Note: there's nothing graphic, but this chapter does contain some disturbing themes.
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The Tellarites cracked Lorca up. Seriously, it was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud. They probably thought he was a bit addled.
From Lorca's observations of this "other world" he'd landed in, various species differed slightly from the ones back home. Humans were a lot meaner. Klingons, while still bloodthirsty, were a little nicer. Andorians . . . it was hard to tell, having only met the one. Back home, Andorians were fixated on a complicated code of honor and prone to react to perceived slights with hostility. But a lot of them grasped that other species just didn't get it, and thus didn't expect much from them. So, Andorians ranged from very prickly to, at least superficially, pretty mellow. Otib seemed to fall into the latter camp.
The Tellaraties Lorca was used to were selfish, pugnacious, and rude. They complained about everything and loved petty disputes. On the plus side, they were staunch allies, unquestionably loyal. Though it took a while to appreciate it, they often had a great sense of humor. And they liked it when you argued back at them. Since Lorca enjoyed a good verbal tussle, he generally got along with Tellarites just fine.
These Tellarites were exactly the same, except instead of being selfish they were altruistic.
Aggressively, obnoxiously altruistic.
"Have some more stew!"
"Don't you like the bread? Why won't you have another piece?"
Almost as soon as Otib, Lorca, Targ, and his group got on board, the Tellarites started pushing food on them. They were relentless. Otib diverted attention from himself by letting their hosts know that Lorca hadn't eaten anything in at least three days. Bastard.
Fortunately, though a little bland, the food was pretty good—kind of a vegetable hash topped with broth. The drink was even better: hard apple cider, a tad tarter than you'd find on earth, fermented in their cargo hold. Lorca wasn't stupid; he knew better than to get sloshed among strangers in a strange land. But let's just say the cider wasn't helping his project of not cracking up every time the Tellarites said or did something selfless.
Finally, the rest of the crew went about their business, leaving Lorca and Otib with Targ. Targ was sort of the first officer of this vessel, which was called Grahl's Gift. He had been a Captain for fifteen years and, he explained, Tellarite Captains had the option of semi-retiring by becoming senior advisors on starships. The role was like that of an executive officer and back-up Captain, but the official title translated to "Gadfly". He was literally there to be a pain in the ass, to keep the Captain and crew at their best, with no fear of professional reprisals. Lorca recalled reading about something like this in Tellarite history, from before they joined the Federation. Now, with most of their military fleet tied up in Starfleet, the role had faded out. Too bad, Lorca thought. It sounded way more fun than being stuck behind a desk in your later years!
"We're headed back to Tellar," Targ said, "You can get transportation to your Resistance cell there, or we can drop you off somewhere or lend you a shuttle."
"Yeah, about that," Lorca confessed, "I'm not, uh, officially associated with the Resistance."
"Are you making a liar of me?" Otib interjected. He seemed touchier here than he was on Discovery. Might be because the temperature on the Tellarite ship was several degrees higher than Starfleet normal. After the cold brig cell, Lorca found it cozy, but he could see how an Andorian might disagree.
"No. I think you were making a reasonable assumption that I would join you," Lorca answered diplomatically. "And maybe I will. But I need to figure out my own situation first."
Targ furrowed his heavy brow in confusion. Otib explained, "He thinks he's from another world. A parallel universe or dimension."
Targ stared at Lorca, who nodded sheepishly. There really wasn't any way to put it that didn't make him seem crazy.
"You believe him?" Targ asked Otib, blunt and skeptical.
Otib paused thoughtfully, then answered, "Yes, I do. I can imagine a scenario whereby the real Lorca pretends to be his doppelganger in order to infiltrate the Resistance. But why not just alter his appearance, present himself as someone less notorious? Why risk being written off as a nut or executed for Lorca's crime?"
Targ grunted in agreement.
"I'm not ready to bring him to Fire Wolf's doorstep just yet, but I trust him," Otib concluded.
Lorca felt a surge of warmth and gratitude, which only increased when Targ asked, "How can I help?"
