Lorca re-materialized in the aft section of a small spacecraft. He could see that there was a pilot up front, but couldn't make out much more than the top of the pilot's head over the high-backed flight chair.
He felt a shockwave run through the shuttle. Though the pilot rode the wave expertly, it shook Gabriel to the core of his being: he hadn't made it to the Buran's Engineering section. The warp core had blown. His crew were all dead. He hadn't saved them.
He wanted to sink to his knees in despair, but he didn't. Instead, he stared intently at the furry creature in his hand and forced himself to process the situation analytically. Maybe he had been thinking about this all wrong. It made no kind of sense that one phenomenon could account for the many changes to people and things that he had witnessed. On the other hand, any number of alien forces or toxins could have caused him to mentally break from reality. The world hadn't gone mad; he had. Though the thought of losing his mind troubled him, it wasn't nearly as bad as losing his ship, so for now it was his working hypothesis:
None of this is real. My subconscious created a nightmare version of my life, complete with a vicious crew and a big-ass enemy spaceship. Out of self-protection, I threw in an old buddy to look out for me. And, for some reason, a weird floating fuzz-ball.
The pilot stood up and stalked back toward Lorca. She had dark skin and a sharp bob of black hair. Skin-tight pants and a modified flight jacket, all black leather with gold piping along the seams, accentuated every curve. Lorca didn't know her, but he thought he might recognize her from somewhere.
She came up to him, grabbed him by the shirt and wrapped one hand behind his neck. Her neutral expression broke into a beautiful smile as she kissed him eagerly, forcefully.
Apparently my subconscious wants me to get with a hot girl, half my age, who's dressed head-to-toe in leather.
Ok, she wasn't quite that young; she was probably thirty-ish. But her petite size and big brown eyes made her look younger. There was nothing innocent in those eyes.
The woman broke off the kiss, pulled back, and delivered a backhand slap across Lorca's face. Playful, he supposed, but only if one plays very rough.
And now my subconscious wants me to get smacked around by the hot leather-clad chick . . .
"Where were you? And what happened to your transponder?" the woman queried, "I had to tap the ship's systems to find your approximate location and send in another one, to get a transporter lock through the storm."
Guess I'll play along. "Good thinking. I got . . . distracted on the way to the turbolift." He deposited the transponder-bearing furry animal on a nearby shelf.
She smirked. Apparently he'd succeeded in sounding intriguingly cryptic, rather than clueless. She ran a finger above the bloody gash across his chest from Gupta's knife. Concern showed in the pursing of her lips and widening of her eyes, but didn't quite make it to that crease between her eyes. He brushed past her, heading for the cockpit. He sat down in the right-hand seat, surveyed their heading, and looked up at her expectantly.
She sat in the other seat and explained, "Mother didn't detect my ship, or your beam-out. So, she thinks that you killed me, and she killed you. She'll never see us coming, when we move against her."
Lovely. It sounded like everything was going to plan, whatever that plan was. Lorca fished, "What's next?"
That was a misstep. The woman's eyes narrowed as she said, "We're set to rendezvous with supporters on Doran 7."
"Right, of course. Got banged around a bit before your timely rescue," he offered with a self-deprecating smile, "Still waiting for my brain to catch up."
"Awww, poor baby," she purred, wiping blood that he hadn't noticed from his forehead, her tone more seductive than sympathetic. Starting to un-do his shirt, she continued, "I hope you remember the really important things . . ."
"Like you," he smiled, caressing the side of her face and sliding the seat back to give them room.
"Like me," she agreed, moving on to her own clothing. She pushed him backward, straddling his legs and kissing his neck.
"Always"—and then he did remember where he'd seen her—"Michael."
XXXXX
Lorca woke up first. They were squished together in the tiny bunk; his arm, wrapped around Michael, kept her from falling out. He mocked himself: Well, it's nice to know my mind can come up with more than just violence. Still, the theme of betrayal loomed large. He had recognized Michael Burnham from images he'd seen right after the Battle at the Binary Stars. Why would he incorporate the infamous mutineer into his fantasy as his lover?
Though this new turn of events was fun, he was starting to get restless. A small, childish part of him had hoped his awareness that what he experienced wasn't real would trigger him to snap out of it. That may work for bad dreams, not so much for psychotic breaks. Realistically, there probably wasn't much he could do—just hope that whatever caused his mental predicament affected only him, or only the landing party, and that the rest of his crew could figure out how to help.
He didn't do dependence well, but there was no point whining about it. He would continue to go with the flow, seeing where events led, just in case his it's-all-in-your-mind hypothesis was wrong. And, if it was right, well, he grinned as he imagined Kat telling him to take advantage of this opportunity to listen to his subconscious.
Michael stretched, slid out of Lorca's embrace, retrieved her clothing, and headed for the forward compartment of the vessel. Soon thereafter, Lorca went to the head and cleaned up a bit, running a dermal regenerator over the gash in his chest that had more-or-less stopped bleeding. He found some civilian clothes to put on, including a nice leather coat, and went to join his companion.
She seemed a bit distant, but warmed up as they approached their destination. He managed to subtly wheedle the following information out of her: Michael's mother was, indeed, the Emperor, and she was ticked at Lorca because he had tried to kill her. They were getting set to try again, and had recruited a substantial army of backers—though many of them had been captured in the first assassination attempt.
So, I wanna kill the queen and become king. And I'm sleeping with the princess, and maybe slept with the queen, too. Subconscious-Me is kind of a dog.
