Among the mountain of notes penned by his own hand that my ancestor left me, there was a small note, solitary, at the edge of a sheet that did not bear anything else, and that, folded in its middle, enclosed, like an improper folder, the recording disc that contained this chapter.
This note said: Through the eyes of women.
I did not understand what this little note meant. Then I read the chapter. And I have comprehended.
My friends, that I or, if you prefer, my ancestor, or we both may be inveterate liars or not, this, believe me, does not matter. Indeed it does not matter anything at all.
What matters is what the eyes of women, their gaze, allow to observe, perceive.
The depth, the ineffable; the unfathomable universe... THE FORCE... that is possible to sense..
This note said: Through the eyes of women.
I did not understand what this little note meant. Then I read the chapter. And I have comprehended.
My friends, that I or, if you prefer, my ancestor, or we both may be inveterate liars or not, this, believe me, does not matter. Indeed it does not matter anything at all.
What matters is what the eyes of women, their gaze, allow to observe, perceive.
The depth, the ineffable; the unfathomable universe... THE FORCE... that is possible to sense..
This is the
of this very important document ... that is, of course, of this story... which tells what really was
and here I think it's definitely possible to understand what that little note wanted to mean
Chapter Four
There had been no time to analyze the flare which inflamed the screen; to ascertain what it was.
Sudden and deadly, like glowing lightning which ignited the sky with a dazzling red that hurt the eyes, a fire of havoc swooped down on the city.
Thunderstruck and struck dumb, they all saw the gleaming beam of light striking the energy bubble that encircled the town, sinking into it like a knife into butter.
It seemed to hurl itself, as if it were a fire demon, onto the splendid palaces, which trembled under its potency. The high walls started to fissure and split, as they were cut by the blazing blade, and then, with a heartbreaking slowness, they began to fall apart along the trail of destruction that the infernal death ray was following; unstoppable.
The horror-stricken eyes of Harrad-Sar and of his fellows watched the beam of havoc, cleaving the domes, the towers, and the minarets with surgical precision.
The unreal silence of the video broadcast revealed the mortal knife of energy as it ran across the city, with boulders springing upward in to the air, until the debris and dark clouds of dust covered everything, obscuring the screen.
Then a tremor running across the ground awakened them from their motionless bewilderment. The floor began to shake, slowly at first, then more and more strongly and more and more swiftly. The destruction made it impossible for them to remain on their feet, as the floor became corrugated with cliffy folds and contemporaneously broken with steep hollows.
A terrible din had irrupted and destroyed the silence.
Mingling with the deafening noise of the walls that were falling, the floors which were subsiding, the ceilings which were collapsing, the control panels which were exploding, the lights and screens which were melting in cascades of crackling sparks, it reached the isolated command room tearing through its walls, entering from the outside; from the streets that were being ripped apart and were filling with terrified people who thronged at doorways, who threw themselves from windows, who were desperately running, aimlessly seeking an escape from death as they dashed out of houses falling down on their heads. Only to find death, outside, under the palaces crumbling away from them as they were crushed by the mortal embrace of the hysterical crowd crammed in the streets that were illuminated by the light from blazes flaming up everywhere, piercing the reddish darkness that had taken the place of sunlight; as the lugubrious howl of the alarm sirens resonated around them.
Then, silence returned, bit by bit. A chilly, empty and scary silence which was only interrupted from time to time by the deep rumbling of explosions; by the noise of pieces of buildings rolling and falling; by the lonely sob of some obdurately active sirens, stubbornly sticking to do their useless job.
And the silence and the cold and the dark also swallowed up Harrad-Sar.
Excellent.
The Empress' eyes stroked the images scrolling on the screen with satisfaction, while the people on the bridge gave free vent to their exultation and Mayweather could not help but tighten his grip on her shoulder.
At her command, the dazzling tongue of destructive energy had ceased to exist in a split-second, and was swiftly gulped back into the womb of her ship.