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The Tellarites gave Lorca a ship. They kept several on hand for incognito missions. He bargained them down to their smallest, least impressive scouting vessel; they wanted to give him something better. He promised to try to return it, but they didn't seem too worried about that. Aggressive altruism indeed.
Setting out all alone, facing an unknown universe . . . honestly, it was exhilarating. No Admirals to placate; no Ensigns to ride herd on; no Lieutenant Commanders to mentor. Of course he missed his old life and the people in it, but right at this moment he relished the opportunity to be an explorer, beholden to no one.
His immediate destination was the Vulcan Technical Institute, located on a colony outpost on Bracus V, not far from Tellar. He'd learned that the Empire was surprisingly tolerant of the Vulcans' higher education system, allowing them to operate universities on their home planet, as well as several satellite campuses, with minimal interference. This was the first evidence of sophisticated social strategy on the part of the Empire that Lorca had seen. Ongoing warfare encourages certain kinds of scientific advances, but stifles most others. Letting the Vulcans do their thing meant that broad, basic research continued; the Empire could always co-opt significant practical results. And treating the Vulcans noticeably better than they treated the Klingons, Andorians, and other allies sowed seeds of resentment within the Resistance. As the resentment was illogical, the Vulcans were unlikely to get out ahead of it with any meaningful diplomatic damage control. From his interactions with other species so far, Lorca sensed that they considered Vulcans to be their allies, but not truly their friends.
After eighteen hours of uneventful travel, when he finally sat down with the Vulcan astrophysicist whom Targ had recommended, Lorca began to share the Klingon, Andorian, and Tellarite perspective. Vulcans back home weren't known for being warm and cuddly. This guy was downright cold.
Dr. Vanik and his assistants interrogated Lorca in great detail about his experiences, performing biological and psychiatric tests. They were apparently satisfied that he was not insane. But that didn't mean they could, or would, help him.
"On the assumption that you are telling the truth, as you understand it, three questions remain: Is this a case of alternate universe intersection, or some other phenomenon? If you are indeed from an alternate universe, is it possible to return you to it? And, if it is possible, ought we do so?"
Lorca wasn't surprised at the first two questions, but the third took him aback. "Why wouldn't you send me home? If it's prime directive stuff you're worried about, I think my staying here would be more likely to muck things up than my leaving."
Vanik replied, "The prospect of travel between universes is highly speculative, but some models suggest it involves a person or object being transposed with its counterpart. That would mean that your counterpart from this universe is now in your universe . . ."
Pause.
"And you don't want him back," Lorca finished.
"Precisely. 'Our' Gabriel Lorca is second only to the Emperor in terms of inflicting death and suffering upon other sentient beings. You are, it seems, far more benign. Therefore his continued absence is a net gain."
Lorca hadn't really considered the possibility that he'd been replaced by someone else. He found the idea profoundly disturbing. "What about the havoc your guy might wreak back in my world, wearing my face? Doesn't that matter?"
"It does," Vanik admitted, "But it is reasonable to assume that, without his loyal supporters and in a strange political landscape, he may be less able to cause harm."
"That's an awfully convenient assumption," Lorca drawled, fuming.
Though the conversation left Lorca with a bad taste in his mouth, its conclusion wasn't a 'hard no'. Vanik was willing to look into the matter—Vulcan curiosity being stronger than Vulcan compassion—and he provided Lorca with scads of reading materials on alternate universe theories and a referral to a colleague, a cosmologist at another university.
The other school was more distant, in the Yadalla sector. With strategically timed fuel stops, Lorca might be able to make the trip in the scout ship, but it was a moot point. There would be checkpoints and random stops by Imperial operatives along the way. In a single-passenger ship, he would surely be identified. His best bet was to travel on a freighter or transport ship.
The Vulcans agreed to return the scout ship to the Tellarites, and they booked him transport to Norellus, an active but inconspicuous trading hub. Lorca had time en route to think about how exactly he was going to make his way in this world. The Tellarites had given him some currency—enough to keep him alive for a few weeks, but not enough to get him where he needed to go. Thus, he was faced with a prospect he hadn't faced since he'd joined Starfleet at age eighteen: he needed to find a job.
