by Andy Mangels
“Someone in charge of logistics around here would have to be able to shed some light on the matter,” Reed said.
“Then let’s not waste any more time,” Archer said, motioning to Sergeant McKenzie that it was time for the landing party to move on. Chang and McCammon immediately took up protective positions on the team’s flank as Archer directed it away from the densest section of the roiling crowd of slave bidders.
Archer stopped when he noticed that Shran was hanging back, and motioned the others to halt as he wended through a small cluster of buyers, making his way back to Shran’s side.
“Come on, Shran,” Archer said, shouting almost directly into Shran’s ear to make himself heard. “We can’t stay here.”
“We can’t let an abomination like this continue, either,” said the Andorian, a faraway, almost fanatical look in his icy blue eyes.
Although he could certainly sympathize, Archer didn’t like what he was seeing and hearing. “Remember the little chat about restraint we had earlier, Shran?”
“No one should be treated this way,” Shran said. He either hadn’t heard Archer’s words or had chosen to ignore them.
Archer noted that the Andorian’s hand was on the holster of the phase pistol that Malcolm had issued him.
He placed a restraining hand on Shran’s arm. The Andorian stiffened, but made no move either to shake Archer off or to draw his weapon.
“Shran, this thing bothers me as much as it bothers you,” he said. “I’d love nothing better right now than to shoot this place up and set all these people free. Hell, if I’d seen this the last time I came here, I might have actually done it.”
Shran looked at him, his eyes flashing with passionate outrage. He shrugged off Archer’s hand and drew his weapon. Fortunately, no one in the crowd showed any sign of having noticed it, probably because of the obscuring folds of the Andorian’s field jacket.
“Shran, suppose you do free them all instead of just getting us all killed,” Archer said in mounting desperation. “What do you think will happen to these people afterward?”
“What could be worse than this, pinkskin?”
Archer knew that once Shran fired his weapon, the landing party would be very unlikely to get back to the ship intact. And getting everyone back to the ship alive was his primary responsibility. His body tensed as he prepared to bring Shran down hand-to-hand should it prove necessary.
In the meantime, he pressed on with an argument of necessity, despite the fact that he didn’t truly believe it in his heart. “I’ll tell you what would happen, Shran. Some of these people would be shot dead. Some would die after being trampled. A few might even make it outside. Most of those would freeze to death, and the ones that didn’t would starve. If we interfere, we make a horrible decision for these people. There’ll be no going back for any of them.”
Slavery is a terrible life, Archer thought, hating himself for being unable to end these people’s all but unimaginable suffering. “Shran, they’ll blame us, Earth and Andoria, and the Coalition we’ve worked for could die stillborn. But someday, together, we could wipe places like this off the face of the quadrant.”
Shran continued to stand where he was, angry but vacillating, his weapon in hand, though still concealed. Archer remained poised to body-slam him, despite the very real risk of starting a panic in the crowd. “Shran.”
Slump-shouldered with defeat, the Andorian finally holstered his weapon, then began moving toward Reed and the MACOs. Archer followed him, heaving a sigh of relief.
“Let’s find Jhamel, Archer,” Shran said as the group reached the periphery of the madly bidding crowd, where they could hear each other without having to raise their voices. “I’ll save my anger for those who took her—and for anybody who tries to stop me from getting to them.”
Thank goodness for Andorian restraint, Archer thought as the slave auction passed from his sight, though not from his conscience.
Eighteen
Monday, February 17, 2155
Adigeon Prime
ALTHOUGH ADIGEON PRIME was an Earth-like planet in most respects, its significantly lower gravity took some getting used to—as did the natives. Trip looked out a window at the expansive city over which flew hundreds of winged Adigeons.
Outside of graphic novels and vids, he had never before seen flying humanoids with his own eyes. He’d heard of a race called the Skorr, but their homeworld was apparently some distance away from the sectors through which Enterprise had traveled thus far.
