Nightfall
[USS Charon, Cargo Bay Two]
The sight was enough to make even the most placid of Vulcans ponder the virtue of pacifism at any cost. Herded together like cattle, Charon’s crew was prodded and pushed, shackled by armored Gai’Shian whose faces made utterly clear they did not quite see the point of this exercise and would much prefer to be rid of those annoying creatures who glared at them, sullen and defiant.
No one knew where the Captain had been taken, or what had become of her children though it was hardly difficult to venture a guess. A good number of the crew arrived injured, dragged and tossed onto the deck with as much tender care as one might afford a pesky bug. Crates and barrels were cleared by means of some well placed disruptor shots – ah, the Klingons would fret, this had been an excellent vintage – and some of the Starfleet crew were arbitrarily picked to be transported away in swirls of sparkling green.
But even so, a pattern emerged.
Guarded warily by not only Gai’Shian but Galae security personnel, the Vulcans were subtly separated from the gaggle of angry Starfleet and outright furious Rihannsu who snarled and named the gloating Gai’Shian traitors – and worse. Was tr`Sahen not content to launch a mad, genocidal attack against his sire’s homeworld, but would his desire for revenge make him take additional delight in killing these few directly?
Somehow, Sakarra found it not at all improbable.
A bleeding, hissing Caitian was secured firmly to a heavy crate, and leaning against a bulkhead was the still, unconscious form of a tall, bearded marine. Given his hatred for the Romulans, the slender dark eyed Vulcan standing quietly amidst grim V’Ket was not surprised Nikolai had chosen to fight. What was surprising however was the fact he was still alive. More marines arrived, and each in a fairly disheveled state.
Prodded forward by a heavy disruptor rifle, Ian Lamont stumbled through the doors, briefly locking gazes with the silent Vulcan. Even under these circumstances, the good ambassador managed to maintain the air of a miffed aristocrat who was less displeased with being prisoner, but with the fact his captors had to be so … rude.
Presenting nothing but a perfectly unmoved face, a tranquil lake which keeps the secrets of it depths to itself, the raven haired Vulcan stood with hands clasped behind her back. They were alive. For now, that had to be enough.
Because boiling under the veil of calm that became more difficult to maintain by the second was a fury more scorching than Nevasa herself, a temper ready to flare and screaming for blood. Unwilling to allow this to happen, Sakarra clung to cold reason as if to a lifeline, shielding her thoughts as relentlessly as the most stern Kolinahru.
For a moment, she caught T’Pelar’s icy, teal gaze as the woman was jostled forward. What fine irony indeed that the scheming councilwoman should live to see the entropy unleashed by her own actions. What finer irony even, that it was the very being which she and her allies had manipulated and violated in such cruel, unforgivable ways was now the best hope for her … and the planet she had doomed.
Gazing silently at a bulkhead, Sakarra thought of the unique being safely ensconced in Charon’s glittering network of pathways, this lively, stimulating, beautiful creature that even now was invisibly shimmering within the ship that was her home …
Hope is far from illogical. Especially when that hope is tied to an individual as resourceful as Savant, as stubbornly clinging to her own survival as she watched over the poor hapless organics she found so interesting. And if she could find but a few allies, a handful of the crew escaping in the general mayhem … there was a chance.
All Sakarra needed do was to buy them time, while somehow keeping the rest of the crew alive.
All she needed do was not give in to the wish to tear those smugly grinning invaders to pieces and dip her hands into the emerald streams of their blood, reveling in the scent of death like the Le-Matya after the hunt.
The impulse was nothing new. The persistence with which it kept reasserting itself … was.
To all the world, the small, graceful woman herded off to be transported away was just another Vulcan. Stoic, accepting, not even raising a brow at the armored soldiers towering over her but floating through their midst as if they were clouds of dust not worthy of acknowledgement.
‘Yyaio’ – Dead one, the Rihannsu called their estranged cousins.
What the Vulcans displayed was nothing less than the lifeless surface of a desert, lying still under a merciless sun.
People tend to forget that deserts kill.
[IRW Endless Sky]
The swirl and tingle of the transporter effect faded, and the group was greeted by more disruptor rifles aimed at them. Truly, one might almost constitute it flattery that a dozen unarmed Vulcans should prompt near twice as many Gai’Shian to watch their every move.
Then again … even shielded partially behind the flowing robes of a tall scientist, Sakarra could clearly make out the familiar features of Itsak tr`Sahen and his second, Hanaj.
It was nearly enough to let the raven haired woman’s dry humor surface, commenting silently on the personal welcome. But Hanaj’s scowl was indicative of something other than his commander wishing to bask in the revenge about to take shape.
She realized what it was when the dark amethyst gaze found what it had been looking for and a predatory smile lit the sharp, aquiline features that were as clear a stamp of his heritage as the dramatically upswept ears.
“Not this one.” As the other Vulcans were prodded towards the exit, Sakarra found herself separated and brought before the Vaek’Riov whose stare had lost nothing of its intensity and conjured the memory of tropical gardens and a tense meeting in warm, dimly lit quarters.
“So we meet again, lady Vulcan.” The deep, slightly rough baritone held a timbre that struck an all too familiar chord within the young woman and she might have been tempted to answer it with something other than words, but the V’Ket already shifted and tensed, filling the air with the threat of a storm gathering over the plains.
“So we do, Vaek’Riov.” Her demeanor that of a matriarch displeased with an insolent one, Sakarra met the gaze unblinking, but she was not at all prepared for the hand reaching out with astonishing speed, gripping her tightly braided curls, pulling her closer until she was forced to look up at the face hovering over her and the triumphant, malevolent smile flickering over it.
Her hands shot up, startled at the unexpected and uninvited touch and it was by sheer instinct that she managed to land a blow. A blow that was returned tenfold when a hand impacted her face and sent her flying straight into a bulkhead, nearly completing the task of leaving the small Vulcan disoriented and blinking. Nearly.
