Ruth had kicked off her shoes, moving barefoot through the street, pulling Jilla along with her. They wove through the crowds, hurrying as fast as they dared. Her heart was pounding, her breath coming in short, hoarse gasps. Then she heard shouts behind her.
“Watch it!”
“Mister, what the...”
“Hey, who do you think...”
Panic raced through her and she quickened her pace, looking for a doorway, another side street. She saw a dark opening and quickly turned into it.
Jilla stumbled behind Ruth, her mind a confused whirl of emotions. Her eyes were tear-filled, and try as she might, she couldn’t clear them. There was no sense left to her, no understanding, fear a mindless turmoil controlling her.
Sudden triumph shot through her and she fell, knowing whose tia it came from.
Ruth felt the tug on her arm. Jilla was falling. Had she twisted her ankle, or... She turned back to the Indiian.
And saw Sulu less than fifty feet away from her.
He was smiling.
She screamed, trying to pull Jilla with her into the darkness, feeling the Indiian’s hopeless, faltering steps. She prayed to the Zehara, the Antari Goddess, and felt, instead of the warm golden welcome, a hard wall of denial. Despair raging through her, she tried to go on, to find a way deeper into the concealing darkness. Suddenly Jilla cried out and fell again. Ruth blinked her own fear away and saw why. There were in a dead end. There was no outlet to this alley. She whirled around, reaching for Jilla, and saw Sulu’s form silhouetted against the lights from the street. It was joined by two others, and Ruth screamed again.
The sight nearly drained Kirk of his anger. Valley screaming, Costain in a sobbing heap on the ground. They knew enough to fear him, to fear the payment they would have to make for their fathers’ treachery. He turned to Spock and Sulu.
“Take them,” he said.
Sulu and Spock advanced slowly. The light behind them caught Sulu’s dagger as well as the ferocity in his eyes. Spock’s were glittering, wintry. He needed no weapon other than Vulcan strength.
Ruth’s voice stopped, fear choking it. Jilla felt the anger of the men approaching, and her emotions echoed it. Resolve grew in her, fed by that anger, and the instinct of her native people filled her. She would die, not cringing in terror, but in full battle fury: her homeworld, Epsilon Indi, was also an empire.
Ruth felt Jilla’s response, the fierce determination replacing hopeless terror. It gave her hope and renewed her courage. She could no longer be strong for them both, but with Jilla finding her own strength, she was free to use her reserves for herself. She gathered her wits and all her martial training from Starfleet’s Academy and readied herself to fight. She waited, watching warily, until Spock reached for her, then exploded into action.
Action stopped by one, stunning blow.
Jilla snarled, leaping at Sulu, deftly avoiding his knife. A laugh of pure malice was torn from him as he evaded her. She whirled, ready for another attack, and his voice was a low, guttural moan of desire.
“Come on, baby!”
She gasped, the hunger filling her. His fury had been completely replaced by eager passion, radiating at her in lustful waves. Knowledge gleamed in his eyes, and she knew he was aware of the effect his emotions had on her. He was aiming this at her, a precise application of will. This was where the battle was, his knife and physical attack were mere drama. And here, she knew, it was already lost. The fire washed over her, filling her as totally as instinct had just moments before. She threw herself at him, wanting, needing to feel the heat grow between their bodies. He crushed her to him for only an instant, then grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her as he turned her to face Kirk. Only she heard his dark whisper.
“Later.”
Kirk stepped up to Ruth. She was on her hands and knees, dazed by the force of Spock’s backhand. He grabbed double handfuls of golden hair, pulling it from its elaborate sculpture, forcing her to look up at him.
“I’m not pleased with you, Ruth,” he murmured menacingly. “Not pleased at all.”
The fear shining from the violet eyes was gratifying. He smiled, sparing a glance at the Indiian. “Nor with you, dear,” he added. The delicate face paled, but there was shame there as well as fear. He turned his attention back to Ruth. “I’m afraid I’ll have to teach you better, won’t I?” He didn’t even try to keep the savagery from his voice. Still holding her firmly with his right hand, he raised his left, clenching it into a fist.
Ruth cried out with the first blow. Kirk heard but ignored the Indiian’s shriek and Sulu’s malevolent, “Watch, Jilla, and learn.” He had been humiliated, and those responsible would pay.