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Lorca was grateful that Terran trading vessels didn't have the tradition of addressing the owner/commander as 'Captain' or 'Sir', for he would be loath to dignify the lowlife who held that role on Freighter X414 with such a title. Lorca had signed on three weeks ago as a pilot and general crewman, having bullshitted his way through a cursory interview under a fake name. Fjord-San had a reputation for screwing his employees out of their wages, so people weren't exactly lining up for the job.
Signing on was both a calculated risk and an act of desperation. Norellus had turned out to be a wretched hive of scum and villainy:
First day on Norellus, walking in a crowd, getting the lay of the land. A hand snakes under his coat, reaching for his pocket. He grabs the bony arm by the wrist. Dull, hungry eyes stare back at him. The hand attached to the wrist is missing two fingers. An archaic punishment for thieving? Lorca lets go and the boy slithers back into the teeming mass of people.
Few days later, a narrow passageway, a looming shape appears and throws him into the wall. Dizzy. Takes a moment to distinguish two attackers: the huge one who threw him and the smaller-but-still-plenty-big one whaling at him with a sharpened metal tool. Leather coat protects him, somewhat, from the blows; he launches himself at the guy delivering them. Both assailants are twenty years younger than Lorca—fit, but untrained. Taking advantage of the tight corridor, he keeps Smaller between himself and Bigger, eventually getting the tool away from him. Rams the sharp end into the man's stomach. Surprised expression on Smaller's face as he slides down the wall to the ground, blood seeping through hands clutched to his gut. Lorca, battered and winded, backs away, brandishing the tool. Bigger shrugs and saunters off—not worth the effort after all.
Later, lying on a bunk, one of twenty in a cramped hostel room. Trying to sleep with one eye open. Woman's voice screaming from the other side of the wall—short, wordless cries. Unmistakable pounding rhythm conveys exactly what is happening. Speeding up. Screams become sobs. Men laughing, egging each other on. Starts again. Faces around him show crude amusement or bored indifference. Many courses of action run through Lorca's head; all the plausible ones end badly.
After a week on Norellus, he was strung out from being on edge all the time and had developed a nagging headache he couldn't shake. A freighter meant a smaller number of crewmates to keep tabs on, plus, hopefully, a modicum of order. And this one was headed in the direction Lorca needed to go. So he went for it. Three weeks later, they were set for a lay-over at a space station located about two-thirds of the way to Lorca's goal destination.
"Think you can dock 'er without banging into anything, Pops?" Darren, the asinine navigator, taunted.
They were in the operations room—home of the main assignments schedule, a long table, and the only decent coffee on board. Lorca had let his hair grow, revealing steel tones mixed in with the brown, his beard shot with silver. It made him less recognizable. It also invited ageist comments from twits like Darren.
He schooled his features into a mild smirk, which transformed into a genuine smile when Hawthorn and his wife Mellie entered the room. The pair were in charge of inventory, with Mellie keeping the books and Haw moving and stowing cargo. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the drawer and she was self-deprecating to the point of mousiness. But they were kind, morally decent people—the first Terrans he'd met who fit that description. So, he'd grown rather fond of them.
Fjord-san, their boss, walked in—right on schedule for his second coffee break of the shift. Lorca had been waiting for him. Addressing the other man, Lorca asked, "You still good with me doing the side-run? Won't leave you short?"
Fjord barely looked at him. "It's all set," he replied, "You'll get the rest of your pay when we meet up afterward."
After Fjord and Darren left the room, Haw, looking troubled, said in a hushed voice, "I don't think he's gonna pay you. He might not even wait at the rendezvous site."
Lorca was touched by Haw's concern, though it was misplaced. He knew damn well that Fjord was ditching him; he'd been manipulating the man into doing so since he'd heard about the opportunity to ride along on an automated ship that would take him the rest of the way to Yadalla. Apparently, the owners of large auto-pilot freighters often cheaped out on maintenance, such that it was good to have someone on hand to trouble shoot. Yet, there were economic benefits to keeping the ships classed as unmanned. Thus, capable stowaways were encouraged. Lorca had no connections to enter into such an arrangement safely; Fjord did. By letting Fjord think he'd tricked Lorca out of a week's pay, he'd basically gotten the man to apply his expertise in the seedy side of transport to getting Lorca where he wanted to go.