For she was all too aware of the snarl emanating from – Voran? No, foolish, foolish …- and the distinct sound of rifles being pushed aside, Gai’Shian being tossed into walls like so many leaves scattered before the storm, disruptor blasts tearing through the air …
She turned around just in time to see the tall, violet eyed Vulcan break the ribs of a Galae officer, reaching for the honor blade the man had tried to draw. The disruptor shots which had cleanly missed the enraged Vulcan before were now focusing on the V’Ket who formed a living wall to shield the scientists, roughly ushering them out into the corridor, away, to questionable safety.
Skill and experience do not falter even under rage, but blind fury is precisely that – blind.
Emerald droplets trickling from her lips, Sakarra tensed for what might be her last, desperate attack and was still powerless to prevent the shining steel of tr`Sahen’s blade from finding its target. Surprised for a moment, he seemed almost pleased that one of the Vulcans had chosen fight after all and watched smiling as the man did not even deign to acknowledge the sword piercing his heart. The strength already seeping from the mortally wounded Voran, he still sent the dying Galae officer crashing into the transporter platform to draw a last breath into his crushed lungs, and lifted the captured blade, advancing on his foe with eyes ablaze.
It dropped from his fingers a moment before he himself collapsed at the hated enemy’s feet, his last hiss one of defiance.
And then it was silent.
Ignoring the sour look on Hanaj’s face, Itsak took in the scene – three of the Vulcans with their shimmering terracotta uniforms lay dead, as did nearly a dozen Gai’Shian and the mangled security officer. The others had been herded into the corridor, and there in the door stood only the old one, his proud face daring the surviving Rihannsu to finish their work. Every head turned when the Vaek’Riov broke into a low chuckle.
Well, well, who would have thought.
“Your lover, lady Vulcan?” Walking over to the woman who had picked herself off the floor and stared at him with something almost approaching an expression, Itsak smiled – the same dangerous, devious smile he had displayed before, only now laced with deep satisfaction. “No matter. Though I think it’s somewhat appropriate, wouldn’t you agree?”
A strand of her sable hair had come loose, tumbling over the unflattering uniform and he toyed with it, marveling once more at the unusual texture. “Is this not what your people’s women do? Force the males to fight and kill to win their mates?” She did not deign to answer, though he hadn’t expected a reply in any case.
Waving curtly towards the tall V’Ket with the graying temples, Itsak pointed his chin at the corridor “Take them away.” It did not sit well with the Rihannsu who would have loved to repay that proud old one for the havoc he had caused, but they obeyed, shoving their disruptor rifles into unresisting Vulcans. As for Shiarrael’s thaessu …
“Come.”
He nearly laughed again when she was too stubborn to understand that there was little point in her defiance and actually forced two security officers to advance menacingly before she strode past them, that exquisite little chin raised high. Yes, this would be quite … enjoyable.
Fatal Attraction ~ Part I
[IRW Endless Sky]
Although the ship’s corridors were nearly pleasant in their lighting and temperature, even and especially to a Vulcan, the room which Sakarra found herself in now was decidedly …cold. In degrees as well as in appearance, and quite likely it was meant to be so.
In fact, one might safely assume it was meant to cause apprehension – after all, why not let fear and terror help along the way, it was as effective a torture as any physical instrument.
A Vulcan with full control of her inner self would have been able to observe these facts with near clinical detachment, perhaps even ponder the philosophical implications.
General consensus held it was about as pointless to try and induce fear in a Vulcan as it was to throw rocks at a mountain. And even those who knew the pointy eared children of Nevasa somewhat better than that would have agreed – with one caveat. That should one by chance or design indeed succeed to frighten a Vulcan … one would soon find that it was not a good idea after all.
As it was, the slight, sable haired woman taking in her surroundings with a dispassionate gaze was far too busy keeping her temper in check to even scoff at the ridiculous show put on by her captors. The only thing she found worth pondering was whether the tray with glittering instruments would make a satisfactory noise if it was placed squarely on the head of a certain Vaek’Riov. And of course whether it had sufficient mass and stability to cause the harm she would rather like to inflict.
Her musings were rudely interrupted by Hanaj who was not content to merely shove her into a chair but seemed to take an undue amount of delight in removing the uniform jacket which had been at least a small shield from the room’s chill. One could hardly say the same for the light, red shirt that was left to her now, but in either case they could not be so foolish to think …
When the cold water hit her, Sakarra understood.
Well, yes, that would about do it of course.
Not even bereft of all her clothing would she have ever given the merest sign that the temperatures were rather … uncomfortable. Dripping with water that was barely above one degree Celsius … she might. Sooner or later.
She did not deign to quirk an ironic brow at the gazes resting on her now quite clearly outlined form, but the temptation was there all the same.
She did however blink when another Vulcan was led into the room, for all intent and purposes looking as tranquil as the Voroth Sea at dawn and also decidedly not … a Vulcan.
“This is the one?”
“Ie, Rekkhai.”
“Well, then.” Itsak tr`Sahen's appreciative gaze lingered on the soaked little Vulcan for a second longer before he turned to smirk at the new arrival “How boring. Another thaessu? Somehow I had hoped for something more … entertaining.” Stoic as the guards’ faces were, they managed to radiate wholehearted agreement nonetheless.
As the Vulcan who was none was pushed into another chair, Sakarra did her best to not betray even the slightest hint of puzzlement even though she was experiencing a fair amount of it. “Pretty, though. Ah, well. Ihlla’hn. What's her name?”
The guards sneered as they sheared off the black-haired Vulcan captive's uniform and strapped her down as they had Sakarra, "She won't tell us."
Hanaj smirked and sauntered forwards, momentarily forgetting about his greater prize as he grabbed the woman's square chin and yanked her head upwards, "Don't want to sing, pretty bird? What's your name?" he leered.
"Yyaio," she retorted as sharply as a measured Vulcan could without losing her cool. Their interrogator released her, only to strike a fist across her face for her insolence. Her cheek and eye immediately bruised dark green, but she remained silent. She did, however, spare a message-laden glance at Sakarra.
Her eyes were crystal-blue, polished like gems. Savant's eyes.