The beating he gave the Antari was brutal. He wanted to ruin the perfect face, he wanted blood. He had none of Sulu’s knowledge of how to cause exquisite pain, and he didn’t give a damn about torture as an art. What he wanted was physical damage, and a lot of it.
He cracked ribs, brusing her breasts and stomach. Her arm was wrenched as he pulled her into his close-finsted punches. When she fell, he kicked her viciously, sides, thighs, the side of her head.
When blood gushed from her broken nose and smeared over the corners of her mouth, when bruises were discoloring her jaw, and the skin over one cheekbone was split, when the flesh around her large eyes was swollen and purpling, he was satisfied. He gave her one final blow and she fell, unconscious, to the ground.
Kirk stepped away from her, breathing hard. He glanced again to Costain, saw that she, too, had fallen unconscious, held up against Sulu’s body. He took a deep breath, feeling almost repaid for the embarrassment they had caused him.
Spock’s dry voice cut into his thoughts.
“Dead, Captain?”
He laughed. “I’m not that clumsy, Spock,” he replied. “Get them both up to Sickbay.”
“I want her awake enough to talk,” Kirk ordered McCoy.
The doctor studied the diagnostic monitor above the Antari’s bed. Spock’s own personal guard had brought her from the transporter room and dumped her unceremoniously on the bed. Kirk had followed them in, and stood with arms folded as McCoy began checking her over.
Your doing, from the looks of it, Captain, McCoy thought sourly as he applied bandages and filled a hypospray with stimulants and painkillers. Of course, from what I hear, she deserved it. Rand had been brought in, sullen and uncommunicative, not long before. Chapel had stayed by her side, solicitous and quite happy to explain to McCoy exactly what had happened planetside. What kind of fools are these Senator’s daughters? McCoy couldn’t afford to feel sorry for his patients, since most of the time they were just walking dead anyway. Anybody injured badly enough to need his services had only pissed off somebody more important. A caring doctor risked pissing off that same somebody-more-important. McCoy preferred not to take that kind of risk.
He fixed the hypo to Valley’s arm, then glanced at Costain. Sulu himself had carried that one in, telling McCoy she had only fainted. Fainted. McCoy shook his head. She didn’t need his attention, that was all that mattered to him. The rest of it just wasn’t his business.
“Wake Costain up,” Kirk continued. “I want them both in my office in less than an hour.”
“Yes, Captain,” McCoy replied.
Kirk turned, heading for the door, then stopped upon reaching it. “And McCoy, there will be work for you at the Booth. Be ready for it.”
“Yes, Captain,” McCoy said again, and saluted. What kind of fools indeed.
Farrell, Kirk’s personal guard, came to escort Ruth and Jilla to the Captain’s office. Jilla was subdued, her tia raw from the overload of emotion Sulu had aimed at her. Ruth, filled with stimulants and analgesics, barely acknowledged Jilla’s presence. They followed Farrell, numb, thoughtless.
When they reached the office, Farrell signaled, then stepped aside at Kirk’s “Come.” Ruth stumbled, but righted herself before falling. They retained enough presence of mind to salute as the door closed.
“Reporting as ordered, Captain,” Jilla said in a whisper.
Kirk didn’t rise from his desk. Spock was seated to his right, fingers steepled, Sulu to his left, sprawling insolently in his chair. Cold anger leapt at her from Kirk, careful curiosity from Spock, checked impatience from Sulu. Jilla winced. The emotions hurt.
“I want answers to a few very simple questions,” Kirk said. “I have no doubts you will give them, quickly, quietly.” His gaze swung from one to the other. “The first is, why?”
Jilla glanced at Ruth, saw her puzzlement echoed in the dull violet. Ruth swallowed. “Why, sir?” she croaked.
“Why you tried to escape,” Spock added helpfully. Kirk shot him a quick glance, but the Vulcan remained composed.
“I...” Ruth began, then took what was obviously a painful breath. “We... wanted to get away...”
“From what?” Kirk cut in sharply.
Ruth was trembling. “I’m not... we’re not used to...” She glanced furtively at Spock. “No one ever hurt me before, sir,” she finished weakly. Spock stared at her over extended index fingers pressed to his lips.
“You do not approve of the way you have been treated?” he asked, his voice soft enough to be genuinely concerned.
Sulu leaned forward. “It’s not for you to approve or disapprove,” he said, his own tone silky but unreadable.
“What did you hope to gain?” Kirk countered before either had a chance to answer. “Just what were you promised for this escapade? You took stupid chances for no reason. Your fathers are far away, they can’t help you. Didn’t you realize that? Are you that loyal to them?”