"Don't worry about it. I know what I'm doing," Lorca reassured him. Grinning, he added, "And he did pay me for my first two weeks, so how about I buy you two a drink when we're on the space station?"
"Boss wants us all to go to his pal's bar tonight . . ." said Haw.
Mellie pursed her lips anxiously.
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Around 21:00 that night, Lorca and Haw were on the space station, sitting in a lounge with a walk-up bar, near a dozen members of the X414 crew. Their group made up about a quarter of the patrons present. The booze was mediocre and, judging by the reactions of the others, over-priced. Fjord was chatting with the owner, a flabby man pushing sixty. Presumably he'd wanted the crew there to make himself seem important. Given that Lorca was shipping out the next morning by Fjord's arrangement, he was willing to play along.
Mellie had opted out. It was probably for the best. There were only a few women there, either as appendages to tough-looking men, or themselves aggressive or aggressively flirtatious.
In response to Lorca's inquiry, Haw was telling how he and Mellie met: ". . . and she wouldn't even look at me, 'cause she assumed I was making fun of her. I told her that'd be mean and I would never do that, but she didn't believe me."
"How'd you convince her?"
"I dunno. Just kept at it, I guess."
Lorca wondered what these two were like in his own universe, if they existed there. A brilliant jerk and a narcissistic vixen? Nah, from what he saw on the Buran, people here weren't directly opposite their doubles back home. Rather, they shared some core characteristics, though twisted for better or worse—usually worse. He was less disturbed than perhaps he ought to be by the fact that his own counterpart had attempted regicide. Lorca liked being in charge; he accepted the authority of others only because he believed in the system as a whole. In a dog-eat-dog world like this one, it made sense to try to be the top dog.
When exotic dancers began sashaying out to the open area in the middle of the tables, Haw excused himself. This led to mockery from their peers. Lorca came to Haw's defense: "Oh, please. Like he isn't the only one of us who's gonna get laid tonight—without having to pay for it."
The dancers were better than the drinks. There were three Terran women (one of whom was made up to appear Vulcan, though long hair covered her ears) and one Orion. The latter was captivating. Lorca felt like a dirty old man for enjoying her show, as the girl looked to be only barely legal. Then something clicked in his mind and his stomach dropped: she was wearing thick metal bands around her arms.
He'd seen "Orion Slave Girls" dance before. They weren't actually slaves; on the contrary, they were quite adept at getting men to do their bidding. The metal bands were part of their act, enhancing their kinky sensuality. But the bands on this girl's arms were heavier, with a link of chain attached to each. The green skin above and below them was subtly discolored. Fjord's buddy put his hands on her in a way that screamed 'ownership'.
The dancing transitioned into lap-dancing. The Terran girls seemed to have some discretion as to whom they serviced. The Orion girl, who was more in demand, had less control. Men pawed at her relentlessly. Fjord did something to her that made her stifle a pained squeal; he apparently like that, so he did it again. Darren, at the next table over, leered and edged closer.
As decking his boss would screw up Lorca's plans, he unobtrusively exited.
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The automated freighter was due to depart at 07:00. Lorca had checked in with the administrator before 06:00 and received a key card that would let him enter the freighter through a service hatch. He went back to the lodging and entertainment section of the space station, ostensibly to say 'goodbye' to Mellie, should she happen to be out in the café this early.
That wasn't really why he was there. He was there to do something stupid.
The lounge they had gathered in last night was deserted, except for a patron passed out on the floor. Lorca walked through it and through a door behind the bar. The station's schematics hadn't been hard to access via a public console. From the information there, and a process of elimination, he'd figured out the most likely place to find what he was looking for.