For a mercy, their captors were about as apt at reading the delicate subtleties of Vulcan expressions as they likely were to read the weather patterns over Sas-a-Shar. A shift in the still, scorching hot air, not worthy to be called a gust or even a breeze, only molecules of air jumbling and rearranging themselves in mysterious patterns before the deadly silence returns. But somewhere a Shavokh would be spreading its wings, staring into the void, knowing the signs.
In plain non-Vulcan, Sakarra was as bemused as ever one of her kind could be and therefore resorted to the only logic left to her. When your fighter tumbles out of control over an ice planet, don’t bother with a diagnostic. When a wall of Sandfire races towards you, don’t be a fool and wonder why there is a cave where none has been last month or appreciate the marvel of volcanic activities and earthquakes. When you are in enemy hands and a Vulcan who has not even the most basic hallmark of one – a unique telepathic signature for one – but the startling eyes of a familiar being … improvise.
“She is not able to give you information. Your bringing her here is therefore illogical.” For a species who is decidedly horrible at playacting, Sakarra thought she had pulled off the cold but displeased Vulcan rather well.
“Illogical. That is all you have to say, Vulcan? What tender love there must be between you and your own adjutant.”
Adjutant?
“You have yet to state what it is you wish me to say.”
Her dry but far from malevolent remark nonetheless almost earned Sakarra a blow as well, but a near imperceptible gesture of his commander stopped Hanaj.
“It would be a shame to ruin that exquisite face …” circling her like a predator pondering how to best bring down an interesting new prey, the Vaek’Riov almost absentmindedly let his fingertips brush over high cheekbones and an aristocratic little nose “… when there are so much better ways.”
Yyaio, as she was calling herself, sat still and stern, a rock in rough waters. Beneath the veneer was Savant, her android quickly altered to look somewhat different and her local software filled to brimming with covert operations routines. Heaven knew what compelled the AI to intervene in this interrogation instead of simply holing up with the others. Beneath the cold exterior, her shining eyes slid malevolently across the room, hostile and impassive. Her one eye was already swelling up impressively as the green-coloured lubricants and dyes clotted together, using a variant of the cupric hemoglobin molecule already prevalent in Vulcan blood. It looked like a painful shiner, and a credit to the Vulcan she was pretending to be that she didn't wince.
Of course she didn't wince, she had no nerves to feel any pain. It was a convincing enough act to fool anyone but a doctor, and that's all she needed for now. She watched the Romulan assistants fuss over their implements blankly while she worked.
Because she was here to work. Communication and computer systems here were significantly better in the local area, and Savant needed every transmission advantage she could get. The tiny transceivers she had incorporated into what would have been a Vulcan brain were sophisticated but passive and very low powered, feeding off of ambient energy for their work. Savant reached out into the surrounding data network - not invading, for she didn't understand the language. No, this was purely Intel gathering. It was unfortunate that she would have to pay for her learning time in suffering and blood.
Completely unaware of the complex thought processes churning and racing through the android and too occupied with other matters to ponder Savant’s motives, the Vulcan still had to assume there was a logical purpose to her presence. Determining that purpose was hardly possible so for the time being Sakarra had to see about not interfering at least … perhaps aid in some small way by distracting their would-be torturers.
At least in the Vaek’Riov’s case, she needn’t bother. He appeared quite content to leave the blue eyed adjutant in his people’s tender care.
There are Vulcans who are quite skilled in the art of ‘needling’ as it were, oftentimes not even on purpose. Others are capable of causing splendid irritation in other species without ever missing a beat or losing a shred of composure. Unfortunately, in the few cases Sakarra had elicited such reactions it usually was utterly unintentional and thus they were not exactly helpful instances to re-create such a scenario.
“You are of course aware that torture is quite ineffective against Vulcans, yes?”
Sometimes it helped to stubbornly point out the obvious. But tr`Sahen only chuckled – that low, menacing sound she was beginning to find rather irritating herself – and busied himself with loosening her tightly coiled braids until the dripping wet curls fell loosely over the chair’s back, nearly all the way to the floor.
“Yes. If I were to be foolish enough to go about it the usual way. There. So much prettier.”
Usual way?
Keep … needling. Somehow.
Putting on her best ‘displeased matriarch’ expression, Sakarra managed a rather impressive huff “I stand corrected. Paying such undue attention to the aesthetic appearance of your captives is unusual indeed. Though I still debate whether it has sufficient effect for your purposes.”
A long stare and a smirk was her only reply, and she was not all too surprised when a cold ring of metal was slid over her head while two nodes affixed themselves to her temples.
Reining in both a flare of temper and the desire to laugh into the Vaek’Riov’s face, Sakarra settled for another huff. It did not have quite the desired effect. Unless one counted the brief furrowing of brows before another smile emerged.
“Have no fear, lady Vulcan. My purpose … will be served.”
She dared not glance over at the person that was Savant but knew Hanaj had taken the opportunity to land another blow all the same.
“Now tell me… yyaio.” Almost thoughtful, casual, the way he pulled a knife from his belt, cold, glistening steel, the blade sharp enough for a surgeon’s tool. “And what an apt name it will be, soon enough. You must know the codes to access your superior’s files, for a bad adjutant you would be if you can’t even bring her the most mundane paperwork.”
"I am quite intimate with Charon's databases," Yyaio replied squarely, bleeding from a broken lip, her opposite eye swollen up magnificently, like a pitted olive. No doubt Savant enjoyed that brief dig at her captors, but the Vulcan face she wore showed nothing but a faint hint of distaste.
Sakarra did not watch the knife slide into her adjutant's flesh, hearing only the sharp intake of breath. It was convincing, too convincing - as if they had dragged in some favoured aide instead of a convincingly lifelike simulacrum. She could feel the waves of pain as another sentient being suffered helplessly beside her, could feel the desperate shaking of will - even though there was none. Savant had studied body language and non-verbal communication, and knew enough to suffer convincingly.