Ruth was nearly sobbing, not knowing who to plead with. “We just wanted to get away...” she managed.
Tears slid down Jilla’s cheek, tears of shame and confusion and regret.
“Didn’t you know you’d be caught?” Kirk demanded harshly.
“Didn’t you know what would happen when you were?” Spock interjected swiftly, his voice intense, almost anxious. He spoke as though only they would hear, with a sincere question that countered Kirk’s rhetorical one.
“We didn’t think of that,” Ruth whispered, her eyes closing.
It was obviously not at all the answer he expected. His tia filled with speculation as he sat back, one eyebrow raised, folding his arms, withdrawing.
Kirk stood, walking around his desk. He leaned against it, folding his arms, his gaze settling first on Ruth, then on Jilla. “I’ve asked you direct questions,” he stated carefully, “and you've given me nonsense. I want answers.”
Ruth took a deep, careful breath, her eyes fluttering closed. “We’ve told you all we can, sir,” she said quietly. “We wanted to get away from...”
“Why!?” Kirk thundered. Jilla finally spoke, shrieking an answer.
“We were frightened!”
Her hands clamped over her mouth as the room was enveloped in icy silence. Sulu’s delight pierced it soundlessly, as did Spock’s sudden judgment, and Ruth’s final descent into despair. Jilla nearly sobbed, the sorrow and remorse overwhelming her.
It was several minutes before Kirk began speaking. His voice was honeyed, patronizing, painstakingly articulate. “I have been patient with you,” he said. “I have made allowances, been tolerant, given orders that you were to be treated with care.” He paused, placing a hand on his chest. “I’m a generous man, but I don’t like being taken advantage of.” His tone became harsher. “I don’t like being tested.” The chill was terrifying. “And I don’t like being defied in public. I have my limits...” he stared at them, smiling, but without a hint of amusement. “...and you’ve crossed them. I don’t care what you are, or how your fathers think you should have been used. You’ve been spoiled, taught things you’ve no need to know, but none of that matters on my ship. I require discipline. You obviously need to learn it.” He paused, again studying them. “It’s well within my rights to have you killed,” he said. “But I won’t exercise that right. Yet.”
“You might prefer it,” Sulu volunteered, his smile deadly.
A grin pulled at Kirk’s mouth, but he continued. “After your lessons are over, you’ll know better. You’ll know who you belong to, and how you need to behave. I’m not vengeful, but I warn you: you won’t be given a second chance.” He settled back. “Have I made myself clear, ladies?”
Ruth shivered, whispered, “Yes, sir.” Jilla could only manage a nod.
“Mr. Sulu,” Kirk said, “You have charge of their discipline.”
Sulu rose from his chair, eyes gleaming eagerly. “Specific orders, Captain?” he asked.
Kirk thought for a moment, then smiled at his Chief of Security. “Have a good time.”
Sulu aided Ruth back to Sickbay himself, motioning to Jilla to follow them. He solicitously helped the Antari into a diagnostic bed, carefully stroking her still-swollen cheek tenderly. Chapel had scowled as he came in, and now he turned to her.
“Keep Valley here till I send for her, won’t you, Christine?” Sulu said, and smiled at the vicious look that came into Chapel’s eyes. “But make sure she’s recovered by then,” he cautioned, taking pleasure in dashing the nurse’s hopes. He turned again to the numbed gaze of Ensign Valley. “I won’t be long, Ruth,” he assured her, then added, with a glance at Jilla, “At least, not too long.” He straightened from the bed. “Ready, Doctor?”
McCoy grunted in answer. Sulu crossed to the door, and the security guards waiting there. He motioned them toward Jilla, his voice sure and authoritative.
“Take her.”
Jilla tried not to sob as the guards half-dragged her to the Booth. She tried to force her muscles not to fight, not to resist, but the terror was rising in her, blocking out her will. Sulu shook his head at her ruefully, but his eyes gleamed fierce ebony, sensual anticipation a well of fire within him. She was almost begging, moaning incoherently as the glass door slid shut in front of her. She pressed her hands against the glass, silently imploring. Her lips formed his name and the word ‘please,’ her dry throat unable to give voice to the plea.
Sulu smiled at her. “Please, Jilla?” he asked.
