Reed

Zero hour minus five.

I sit motionless on the bed – Trip's bed – and look at the clock. It shows the seconds, and they flow past endlessly, unstoppable.

His room is neater than I'd have expected. A few bits of college stuff around the walls, one or two of his old classic film posters (looking faded now, with their corners curling around the tin-tacks), and a shelf bearing odds and ends of the innards of some nameless piece of machinery. A bookshelf – surprise, it's stuffed with technical manuals; only on the very bottom do a couple of comic books fight for the small available space at the very end. Superman, at a guess. Subtext layered on subtext.

My unsteady chuckle sounds loud in the silence.

I'd be worried if I thought he'd chosen the décor. Ellen Tucker's hand lies over the chintz curtains and old-fashioned quilted counterpane, and the bedside lamp with the faded yellow roses on the shade.

I wonder if they've touched Lizzie's room yet. I can imagine it standing locked further down the landing, just the way she left it, a shrine to an unfading memory.

Zero hour minus four.

How often I've sat through this, in the shuttle usually. Then, as now, I'd look down to find my left foot's tapping on the floor. Sometimes I wouldn't even notice I was doing it, and someone would come out with the usual joke about Jag's tail twitching, and they'd all come out with various cat noises, just to piss me off.

Why didn't I tell Trip that it was over between us, like I told Hoshi earlier on? I meant to, but … Hell. I think the sight of his agony would have melted bloody Viper. I must be getting soft in my old age; I simply couldn't steel myself to do it, to add even more to his pain. There'll be time enough for him to find out what I am, and the thought of his face when he knows twists a blade in me that I can hardly bear. Maybe she's telling him even now, though he'll probably take some persuading. Better for him if he doesn't argue too long; best of all if they can just tumble into bed and forget in each other whatever hurt they feel on my account. I hope it's not much; I'm not worth it.

Good job I had a few minutes alone in the stable before Trip walked in. I was able to plant the stuff I'll need later. Now there's only one more thing I have to do in preparation, and I leave it till last because it's bloody dangerous, even though it's both simple and clever. I have to trust Viper that it contains what he said it does. Unfortunately my travel luggage didn't include a hand scanner, and that's not exactly the sort of thing you might happen on in a house like this if you just root through a few kitchen drawers.

I've only used this particular stuff once or twice, but I know how effective it is. And I don't want any accidents happening, because pity knows what would happen if it got shot into me rather than him.

The window's open. A small eddy of cooler air drifts into the room. I shift my shirt gratefully down off my shoulders to let the cool of it across the skin of my back; I'm already sweating, and not just because it's a hot night.

Zero hour minus three.

I can't wait any longer. I take out the package Viper handed to me and click open the small case it contains. Inside there's what looks like a dental plate. I take this out, handling it with extreme care, and insert it into my mouth. It fits over my front teeth, clipping around my canines; it's been made to fit and it does so perfectly, so thin in construction that unless you were very well acquainted with me and looking very carefully indeed, you'd never notice it was there. It's certainly well enough camouflaged to pass any but the most searching examination, and even if someone were to notice it they could well think it's an ordinary dental device.

With infinite care, using just the tips of my thumbs, I press upwards on the hidden clips, so that the hard upper surface of the long, sealed capsule inside the spring-mounted denture presses against my real teeth. I'm looking in the mirror, and the light that comes through the lamp with its faded yellow roses glints on the tips of four tiny hollow needles that descend from my supposed incisors. As soon as I exert any real pressure, the needles will pierce the capsule and the fluid inside will be forced down through them.

The device is armed and ready. Now the only thing I have to do is make sure that during whatever is to come I don't make the mistake of biting my own lip.

Zero hour minus two.

It will take me all of the remaining time to get out of the house without disturbing anyone. I turn away from the mirror. I don't want to stay there anyway.

I don't want to see who's looking back at me out of it.

=/\=

The house is mostly silent, though I hear voices in the lounge, Trip's among them; good – while he's busy with his family he won't even think about coming to look for me, who supposedly retired earlier, pleading tiredness. From long habit I've already established what path takes me down the stairs without producing a single betraying creak; fortunately the dogs sleep on the front porch, and I make my escape through the kitchen without them hearing me. I contrived an opportunity earlier on to introduce a smearing of butter into the lock mechanism on the back door, so it opens now without a sound. I'd have used the alternative exit method of the tree opposite Trip's window (I'm quite sure he used it regularly in his wild youth), but grim foreboding tells me that I may not be in any shape afterwards to re-enter by that route, at least not without difficulty and the risk of being heard. I have the reputation of the English to uphold, after all, and it will do it no good at all if the current representative is found scrambling around in a tree at whatever o'clock in the morning in a state of …. Well, whatever state I'll be in by the time Cousin Carl and I have finished our little tête à tête.

It's a beautiful night. The moon, three-quarters full, floats in an inky, cloudless sky. Seen from here, even now the stars are beautiful, even if they're less mysterious than they were. I could probably catch a glimpse of Enterprise in orbit if the time was right and I knew where to look, but it's probably better that I don't.

I make my way quickly down to the stable. Now I'm launched, the tide of adrenaline flooding through me makes me eager to just get on with it. Once it's all happening I won't have time for regrets, or any thought but for how to get from one minute to the next.

The heavy door has to be lifted slightly so it doesn't drag across the cobbles. I sorted these hinges too. All the preparations have been made. Cousin Carl won't have any unforeseen arrivals turning up to spoil his fun.

… Exorcised, for god's sake. Though maybe it's not as absurd as I'd like to think. The eyes that I saw in the mirror weren't those of Lieutenant Reed any more.