The Adigeons he’d seen so far were all roughly three meters tall or taller, and were made more imposing by the large wings that sprouted from either shoulder blade. Unlike bird wings, however, these were more membranous; an intricate weaving of connective tissue and musculature striated the wings, over which were layered the membranes. The effect left Trip with the impression of fleshy feathers overlaid onto bat’s wings.
Other than their wings and their large, lidless, side-mounted eyes, the Adigeons weren’t particularly avian in appearance, once one got past first impressions. For one thing, their wings terminated in exceptionally long, slender, and sensitive fingers, which must have accounted for the reputation of their surgeons, as well as going a long way toward redeeming their relative lack of binocular vision. Their skin came in a wide variety of colors, ranging from a mottled gray to deeper browns and purples, while the feathery hair they exhibited seemed to grow mostly on the backs of their skulls, just above their almost catlike, membrane-feather-covered neck ruffs. Their facial features were also striking: their mouths were vertical and lipless, with two gill-like flaps on either side underneath high-set cheekbones.
When they’d docked the Branson, Trip and Phuong were greeted by a pair of indistinguishable Adigeons—Trip took them to be females, though he couldn’t be certain—who greeted them politely but officiously. They had presented the two humans with small translation devices to attach to their clothing, and some sort of gravity-regulating ankle bracelets that allowed them to walk with some semblance of normalcy in the planet’s low-gravity environment, which Trip found reminiscent of Mars.
On their way to the c’Revno-hibce—the surgical facility where their physical alterations were to be performed—neither of the females spoke unless spoken to, so both Trip and Phuong had mostly looked out the windows of their hovercab-like transport.
Once they had reached the facility, an apparently male Adigeon went over the financial arrangements with Phuong; when those details appeared to have at last been agreed upon, Trip and Phuong were given a stack of papers to fill out. Another Adigeon, a clerical specialist with skin the color of expensive Beaujolais, sat with them to read the questions on the forms into their translation units and record their answers by hand in the Adigeons’ written language.
Trip answered the questions about his medical history as best he could, but a good half of the questions were not only being posed in an imperfectly translated alien tongue, but were also beyond his comprehension of human physiology.
Phuong had instructed the clerk that personal information about either of them—such as names, relatives, and other facts—was classified and therefore unnecessary. Although he knew that the subterfuge was appropriate for their mission, the words had jarred Trip at first. My life is “classified and therefore unnecessary,” he thought. Not exactly comforting.
Finally, they were shown into a smaller room, issued some loose-fitting, pastel-colored garments, and told to prepare themselves by taking medical decontamination showers. As they cleaned themselves with globular balls of squishy, foul-smelling stuff that the Adigeon medical technicians had described as “active abiotic astringents,” Trip noticed that Phuong’s entire back, as well as his left side under his arm, was laced with a faint but easily discernible network of old scars. He wasn’t yet comfortable enough around the other operative to ask about them, but he hoped they hadn’t been the result of some past mission that had gone badly awry.
Once they were scrubbed and partia
lly dressed in the garments that were clearly not made for non-Adigeons, Trip waited in the preparation room with Phuong. He turned away from the window and saw his companion on his knees, his arms crossed at the wrists, his palms resting on his chest. Trip watched him for almost a minute, then cleared his throat. Phuong opened his eyes.
“Praying before the operation?” Trip asked with a slight smile. “Does this mean I should, too? You seemed less nervous before about all this…” His voice trailed off as he gestured around the room.
“Don’t read too much into my actions,” Phuong said. He didn’t rise, but stayed on his knees. “I pray often, and almost never entirely out of fear. I was raised in a strictly religious family, and I believe that God watches over me, no matter where in space I may find myself.”
