12: … Look for a Better One
As the first officer on the Helios, Lorca had liked to do this: take some of his most boring work and bring it to the mess hall, sometime in the middle of the night of third shift. Few people were about at such an hour, but those who were, like him, were in a more relaxed mood, willing to sit and talk freely, even to a superior. It built a foundation of shared, but utterly mundane experience.
He had never done it after making captain. His promotion had come too soon after Tarsus VI, too soon after being cleared for duty. He was never sure what machinations had been running in the background for that promotion and who had been pulling the strings. Surely his performance during the crisis hadn't been entirely commendable, but someone, somehow, had seen the potential in that tragic series of events and his response to it. He had always hated the thought he had made captain on that single incident as if he'd benefitted from it when everyone else just had to suffer, but he couldn't prove it one way or the other. It only made it worse, of course, and he had never found the right person to pose the question to.
Thus, the question of whether seeking random late-night chats in the mess hall was appropriate behaviour for a captain had never even come up.
Maybe he should have tested it out then, Lorca thought as he wandered into the mess hall. There was little to obviously distinguish this mess hall from any or all mess halls on ships. Neat rows of tables, seating for up to eight people each, all bolted to the floor. A counter in front of the replicator terminals and chutes for recycling.
The mess wasn't as empty as it should've been just after the start of the third shift. But after they had picked up all of Lorca's followers from the surface, the ship was packed well over normal capacity. The replicators were already strained by their number, leading the system to switch to rationing mode. He'd allocated the imprisoned former crew of the Defiant the same amount of food, leading to even more severe rationing.
Kodos was currently busy raiding the stores on Tarsus and transferring fresh food into the cargo holds, so once they were full, the journey to Risa should be less stressful. Attempts to bulk transport the food stocks were currently frying the power grid, but repairs were picking up again, now that the Buran's crew was starting to get a handle on the different ship.
The few third shift stragglers still seated around the hall quickly emptied their coffee or finished their plate when they spotted him, then hurried out of the room and, hopefully, to their stations. The other people, presumably off-duty kept an alert expression on him, observing every move he made. Only when he made no attempt to engage with — or chastise — them, did they settle down. They each made sure not to flunk on saluting him, though the gestures were subdued and habitual now. If not for the hour and the place, Lorca would have thought the attitude unusually relaxed. From what he had learned of terrans they were fixated on rank and advancement and the shows of submission that went with it.
Lorca made his way to the replicator.
"Irish coffee."
He considered the possibility that the other Lorca would find fake obeisance just as annoying as he himself did. Lorca would have wanted true adoration and real worship, not just empty gestures. And he himself much preferred honest respect, which might just about amount to the same thing.
"Alcoholic beverages cannot be served."
Lorca smiled a little, "Test passed. Hot ca phe trung, make it large."
The computer didn't object to his order, passing the test yet again, much to his surprise. Balayna had introduced him to the concoction and he had never got the replicator on the Buran to spit it out right. The result, for one, certainly looked the part.
He picked up his drink and carried it back to an empty table, picking one a safe distance away from the other crew-members. He only glanced them over, too. He hadn't had time to learn all their faces and names, and the short summaries Landry had supplied were barely enough to get to know them.
He tried the egg coffee, and let the taste smooth over the transition into concentrating on the PADD in his hand and his attempt to draw up a duty roster with only people he trusted. Not that trust was a useful measure, calculated risk hit the nail on the head much better. So perhaps all it would take was rephrasing the solution.
In the five days he had been in control of the Defiant, he had opened applications for the various ship positions that needed to be filled. The applications had started coming in, but in much more of a trickle than he had hoped. Tyler's had been the first, unsurprisingly, because he had no affiliation with the other Lorca and certainly couldn't go back to the empire. Most of the other applications had come from former lower-ranked Buran crew-members and bore the stain of opportunism. At least ambition was a trait he could work with, they would stick with him as long as he delivered on their dreams of grandeur, which was easy enough to do on the short term.
In the past few days, he'd spent as much time around his prospective crew as he could without raising too much suspicion. Seeking out those faces he remembered too well, playing on his incomplete knowledge of who they were to tell them exactly what they wanted to hear.
He set the PADD down and took another sip, wondering if long-term planning was even worth the effort.
He let his gaze wander around the room and spotted Cadet Moreau at the replicators. Glancing down, he flipped through the duty roster and found that she had been working second shift in security. Tyler had supplied a very meaningful question mark in terms of her loyalty.
Moreau turned away from the replicator and stopped to pick a seat. He made eye contact with her, made a slight gesture with his head and saw a small smile cross her face. She had wiped the smile away by the time she had made her way to his table.
"May I, captain?" she asked politely.
He gave her another wordless gesture and she sat down, facing him.
If he expected her to gracelessly pounce on the opening he had just given her, he was selling her talents short. Still with an air of polite deference, but otherwise secure in his permission, she dug into her food first. A plate of stir-fry with calamari, the smell of fish and spices replacing the more delicate scent of his coffee.
"Cadet," he started, pitching his tone into a friendly timbre. "I was wondering, why you haven't applied for a ship position?"