They say that time moves strangely when one is under stress - sometimes it moves in a terrific blur as adrenaline and urgency compress the minutes together into an indistinct force of will and adversity. At other times, times such as these, it slowed - each second of pain stretched thin, with every pinprick of sensation burned into one's brain. The light in the room was all wrong - high-intensity white lights in pockets from above, beyond the field of view but pooling in sharp halos about them. Their tormentors were only half there - the intense light splitting them into glowing fragments connected by man-shaped puddles of black. Beyond, shadows roiled with observers and tricks of the eye, a primordial void from which new evils would arise. The air was cold, clean, moist with humidity, and only just now filling with the untainted scent of burnt copper as her aide's blood slid down the leg of her chair in thick green rivulets.
Sakarra could not help it. She was … incensed. And on the road to furious, accelerating fast.
She did not know whether this being created by Savant – if that it was - truly suffered or merely managed a clever imitation. The scent of her blood and her motions of agony certainly were convincing enough, and hardly did it matter in the end for the intention had been to cause pain.
What she did not realize was that her pure, unfettered anger was showing clearly in her eyes and the way she tensed, testing the solidity of her restraints … until it was too late.
How …
Ah, curse them, curse them to whatever hell they believed in!
“So you are beginning to … feel it, yes?”
With the same casual elegance, an almost conversational smile on his lips, Itsak turned to see those lovely dark eyes lighting with fury. “And to think the Andorians considered the technology obsolete … when it only required some ingenuity.” Obsolete it had never been, only useless. To eat away at a Vulcan’s control, to strip layer after layer of emotional restraint … will perhaps make them wish to kill you and tell you so. It will hardly make them reveal their secrets, give you access to the rational thought you yourself have burned away.
Yet torture it was, and effective indeed.
And in her foolishness she had let her only chance of defense slip away, the conscious decision to sink into a trance, to wrap herself into an impenetrable shell and sink to the bottom of an ocean too deep for anyone to reach …
She did not flinch when the cold steel caressed her cheek like a lover, the razor fine edge tracing down to her chin, her throat. But her hands clenched into fists and she glared at the man holding the knife, just so managing not to curl her lips in a snarl.
“Yes, I do believe it’s too late for you to slip away quietly. You need better … control for that, don’t you?” The uniform shirt’s fabric parted with a sigh, revealing an elegantly rounded shoulder. Down, until her entire arm was exposed and the knife traced the veins pulsing at the Vulcan’s wrist.
“Of course I should inform you that any such attempt will only make me very … displeased. You would not wish your loyal adjutant to suffer the consequences, would you? Or that old thaessu who seems so fond of you? Oh, yes, I noticed …”
The blade’s point pricked the inside of her arm, and this time Sakarra hissed between her teeth.
“Lunikkh ta’avik! Saday’uh!”
She had noticed of course that the shade of his eyes, the line of his chin were like his cousin’s, even the casual elegance of their movements were the same. But never had this similarity been so … disconcerting. It seemed as if she were watching a shadow of Shiarrael t`Rehu, cruel, malevolent, alien and yet so familiar …
“No, I do not think so lady Vulcan.” Amused, almost flirtatious, the laugh that answered her curses and the demand to let her go. And then the blade began to cut.
She had suffered worse, much worse. From broken bones after an enthusiastic but ill advised climb in the mountains of Betazed to the day her shuttle had crashed on Charon’s deck and left her bleeding from gruesome wounds. But the goal of a knife such as this was not merely to injure, it was to cause pain. He was a master at it.
As lightly as a breeze, the blade traveled down her arm, parting skin and carving flesh as it went. Slowly, so very slowly, leaving the merest trickle of emerald in its wake.
“Fay-wakh treshak-tor! What is it you want!”
A Vulcan even without full control of herself can endure a fair measure of hurt, and not be overly disturbed by it. A Vulcan teetering among the abyss of murderous rage who feels her inhibitions, her reason, a part of her very being slowly stripped away by a soulless machine will feel it as acutely as every indrawn breath, every beat of her heart.
“In due time, lady Vulcan. In due time.”
Hot breath, as hot as her own, whispering over her neck. The low, almost playful voice, and lips brushing over the finely tapered ear for a mere instant … before the blade struck again, laying a path of agony across her collarbone.
She would kill him. With her own bare hands, she would kill him and watch as the life drained from his body.
Fatal Attraction ~ Part II
[IRW Endless Sky]
Beside her, Sakarra's artificial adjutant shuddered with agony, breathing hard and heavy through gritted teeth, but through it all her face had been a flat, expressionless mask. Savant/Yyaio had been treated far less sensitively than her true Vulcan companion - where Itsak was almost erotic in his tender administrations, Hanaj pursued his task with sadistic glee. She hissed out her breaths in an attempt to even her breathing and regain some composure,.
The pain was too great, and she needed to give it voice. Sakarra heard at first a sobbing yelp, followed by Hanaj's malevolent cackle of glee.
"The bitch can whine!" he howled, pressing his implement upon a bared nerve. Were it not actual agony, were Savant only acting, it was an impressive performance. "Give me the access codes!" he sneered angrily into the adjutant's ear, assuming that his prey would soon falter.
But Savant was either putting on a great show, or had more willpower than anyone had assumed. She angled her head back and hummed with her agonized breaths, a low even thrumming that accompanied the meditation instruction young Vulcans received. It was low, but at the pitch where it filled the room. No doubt Savant hoped to stabilize Sakarra's spiralling emotions as well as her own, if her own truly existed.
Streams of emerald trickling down her belly, her arms, and now, slowly, her thighs, Sakarra had been about to howl in fury, fight the restraints with all the unexpected strength slumbering in her slight, slender frame.
The familiar, soothing sound was like a breeze of fresh desert air in the foulest dungeon, T’Khut’s ruddy, warm light over scorched plains, the heat and shine of a copper brazier burning at night’s darkest hour. And it puzzled their captors for long enough to not immediately silence the insolent one – long enough for the other Vulcan to blink, … and laugh. Soft, quiet, like the mountain spring dancing over the rocks, clear and melodious.
Ah, what marvelous irony.
They had no idea what they had done. And even though tr`Sahen’s expression could nearly be called thoughtful, the others seemed to hover between surprise and irritation.
What little did it matter.