Memory assailed her, the same words asked as she begged him for the touch of cold steel against her skin. Shame and desire flooded her and she could only moan with the helpless humiliation. She heard his voice, soft with sincere pleasure. “Anything to oblige,” he said and stepped to the control console.
Jilla felt black numbness coming over her, all cognizance slipping away. Her knees were buckling, the overload of her tia bringing her unconsciousness. For a moment, she felt nothing, heard nothing. She was encased in a shell of dark non-being.
Then the pain began. Rivers and rivers, radiating from all around her, penetrating to explode within her. Her body bolted upright, her voice screaming with no direction behind it, no control within it. Her vision blurred, all before her wavering uncertainly except for Sulu’s eager, hungry eyes.
More pain came and her screaming stopped, her lungs no longer able to make a sound. Agony reverberated from every point in the Booth, combining and recombining in a continuous symphony of torment. Her body burned from the inside as though it could burn her away and leave only an empty shell. And still the pain increased.
Her last coherent thought was terror-filled disbelief that her body could endure any more.
Sulu glanced at McCoy, saw the bored expression on his face as well as the incongruous gleam of disgust in his eyes. He almost shook his head. Even after attending so many Boothings, not even McCoy understood. The doctor, like everyone else, thought Sulu simply and only loved causing pain. Blind fools, Sulu thought with mild derision, since he hadn’t really expected anything else. It wasn’t the pain, though he had to admit that was a special thrill. Through the pain, he could see what they were. He could strip them naked, down to their souls, not even the screaming protecting them from the discerning eyes of their torturer. He wanted, needed to know them. What was it that made them what they were? How could he touch them, touch them at the very core of their beings? The surface was so much shielding to be torn away, layer by layer. To find out who they really were, to know them, that was the pleasure Sulu really craved. And the Booth always gave him his first clue. When he was lucky, there was ample time later to explore all the possibilities. He had often wondered how Kirk or Spock would react in the Booth. To know either one of them... Unfortunately, it wouldn’t do him much good. He’d have to kill them to find out because he could never risk letting either one of them out of the Booth alive.
He stopped speculating, returning his attention to Jilla, though he really had no need to. Sweet Jilla. He already knew she was everything he had expected her to be, and he already knew how to control her utterly. He’d found out from her first Boothing. The over-stimulation numbed her, made her sixth sense exquisitely sensitive, too sensitive to respond. It plunged her into dark solitude. Like sudden blindness, or the loss of the sense of touch, it left her feeling only half alive. The longer it lasted, the less alive she felt. She became increasingly desperate, needing sensation, willing to do anything that would bring her out of that black insentience. And yet, because she could not feel, she could not provide the stimulation she needed. She could not summon the initiative to cause emotion, which she could then respond to, in anyone around her. How perfect she would be when only he could make her feel, when he alone could save her from that empty prison.
And Captain Kirk had thoughtfully provided him with the time he needed to accomplish just that.
McCoy watched Sulu disdainfully. The Security Chief’s hands made sure, deliberate movements over the controls of the Booth. The hideous sounds that came from the girl inside it were proof that the monster hadn’t lost his touch. She had to be punished, no doubt about that, but the man didn’t have to enjoy it so damn much.
He checked the readings on the monitoring boards, then grunted disgustedly. She had a strong constitution, there wasn’t enough strain on her system to warrant ordering her removal. Of course not, McCoy grumbled to himself. He’s too careful for that. He’s putting all the pain in places that aren’t directly monitored. Sadistic bastard. He had never made his hatred of the Security Chief a secret. It wasn’t compassion, he didn’t feel concern for Sulu’s victims. Sulu’s manner, his twisted enthusiasm for his work, the terror he used, abused, for his own, sick, depraved little games... that was McCoy’s objection. In McCoy’s opinion, Sulu was nothing more than a malignant, perverted abomination.
At the console, Sulu’s eyes were hard, cold, reflecting little of the pleasure of his languid smile. McCoy had yet to figure that out. Probably devising ingenious new tortures...
Without warning, the look in Sulu’s eyes changed. They came alive with desire, now mirroring fully the hunger of his tense, impatient body. He had the look of a man who had suddenly realized he was on leave and had time for recreation. Shit, it’s going to get worse, McCoy thought grimly. He checked the readings again, and was thunderstruck when the active indicator dropped, the pain level following. He swung puzzled blue eyes to Sulu. Has the son-of-a-bitch really had enough?