Trip nodded. “My family went to church a lot, too, but I haven’t kept up with it as much as my parents have.” He sat in a nearby chair—rather awkwardly, because it was made for Adigeons, who were far taller than most humans—and tugged at the billowing Adigeon medical garment to keep himself covered. “What I learned in Sunday school sometimes seems kind of weird to me these days, because we’ve been traveling to all these strange new worlds and meeting up with so many new civilizations. Most of them have their own version of God, or gods, or goddesses, or even whole pantheons…. It makes it seem a little silly for me to keep praying to the God I grew up being taught about.”
Phuong tilted his head, an inquisitive look on his face. “I’m not sure why it would be silly. It’s only a question of faith. I have faith in my God, just as the Vulcans and the Andorians have faith in theirs.”
Trip squinted, hoping that his next statement wouldn’t offend the other man. “Yeah, but what about the whole ‘God created everything’ proposition? Does that mean that the Vulcan and Andorian deities don’t exist, and only Earth’s God does? And what about all the religions on Earth that don’t worship the same God?”
“In all your years in Starfleet, I’m certain you’ve seen many things that might have seemed inconceivable to you at one time,” Phuong said, now standing up. “The universe is full of things beyond our ken. We know that time travel is possible, we know that some phenomena can defy the laws of physics as we think we understand them, and we know that beings live and exist in dimensions just beyond ours.”
He drew closer to Trip. “I’ll tell you something that will really make you appreciate the mind of God—or at least the mysterious nature of the multiverse. The bureau has proof of the existence of an alternate universe that is virtually identical to our own—almost. But in that universe, significant changes have occurred throughout history. Some of the people there are us, only us raised in an alternate environment that forced them to make different choices in their lives.” He paused for a moment. “We doubt that this ‘mirror universe’ is the only one of its kind.”
He turned away, looking toward the window. “So with all of the knowledge you have gained aboard Enterprise, can you really fault the idea that the God we were both taught about might exist—right alongside other planes of existence in which all Gods might be real? Or that in certain other realities, none of them exist?”
Trip wasn’t sure how to respond to such deeply metaphysical questions—or to the mind-boggling scientific revelation Phuong had just made—but he was saved from having to do so when a trio of Adigeons entered the chamber.
“I am Carver MoulMa’s,” the lead creature said—at least according to Trip’s translation device—his vertical mouth undulating as he spoke. “I will be the principal carver in your operation. I see you have been prepared, so we will proceed.”
A jolt went down Trip’s spine as he heard the words. He hoped that “carver” was just the translator’s way of saying “doctor” or “surgeon.”
“I trust our instructions remain clear,” Phuong said, a slight edge to his voice.
“Certainly,” MoulMa’s said. “When your operation is complete, you will be fundamentally indistinguishable from a Romulan.”
“Which means we’ll look like what exactly?” Trip asked.
The three Adigeons made some noises that sounded like glass being crunched beneath a hard boot heel. On one hand, Trip hoped he was hearing whatever passed for laughter on Adigeon Prime; on the other hand, he was worried at least a little that they might actually be laughing.
“You will look much like you do now,” MoulMa’s said. “Only with the superficial distinguishing characteristics of a Romulan rather than those of a Terran.” He then gestured back toward the direction from which the trio had come.
“Your financial arrangements are nonreversible. Your carving is scheduled to commence in selb dakkiwso. So, unless you wish to abandon your plans, we should proceed presently.”
“No refunds,” Trip said, aiming a wry smile at Phuong. “Guess we’d better stay and get our money’s worth.”
Phuong met Trip’s gaze steadily. Then he stepped toward the Adigeons. “I will be the first to be…‘carved.”’
Trip had remained within the confines of the surgical theater’s observation gallery for as long as he could stand it, watching the three Adigeons and their various assistants “carve” into Phuong. Unlike the medical procedures he’d seen Phlox undertake in sickbay, this one seemed almost brutal, and was definitely far more bloody. He exited the room swiftly and threw up in what he hoped was a trash receptacle, then returned to his solitary viewing post, where he kept his eyes either closed or averted for the duration of the procedure.