The screen displayed the town of the rebels again, and what the Empress was able to see was very satisfactory indeed. It had been necessary to wait a little of time because the dust avalanches had to dissolve and all the debris come to rest on the ground but at last what they had been able to observe demonstrated that the deployment of the new and unique weapon had paid off.
Most of the buildings were half-destroyed, but not all of them, and the streets appeared torn, but not completely unusable. Among the fires it was possible to see people who were trying to understand what had happened; they were looking around in dismay and confusion but on the whole, the city was still standing. The soldiers had pulled themselves together and were desperately trying to bring order back, even while the huddle standing aghast impeded them and even though they were without officers to organize them, while the rescue teams in their vehicles were already - but chaotically - attempting to do their job.
Ultimately, the weapon had done what was required of it; bombs and photon torpedoes would have pulverized the town. Instead the surgical precision of the energy blade had badly wounded it without inflicting the finality of death.
Above all, the energy bubble that had surrounded the city; the one that had been the result of the reunited efforts of keener minds among the rebel scientists and which had promised to be a very hard barrier to shatter was no longer detectable, either visually or on the sensors. In reality, no source of energy was detectable, and the combatants were decapitated because their centre of operations, the command palace, was devastated and afire.
The city was substantially defenceless. And ready.
It was ready to be attacked by ground forces. It was ready to be conquered.
The Imperial Army would run rampant through it thanks to the collapse of the energy bubble. It would be able to do that without meeting any fierce and organized opposition. The lack of energy sources was an evident sign that there was no possibility that its defenders could use any of their powerful weapons to counter the advance of the troops of General Hayes.
The Empress smiled slightly with satisfaction. It was to be the final showdown: those who had dared defy her and the Human Empire would find death on the swords of her pitiless soldiers, acting under the control of her Army Chieftain. So, this was the way the rebellion would be choked off; that would be the end, the final act in the lives of the last rebels. That would be the way the enemies of the Empire would remember this great victory. That would be the imperishable admonishment she could hold against any other potential rebellions which might again snake through the Empire; through her Empire.
And, even more then that, any idea of revolution would be cut off at the roots and might never again be able to flourish because of the memory that people would hold of the spectacle of survivors facing their end at the claws of the brothers of those savage Humanoids who had failed to bring down their first prey.
The sudden remembrance of the one who had become her fixed idea, of a woman who she couldn't help but feel was now her archenemy, surfaced in her mind, after she had almost managed to forget that Vulcan bitch while engrossed in observing the course of recent events.
The Empress visibly frowned. No, it was not yet her showdown. The day of reckoning would be the one in which she would have that whore in her hands. Then she would make her pay not only for what she had done, but also for the blow that she, the Empress, had had to suffer because of her.
And if she, and whoever had saved her, were watching what was happening at this moment and what was about to happen – it was a idea that the Empress eagerly wished - they would be become aware that there was no escape; that she, Hoshi Sato the Great, couldn't be stopped; that no momentary standstill could deter her from her purpose; that the final victory would be hers.
And that Vulcan tart would regret that she had not to found her death the first time in the manner the Empress had devised.
So, the Monarch who had become the new and most pitiless face of the Human Empire, the one that an even more brutal Fate had given the ultimate power to; the woman from whom, as Human History will teach, had brought into the full light of day the worst side of acquired power, the grim darkness that the human soul is capable of harbouring inside and all the more so in a Universe that knew only obscurity, where the light of love seemed to be nothing else than a never expressed and hopeless desire, a feeble sigh too quiet to be heard…this Monarch stood up, to make real what her by now one-track mind, intoxicated by her power, thought should be done.
The voices, the noises, the comments and an undertone of relaxed laughter ceased abruptly. The Empress' gigolo placed himself at her side, though a little to her rear, out of respect, underlining the poignancy of the moment.
The Empress looked sternly around. She was about to write the rebellion's final scene and from there her domination could only grow greater. Yes, there would not be limits to her puissance. Not even... not even the other Universe would be safe. She should think about finding a way it could be reached, so that that ridiculous Federation might be erased.