Sulu stepped from behind the console. He’d turned the controls off. McCoy stared, unbelieving, as Sulu walked to the Booth, opening the cylinder. Costain literally fell into his arms, obviously only semi-conscious. For a moment, McCoy couldn’t believe his eyes. Sulu sank to his knees, holding the girl almost tenderly, stroking her tangled mass of burgundy hair. What was he up to? McCoy had taken only a few steps forward when he received an answer.
Sulu had casually ripped the silken gown down the front and was gently lowering the girl’s trembling figure to the deck.
Loathing anger shot into McCoy and he grabbed Sulu’s arm, pulling him harshly away. “Stop it, damnit,” he growled thickly. “She’s barely conscious.”
Raging contempt replaced the surprise on Sulu’s face too swiftly for McCoy to react. His closed fist struck the doctor’s jaw as he jerked his arm away from McCoy’s grasp.
McCoy backed away, resisting the urge to return the blow. He rubbed his jaw, muttering, “It’s not wise to antagonize your medical personnel, Commander,” he warned.
“It’s also not wise to interfere with ship’s discipline, Doctor,” Sulu countered threateningly.
“You sick little bastard...” McCoy seethed.
Sulu’s laugh was harsh, frightening. “Go tell it to the Captain, McCoy.”
“I won’t stand here and watch this,” McCoy muttered, turning away. He heard but ignored Sulu’s taunting reply.
“Afraid you might see something you like?”
Ruth waited in Sickbay, willing her body to heal from Kirk’s savage beating. She tried not to think of Jilla, tried, too, not to think of what awaited her. She kept her eyes closed and refused to respond to Chapel’s taunts, or even her sharp jabs and pinches. Chapel had done as she was ordered; Ruth’s injuries had been tended to, if carelessly and inefficiently. The nurse was soon called to join Spock back on Darius, a fact she relayed to Ruth with gloating satisfaction. As if I cared, Ruth thought wearily. Yet she almost missed the acid-tinged voice when it was gone. It had been a needed distraction from thought. And there was so much not to think about. What was being done to Jilla? What would be done to her? Jilla hadn’t talked about the Booth, but Ruth had heard enough in Sciences to fear it. Why had they tried to escape, what had ever made them think they could survive this place? Even the knowledge that their counterparts’ fathers were up to something was little comfort. They knew nothing of those plans. Surely, Jilla’s crystal necklace was the transmitter the woman had spoken of, but of what use was it? It would only contact another Imperial official. They should have gone to Kirk the first day. Even if he’d killed them right there and then, it would’ve been better than this.
How long had it been since Sulu had taken Jilla? Hours, at least. How much longer did she have to wait? She thought again of the Zehara, was again chilled by the wall that here separated her from her Goddess. What was Antares here? A breeding ground for beautiful whores? Would Aema, Indi’s Goddess, respond to Jilla’s calls? Or was the sorrowful widow-Goddess as changed as the rest of the universe? Was this Aema a raging bitch, bent on vengeance against the God who had deserted Her? And was the Zehara not a caring, loving mother, but some bitter madam, sending Her children out to be galactic sluts?
She found herself biting back sobs, despair at last real and threatening. There was no way out, she would spend the rest of her life in this universe with no way back to home and friends and family. Did it matter what they did to her now? Would even death be a release here, or would she face the Zehara in a brothel instead of a garden and be sent back to learn how to be more pleasing to her clients?
The hopelessness was so overwhelming that she didn’t even react when security guards came to bring her to the Booth.
It was a small room, more an alcove off a corridor. There was room for the transparent cylinder of the Booth itself and the control console a few feet away. Ruth wondered why she had noticed it. It was almost cozy. Just me, Sulu, and McCoy, she thought dully. She had stared at the Chief of Security when the guard had given her to him. There was a hidden amusement in his expression, and eager anticipation. She only wanted it to be over.
“Get on with it,” she whispered.
Mild surprise came into his eyes, and he smiled at her. Is that smile ever anything but charming? she found herself wondering. She was led to the cylinder, placed inside it. She closed her eyes in weary resignation.
Sulu watched carefully for Ruth’s first reaction as the power was sent to the Booth. He hadn’t had an opportunity to study her yet; she had adapted to her new surroundings with apparent ease. Yet it was she who tried to defend herself on Darius, and she who had been dragging Jilla behind her as they’d run from him. Her sexual skills hadn’t impressed Spock, though Kirk seemed perfectly content. He suppressed the thought that Kirk would be content with anything with female genitalia. Still, she’d been able to play Kirk’s unsophisticated games to the Captain’s satisfaction. That, of course, could be due to native intelligence as much as anything. He didn’t yet have a handle on her. This first moment could be critical.