He's waiting for me, sitting on the straw bale. The light from a hurricane lantern hung on a hook glints on the blade of a Starfleet-issue utility knife that he's turning over and over in his fingers.

"Guess you didn't think I'd check, hey?" He chuckles. "You're a naughty boy, Loo-tenant. Shouldn't play around with knives, didn't your momma tell you that?"

I produce a crestfallen expression, and let my shoulders drop in despair.

"No, no, don't beat yourself up about it. You did a pretty good job hidin' it. Just your bad luck I know where to look." He points with the tip to a spot on the floor a couple of metres in front of him, and with dragging feet I move to where I'm wanted.

The contrast to what happened in this place earlier on is so unimaginable it feels like he's desecrating it just by being here. I want to tear him limb from limb. In my mind I create precisely the sequence in which I'd break every bone in his body. Instead of which, I just stand there meekly, the lamb in front of the slaughterer.

"'See you remembered your instructions, Loo-tenant. 'Bout what to wear." The same outfit I wore to the club; he hardly had to tell me. This is all taking on a dull, hideous inevitability.

Another point of the knife. "Don't think we need the shirt no more."

There's no need to feign the tremble of my fingers as I undo the buttons; they're shaking with rage. But my mind is cold, Jag-cold, and I know exactly how to slide the shirt off my body in such a way as to extend a subtle invitation to anyone who's looking for it. I whored for the Section and now I'm whoring for the man I love; it hardly seems to matter, as long as I'm for sale.

His gaze travels over me like a slug. "Trippy-boy do it to you often? Bet he's a horny little bastard when he gets goin'."

I lick my lips. He'll be expecting at least some attempt at defiance. "That's none of your business."

A grin. "It's my business if I say it's my business. Got to confess all your sins 'fore we can get around to the serious stuff." He goes on to inquire into the more detailed aspects of what 'Trippy-boy' does to me and I to him, and I continue to refuse to answer, all the while feeding him visual clues that he'll pick up without any effort at all. The utter fucking hypocrisy of the man is staggering; he sits there carrying out an inquisition into our 'sinful acts' for no other reason than voyeurism. And I've never had any doubt at all that at least some of these 'sinful acts' will form part of my penance for past misdeeds. He intends to get the maximum enjoyment from every second of my punishment, all the while congratulating himself that he's working on the side of the angels.

Oh, if only I could be lucky enough to have him start off with one particular 'sinful act' as a hors d'oeuvre. I press my teeth ever so lightly together, feeling the very tip of the needles grate on my lower incisors. Combining business and pleasure. Pard would be so proud of me…

Unfortunately he seems to want to reserve that particular pleasure for later. He stands up and walks towards me, until he's so close we're almost touching. Then he runs his hands all over me, with as much pretence of respect as if I were a horse he was thinking of buying. Though at a guess he'd handle a stallion rather more tactfully than this, unless he wanted a swift hoof in the bollocks.

Through the white-hot haze of my fury I see his head angle. Presumably he's inviting me to nuzzle or lick him while he touches me. I'm a whore, so I have to act like a whore.

Obligingly I nuzzle. I even manufacture a couple of sounds of excitement, like the whore I am. I nip him once or twice, to get him used to my compliant arousal.

Then I bite.

"You little bastard!"

I could dodge his slap but I don't. Nevertheless I don't have to take the full force of it; I'm already turning, so it doesn't land as hard as he intends it to. Even so it's enough to make me stagger.

His hands clamp around my wrists. He kicks at the backs of my knees.

"I gave you the chance to be nice, Loo-tenant," he breathes in my ear, forcing me towards the straw bale. "Now we can just do it the hard way. You lie down there and you don't move till I say move!"

I shake my head groggily as he pushes me down, spreading my arms so that my chest presses against the straw. There are things down beside the bale that he's brought along ready for the fun. I suppose there had to be a prayer book, but I have to admit I'm puzzled as to where a riding whip comes into the Rite of Exorcism. Still, that's one neglected area of my education I'll doubtless be brought up to speed with very shortly.

The drug will be coursing through his veins, spreading into his brain. As mad as he undoubtedly is, in ordinary circumstances a certain amount of the instinct for self-preservation would put a brake on his behaviour. Now, however, that brake will come off.

It's not a particularly fast-working drug. Though it starts to take effect immediately, especially in the presence of adrenaline, it takes time to take over the brain fully. His reasoning will break down gradually, and in about half an hour or so he'll talk. Quite readily. He'll answer anything he's asked. And I have a number of questions that the Section require answers to.

Until then, however, he'll be busy with me.

Ordinarily, even he would realise there's a limit to what you can do to even a devil in Starfleet uniform without uncomfortable questions being asked afterwards. Now, however, with the pain of those four little stings in his shoulder and the drug coursing through his blood, he clearly feels that the modest discipline of the riding whip will be nowhere near adequate for the occasion.

The Tuckers occasionally breed from their horses, and train the resulting youngsters. This involves the gentle use of a stock-whip to encourage the horse to keep moving on the lunge rein. The whip involved is coiled up and hanging on the wall, for use when required.

It seems that the requirement is 'now'.

Carl almost runs across the stable in his haste to snatch it off the hook. He picks up a length of rope, too, and I can guess why. He won't take any chances of my evading anything he chooses to do to me. Starting with the whip.

I was flogged once. Ten lashes. Towards the end, the pain of each blow was heart-stopping.

I very much doubt Carl will think that ten's nearly enough to teach me a lesson. My hand's shaking as I take the chance to snap out the dental plate and spit it into the straw, and then I snatch up the prayer book and stuff it between my teeth, thanking any available deity he didn't tie me first. I have to stop myself biting through my own tongue, have to stop myself from screaming with the pain. Have to endure this somehow.

Pard, help me now…

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