They docked in an automated orbiting space port and beamed down to Doran, arriving at what looked like a once-bustling colony, now gone to seed. A large ore refinement facility had been repurposed as a market for traders—mostly human, but with a scattering of other species. The items for sale ran the gamut from trinkets and daily necessities to high-end luxury merchandise and illegal weaponry. Michael led the way to meet up with a pair of arms dealers, whom they followed to a transport vehicle, which brought them to the outskirts of the commerce district.
Lorca found himself sitting next to Michael, in a room with about a dozen men and a few women. All were tough-looking. Apparently, some of them were independent operators, though most headed gangs of malcontents. More than half were already loyal to Lorca and Michael, and the others were considering joining up. They were keen on ousting the Emperor and seemed to think they would get a better deal under Lorca, though it wasn't clear why. He found that all he had to do was echo their macho horseshit sentiments and leave the details to Michael, and everyone was happy. After a couple of hours of discussion, they welcomed the newest recruits to their cause.
"This is cause for celebration," Michael announced. "Under the Emperor, the choice goods stayed within the palace. No more. When we've rid the Empire of the corruption creeping over our borders, all will enjoy the bounty. Until then, I've arranged to share a special delicacy with you, our friends and allies."
She nodded to one of their followers, who ducked out of the room. He returned, bringing with him two kelpiens, held by ropes around their necks. They must have been young adolescents, as they barely topped the man's shoulders.
To enthusiastic grins all around, Michael continued, "Tonight we dine on the most tender morsels!"
Holy shit—did that just happen? Out loud, Lorca sputtered, "No way. No. What are you fixin' to do?"
Michael laughed, though her eyes registered concern at his outburst. "So sorry, Darling, for not filling you in on the surprise. Come, let's go make sure they are prepared correctly."
She followed the man with the kelpiens out to a large industrial kitchen, with Lorca close behind. He grabbed her by the arm, demanding, "What are you playin' at?"
She countered, "What's the matter with you? I know it's a splurge, but—"
"We don't eat children! That's what's the matter!"
Michael looked genuinely puzzled, but also annoyed. "You like the adults better? Since when? In any case, that's no reason to jeopardize our recruiting efforts."
Lorca was done playing along. He didn't care if this was all in his head. The thought of eating an intelligent being was repugnant. It was time to take charge of this sick fantasy.
"Look, honey, I'm outta here. They're coming with me," he gestured toward the kelpiens, who stared back in mute terror, "And you can do—"
He was interrupted by a sharp blow to the back of his head. Everything went dark.
XXXXX
Lorca came-to back on the small vessel in which he and Michael had been travelling, hands bound behind his back. This time they weren't alone; two of the thugs they'd met with on Doran had come along. Michael now seemed to think that Lorca was up to some nefarious plot to betray her, or that he was actually an enemy imposter in disguise. She asked him questions he couldn't answer, and had the thugs beat him when his answers were unsatisfactory. They were pretty incompetent at following directions, and kept punching him in the face rather than the body, which, predictably, led to knocking him unconscious.
He woke up to see an exasperated expression on Michael's face. She didn't suffer fools gladly. Lorca guessed that, if he actually did know her, that was something he liked about her. Trying to make a connection, he smirked and drawled, "Hard to find good help nowadays, ain't it?"
She chuckled and looked at him with less animosity than she had recently. He addressed her softly, "I'm not your enemy, Michael."
Michael ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, bringing it to rest gently along the side of his face. "We'll see about that," she replied, a trace of regret in her determined gaze. A hypospray in her other hand sent him back to dreamland.
XXXXX
The drug wore off gradually. Lorca was still pretty out of it when their vessel docked inside a much larger ship. Michael led the way, as he stumbled along between the two thugs. They arrived at ornately furnished guest quarters, where they let him crumple to his knees. He kept his head down, eyes closed, to combat dizziness.
The door swishing open caused him to look up. In walked a girl a bit younger than Michael, with a round face and long strawberry-blond hair. Michael addressed her as "Captain" but then went on to call her "Sylvia, dear" as the two women embraced.
They chatted like good friends. After a few minutes, Lorca found that his mind was clear enough to follow what was going on. The younger woman saw him watching and walked over, a predatory smile on her face. She giggled and said in a sing-song voice, "Don't worry, Michael, no one will know you are here," then, nudging Lorca with the toe of her boot, she added, "He'll be happy to tell us all his secrets."
Lorca wasn't sure if she was silly or scary. Maybe both.
The thugs boosted him to his feet and they followed the women down a deserted corridor. Lorca found he was able to walk steadily now, but saw no opportunity for escape, particularly as a large guard fell in alongside the Captain. They approached a set of double doors, from behind which emanated strange, muffled cries.
The doors opened and the cries were no longer muffled. They were piercing, heart-rending. A man and a woman stood inside clear isolation chambers, like the ones on the transformed Buran. Electric lights danced all over their bodies. Limbs jerked spasmodically, as if jittering on a live wire. And they screamed, no shrieked at the top of their lungs. These were the kinds of cries that you expect to hear choked off after a minute, since the human body can't sustain that kind of agony. But no. They went on and on, unnervingly.
Lorca had been transfixed with empathy for the two suffering souls. Now he registered a third chamber, and that he was being propelled toward it. He panicked and tried to pull away but he was outnumbered, with the thugs' hands clamped around both his arms and the guard shoving him from behind. They threw him into the chamber. The guard held him there, by his throat, for a moment, while Michael released the bonds around his wrists. Then they slammed the door shut, trapping him inside.
He followed Michael with wide eyes as she walked behind a control panel. Her fingers flew along the pad. She pressed a button.
He screamed until his throat was raw. And then he kept on screaming.
XXXXX
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