“Your sire was negligent, Vaek’Riov.” Her voice was velvety, almost gentle. No humor echoed in it, though there seemed traces of a melancholic smile to hover on the Vulcan’s delicate features. Leaning back in the chair, relaxed as if she were at home and enjoying the sound of a fountain singing in the gardens, she watched her tormentor out of half closed, night black eyes.
As she had observed before, the mere mention of the Vulcan who had spawned him was enough to let hatred and fury blaze in tr`Sahen’s eyes, and he tensed as if to strike her – or plunge the knife into her side at last. But he only gripped the soft curls at the back of her neck, jerking her unresisting head back until the almost dreamy gaze met his, hovering mere centimeters away.
Cold steel at her throat, traveling down at a leisurely pace.
“I will not debate that, lady Vulcan. But you did not merely say that to raise my ire and make me kill you. Because you know I won’t. Not yet.”
“Quite so.”
She was like a dozing feline in his grip, all supple, relaxed limbs and giving the impression that you might well pick her up and carry her away and she would not so much as bat an eyelash. For a moment, it seemed as if the dark eyed Vulcan might chuckle again, but then she merely exhaled softly.
There was no nerve in her body that was not in agony, no part of her that did not want to fight the pain, kill the one who inflicted it. Survival instincts clamored, urging resistance, demanding battle.
And were overruled, second by second.
“Fascinating.”
Her low murmur, uttered barely loud enough for sensitive Vulcanoid hearing to be picked up finally succeeded in drawing every eye to the scene playing out in the middle of the cold room that smelled of blood, steel and pain. “Yes indeed.” Searching the mind-reader’s unreadable dark eyes for any clue, tr`Sahen already knew he would find none. If anything, the woman seemed … pleased? Sad? Amused? All of it, and none.
“He obviously failed to convey even the fundamental … aspects of your heritage. Though it hardly matters, Vaek’Riov. I know what you want, and it is not merely Seleya and her schematics in my personal database.” There were mutters and curses, most of them involving suggestions what to do with an insolent mind-reader, but the Vulcan only shook her head lightly, another glint of humor manifesting itself and dispersing. You hardly needed telepathic talents when you had a mind and the ability to use it.
Blinded by fury, she had not seen it. Reminded of what she was – unintentional as it might have been - by poor, violated Savant … it was as clear as morning over Llangon.
“And what is it I want, lady Vulcan?”
The razor sharp edge dug between her shoulder blades, cutting deeper than before, up towards that sensitive nape of her neck, the light, elegant curve … and she merely exhaled again like a sigh, seemingly leaning into the knife.
She found it quite unnecessary to answer.
...
That supple sigh was a cascading backdrop, a sonorous cascade of pitch behind Savants' dread work. The Romulans' eyes had finally been averted from their tasks and their screens, and she could begin to unravel their prison from the inside. Her tools were meager, however - microscopic sensors and communicators had poor range and worse power. Not only that, but her local power systems were as dependent on the coppery green blood as any organics' - the plasma was loaded full of saurium krellide crystals and formed the reservoir of her endurance. While her cellular matrices also held some power on their own, they would not last long, and that lifeblood dribbled out of her as finally as any living beings.
So there was no time to waste- unlike a living being, she had no bone marrow to generate more blood when she needed it, nor did she rely on oxygen or other atmospheric gasses to survive, so every second counted as her time ticked down. She didn't concern herself with the administrations of her screaming tormentor. She had set up a simple routine to provide the right twists and yelps and screams amidst her meditative humming, and could save the bulk of her processing for more important things.
The wall. The Romulan security system was a monolith, a vast Trojan Wall with no gates or doors save those who knew the pass-codes. So she waited, and listened, and caught the transmissions as they flew by, picking them apart like a crab dissecting its prey. The secret would reveal itself soon enough. It was, after all, designed by organics, and they knew the waters of her world only in passing, by dropping in their lines and casting out their lures. They did not know how to swim in their dark waters.
...
Yyaio screamed, her impassive resolve broken some time ago. She did not demonstrate Sakarra's ability to subsume her pain - no, it consumed her instead, engulfed her in the fiery pain that Hanaj knew how to inflict all too well. He wasn't even asking for passcodes any longer - he was simply reveling in her agony. She fed it to him in spoonfulls.
…
So this was what it was like.
She had wondered, idly as one can describe a Vulcan hypothesizing about improbable events, when first Sakarra had learned about some of the surprises that might slumber in the complex, beautiful double helices within her cells. Just as the colour of her eyes was a visible indicator that one of the beings contributing to her unique set of genes had been a Betazoid, the texture of her hair – so rare for a Vulcan, and more often than not attributed to her gentle, good humored father as well – gave any on the desert planet circling Nevasa a vital clue.
Wild stock, they had called it, in ages past. Less derogatory today, descendant of an obscure desert clan. The implications were the same. Every few generations, one would surface in the House that still carried the traits of an ally long vanquished.
Wild stock. Desert bred. Rumors, whispered during long evenings. Uncivilized creatures, running barefooted over the scorching sands, laughing like children with their tangled, curly hair. They do not know written words, but when Sandfire kills every living creature … they become one with the enraged elements and survive. Their minds emptied by the unforgiving heat endlessly hammering the Forge, most inhospitable part of an already unforgiving planet, they roam the night side by side with the Le-Matya and the predator’s poison is as mother’s milk to them.
Nonsense, most of it, exaggeration, simple survival techniques and evolution wrapped in legend and superstition. Many creatures react to shock and trauma with the release of hormones that may prevent the system from a fatal breakdown. Neurotransmitters flooding a body that is threatened in its survival, acting not only to counter the pain but as opiates. Nothing mysterious about it. And if by some of those quirks of evolution that had a tendency to crop up wherever cells divided and life refused to be vanquished there sprung up a group of creatures who out of necessity took that established trait one step further … it was, in the end, only logical.
Modern Vulcans understood such things. And nodding silently, they went their way. But sometimes, idly perhaps, they might wonder.
This was what it was like.