By her own Empire.
Her eyes, - the eyes of a woman, which were able to shine in the way that only women's eyes could; unbelievably sweet if needed and fiercer than anyone could imagine if required - the eyes that were now the eyes of a woman of fate, were gleaming with the joy of her unlimited power.
She raised her arm and spoke in an unflinching and demanding tone.
"General Hayes!"
"Your Majesty?"
"To you."
The Empress' eyes stroked the images scrolling on the screen with satisfaction, while the people on the bridge gave free vent to their exultation and Mayweather could not help but tighten his grip on her shoulder.
At her command, the dazzling tongue of destructive energy had ceased to exist in a split-second, and was swiftly gulped back into the womb of her ship.
The screen displayed the town of the rebels again, and what the Empress was able to see was very satisfactory indeed. It had been necessary to wait a little of time because the dust avalanches had to dissolve and all the debris come to rest on the ground but at last what they had been able to observe demonstrated that the deployment of the new and unique weapon had paid off.
Most of the buildings were half-destroyed, but not all of them, and the streets appeared torn, but not completely unusable. Among the fires it was possible to see people who were trying to understand what had happened; they were looking around in dismay and confusion but on the whole, the city was still standing. The soldiers had pulled themselves together and were desperately trying to bring order back, even while the huddle standing aghast impeded them and even though they were without officers to organize them, while the rescue teams in their vehicles were already - but chaotically - attempting to do their job.
Ultimately, the weapon had done what was required of it; bombs and photon torpedoes would have pulverized the town. Instead the surgical precision of the energy blade had badly wounded it without inflicting the finality of death.
Above all, the energy bubble that had surrounded the city; the one that had been the result of the reunited efforts of keener minds among the rebel scientists and which had promised to be a very hard barrier to shatter was no longer detectable, either visually or on the sensors. In reality, no source of energy was detectable, and the combatants were decapitated because their centre of operations, the command palace, was devastated and afire.
The city was substantially defenceless. And ready.
It was ready to be attacked by ground forces. It was ready to be conquered.
The Imperial Army would run rampant through it thanks to the collapse of the energy bubble. It would be able to do that without meeting any fierce and organized opposition. The lack of energy sources was an evident sign that there was no possibility that its defenders could use any of their powerful weapons to counter the advance of the troops of General Hayes.
The Empress smiled slightly with satisfaction. It was to be the final showdown: those who had dared defy her and the Human Empire would find death on the swords of her pitiless soldiers, acting under the control of her Army Chieftain. So, this was the way the rebellion would be choked off; that would be the end, the final act in the lives of the last rebels. That would be the way the enemies of the Empire would remember this great victory. That would be the imperishable admonishment she could hold against any other potential rebellions which might again snake through the Empire; through her Empire.
And, even more then that, any idea of revolution would be cut off at the roots and might never again be able to flourish because of the memory that people would hold of the spectacle of survivors facing their end at the claws of the brothers of those savage Humanoids who had failed to bring down their first prey.
The sudden remembrance of the one who had become her fixed idea, of a woman who she couldn't help but feel was now her archenemy, surfaced in her mind, after she had almost managed to forget that Vulcan bitch while engrossed in observing the course of recent events.
The Empress visibly frowned. No, it was not yet her showdown. The day of reckoning would be the one in which she would have that whore in her hands. Then she would make her pay not only for what she had done, but also for the blow that she, the Empress, had had to suffer because of her.
And if she, and whoever had saved her, were watching what was happening at this moment and what was about to happen – it was a idea that the Empress eagerly wished - they would be become aware that there was no escape; that she, Hoshi Sato the Great, couldn't be stopped; that no momentary standstill could deter her from her purpose; that the final victory would be hers.
And that Vulcan tart would regret that she had not to found her death the first time in the manner the Empress had devised.