She swallowed before she said, "If we're both off-duty, you could call me Marlena, sir."
"That seems unfair," he said. "Since you're still going to call me captain at all times."
"I wouldn't mind," she assured him.
He fixed her with a hard look, vaguely disapproving, but leaving her hanging as to interpret it correctly. She hadn't quite settled on whether she wanted to appeal to his paternal instincts or his libido, which was probably the reason she was so inoffensively polite towards him. If he'd responded better to her brief advance in Tyler's quarters, her behaviour would be much different now.
"I would," he said. "If you're leaving me hanging. Why bother?"
He added a pointed raise of his eyebrow, reminding her of the question he'd posed.
"I have no ship experience," she said eventually, poking at her food with her fork before she decided on another mouthful.
"Experience can be gained."
She glanced up at him, all doe-eyed, youthful prettiness and said, "I thought you wouldn't want me. I was rude and stupid, in the beginning, when I thought…" She trailed off and poked her food again.
"When you thought I was taking over from your…" he sucked in his breath to stop himself from passing unkind judgement on a man outwardly so similar to himself.
"… from your captain," he finished, more than enough insult in the omission to satisfy his own sentiment.
She'd looked up at his hesitation and studied his face. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth in thought. "I probably should apologise for that."
"Why?" he asked. "Are you sorry?"
She pulled white teeth from red lips, still searching his face for clues which response he expected of her, in the end, she came up with nothing.
"Don't apologise for loyalty," he said, a little sharper so she knew he meant it. "But don't fall for that false dichotomy. It's not him or me."
She relaxed ever so slightly, reassured by something she saw or heard. She gave a silent nod and took another fork-full of her food, this time with considerably more enjoyment than the two previous bites.
"Maybe if you told me the whole story?" she prompted, hiding her eagerness in a forkful of food.
He chuckled to himself. So, she was asking for his life story, was she? No doubt she was dying to fit all the tidbits she'd heard together and came up only with a disjointed, nonsensical picture. He couldn't even fault her for wanting to know, the situation was unique and utterly bewildering for everyone involved.
He shook his head, took the glass and felt as the warm water clung to his fingers and cooled.
"That's more time than we have," he said.
She pouted a little, a small frown drawing a thin line between her brows. She knew perfectly well he didn't mean they didn't have time. He meant he wasn't going to trust her with all of it.
"But then you can't blame me for sticking with what I know," she said.
"You know him then?"
Knowing full well she had no good answer to it, he put the glass to his lips and watched as she mulled the question over. He watched her over the rim of the glass and offered her the solution, "You know a lot more about me in comparison." He tipped the glass towards her a little and added, "Think about it, Marlena."
Drinking, he caught sight of someone else, just turned away from the replicators and looking unsure of his next move.
"Call Lieutenant Leighton over," Lorca said.
If he got Moreau, he'd get Leighton. The young man would follow her lead if it was being offered. If Lorca could separate them permanently, he had the suspicion Leighton would much rather remain with Lorca, but freeing him from her influence would take a while. Lorca much preferred getting two for one while he was pressed for time and support.
Moreau turned around and gave him a wave, prompting a frown, but he walked over with his tray, carefully eying Lorca as he set it down on the table next to Moreau.
"With your permission, sir?" Leighton asked.
"Already granted," Lorca said with a smile and a glance at Moreau. He waited for Leighton to settle and begin eating. He took a leisurely sip off his coffee while, glancing down at the PADD and flicked through it.
Eventually, he said, "I was just asking Marlena why she doesn't want a ship position."
Several emotions crossed Leighton's often so carefully expressionless face. He passed a quick, questioning look between Moreau and Lorca, unable to hide a spike of beginning jealousy.
"You haven't put in your application either," Lorca added, pretending the unspoken exchange had completely passed him by. "Why?"
The polite phrasing gave him every opportunity to simply decline an answer. Lorca wouldn't let it go, of course, but Leighton could've tried.
"I know where I belong," Leighton said.
Lorca chuckled. "Ah, that loyalty again."
Leighton said nothing but he looked hurt by what he perceived to be mockery. It was, just not for the reason Leighton thought.
Lorca said, "On whose side do you think I am?"
Although he was still looking at Leighton, Moreau answered, "That's easy. Your own."
Her answer amused him, "True, who wouldn't be?"
He made a show of glancing around the room, pretending to take it all in as if for the first time. In truth, there was a pang of something lodged deep in his throat. The Defiant had made the same journey as him and like him, she'd been dressed up and used as something she was never meant to be, only to make it through.
"It's a good ship," he said. "She could use a good crew. It's an opportunity."
He sighed and glanced at the PADD, the beginning resignation not all false. He looked back up, at Leighton, then Moreau, "You know me."
They really didn't, he didn't quite know himself these days, but the point he'd made to Moreau still held true. They knew even less about their absent Captain Lorca.
Lorca gave them both a smile, vaguely benevolent but toned down just enough to leave them guessing.