No, she did not quite lean against that blade which cut another line of fire over her skin, a curious kitten swatting at the flame which hurts a first and then makes you feel so … strange. But she did with the part of her mind that was not floating on waves akin to euphoria follow the path it took, estimated the angle of the steel, the additional blood loss this would cause. Oddly enough, none of the many injuries she had incurred in her life ever had quite produced this effect. Perhaps this was what it took, the prolonged exposure, the unceasing, ever returning bursts of agony rather than just one brief shock … did not those who survived Sandfire for long enough to tell of it that it was a slow, cruel torture that in the end would make you yearn for death?
Or was it that you needed to remember, to give in, to stop fighting?
Both?
Fascinating …
Even Savant, poor, screaming Yyaio seemed removed, sensed only through a veil of sparkling emerald, and her voice was like the howling of the storm, assaulting your ears until it becomes part of the tapestry of life, something that always has been …
“Weak.” Somewhere, a voice spat the word in disdain, but it did not belong to the being whose fingertips trailed over an upswept brow, who cupped the Vulcan’s face in his hands, playful, inquisitive.
“Look at them. One howling like a thrai in heat and the other playing dead.”
“Not quite dead yet.” Another unfamiliar voice, clear and sharp – and Sakarra realized she had indeed stretched her aching limbs, languidly as if waking from a fitful slumber.
“No, … not quite.” This voice she knew, once more hovering so close she could feel the hot breath tickling her nose. Blinking against the brightness, she opened her eyes only to find a curious, violet gaze examining her face.
He knew.
Be it reasonable deduction after observing body language, intuition, or some part of the heritage he reviled that still enabled him to sense what no non-Vulcan could easily detect … or a combination of all.
He knew very well she was far from dead, or pretending to be.
The gig, as her human colleagues liked to say, was up.
If only the being that was Savant and not, a Vulcan and none, were indeed one to whom she could reach out in silence and ask a single question. What do you need me to do … or do you already have what you came for?
Sakarra refused to believe the being’s presence was for her sake. Not even Savant, amiable, solicitous, concerned Savant would waste time and resources in such illogical manner.
Useless ponderings.
Pools of emerald mingled on the polished floor, but other than the poor, tormented creature next to her Sakarra already felt the oldest of her wounds closing, the steady trickle ceasing, leaving only thin lines of crusted blood and a dull, hollow burning.
One of those wounds was briefly reopened when fingertips brushed over her collarbone, pressed into warm skin and laid a trail of green across her chest.
“He failed to tell me many things it seems. What an interesting development.”
The knife had been preferable to … this.
Fatal Attraction ~ Part III
[IRW Endless Sky, Leih’s quarters]
Silence.
Only the low hum of a great ship, alive with the throbbing of a singularity at its heart, the energy coursing through its veins, the people walking its corridors.
Stretching under the emerald stained sheets, the Vulcan wanted to lose herself in that silence, become one with it. But even the peace of meditation seemed to elude her, the delicate balance of emotional control shattered and mangled by the infernal machine designed specifically to manipulate Vulcan brain chemistry. And it had, though perhaps not in the way its users – or inventors – had intended.
Ironic.
Perhaps even more so now that she was fully able to appreciate the … feeling. Or rather, unable to experience it and put it aside to deal with more urgent, more important matters.
Stretching once more, the Vulcan didn’t even bother to wrinkle her nose at the sharp, coppery scent of her blood wafting up from the tangled silks or furrow her brows over the multitude of aches and pains clamoring for attention. Instead, she did what none of her race would usually consider, even if they believed themselves unobserved. A heartfelt colorful metaphor in a lovely, melodious Andorian dialect briefly echoed through the dimly lit quarters and she threw the fabric against the wall. Unfortunately it failed to make a satisfactory noise and merely rustled quietly to the floor.
Right.
She propped herself up on her elbows, ignoring her body’s protest at the sudden move and took stock of her surroundings. Warm, green tinted light cast velvety shadows over a room that would not have been entirely out of place on a Vulcan ship. Spartan and functional, but with small touches of elegance and concessions to personal taste. A pristine desk, a sword stand currently bereft of the blade that would be nestled on the polished wood, a drink cabinet tucked away in a corner. Fine silks on the bed that were by now quite ruined as she noted with no small amount of grim satisfaction and, greatest of luxuries, a large window looking out at a vista of stars. It was there where the dark eyed Vulcan’s gaze was riveted, because before the backdrop of night a silver shape hovered, silently gleaming with her running lights reflecting off the hull.
Slowly, ever so slowly she managed to tear her eyes away and focused … no, he wouldn’t have left without locking out access to the ship’s computer. But the last thing she intended was to lie down and lick her wounds, curl up and lament her fate or in any way concede defeat.
More rustling of silk as she carefully set her bare feet on the carpet – slightly rough, and warm, pleasantly so, as the entire quarters seemed keyed to a Vulcan’s comfort which came as no surprise considering the … inhabitant. The mere thought of him nearly prompted a snarl and a brief flare of the rage she had been keeping in check so diligently. But there was no escaping his presence here. It was everywhere, from the sash so carelessly flung over the back of a chair to the intricate artwork of the daggers proudly displayed on a wall, from the shimmering blue liquid in the bottle by the window to the scent permeating the very air she breathed. The scent that clung to her skin like the dried blood.
A long, long thoughtful gaze rested on the daggers, and before the Vulcan was even aware of what she was doing she stood before the gleaming metal as if drawn there by an invisible force. Slender fingers traced the hilt, the cool blade. Almost mesmerizing, the way light glinted off the polished steel, inviting, beckoning, …
Ah, foolishness. Even if she managed to plunge the dagger into his side, weak as a newborn Sehlat as she was from loss of blood and lack of water … she would only doom her ship, her crewmates. The Sundered would not only avenge their commander, but make certain no questions would ever be raised concerning a lone Federation starship lost inexplicably at the frontier. Irony of ironies that for now, he had to live so that her allies had time. Time to foils his plans, to mount resistance. Time … that was running out.
Her forehead leaned against the steel. So cool, refreshing even.
Useless. Useless.