So, the Monarch who had become the new and most pitiless face of the Human Empire, the one that an even more brutal Fate had given the ultimate power to; the woman from whom, as Human History will teach, had brought into the full light of day the worst side of acquired power, the grim darkness that the human soul is capable of harbouring inside and all the more so in a Universe that knew only obscurity, where the light of love seemed to be nothing else than a never expressed and hopeless desire, a feeble sigh too quiet to be heard…this Monarch stood up, to make real what her by now one-track mind, intoxicated by her power, thought should be done.
The voices, the noises, the comments and an undertone of relaxed laughter ceased abruptly. The Empress' gigolo placed himself at her side, though a little to her rear, out of respect, underlining the poignancy of the moment.
The Empress looked sternly around. She was about to write the rebellion's final scene and from there her domination could only grow greater. Yes, there would not be limits to her puissance. Not even... not even the other Universe would be safe. She should think about finding a way it could be reached, so that that ridiculous Federation might be erased.
By her own Empire.
Her eyes, - the eyes of a woman, which were able to shine in the way that only women's eyes could; unbelievably sweet if needed and fiercer than anyone could imagine if required - the eyes that were now the eyes of a woman of fate, were gleaming with the joy of her unlimited power.
She raised her arm and spoke in an unflinching and demanding tone.
"General Hayes!"
"Your Majesty?"
"To you."
Harrad-Sar made an effort to open his eyes. A great and ponderous weight burdened his chest, making it hard and painful for him to breathe. His brain was befuddled; he was incapable of understanding where he was, even to remember who he was.
"Wake up!"
A voice struck him, sharp and pressing.
He attempted to understand what the person speaking to him was saying.
"Wake up. Now!"
Again, someone was trying to force him to emerge from his state of stupor.
Harrad-Sar fought hard to chase away the fog that oppressed his mind. He breathed deeply and immediately had to cough, as he convulsed, increasing the pain he felt all over his body; though that pushed away the fog, so that he could open his eyes and endeavour to see who was calling him. And in this way, he finally came back to reality.
There was a face peering down at him; uncomfortably close. He batted his eyelids, trying to make the vision clearer.
It was that Vulcan man. The one called Arev.
"Wake up!"
A voice struck him, sharp and pressing.
He attempted to understand what the person speaking to him was saying.
"Wake up. Now!"
Again, someone was trying to force him to emerge from his state of stupor.
Harrad-Sar fought hard to chase away the fog that oppressed his mind. He breathed deeply and immediately had to cough, as he convulsed, increasing the pain he felt all over his body; though that pushed away the fog, so that he could open his eyes and endeavour to see who was calling him. And in this way, he finally came back to reality.
There was a face peering down at him; uncomfortably close. He batted his eyelids, trying to make the vision clearer.
It was that Vulcan man. The one called Arev.
Hayes listened to the command of the Empress with unconcealed enjoyment.
Finally!
A stiff smile appeared on his face; taut and hard, as were most of the rare smiles he displayed.
It was time. His troops were free to assail the town. His eyes scrutinized the screens and the sensors in his command cockpit. The weapon had definitely done a good job; now it would be easy to carry out their mission. Hayes smiled again only this time in an easy and pleasant manner.
He decided to proceed with his Plan B. There was no need to use the war vehicles to smash the city's defences; they just had to stay there, surrounding the town to block any fugitives trying to find a way to escape.
He would use the Elite Guard, the corps made up of his most faithful men; the soldiers that were the backbone of the assault troops. And he would lead them personally. The General smiled again. Yes, he was the only one to command the job of combing the town for survivors.
The purpose was to crush any possibility of resistance, by fighting the residual rebellious forces, street to street, house to house. They had to be annihilated by him and his troops, while also holding the city without further destruction. In this way he would demonstrate the strength of the Empire. He and his men would mop up the town, killing anyone they picked up who showed less than a supine obedience, until there was nobody left alive able to withstand; until all of the leaders had been killed, if by some chance any of them still walked in this world.