"I won't overstay my welcome," Lorca said, gathered the PADD and his almost empty coffee. "Enjoy your break. The rationing will be lifted soon."
He left without looking to see if either of them made another empty gesture of obedience at him. He'd given them a lot to chew on, most of it in separate pieces, but Moreau at least would know how to read it. Pushing harder would've just driven her away, taking Leighton along with her.
This type of micromanagement wouldn't net him a crew and not even one full roster of trustworthy people, especially not in the time he had.
Walking, he glowered down on the PADD as if it would give up its solution if he threatened it badly enough.
Morning shift was still hours away when Ferasini approached the door to the captain's quarters. She'd stalled for time after the invitation had come through, polite as it had been. She could have refused, perhaps he even wanted her to, but she hadn't found the words to. So instead of outright denying him, she'd settled for being late, not without deriding her own childish gesture at every turn.
Now she stood against the opposite wall and waited, wondered if the sensors in the hallway had already announced her or if they had been damaged and not yet repaired. The hallway was empty, not a guard in sight and there was at least no sign of damage that would require a repair team's attention.
She should have asked why he would invite her, she thought, now when it was much too late to press him for an explanation or an admission of anything. She didn't understand when he'd become intimidating to her. Last she remembered he had been a prisoner, barely out of his cell with nothing at all but bravado and a name and face he didn't deserve. Even with all the change in his fortune, he was still that same nobody he'd been. He shouldn't affect her, no matter what rank he claimed ownership to — even if it wasn't an empty claim anymore, now that he had the Defiant.
She took a step forward, schooling her features and stance, the confidence came naturally but ebbed in slowly, a slither of warmth on too cold limbs. She arched her head back and swiped her hand over the door sensor to announce her arrival.
A petty man would've left her waiting even longer, giving back her late arrival and letting her nerves do the rest, but the door opened almost immediately. The room beyond was sheathed in a soft twilight and looking almost empty. A large crate occupied one side of the room, containing Maddox's personal items, leaving the room bare of any decoration, with just the furniture as if no one lived there at all.
It took a moment until she spotted Lorca against the brightness of the window. Beyond the window, Tarsus IV hung large and gently glowing in the sunrise, the only source of light in the room.
"Come look," Lorca said, his voice was a quiet lure, hard to resist when she couldn't detect any barbs in it. She stepped inside and the door slid closed. The ever-present hum of the ship was dulled inside, knocking her back into her skull uncomfortably when a sound she'd stopped being aware of was suddenly gone.
As she approached him, she realised he hadn't even turned to look at her, instead focussed completely on the view and drawing her attention there. Only then did she remember what time it was and that the first scattered asteroids would have hit the surface around this time.
"You've missed the first impact," he said.
The first pieces were small, easiest to be drawn out of their orbit by Tarsus' own gravity. In their small size, most were nothing but shooting stars in the atmosphere, unable to reach the ground. Even as she watched, the first larger pieces flared up as they burned, displacing the cloud cover on the way down.
"It looks quite beautiful like this, don't you think?" he asked.
She glanced at him, watched the darker outline of his profile against the brighter backdrop. His expression, like his voice, was calm if a little wistful. On the table next to him, she spotted a bottle of bourbon and a heavy-glass tumbler catching a few stray rays of light and filtering them through the centimetre of rich, darkly golden liquid it contained. He must have indulged in a little privilege of his own, ignoring the rationing parameters he himself had set for everyone on board. She let it go instead but noted he had not set out a second glass for her.
He was dressed in civilian clothing. Smartly, he had refrained from playing dress-up in a terran uniform, while wearing something from his universe would've been meaningless at best and at worst alienated him from everyone else.
"The destruction in the first 48 hours will be minimal," she said. "The impact sites are in uninhabited areas and they won't kick up enough dirt and debris to alter the weather pattern."
"But by the end of it, Tarsus will be uninhabitable," he said and there was a sick eagerness in his tone.
"Yes," she confirmed, still watching him rather than the view. She considered her words and thought about what she knew of him. He had an uncanny ability to see through deception, an unerring sense of realism which allowed him to spot any attempt to bent the truth. If she wanted to manipulate him, lies would never work.
"What's it with you and Tarsus?"
She made a gesture towards the planet, unsure if he registered it and added, "You claim to be this great moralist, since I've met you, you've attacked and insulted every aspect of my civilisation. You talk a big game, but here you stand, watching a whole planet die with glee. Can you explain that?"
"There are no innocent terrans."
"So that's how you do it," she concluded, a sense of satisfaction coating her voice. "We all deserve death in your mind. Surely you see the irony in that?"
He snorted, not a laugh, but not making it to a growl either. "There's irony here in spades," he said. "I don't have a shovel big enough to get through it all."
"I don't understand you."
It was close to an exasperated sigh and for some reason, this was the thing which finally made him look at her. Soft sunlight and the flare of an asteroid entering the atmosphere traced the side of his face, crawled into the fine cracks around his eyes and along the high arch of his brow.
"I think you owe me an explanation," she said, meeting his gaze levelly. "At the very least about that woman you knew and who you see when you look at me."