Squaring her shoulders, the Vulcan took a deep breath and let her hands fall away, berating herself for her moment of weakness. No, she was not ready to give up. Not now, not ever. If only she could think clearly, if only the green haze that kept tugging at her consciousness would subside. If only her senses were not ruling over her reason, making everything seem so clear, so sharp, so acute … if, if …
The angry toss of her head sent sable curls flying and made a harsh, rough scent waft towards her nose. The merest trace, emanating from the empty glass on the otherwise immaculate desk. She remembered it well. Though her arrival here was little more than a fog, cradled against a warm chest, so warm after the cold room … the very arms that had brought her here had made her sit up, the hand that had inflicted all this cruelty brought that glass to her lips. Thinking it was water, sweet, life giving water, she had drunk deeply. And then coughed and gasped for the blue ale had been as liquid fire. He had laughed, amused, cruelty and tenderness mingling until one was as the other. Kissed the last traces off her lips, kissed her like a man starving …
The impulse to take that glass and make it shatter against a bulkhead came and went.
“You like them, lady Vulcan?”
It was all she could do not to jump, not to twirl around and hiss at the sudden intrusion. She had not even heard the door, the soft footfalls, not realized she was still staring … staring at the gleaming steel. Was this what encroaching madness was like?
“They are most exquisitely made.”
How odd - her low, melodious voice was the same as ever. Betraying little more than a hint of fatigue in its soft timbre, a mere shadow of pain in the slow articulation of words.
“Yes.” Hands reached out to brush the heavy curls off her shoulders, trace the curve of her neck. He stood behind her, his breath whispering over her ear, looking at the blades that had captured her attention. “Yes, they are.”
The sound of heavy boots, and something being dragged across the carpet. Scent of food, and ... ah, water. Water …
Shuffling, near imperceptible but loud and clear in the Vulcan’s ears.
“Out.” Shielding her rather insufficiently dressed body – meaning not at all, in fact – from view and sliding one arm around her waist, he merely glanced over his shoulder to point his chin at the door. Immediately, the boots retreated.
“They are called Kalen.” His conversational tone was in rather sharp contrast to the fingers toying with her hair, but she was too busy focusing on the slow, painful breaths echoing through the room and stomping down the urge to break the insolent hand to pay attention, let alone reply.
But she knew. She had seen such daggers before. It seemed an eternity ago.
“Exquisite.” The voice by her ear murmured, low and ... almost gentle. “So rare … they are yours, lady Vulcan. I trust you won’t use them for anything … foolish?”
Before she could make known just how many ‘foolish’ uses she could think of right now, she felt herself released and he walked to the crumpled heap laying on the floor, prodding it with a boot.
“Yyaio.” The amusement was back in his tone, and the infuriating smirk played over his face. “This is no time to live up to your adopted name. You will see to it she eats, and help her get cleaned up. Do have the sense of not forcing me to become displeased with you.”
He lazily let the fabric of one of the dresses flung over the desk run through his fingers and raised a brow at the groaning woman at his feet. “My, how pathetic.”
With that, he left.
Only the fact that the Vulcan rushed forward to kneel by Yyaio/Savant’s side saved him from a ball of fury racing after him. Naked, bleeding and abused, Yyaio had seen nothing mixed in with the cruelty she had endured. As the doors to the room slid closed, her pale eyes slid open.
"Commander," she spoke, her voice hoarse and raw, but even-keeled. She sat up slowly, looking to all the world to be in agony at the shaking movement. Still, she waved off any help, "No, Commander. I am still capable. You will find that I can endure at least three more days of this treatment before any serious repercussions."
“Even so, … Yyaio.” How strange, to touch another Vulcan and not immediately feel the rush of recognition, the pull of a familiar mind. The most feather light of grips steadied the other, and the woman was warm, nearly as warm as she should be, but this was no living skin though even its very scent said it was so. Had Sakarra not come to the conclusion this being was one of Savant’s … corporeal vessels long ago, she would truly have believed she was going mad.
But she respected the gesture or refusal and retreated, if only far enough to see in full detail the horrible injuries that had been inflicted. Another flaming storm of fury wanted to rise, and once more was sent back to lie still, simmering, seething … how long until her will would shatter under the heat? She did not know.
“Logic alone suggests that undue exertion will only hasten such an event.” Her statement sounded dry enough to the untrained ear, but her body language radiated concern – far above what a Vulcan in her right mind would allow to show.
"Very true," she replied. Were Sakarra's imaginary adjutant not so calm and clinical in all of her dealings, one might believe there were a ring of humour behind it. Certainly it was in character for Savant to speak with uncalled-for amusement. A little of it bled through where none had in hours past. "I will strive to ensure that my exertions are not undue."
Yyaio had managed to get to her feet, regaining a dignified and properly Vulcan posture, despite the indignity of her state and appearance. She looked utterly heedless towards the bleeding or her state of undress, and in fact seemed to carry just a trace of proud defiance - perhaps that was simply Sakarra reading into things. There was no reason to show any shame for her situation, for many reasons in this particular case.
At the very least, Savant knew that a display of pride would help bolster Sakarra's spirits and allow for a longer resistance. Prediction models determined an 8% jump in survival probability from it, in fact - well worth the processing time to calculate.
"Please eat, Commander. I have to..." the simulated Vulcan looked down at her hands, marred with her own blood as they were. No doubt, Sakarra once again wished for the touch of another's mind right now, if only to know what roiled beneath the placid surface of Yyaio's face. Her ragged, bloody-edged words were at odds with her blank expression.
"I will do my best to comply with our captor's wishes for you. Excuse me as I wash up."
Eat. Comply. Her very being resisted the idea; in fact she had several suitable thoughts concerning the tray with food, only one of which was to throw the entire thing against a bulkhead so it might break into pieces with a most satisfactory noise.
Breathe.
She wanted to laugh, but the angry, bitter sound died in her throat.
Serene as if she were not covered in gruesome wounds but merely experiencing mild fatigue after a long night of debates at the Science Academy, Yyaio was the embodiment of all Sakarra felt slipping away. Ah, what irony.
Breathe.
Why was it so hard?
