This part may not be Andy's favorite, but I certainly enjoying writing it.
Great to get feedback from familiar folks again!
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Chapter TwoThe lights in the interrogation chamber were muted, but they dim further, then die out completely. Machinery noises do not stop; a deep hum is obvious even over Feinster’s helpless gibbering.
“He’s more resistant that you’d expect,” says Doctor Ker’lan. The man is portly, grey-maned. He normally objected to torture. He’d been quiet in this instance.
The lights come back on. Feinster is still babbling, mostly the word ‘no’, over and over again. He’s strapped to a table, a bulky helmet latched to his skull. The helmet is connected to what could be any other bank of computers; a Klingon without armor is sitting at one display, making small adjustments before hitting a button.
The lights only dim this time.
“This could take longer than expected,” the armor-less Klingon says.
Commander La’ra nods.
“Take whatever time you need,” he advises. “Doctor, shall we see to our other guests?”
“Certainly,” says Ker’lan. The two exit, leaving the technician to his work.
“I must admit that that process fascinates me,” the Doctor says as the two Klingons stride down a wide corridor. The Hiv’laposh is on alert, and there are few souls to be seen. Alarm indicators have ceased blinking, but they grant the hallway an amber glow.
“I’ve never liked the devices. Something a bit unnatural about peering into people’s minds with such a contraption,” La’ra says. “But the Major could not get us any ‘gifted’ personnel.”
“Such talents are few and far between, probably unlikely they’d trust one to us…though I suppose they did trust us with the mission…High Command is adamant about slavers selling prize Klingons, so I suppose that‘s no small thing.”
“Jark’s doing, no doubt,” La’ra rumbles. The two men into a turbo lift. Much of the old battlecruiser’s equipment has been replaced over the years, but the lifts were original install. Both Klingons grip the safety bar as the car rattles down the tube. “The sifter should suffice. It’s where it may lead us that concerns me.”
“How so?”
“Most slavers are not fool enough to take Klingon captives, at least not to sell on the open market. If they’re simply greedy, very well, but if they’re smarter, they may have some reason to believe the fleet wouldn’t trouble them.”
“Which could mean powerful friends?” The doctor asks. The lift slows, stops and opens and the men proceed.
“Or considerable firepower. Or a safe haven not easy to find or eliminate, none of which are pleasant to dwell on,” A wide cargo bay door looms ahead. La’ra presses a button, and the thing grinds open. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”
Crates of spare parts and trading supplies and confiscated loot have all be shoved to one side, but the bay still appears full. There are people in here. Many people. As Feinster had promised before part of him had been burned away, they were every color one might imagine.
When they’d been found, they’d mostly been drugged to a degree that they’d been capable of little more than blank looks. Most were coming out of that now, thanks to the medicines Ker’lan’s staff had run through their blood vessels. Sadly, only questions greeted their new clarity, as the science officer and other female crewmembers went from ex-slave to ex-slave, asking the victims how they’d ended up in Feinster’s tent.
“Commander,” The science officer calls out. He and the doctor head towards her. A young Andorian they pass is slurping soup with noise and enthusiasm. Other women are curled into blankets or gazing around the cargo bay with the look of frightened herbivores.
“She may have some interesting information,” Lieutenant Leral reports. She wasn’t usually called upon to interrogate freed slaves, and the experience was giving her eyes an angry, almost righteous gleam, which La’ra enjoyed. “She wants to talk to you.”
La’ra looks past his sensor chief for the moment. The slave she was indicating seemed human, but a lot of races…even some Klingons…looked human. He gives Leral a questioning glance.
“She’s Argellian. She speaks Federation,” Leral clarifies.
“All right,” says La’ra. The Commander steps forward, crouches down to meet the slave woman’s eyes. They were dark, darker than usual for human genotypes. He could smell her natural scent under layers of old perfume and soap.
“I am Commander La’ra,” he says, in Federation Standard. He feels, more than sees, Leral and Ker’lan step away. “You wished to speak with me.”
“You killed Feinster,” The woman…young, but certainly not a girl any longer, states.
“No,” he says. “Not yet. First he talks.”
“I would like to be there when you do,” she says. No emotion. Colder than a Vulcan. Colder than ice.
“It could probably be arranged. What can you tell us about your captors?”
There’s a look in those dark eyes. An urge, perhaps, to protest the questions. The woman is silent for a moment. The look doesn’t completely fade, but she answers civilly.
“They were scum,” she says. “But skilled scum. They were quick and took only what they really valued.”
“You.”
She nods.
“And a few others they favored the looks of. Off a transport near your…neutral zone with the Federation.”
“You were a passenger?”