Predictably, her challenge wiped the amusement off his face as if it had never been.
"I know exactly who you are."
"And I need to know who she is," she insisted. "Otherwise the two of us won't be able to make peace."
"Why won't making nice do?" he asked back. His sense of irony asserting itself into a thin note of sarcasm. "You don't plan on staying, so we'll manage."
She had not put in her application for the crew he was trying to carve out of another man's followers. She had wanted to see if he would ask her and she suspected he wouldn't have invited her if she had.
The truth, she thought, she could only beat him with the truth.
"You don't have a surplus of applicants, do you?
He shook his head. "I want volunteers but I'll take whoever I can get."
"You want to get rid of me," she said. The wonder in her tone wasn't all feigned when she added, "You're still scared of me."
"And you're still turned on by it," he said, shook his head and looked back at the planet.
The truth, she reminded herself and wished he liked her enough to offer her some of the bourbon. Perhaps he suspected she would just call him out on it, too, which was why he hadn't offered.
"I wish," she sneered and crossed her arms over her chest, turning fully towards him, even if he pretended to still watch the overture of the destruction of Tarsus IV. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she said, blaming him for it, even if she knew it wasn't his fault. "You're stuck in my mind and I can't think."
She bared her teeth at his immobile profile. "You have no right to have that effect on me. You are an affliction."
"What a romantic confession."
"I need to get rid of it," she said roughly. "Let the fever burn itself out. It's just neurochemistry."
She paused, so the pain and anger she felt were a little less raw on her tongue. She said, "We both don't want me to respond to you like this. And you're going to help me."
He still didn't respond and his stance hadn't changed, his attention still pensively fixed on the view, relegating her to a secondary role. Whether insult or power-play didn't really matter to her either way.
"Who is she?" she demanded, though softer. She had no way to force him and he would be able to tell her anger was just an expression of her helplessness, and it was playing into his hands.
Bracing herself, she added, "I'm asking for your help, that's all."
He turned his head to look at her and she was glad the dim light left half his expression hidden from view so she could tell herself it wasn't pity she saw there. She wouldn't have anything he wasn't willing to let her have. He might not be ready to admit he liked the power, but to her, it was at least a familiar apparition.
From on high, she supposed, it was tempting to appear generous. She caught the brightness of a smile just before he took a step back and to the table. He took the bottle and filled the glass, then took a half-step back in her direction, holding out the glass at the end of an outstretched arm.
"Here," he said.
She remembered offering him a drink and the insult he had made of his rejection. She also remembered he hadn't been able to make it stick.
Once her fingers closed around the glass and he let go, his fingers slipped over her's. A spark of delight shot from the tiny contact, immediately followed by a new wave of badly suppressed anger.
"Sit down," he said and tilted his head towards where a récamier stretched away from the couch set against the wall under the window. Not waiting for her, he picked a seat against the armrest where he was still facing the window.
She gulped down a generous amount of the richly textured alcohol and stepped forward to sit down. With the window and the light behind her, he had put himself at a disadvantage, letting her see his face much more clearly than vice versa.
Lorca spoke slowly, "I met Balayna thirteen years ago, she was a geologist like you are. Researched the magnetic bedrock of the equatorial tectonic plate. I followed her to Tarsus, got a posting no one else wanted just to be here."
He paused a moment, angled his head to look out at the planet again, though only briefly. "I was going to quit Starfleet, look for something permanent, settle down with her. Maybe even here."
She considered offering him the glass back to help smooth the roughness abrading his voice. Instead, she held still and waited, lest she remind him who he was talking to. The bottle was right next to him, he could just take it if he wanted it.
"That's when the famine happened," he said.
"She was sacrificed," she said, carefully getting to know the shapes and edges of a history similar and yet strange. How had the great famine played out in his universe? Moreover, he had been there, apparently, on the ground when it went down. Even with Ribiero's decisive actions and ultimate resolution, the famine had been an ugly business.
She took a sip and waited.
"She was murdered," he corrected sharply. "We have no state-sanctioned genocide. Criminals committed monstrous acts."
He turned his head away from the view to look at her face when he said, "I helped bring many of them to justice. The instigator escaped. But it's been a decade. Balayna is dead. I'm over it, you'll get over it, too."
He leaned his shoulder into the armrest and pulled a knee up on the upholstery, seemingly settling himself more comfortably. After a moment of silence, he reached for the bottle, but instead of drinking it, he held it in front of him, studied the label as if some great revelation was hidden in it.
"Kodos sent this as a gift," he said. "He thinks I don't like him. Refill?"
She'd nearly emptied the glass during his short narration and felt the heat of it still lingering in her throat. She held out the glass and in pouring, he said, "In my universe, Kodos was the one who seized control of the colony and organised the mass-murder."
He took the bottle back and set it on the table and added, "I don't like him because he's Kodos and don't like you because you're not her."
The truth, she found, was a blade cutting both ways. She had quite enough of it, too, felt the lure of his proximity and wondered why he had invited her at all.
"The first time," he said. "You took advantage."