Her body jerked, she gasped, but no other sound came from her. Her huge, lovely eyes had snapped open, but she deliberately closed them again. Was she proud, then, trying not to let him see a reaction? Now, what had she to be proud of? Her beauty, yes, though she wasn’t quite so lovely at the moment. But no. She made no attempt to capitalize on that beauty, she simply accepted it as natural. She wouldn’t be proud of something over which she exercised no control. Control. She was trying very hard to keep control, to be still, silent. He adjusted the pain level raising it slowly, until the control broke and she could no longer stop the shriek. Much better, he thought. It’s so much healthier to let it out. You’re not Vulcan, after all. His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her as she writhed in the confines of the Booth. But what are you? Proud. Of Ruth? Of your control. Whatever happens, you need to be in control. You need to believe that nothing can touch you unless you want it to. Sudden realization dawned. So you play Kirk’s clumsy games, but Spock frightens you, because you have no control over him. You ran, taking control, but when there was no way out, you broke. You say ‘get on with it’ because you need the illusion of control. He smiled, knowing now how to dissect her. He would simply prove to her that she could be touched, by him, whenever and however he wanted to touch her. He would take all control from her, then give her back her illusion - but she would know it for what it was. And would be so very grateful that he allowed it. Enlightenment, Miss Valley. No charge, the pleasure’s all mine.
He felt the sweeping desire rushing through him, his body acknowledging that all his mental preparations were complete. He let it take over, enjoying the freedom. Since he needed to teach Ruth that she could be taken, what better way than with the full force of his own hunger and need?
He glanced at McCoy. The doctor was glowering. Would the man be foolish enough to interfere again?
He turned the controls down, shutting off the flow of pain. His eyes were daring McCoy as he crossed the alcove, opening the Booth, pulling Ruth out of it. McCoy snarled disgustedly.
“No interference, Doctor?” Sulu asked mildly.
“No,” McCoy growled. “I take it my services are no longer required?”
Sulu’s smile was smooth victory. “Not immediately, no. Dismissed, Doctor.”
Ruth’s head began to clear. The pain was gone. It was over, she was alive, whole... Her eyes filled with tears of relief, an irrational gratitude welling up in her with the tears. He’d stopped it, Zehara bless him, he’d stopped it. The door of the Booth opened, she stumbled into strong arms. Thank you, thank you!
But something was wrong. The pain was gone, but... She began to feel the harsh caresses, the deliberate stimulation. Her body was responding in its release from the agony; more than responding. She was urging him, returning the kisses, clinging to the warm body, writhing against it. She was arousing him with the same fervent need, her body demanding that she be totally his. No, don’t want it, you can’t want... Jilla’s voice, full of shame, whispered to her, ‘nothing I did not ask him to do.’ No, no!
Her mind raged in futile agony as the pleasure overwhelmed her body and her soul.
Sulu stared at the terrified struggle in Ruth’s eyes. She was losing, would lose. I can touch you, Ruth. You, not just your body. You’re going to know it. And fear it.
She was writhing, her battle lost. She couldn’t help giving in to the hunger. She moaned, her body surging erotically, completely consumed by the intensity of the moment. Here, now, was all that mattered to her, he was all that mattered. She gasped, pleading for more, that it go on, more, more, forever...
Now! Sulu thought savagely. He forced his own needs away, slamming his own will against the heady desire. He pulled away from her, ignoring her anguished, clutching hands. He grabbed her wrists, pulling her to her feet, pushing her back into the Booth. She shrieked his name as he raced to the controls, giving the full range of exposure with one twist of a dial.
There was no control now, no stillness, no silence. Ruth screamed, the pain reaching her, cutting through her, searing down to the unprotected self. Touching her soul. Sulu grinned in savage delight. Know it, Ruth, he thought to her. Feel it and know how easily it was done. And how easily I can do it again.
Kirk walked casually through the crowds of Darius, Moreau gracefully at his side. Returning, knowing that, by now, all on Darius knew how his exotic new pets had tricked his officers and run from him, wasn’t bothering him anywhere near as much as he had thought it would. As a matter of fact, he was almost enjoying the consternation of the crowd. He could hear their thoughts as clearly as if they were speaking: Why is Kirk so nonchalant? Doesn’t he know he’s been humiliated beyond endurance? If it doesn’t matter to him, what is he up to? He shook his head, grinning contemptuously.