After what seemed to be several hours, the assistants began wrapping Phuong in regenerative bandages. With so many surgeons and their assistants crowded around Phuong at the moment, Trip couldn’t see precisely what his fellow operative looked like, but he was heartened to note that no limbs appeared to have been discarded. Of course that doesn’t necessarily mean they haven’t attached a new limb or two, Trip thought with a small shiver.
Minutes later, the assistants gently placed Phuong into a hovering antigrav chair, then carefully pushed him out of the surgical theater and into an adjacent sterile white area that Trip guessed was some sort of recovery room. The patient was definitely conscious, but seemed unsteady. Bandages entirely covered his skin, making him look like the Mummy in one of Trip’s favorite series of monster films. With the addition of a hat and a pair of sunglasses, he would have been a dead ringer for Claude Rains in The Invisible Man.
“Can I talk to him?” Trip asked one of the Adigeons.
“You appear to be capable of speech,” the creature said, and the others made the crushed glass sound in response.
Now Trip was sure that this was the sound of Adigeon laughter. He did his best to ignore having made himself the butt of one of their alien jests.
“Tinh?” He kept his voice low. “Are you all right?”
Blinded by the bandages, a woozy Phuong turned his face in Trip’s general direction. “This hurts like hell, but they’re taking me in for dermal regeneration now. Can’t wait to see what I look like afterward.”
“Yeah, me too,” Trip said. He resisted the urge to pat the Section 31 operative on the shoulder, since he was unsure just where it might be safe to touch him.
“I’ll see you on the other side of the gauze,” Phuong said as the three Adigeons pushed his hovering conveyance away.
My turn now, Trip thought as he entered the operating chamber, which had been sterilized by some sort of mist during the brief time he had been talking with Phuong in the other room.
MoulMa’s and the other doctors entered the room again, with three new assistants in tow. All of them were clad in fresh, unbloodied surgical apparel. “Disrobe and place yourself on the table,” MoulMa’s said crisply and emotionlessly.
Trip shivered as he dropped the blouselike garment to the floor, then approached the table. Sitting on it and lying back, he was pleased to find that the padded surface was warm to the touch.
MoulMa’s hovered over him, looking down. The effect of the surgeon’s side
ways mouth and gills and dinner-plate eyes was even more disorienting from below, and Trip’s already racing heart began to beat even faster.
“Shkt’kooj will administer some farron gas to you as an anesthetic,” MoulMa’s said. “You will feel nothing until you wake up after our carving is complete.”
Yeah, and then I bet it’ll hurt like hell, Trip thought, remembering Phuong’s words.
“One question before we start, Doc,” Trip said aloud. “I just want to be certain that this operation is reversible. I’m not going to be stuck looking like a Romulan forever, am I?”
MoulMa’s tilted his head, his eyes widening. “Your agency has paid us to reverse the carving after you return. The amount they paid is significant enough to make certain that your current…countenance will be restored with an extremely high degree of fidelity.”
Trip let out a breath, not quite certain if the Adigeon had reassured him or not. “Just wanted to be sure,” he said.
With a flick of a long wingtip, MoulMa’s signaled to one of the assistants, and Trip felt a tiny prick at the side of his neck a moment later. Almost instantly, he felt his muscles go completely limp, and his mind began to fog.
As if from a great distance, he heard MoulMa’s, but he wasn’t even sure if the carver was talking to him or to the others.
“Not that we expect to actually perform the later carving,” MoulMa’s said, his voice distorted. “Our work today will be utterly flawless and discreet, of course, as compelled by our agreement with your superiors. But we expect that the two of you will never return once you pass the borders of the Romulan Star Empire.”
Too groggy to be alarmed, or even to comprehend what he’d just heard, Trip felt himself sinking into darkness. In his last moments of consciousness, he reverted almost reflexively to the prayers he had learned as a child.
Nineteen
Monday, February 17, 2155