His tone was so mild, she couldn't tell if he was accusing her of it or if he was merely stating a fact.
"I couldn't have known."
However, she had known how he'd come from months of imprisonment and she had had every reason to assume mental scarring, to say nothing of the obviously vulnerable position he had been in. Whether the knowledge would've deterred her was a piece of truth she'd rather not speak aloud. Besides, he already knew and it chipped an edge into his faint amusement.
"Now you do," he said, chin pushed forward slightly in challenge. "What are we gonna do about it?"
Ignoring the distant and fading voice at the back of her head that this was a bad idea and that she swallowing his bait whole without a second thought, she leaned forward. She folded one leg under her to push herself up, leaning in over him, resting one hand on his knee to prop her up as she leaned in, slightly above him with only the space of the glass between them.
She looked into his eyes above the rim as she emptied the glass, feeling the sting and the heat lingering on her lips.
"I can think of a few things," she said and reached past him to put the glass on the table, the movement exposed her throat and she hoped he would accept the open invitation to sink his teeth into it.
Instead, his hand came up to the back of her neck, strong fingers digging into her hair and froze her in place. Only then did he kiss her, though, despite the rough hold he had on her, the kiss was excruciatingly gentle, exploratory, seemingly more interested in seeking out and savouring the lingering taste of the alcohol than to engage with her at all. His hand kept her from leaning in, his lips and tongue sapping the breath from her and the will to fight back along with it.
His other hand closed around her wrist, stopped her from digging her fingers further up into his thigh and force a reaction. Breaking the kiss, he dislodged her smoothly, hold on her neck and her hand, toppling her back so slowly, the sense of vertigo seemed delayed and drawn out, making her feel lazy enough to just let him. At least things were moving and she was, for the moment, quite content to let him go about it his way. Perhaps she owed him a little for that first time, too.
Sprawled on the récamier, arms spread out along the couch above her. Part of her was glad he made no attempt to take her to the bed. The narrow couch allowed her to plant one leg on the floor, grounding her in an illusion of control while his touch of her continued to slowly and leisurely drive her mad.
Every so often, frustration would ebb through the haze, make her push herself up, paw at his chest and arms, drag her fingers through his hair and down his back to urge him on. It earned her a harder touch, a grip pinning her wrists back to the couch, keeping her hips down and her legs from sliding up around his waist and lever herself against him.
He stripped her out of her clothes almost as an aside, without letting her get up, without giving her head a chance to clear. She had barely realised he was doing it before the suffocating constraints off her shirt were peeled away, down of her shoulders and left there for a little while to keep her arms from stealing more than he was willing to give.
At some point, a light flashed behind her eyes and she didn't realise at first it hadn't been her own mind, firing a salvo just to spent the wound-up energy. The part of her brain still capable of thought told her that a larger asteroid would've crossed into the atmosphere of Tarsus, causing the flash and Lorca to halt in his ministrations for just a moment before he leaned down by her head and breathed her name into her ear before burning a fresh trail of measured kisses down the side of her throat to between her breasts.
He'd set her up, she thought. He'd invited her to watch the impacts on Tarsus because he'd known she would ask about what the planet meant to him and their conversation would be inevitably drawn to who Balayna Ferasini was to him and who she was not. He'd cast her into a role, she realised, he was using her because that other woman was dead and gone and there was no one left he would be accountable to.
"Stop…" she whimpered, surprised that she had spoken at all and shocked at the rough desperation there and how to true it reverberated all throughout her boneless body.
Amazingly, his reaction was instantaneous. He let go of her and her tingling skin took a long moment to play catch-up and tell her that he had leaned back from her. He was still close enough to sense him, the slight dent in the couch where he was supporting himself on an outstretched arm.
She opened her eyes and found him kneeling next to her, watching her from the angled shadows cast across his face. Although he had stopped touching her, her refusal had only freed his hands to undo his trousers and give himself long, languid strokes as he waited for her to make up her mind.
She made a frustrated sound in her throat and dug her head back into the upholstery.
"Stop teasing," she said.
He chuckled, a sound affecting her almost as much as his touch. Without any apparent reluctance, he took his hand away from himself again and slid it down the inside of her thigh. She let her knee fall against him, far too eager to see if he would comply. His fingertips barely skimmed her skin.
"Why?" he asked, fingers continue to whisper back and forth. "We have all night."
She bared her teeth and arched her hips, hoping to catch him up, but all he did was draw his hand back up to the top of her knee.
"I don't like it," she said petulantly, finally found the coordination to shrug her shirt off. She sat up too fast, a rush of blood to her head that set her vision spinning and blindly groping for him to steady herself. He remained where he was, allowed her to sink her fingers into his shoulders so hard she felt the injury through the fabric of his shirt. He didn't even flinch.
"What would you like, hmm?" he drawled by her ear. "You want me to be rough with you?"
He snapped his hand down to her ankle and used the hold to sling her leg around his waist, drag her harshly against him. Much to her dismay, the smooth material of his trousers offered no additional stimulation. Still, her imagination shot a sharp need of ecstasy through her at the thought of just how hard and how deep that thrust would've been. She gasped for breath and moaned at how close he was, wrapped her arms around his neck, her nails seeking his skin and he leaned into it, just teasing her that much more.