After several twists and turns, he arrived outside a locked door. The mechanism was simple. Lorca had worked his way up through the ranks in Security, before switching to Command; he was confident that he could pop the panel and override the lock. But that wouldn't do any good if the owner, or armed guards, were home. So he rang the buzzer. No reply.
Last chance to come to his senses.
The woman on Norellus. Cries choked down to exhausted whimpers. He did nothing.
He went ahead and jimmied the door.
He found himself in a small room with a narrow bed. The occupant of the bed stared up at him, dark eyes large in her green face, chains leading from her arms to a ring embedded in the wall.
Lorca addressed the Orion girl, "I'm leaving the station now. Do you want me to take you with me?"
She looked puzzled, then hopeful. "Did you buy me from my master?"
"I don't buy people," he spat, then, softening his tone he added, "But apparently I do steal 'em. Are you coming?"
The girl thought for a moment, then smiled and nodded eagerly. She glanced up at her chains, but Lorca was already moving. He used a small laser tool he'd nicked from the X414 storeroom to cut through the chains a couple of links away from the arm bands.
"Get dressed. Grab anything small that's precious to you and a change of clothes."
He turned away from her, monitoring the corridor outside the door. Three minutes later, she was dressed and holding a stuffed tote bag. He was pleased that she'd chosen practical attire: pants and a long, loose sweater with a hood that somewhat hid her distinctive attributes.
Lorca manually closed the door behind them and they slipped back down the hall. He had the early hour, and dumb luck, to thank for the fact that he'd been able to come this far undetected. That luck ran out as they rounded a corner to find a woman walking toward them. Lorca almost didn't recognize the pseudo-Vulcan dancer without her fake eyebrows.
The woman sized Lorca up briefly, then locked eyes with his companion. The Orion girl ran forward, and the two embraced tightly for a moment. Holding her young friend by the hand, the woman beckoned Lorca to follow, showing them a shortcut that led back to the bar entrance.
She addressed Lorca matter-of-factly, "I saw nothing. Unless you get caught, in which case I'll tell them you kidnapped her against her will."
Fair enough. Against his better judgement, he asked, "Do you want to come, too?"
She shook her head, "I'm indentured. The other girls are pros. Jizeet is the only one with nothing to lose." Squeezing then releasing the green hand, she added, "You're not the first besotted male to try to make off with her, though you may be the first to do it sober."
Speaking of sober, as they parted company with the woman at the entrance to the bar, the passed-out man whom Lorca had noted earlier was beginning to rouse himself. It was Darren. Lorca made sure to stay outside his field of vision, but Jizeet took a more proactive approach: she clocked him over the head with a heavy pitcher from one of the tables.
A promising means of misdirection snapped into focus for Lorca. Squashing down pangs of conscience, he used a bar towel to wipe down the laser tool, then dropped it on the floor near Darren. When the scene was discovered, it would look like Darren had freed Jizeet, presumably to have his way with her, then she knocked him out and escaped. It would be logical to assume that she would hide herself on the station until she could seduce her way onto a departing ship. The automated freighter would be one of the least-suspected modes of escape, lacking a captain or crew to entrance. Oh, eventually the threads of the scenario would unravel, or Fjord might put two and two together. But by then they would be long gone.
It would be less conspicuous if they approached the freighter separately. Lorca told Jizeet where it was docked. He wasn't naive enough to give her the key card, but there was a meter-deep structure around the hatch that she could hide herself in if she arrived first. They parted, and he took a leisurely stroll along the string of merchant stands near the docking ring. Hopefully, if questioned, someone would recall seeing him alone.
They met up at the hatch at 06:50 and slipped inside. Lorca stood attentively at the hatch window as the ship launched and headed away from the station. Feeling the subtle kick as they went into low warp, he relaxed almost imperceptibly and allowed himself to contemplate what he'd done.
Darren was obnoxious but, truthfully, his only crime was getting on Lorca's bad side.
If they cut off your fingers for pick-pocketing, I wonder what they cut off for trying to steal a sex slave.
Yep, ready to go back home any time now . . .
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Sorry for the delay in posting – hope my readers are still with me!