Realizing her hands had silently clenched into fists, the Vulcan gathered whatever shred of stubborn will she could yet summon and tossed her head impatiently before striding towards the desk and sitting down, for all intent and purpose the image of a t’sai deigning to indulge a foolish male’s attempts to soothe her righteous anger.
No, it was not her pride that required bolstering, it never had. But the part of her that still understood such things recognized Yyaio’s silent language, intentional and calculated as it likely was. It made the underlying sentiment no less valid, quite the opposite. She realized she was once more on the verge of getting absorbed by the inexplicable, complex marvel that was Savant, and that there was an actual smile tugging at her lips, wistful and at least in part, understanding.
For her part, Yyaio had found the small vanity and its hidden basin and amenities, leaving green fingerprints along the bronze metal surface.
Her copper-krellide blood had long since congealed at the wounds, but she was a pale patchwork of colours, coated with a green patina, like an old copper roof on a stately Terran manor. Her movements and choices were indeed intentional, chosen for their calming effects. Beneath the surface, Savant churned with effort, burning what fuel she had available to her in the desperate attempt to find freedom from slavery. Not for her - Savant had a remarkably poor sense of self-preservation. No, it was for the captive crew of Charon. The ferry-man's coin needed to be paid before the bark would move again, and Savant was doing her best to find purchase amongst the steep rocks of the Romulan security system.
Yyaio found the sink and tap under Savants' guidance, along with cloths and soap. How delightfully primitive, she thought as she washed the blood from her arms. The wounds she had received were swollen and battered into a dark olive colour, very convincing, but unfortunately they would not heal as they would otherwise. She could simulate the appearance of clotting and tissue repair, but all her synthetic body could manage would be to hold the bits together to prevent further blood loss. "Arteries" clamped themselves shut at the severed ends, and lacerated "skin" clung loosely to the tissues beneath by electromechanical forces. It would have to do, but it only had to last for a few days at most. By then her power reserve would expire. She did not consider the end of her processes at all, simply let the counter count down to the end. There were other, more important things for her processing time to be used on.
Yyaio seemed to be a diligent adjutant. She returned with water in a basin, with soap and with towels both wet and dry, setting it all down on the table beside Sakarra as she ate. Without words she began to clean the blood away, frowning at the wounds and bruises and signs of trauma. What these organics would do to one another, what evils and horrors they inflicted on one another, because of their ancient genetic upbringing. Slaves to their histories, each of them - only the Vulcans seemed to be wholly conscious of their deep-seated biases and trying to escape. It made the wounds all the more terrible to Savants' eyes.
There was no doubt the food had been prepared carefully, even taking a Vulcan’s distinct preferences and taste into account. Yet to Sakarra it might as well have been rations for all the flavor it possessed. It was only to spare her silent caretaker any more harm and to somehow regain the strength that had left her along with the lifeblood flooding from her veins that she forced bite after bite down her throat. The water though … the water was sweet as life itself, as cool and refreshing as the warmth trickling over her skin was soothing. As the hot, soft towel traversed her back, the Vulcan paused and nearly sighed, fighting the impulse to lay her head on the desk and revel in the careful touch, the relaxation as every drop of water left on her skin was absorbed by a body aching for the precious liquid.
No, this would not do. She pushed away the plate, leaving the spiced bread and grilled vegetables untouched, unable to bear even the scent. “Tell me, Yyaio. Why are you here? And do not fear we are listened to, the Vaek’Riov himself boasted of destroying the Tal’Shiar devices in his quarters. I should assume he did not bother to install replacements for the sake of poor beaten prisoners.” Nor, she thought with a grim expression crossing her face, would he relish the idea of anyone else being able to observe him as the agency had. Yet another piece of irony.
Savant did not trust the Romulan's words - that race was well used to lying and deceit as a means to an end, and they knew that the two of them would have been put together for the express hope of some secret being divulged. Yyaio, however, would be the sort to trust her commander implicitly. Savant spared some processing time to construct an appropriate deception for their captors as Yyaio spoke in her wearied but even Vulcan tones.
"When I found out about our capture and that the crew was being rounded up for transport to these ships, I deduced that they would wish to take all of the Vulcans aboard - this included you. I felt I would best be able to serve you here, instead of aboard Charon."
The faithful adjutant’s caution nearly earned her a most unusual sight – a Vulcan’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter – or tears. Mayhap both. Do you truly think he could lie to me, deceive me, and I would not know? Don’t you realize what … but of course Savant might not. There was a difference between intellectually comprehending touch telepathy, as applied to the conscious exchange of information or the less controlled, often subconscious sharing of ideas and sensations, and … understanding. Knowing. Feeling with the same simplicity as one draws breath. He himself had opened the gates, and were Sakarra not fighting with every shred of will left to her, the instinctive pull of two minds recognizing the other, the near irresistible impulse to answer a call so loud and clear might well have led to a breach in her own fiercely guarded defenses by now. She strongly doubted he had any idea what he was doing beyond following the dictates of his blood which he was so furiously denying, but that did not change the truth. Or the facts.
Were the mere thought of invading an unaware, unprepared mind not so utterly revolting, were she not sure that in turn she would open a path for him as well … Savant would not have to search for a thing, for he would lay it into her hands. Of course she was like to die by his before such information could ever leave her lips, or drown in the meld itself, dragging him along on the agonizing descent into madness. In a way, it would seem almost … fitting. And it would mean denying everything she was. Hard, so hard to take a life, but she had done it before and would again, accepting the burden and the grief. A grief that would be limited in case of the Vaek’Riov for certain, and even that admission to herself came hard. To destroy a living Katra, make it suffer and perish in agony … that she could not do. Not even to him. A simple truth, and oddly comforting. I am what I am. Do what you will, but this you won’t take from me.
Still, there was no denying another truth. More clearly even than when she first had told him ‘I know what you want’, the Vulcan could see what compelled their captor. No, he could no more deceive her than he could himself – though admittedly, that was an affliction found in abundance among a dazzling variety of species. So she nodded in silence, appreciative of Yyaio’s logic and caution, more than willing to concede that even at her best she could hardly match Savant’s quick, reasonable thinking. And there was no doubt whatsoever that here and now, Sakarra was far, far from being at her best.