“A…” She seems to look for a word. She‘s speaking Standard, but with a strong accent. “…stewardess?”
“Ah,” La’ra says. “Go on.”
“They boarded the ship. The captain did not fight. I saw them pay him. I do not know whether he had arranged it, or if it was for his silence, but no one tried to stop them,” she said. “Their ship was not old. It did not…creak, like this one.”
The Commander suppresses a grin.
“What ship were you taken from?” he asks. He doubted its master had been paid for silence when intimidation might do. The liner’s captain might fear his associates, but few things were more fearful than a Klingon battlecruiser…
“The
Queen’s Favor,” she says. “But I have more.”
La’ra nods, listens.
“Their captain. He…favored me. Not enough to buy me, thank the Immortal, but I spent a great deal of time in his cabin. I am no stranger to the…act of love, and so this would not devalue me,” She declared. The irritation in her eyes was more of a gleam, now.
“You heard something,” He says. Slight grin.
“I did,” she declares. “They are but one part of a larger operation, and once, when he believed me asleep or unconscious, he spoke to his superiors while I was in the room.”
She shakes her head.
“I did not understand any of what he said,” She says. “But I listened to his words, and I repeated them to myself so that I would not forget. My recall may not be perfect, but I believe one word was a name.”
“Anything will be useful,” he advised. Especially names. Or places.
She nodded, and repeated the words. They weren’t nonsense, but she obviously had misheard a few. They were a variation of Standard, bastard tongue that it was. La’ra could speak it better than she, and could spot the obvious errors.
“Kilandreth.” He says. “That is the name?”
She nods.
“I believe so. Is this…useful?”
“It may very well be. You bedded…” He stops himself. “…you were made to bed their captain. Can you describe his face, those of others you saw?”
“Certainly,” she says.
“My science officer will handle that. Answer her questions freely. She is well-trusted.”
“I understand,” she says. “Commander…what…will you do with us?”
“You are a Federation citizen, are you not? You will be returned home, as will the others that do not belong to the Empire.”
“I have been told,” She says quietly. “That Klingons are known to keep slaves.”
“Some do,” he says. “Prisoners serving their sentence, if done legally. Others if illegally.”
“And you?”
He shakes his head.
“No.”
The woman nods. The Commander looks at the woman again. She was dark of hair, skin and eyes, muscled in that slim-way of those built like humans. He could see why the slavers had taken her.
Oddly, though the experience had wounded her, her gaze held more anger than hurt.
“What is your name?” he asks.
“Serillia,” she answers. He nods, smiles at her, and stands.
“Lieutenant…”
“Yes, sir.” The dusky sensor chief replies. The Commander smiles and walks away. He can hear the science officer asking the Argellian woman the same questions, getting the same answers.
The doctor is nearby, caring for three Klingon women. The trio had been still since he entered.
“Are they greatly injured?” he asks. His marines had had to carry them from the tents. Their heads had lolled like sleeping children, their eyes glassy and unfocused.
“No, but they are heavily drugged,” Ker’lan answers. The doctor orders a hapless female marine to hand him various items from his medkit. Everyone became a nurse if they entered his sphere of notice. “
Oglak. Used recreationally in some places. It will take some time to flush it from their system.”
La’ra didn’t know what the doctor was up to, really. The older man had examined the women as they’d been brought aboard, but he was as fussy with bodies as the Chief Engineer was with the warp drive. The Commander leaves him to his task
He stands in the middle of the cargo bay for a long moment, eyes sweeping the array of former slaves, inquisitive crewwomen, and watchful guards. It was a spare moment, a slice of time when all other tasks had been delegated and his job was essentially to stand and watch.
He’s never liked those moments much. He doesn’t like this one. It gives the anger in his belly a moment to swell up, as it always did when distressed women were involved.
“Sickbay to Commander,” the intercom thankfully demands. He walks to the panel, near the bay door.
“Speak,” he demands.
“Commander,” the voice says. It takes La’ra a moment to recognize the interrogator.
“May I dispose of the prisoner?”La’ra frowns.
“We could use him alive, at least long enough to find out everything he knows.”
“Of course, Commander. However it became clear that I would need to do a full catalogue to find anything useful. I did so; he survived, but he will be of little further use.”“How little?”
“He is no longer capable of controlling his…functions. And scans of his mind suggest he will never speak coherently again.”“I trust that you…”
“…yes, Commander, I believe we have plenty of pertinent information.”La’ra nods.
“Very well…though…delay this for a couple of minutes,” He glances back across the room. Leral seemed to be finished with Serilia. “I’ll be sending someone up.”
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Made some edits on this piece, per Rog's suggestion.
Topic: Pound of Flesh (Read 18083 times)