And there was another piece of truth, too. Rough would've allowed her to retaliate, would've swept her conscious thoughts away and allowed her to burn out her confounding feelings for him, let the fever spike and break so she could be free. And let him see the truth of himself in all of it, how devious he was and how ruthless.
"Better," she muttered and realised at his sudden immobility that the edge in his voice hadn't been arousal but mockery.
"Why should I do anything you want?" he asked. "When you're already falling apart so nicely?"
She stared up into his eyes, surprised at the level of self-control he had when his pupils were blown wide, an eclipse swallowing the arctic blue.
"Would you be a sadist to her?" she demanded and let her hands glide over his shoulders and down his arms to where his hands were resting next to her hips.
He twisted one corner of his mouth.
"She's dead," he said and made a small gesture with his head, a quick glance around the room before he rested his gaze back on her face with the weight of yet another caress. "It's a different universe. Y'all keep telling me my rules don't apply here."
She slithered back a little on the synthetic fabric of the couch, still, so close she felt the heat of him, almost close enough to sense the solidity of him, but gaining the room she needed. She trailed her own hands down her body. It wasn't quite the thrill of having him fulfil her desires for her but the new sensation still wrenched a moan from her.
"And you keep telling us they do," she said, arching her head back as she slowly slid her fingers over and then inside herself. Her eyes fell closed for a moment and when she opened them again, she found his gaze had dropped away from her face so he could watch her fingers begin their work.
She caught the flash of another smile, bright and sharp like stone turning to fire outside the window, then he leant forward to place an open-mouthed kiss just underneath her breast, beginning to trail a wet line down her stomach until his chin scratched her wrist.
He glanced up, long enough to catch and hold her gaze and make her breath stutter before his focus returned downward. His tongue followed the bones of her thumb, over her knuckles, adding teeth as he freed her fingers from her so he could suck them into his mouth.
She bit her lips, swallowing back any signs of triumph, in case it would prompt him to make a point, though perhaps having made his point, he saw no reason to keep denying her — or at least denying himself.
She wrapped one hand around his neck, digging her fingers in again, pulling at his hair just so he knew she wasn't going to let him stop until he had delivered on the promises his teasing had made.
Morning lighting automatically came on in the captain's cabin, compounding the light from Tarsus outside the window. The planet's orbit had taken it out of the first spray of destructive asteroids, allowing the people on it to scurry to what safety they could find.
The door sensor chirped several times, announcing the visitor and wasn't answered. After a fifth attempt, Culber shrugged and put his hand on the panel to override the lock and rushed in.
He liked to think he was fairly prepared for pretty much anything, but he did do a slight double take when the first thing he saw was clothing strewn around the couch and récamier by the window and then a trail of more clothing items leading to the bed.
"Oh that's great," he said, hopefully loud enough to ungently wake the loving couple — or whatever the hell they were.
Lorca was curled possessively around Ferasini, face buried into the nape of her neck, half hidden under her tousled hair. The silky blanket was kicked halfway down his thighs, leaving nothing much to the imagination.
What surprised Culber most, though, was that somehow his first instinct was to check up on where he had removed the agoniser mere days ago. The scar was still angry red, the triangle cut precisely and viciously over his spine between his shoulder-blades. He'd had pretty much the same sight then, too, but apparently, he had been professional enough not to admire Lorca's lean, muscled back and elegant arch of his spine, even though it was such an open invitation to let the attention travel down.
Fine ass indeed, Culber thought. Fine pretty much everything.
"Hey!" he raised his voice. It didn't make him any less incensed, though, that would just be stupid.
Lorca stirred, but only to bury his face deeper into Ferasini, though Culber caught the sluggish way one of his hands dug back under the pillow, grappling for the phaser.
"Yeah, too slow," Culber said. "You're already dead."
Lorca took a deep breath and rolled to his back, then sat up, frowning across the room at Culber.
"You broke in?" he asked, voice rough from sleep.
"Technically, no," Culber said. "You made me CMO, remember? If I say medical emergency the computer will let me do all sorts of illicit things."
"There's no emergency," Lorca said, rubbing a hand down his face and then up through his hair.
"Not yet," Culber said cheerfully. He took a step back and leaned his back against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest and did his best to glower at Lorca without getting too distracted as the man climbed off the bed and padded to the replicator.
"Coffee, doctor?" Lorca asked. "Tea? Orange juice?"
"What are you planning?" Culber demanded, annoyed at Lorca's nonchalant behaviour. "Because I know you're planning something. You've been messing with the duty roster and you know what I saw? Why is Commander Tyler the transporter chief for third shift today?"
Lorca glanced at the side as he waited for the small cup of espresso to materialise. There was just enough visible of his face to see a slight smirk playing on his lips.
"What do you think?" Lorca asked.
"Well, I think you're planning something!"