Gloating with evil enjoyment, the General could not resist smiling one more time.
Well, maybe not only those who had shown submissiveness would be left alive; regardless of the behaviour they might display, his men would really appreciate some well shaped women as war booty. It would be a just reward for their hard work.
The General barked his command into the communication device.
"Plan B! Now! Men of the Imperial Guard make ready to proceed at my order!"
An evil smile did not leave his face while he observed with satisfaction the sure efficiency with which his troops rapidly executed his order; the way in which the war vehicles swiftly reached their correct positions.
He put on his combat helmet and then ordered that the exit hatches be opened.
He shouted loudly into the microphone. "Get down everyone! Follow me!"
Immediately afterwards, he jumped down through the hatch to the ground landing just beside his command vehicle.
He straightened and looked around at his men. They were jumping down from their vehicles and quickly lining up in rows, deploying themselves in an attack formation. In less than no time, they were all standing in an array, waiting for his next command.
A multitude of disciplined combatants, all Humans; perfectly equipped, perfectly armed, and perfectly trained. And absolutely flinty; educated to be ruthless and heartless.
With rapid strides, the General reached the head of the formation. He stared at his men for a short time before turning around, to look toward the city.
The scintillating domes were still there but they were broken and fumigant with dense spirals of smoke that rose up high into the sky, the blue of which was lost behind the intense glare of the many blazing buildings.
There would be death in there; the General could sniff it in the air. Yet there was also life and despair. And despair would push people to fight to the death so as not to suffer alive in the hands of the winners. That fate would be worse than death.
His eyes sparkled behind the helmet's visor.
A fate worse than death? For the men, maybe, and for children; but for the women... perhaps not such a terrible end. Or - the twinkle in his eyes became more marked - perhaps yes?
General Hayes raised his arm; his stentorian order accompanied by this gesture of command.
"Forward march!"
His feet hit the ground as if they were efficient pistons, and his men followed suit. The soil trembled under the rhythmic and gradually quickening beat of the army as they marched.
In a jiff, they would reach the town and spread through its devastated streets, bringing more terror and despair to it, as if the destructive beam hadn't been enough.
And the survivors would become acquainted with slavery.
And the women...
General Hayes accelerated the pace.
He hoped that there were Vulcan women among those who had been spared by the weapon. The experiences he had had with those Vulcan females who had the good fortune to fall into his hands had been…remarkable. Maybe they had been a little recalcitrant at first but once their defences were smashed...
And he knew very well how to smash their defences, along with some help from that Andorian torture device which had proved so useful against Vulcans, males… and females. Those women, who had the luck to taste that machine as well as Hayes' loving attentions, had become willing to do whatever he wanted; an infinity of very agreeable things (for him), in order not to face a repeat of those not perfectly pleasant trials. And those acts had been, in Hayes' experience, what no woman of any other race was capable of performing. That was a matter of fact. Patently, the love for perfection was really inborn to Vulcans. - The General nearly had to chuckle to himself. - In all cases and under all circumstances.
Suddenly – inexplicably - a tinge of envy stung his heart, which he was well able to understand…, together with…he didn't know…a…a sort of unknown and aching discontent.
How… how even more enjoyable would a nice Vulcan female be, if she did those things by her own free will? Without being forced? Except by the natural force of mutual attraction? Just as… – and there could be no other reason – that Vulcan woman, T'Pol, had been pushed into the arms of the now dead Chief Engineer?
General Hayes could not help but form a pensive and an unusual half-smile of uncertainty.
That Tucker... he had been like all of them; arrogant, self-centred, trusting only force. But he had looked so different, sometimes. When Hayes had been able to observe the Chief Engineer when he thought nobody was watching him... he had looked so strange... wistful, almost sombre, sorrowful and thoughtful... foreign in someway. With that scar that had made his features, which had once been agreeable, loathsome.