Moreau saw the grin and smiled back. She was proud of him. None of it mattered. He knew, despite his orders to Sulu, what was really important. They would discover the truth behind the Senator’s daughters. He was confident, and so the status game didn’t mean anything to him. He was interested in finding Hasim, in getting the information the Rigellian could provide. The vanity games didn’t touch him. Her pride came from remembering too well the time when they could and did. He was changing, and that was the most important thing of all.
Hasim hadn’t expected to see Kirk again. He was mildly disappointed in losing the Captain’s attention, but was quite interested in Kirk’s dilemma. It was a nicely done insult to Kirk’s dignity, a very clever way for Senators Valley and Costain to point out that they were perhaps not quite so wholly owned. Or, Hasim thought, a futile attempt to protest the fact that they were. In either case, Kirk had returned, walking into Crystallize! as if nothing had happened. He looked as content, as relaxed as he had hours before. Hasim slowly smiled. Kirk certainly had balls. It was exactly the kind of thing the Don would have done.
“Hasim’s still here,” Moreau whispered to Kirk as they were seated.
“I know,” Kirk replied. “He’s watching us. If he catches your eyes, smile, but let’s let him approach us.” Kirk signaled a waitress and ordered drinks. Moreau obediently allowed her attention to be caught.
Hasim accepted the slight, friendly smile as the invitation it was meant to be. He made his way to the table, nodding to Kirk. “We meet again, Captain,” he said. “I was sorry our conversation was interrupted. Nothing too troublesome, I hope?”
Kirk didn’t rise, and his look was unreadable. “Nothing at all, Mr. Hasim,” he said cordially. “Won’t you join us?”
Moreau noted, as she had before, the flicker of anger at Jim’s refusal to use Hasim’s title, though the Terlord, as before, ignored it. Hasim merely nodded and slid into the booth next to her. When their drinks arrived, it was Hasim who paid for them. “My pleasure,” he said by way of explanation. “I believe a toast I was making was interrupted. May I finish it?”
Kirk raised his glass. “By all means.”
“To the exemplary appreciation of certain Senators, Captain.”
Moreau covertly watched Hasim as he watched Kirk’s reaction over the top of his glass. She could see that Jim’s almost non-existent response puzzled the Rigellian, but interested him as well. She knew what he wasn't seeing; anger, humiliation, weakness. Hasim himself was obviously gauging Jim, and came away surprised, but with respect. Good. Now maybe we can get down to business. She turned to Kirk, reaching for some innocuous comment to make, and was shocked at his calm, quiet question.
“How’s the Don’s Halkan deal coming, Hasim?”
Hasim was nearly floored. It took the Terlord several precious seconds to recover, but his voice was quite steady when he answered.
“Courtland’s got it well in hand,” Hasim said. “What, exactly, was happening on Kelincar?”
Kirk smiled. “Surely you’ve read the official reports,” he replied.
Moreau began to breathe again. Shrewd, Jim, very shrewd. Use a completely open attack when none is expected and counter the retaliation with a return to subtlety. She risked an admiring glance, saw Kirk’s acknowledging nod. Hasim, however, was not so easily swayed from the course of frankness. “Of course, Captain,” he said smoothly, “but I asked what was going on, not what was reported.”
Kirk leaned forward, obviously delighted. “What have you heard, Mr. Hasim?”
Moreau saw the hesitation. To go on was to admit that the Terlord, and therefore the Don, had spies, and very efficient ones, on Kelincar. Hasim composed his features into a half smile. “That things were not as they seemed,” he offered. He was as good as Kirk.
Kirk straightened, still smiling. “They weren’t,” he said, and rose from his seat. “If you will excuse me, the music happens to be one of Marlena’s favorites, and she’d never forgive me if I didn’t ask her to dance. Would you, Marlena?”
Moreau was already on her feet. “Never, Jim,” she said. “I’m glad you noticed.” She smiled at him, taking his hand, leading him onto the dance-floor. Kirk turned, half-bowed to Hasim. Hasim rose, returned the dismissal.
“A most enlightening conversation, Captain Kirk.”
“Equally, Terlord Hasim,” Kirk replied, and let Marlena pull him away.
Moreau couldn’t help but wonder if Hasim realized what was meant by Jim’s finally according him his noble title.