Lorca took the cup and wandered towards Culber, and just when the doctor resigned himself to hold his breath, Lorca swerved past him and sat down at the desk. He took a sip from the coffee as the terminal display flared up.
Across the room, Ferasini had sat up, too. She gathered the blanket around herself and leaned her back and into the padding on the wall at the head of the bed. She seemed uncharacteristically subdued to Culber, but he couldn't tell if she was only slow to wake up or if there was something else going on.
"Did you know?" Culber asked her and levelled an accusing finger at her.
"No," Lorca answered in her stead. "She knows nothing."
"I know about you and Tarsus," she said.
Culber felt the sting of curiosity at her implication. What a pity he wasn't going to let himself be distracted. He turned towards Lorca, seated casually at the desk. A little distracted, Culber corrected himself, might as well enjoy the view while it was on display.
Meanwhile, Lorca was looking over a long list of data feeds and said, "We can bulk transport now. Got it done last night. Tyler's already moving Tarsus' food stocks into storage."
"Yes?" Culber asked.
Fabric rustled as Ferasini slipped to her feet and Culber watched her for a moment as she made her own way to the replicator, only to come away with what looked like a simple glass of water.
Lorca looked up, too, first at her, then at Culber.
"What's your opinion on our prisoners?" Lorca asked.
"So good of you to ask," Culber said. "So, you remember Cadet Moreau?"
"Yes?"
"She's a very dutiful little security officer. Every time she's guarding the brig, she takes time out of her day to have a little chat with Maddox," Culber said, he bared his teeth. "But I'm sure it's harmless."
Lorca's expression revealed nothing of what he thought about the tidbit, except that he was definitely fitting it into his plan somewhere.
"We should kill the prisoners," Ferasini said. She had emptied half the glass and was picking up the clothes from the floor, shaking them out and disentangling them before she laid them out on the bed.
"We should," Lorca agreed mildly, without any intention of ever doing so.
Knowing his meaning full well, Ferasini shrugged and said nothing.
Lorca swiped his hand over the controls and the display widened. "Our long-range sensors have picked up imperial ships en route to Tarsus," he said even as the glittering display revealed them. There were five of them, coming from different directions. The IFF assigned them identification, but Culber wasn't too familiar with ship types to assess the level of threat. He somehow doubted the Empire was sending a few small scout ships, not after they had lost contact with three large cruisers, one of them as prestigious as the Defiant.
"How much time do we have?" Ferasini asked.
"A few days until the first ship arrives," Lorca answered. "A week for all of them, if they regroup first."
He looked across the room at Ferasini, expression darkening.
"You can shower in your own quarters," he said as he got up. "Shift's starting, I need to get ready."
Culber hadn't expected he would ever see this kind of surprised hurt on Ferasini's face, if only for the millisecond it took her to hide it behind detached haughtiness.
"What are we going to do with the prisoners?" Culber asked. "And, to come back to my original question, what are you planning?"
Lorca tilted his head to the side and regarded Culber silently, then glanced at Ferasini as she slung her clothes over her arm and picked up her boots. Still dressed in nothing but a sheet, she stood in the centre of the room, doing her best not to look like she'd lost a battle.
"I'll make an announcement," Lorca said. "But as a friendly suggestion, think long and hard about the cost of rejecting me."
Ferasini met his gaze for a long minute, looked like she was trying to read his mind, or impress her own thoughts over his. She seemed ready to say something and Culber at least was incredibly curious what it would've been. She and Lorca were cultivating the kind of unhealthy relationship the both of them would eventually needed to be rescued from.
In the end, Ferasini said nothing at all. She tilted her head like a cat who'd lost interest in some wriggling critter and was about to wander off. She measured her steps carefully as she went to the door, the sheet trailing silky and dark behind her. The door sensor picked her up and let her through and only closed when the last edge of the blanket had gone.
"What the hell does that mean?" Culber asked, exasperated.
Lorca dismissed the display and leaned back in the chair. The professional part of Culber noted how well the deep gash was healing, there was still a shallow valley in his flesh, the discolouration slowly shifting from raw red into pale, new skin.
He swallowed drily and forced himself to look at Lorca's eyes, the icy blue of them, all remnant traces of sleep thoroughly banished.
"I think I deserve more than that," Culber insisted.
Lorca took his time in answering, but when he spoke his voice was serious. "You're right," Lorca said and then nothing more.
"So?" Culber prompted.
"I'm going to make it very simple for everyone on board. They're with me, or they're not."
"'Simple' really isn't the word I'd use."
Unimpressed, Lorca arched his brows, and said, "Well, let's take it down a notch. Are you with me or are you not?"
Culber blinked a few times, still held in that blue gaze, wryly he said, "Can you ask again when you're wearing pants? I may not give a straight answer otherwise."
Lorca continued to be widely unimpressed and refrained from pointing out that Culber had only himself to blame for overriding the door controls. Culber invested a little thought into that sentiment and came to the conclusion that Lorca had had it coming either.
Lorca gave a slight shrug.