Why had the Vulcan, T'Pol, given herself to him? What had she seen in him that had made her desire to bind herself to him, a disfigured man? And to complete the measure; a Human, a member of a race that she plainly hated, judging from what she had done.
He had nothing to offer her in exchange.
Or, maybe, he did?
All of a sudden, Hayes remembered how Amanda Cole had looked. He had had her, many times, but he had never cared for her. Yet he had seen the sadness in her eyes, every time he had other females. He had laughed at her, and savoured his pride, the pride of being desired, just to make Amanda suffer, as a man has the right to do with any female. That was the law of the strongest, the law of the Empire, and of the Universe. It was His law. But then, why, now, when he was about to crown his efforts, when he would have glory, money, and weeping females begging at his feet... why was he thinking of her?
Of the sadness in her eyes?
What were these weird thoughts that had affected him at the very moment, they were about to reach the city?
Hayes closed his mind, purposely and firmly.
Enough, now.
He speeded up even more, and his soldiers followed his pace without question.
Enough.
He immersed himself in the intoxicating flavour of the adrenalin stream running rampant throughout the whole of his body.
It was time to kill, and nothing else could be allowed to get in his way.
But – and he didn't understand why - his mind was still twirling around thoughts of Tucker, and he couldn't stop himself. As if that man, Tucker, was a looming presence, even though he was dead. These thoughts occupied his mind just as he and the Empire were about to stop the rebellion once and for all.
Why?
Finally Hayes was forced to focus on his task. They were entering the town, and in spite of the fact that no real resistance was expected, they still needed to be prudent and totally mindful.
In unison with his soldiers, he levelled his weapon.
But – unwanted - a disturbing shadow remained in his mind. It was the persistent thought that Tucker was different; special. Yes, Hayes had to admit that was it. He was very special, in some way.
What had T'Pol's eyes seen in him that he - Hayes - lacked?
And…why had he seen the large and sad eyes of Amanda looking at him? They were so terribly sad; as if they were trying to tell him something he would never be able to understand.
Then, all his weird musings faded away in an instant: his rifle vomited his wrath against someone who had suddenly appeared in front of him. He fired without caring if it was a man, or a woman, or what their age was, or if he or she had intended to attack or beseech for his pity.
Finally!
A stiff smile appeared on his face; taut and hard, as were most of the rare smiles he displayed.
It was time. His troops were free to assail the town. His eyes scrutinized the screens and the sensors in his command cockpit. The weapon had definitely done a good job; now it would be easy to carry out their mission. Hayes smiled again only this time in an easy and pleasant manner.
He decided to proceed with his Plan B. There was no need to use the war vehicles to smash the city's defences; they just had to stay there, surrounding the town to block any fugitives trying to find a way to escape.
He would use the Elite Guard, the corps made up of his most faithful men; the soldiers that were the backbone of the assault troops. And he would lead them personally. The General smiled again. Yes, he was the only one to command the job of combing the town for survivors.
The purpose was to crush any possibility of resistance, by fighting the residual rebellious forces, street to street, house to house. They had to be annihilated by him and his troops, while also holding the city without further destruction. In this way he would demonstrate the strength of the Empire. He and his men would mop up the town, killing anyone they picked up who showed less than a supine obedience, until there was nobody left alive able to withstand; until all of the leaders had been killed, if by some chance any of them still walked in this world.
Gloating with evil enjoyment, the General could not resist smiling one more time.
Well, maybe not only those who had shown submissiveness would be left alive; regardless of the behaviour they might display, his men would really appreciate some well shaped women as war booty. It would be a just reward for their hard work.
The General barked his command into the communication device.
"Plan B! Now! Men of the Imperial Guard make ready to proceed at my order!"
An evil smile did not leave his face while he observed with satisfaction the sure efficiency with which his troops rapidly executed his order; the way in which the war vehicles swiftly reached their correct positions.
He put on his combat helmet and then ordered that the exit hatches be opened.
He shouted loudly into the microphone. "Get down everyone! Follow me!"