"Third shift, then," he said. He powered down his terminal and got to his feet, far too close to Culber to not cause him to do a slight double-take, just to get his priorities sorted again. This was beginning to irritate Culber, who knew enough terran officials who would employ this kind of tactic to sway a negotiation in their favour.
"All right, don't talk to me," Culber said. "But you can listen to what I have to say. You're not getting your volunteers, not the ones you want and not the ones you trust."
Lorca snorted derisively at the word 'trust', Culber agreed but refused to be waylaid. He continued, "And you can't trust Landry any further than you can see her, that's why either you or Tyler is always up and about while she has the bridge. Interesting, by the way, how Tyler is the one exception to your completely justified paranoia."
Lorca looked at him and almost seemed like he was going to offer an explanation, only to think better of it with a slight shake of his head.
"You're going to do something that forces a decision," Culber finished. "On everyone of us. Something radical, I'd bet. And you don't want me or Ferasini to make the wrong choice, which is kinda sweet, but misguided in her case."
Lorca's back was to him, but he'd stopped walking to listen to Culber, his head curiously tilted and a tension running the length of his back, revealing his stillness was taking a toll. He turned his head further, just enough to make eye-contact with Culber and said, "If that is all, doctor, I'm going to take a shower."
Culber unfurled his arms only to let them hang awkwardly by his side, feeling himself exposed despite Lorca barely looking at him. Culber stood away from the table, folded his arms again and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking for a more comfortable stance. Everything about Lorca made it clear he wasn't going to deviate from his plan, whatever it was, nor was he going to give Culber anything at all.
In a last attempt, Culber said, "I've been the one on your side from the start, you know. Ferasini wanted you chained up in the basement," Culber added.
"I'm sure she still does."
"Well, and you look like you'd let her."
This tangent in their conversation wasn't going to lead anywhere useful, either.
"For fuck's sake!" Culber snapped, finally knew what to do with his hands and threw them in the air to express his frustration.
"Just so you know, whatever you're planning, Landry already knows, too. Everyone knows something's going to go down. You better get it right the first time."
Entirely unexpectedly, Lorca actually turned back to him, almost as if he had been giving Culber's words enough thought and changed his mind. Culber's mood picked itself up just slightly at the gesture, but his hope was immediately squashed when he saw the expression. Lorca understood himself as solitary in this universe. The very fact that he needed to rely on other people at all, even people who did their damnedest to befriend him, only fed into his resentment. There was no telling what he might do if pushed too hard the wrong way.
"Thank you, doctor," Lorca said, voice mild and expression almost gentle. Culber hated it when he did it that way, the manipulation made worse by how genuine his gratitude was.
Culber gave him another moment, just to see if maybe he would say anything else, but he turned his back on him again and this time walked to the ensuite bathroom without looking back.
Grumbling, Culber stood in the now empty room, wanting to punch something, or someone for that matter, however little good it would actually do.
Since Lorca had made him CMO on the ship, Culber had understood it as a given that he was most likely going to stay on board, but he had never made it clear, neither to Lorca nor to anyone else. It neatly prevented him from facing up to why he might feel like doing it in the first place. At least he wasn't alone in the conundrum. Allegiance to this Lorca was all over the place for pretty much everyone on board, mostly a confused mix of having no other options and a profound difficulty to tell the difference. No one, not Lorca, not Landry, and probably not even the people themselves, could tell which way their loyalty would fall if a decision was forced on them.
Leaving Lorca's quarters, Culber morosely thought of how he'd been clean and sober for too many days in a row.
Lorca relieved Tyler on the bridge with a nod and a glance that lingered almost too long to remain inconspicuous. It was something Lorca wouldn't have indulged in, but here he had to weigh too many risks against each other and some chances he had to take. He knew he relied too much on Tyler and if he was wrong about him, his entire planning would collapse like a house of cards.
"Mr Zhang, ship-wide broadcast," he said almost as soon as he'd sat down.
"Ready, sir."
Lorca spared the young man a slight nod, then spoke, "Everyone, listen up. You and I, we've got a few things to clear up and I think it's just fair to do it face to face and not over a speaker. You will assemble in shuttle bay two at the beginning of the third shift. Attendance is mandatory. Only those on duty are exempt."
He paused to give the announcement a chance to settle. "That is all for now. Carry on. Lorca out."
In the wake of the short speech, the silence on the bridge was nearly absolute, the crew exchanging quick glances, fully aware Lorca had to notice but unable to stop themselves, because shuttle-bay two was still occupied by most of the Defiant's former crew. No one spoke up, preferring to bear the discomfort of the heavy silence than potentially expose themselves to a captain's temper.
Lorca settled into the captain's chair. He saw no reason to offer them any release from their self-imposed ignorance.
End of Chapter 12: ... Look for a Better One
References:
"When you see a good move, look for a better one." - chess adage, often attributed to Emanuel Lasker.
"Ca phe trung" is the result of too much time on wikipedia. It's egg coffee. I can't decide if it sounds tasty or disgusting.
Author's Note: To reiterate, Lorca is fully dressed initially, eventually got naked for the sex, then was naked some more (you're welcome, Hugh) and then he's again fully dressed for the rest.