Immediately afterwards, he jumped down through the hatch to the ground landing just beside his command vehicle.
He straightened and looked around at his men. They were jumping down from their vehicles and quickly lining up in rows, deploying themselves in an attack formation. In less than no time, they were all standing in an array, waiting for his next command.
A multitude of disciplined combatants, all Humans; perfectly equipped, perfectly armed, and perfectly trained. And absolutely flinty; educated to be ruthless and heartless.
With rapid strides, the General reached the head of the formation. He stared at his men for a short time before turning around, to look toward the city.
The scintillating domes were still there but they were broken and fumigant with dense spirals of smoke that rose up high into the sky, the blue of which was lost behind the intense glare of the many blazing buildings.
There would be death in there; the General could sniff it in the air. Yet there was also life and despair. And despair would push people to fight to the death so as not to suffer alive in the hands of the winners. That fate would be worse than death.
His eyes sparkled behind the helmet's visor.
A fate worse than death? For the men, maybe, and for children; but for the women... perhaps not such a terrible end. Or - the twinkle in his eyes became more marked - perhaps yes?
General Hayes raised his arm; his stentorian order accompanied by this gesture of command.
"Forward march!"
His feet hit the ground as if they were efficient pistons, and his men followed suit. The soil trembled under the rhythmic and gradually quickening beat of the army as they marched.
In a jiff, they would reach the town and spread through its devastated streets, bringing more terror and despair to it, as if the destructive beam hadn't been enough.
And the survivors would become acquainted with slavery.
And the women...
General Hayes accelerated the pace.
He hoped that there were Vulcan women among those who had been spared by the weapon. The experiences he had had with those Vulcan females who had the good fortune to fall into his hands had been…remarkable. Maybe they had been a little recalcitrant at first but once their defences were smashed...
And he knew very well how to smash their defences, along with some help from that Andorian torture device which had proved so useful against Vulcans, males… and females. Those women, who had the luck to taste that machine as well as Hayes' loving attentions, had become willing to do whatever he wanted; an infinity of very agreeable things (for him), in order not to face a repeat of those not perfectly pleasant trials. And those acts had been, in Hayes' experience, what no woman of any other race was capable of performing. That was a matter of fact. Patently, the love for perfection was really inborn to Vulcans. - The General nearly had to chuckle to himself. - In all cases and under all circumstances.
Suddenly – inexplicably - a tinge of envy stung his heart, which he was well able to understand…, together with…he didn't know…a…a sort of unknown and aching discontent.
How… how even more enjoyable would a nice Vulcan female be, if she did those things by her own free will? Without being forced? Except by the natural force of mutual attraction? Just as… – and there could be no other reason – that Vulcan woman, T'Pol, had been pushed into the arms of the now dead Chief Engineer?
General Hayes could not help but form a pensive and an unusual half-smile of uncertainty.
That Tucker... he had been like all of them; arrogant, self-centred, trusting only force. But he had looked so different, sometimes. When Hayes had been able to observe the Chief Engineer when he thought nobody was watching him... he had looked so strange... wistful, almost sombre, sorrowful and thoughtful... foreign in someway. With that scar that had made his features, which had once been agreeable, loathsome.
Why had the Vulcan, T'Pol, given herself to him? What had she seen in him that had made her desire to bind herself to him, a disfigured man? And to complete the measure; a Human, a member of a race that she plainly hated, judging from what she had done.
He had nothing to offer her in exchange.
Or, maybe, he did?
All of a sudden, Hayes remembered how Amanda Cole had looked. He had had her, many times, but he had never cared for her. Yet he had seen the sadness in her eyes, every time he had other females. He had laughed at her, and savoured his pride, the pride of being desired, just to make Amanda suffer, as a man has the right to do with any female. That was the law of the strongest, the law of the Empire, and of the Universe. It was His law. But then, why, now, when he was about to crown his efforts, when he would have glory, money, and weeping females begging at his feet... why was he thinking of her?
Of the sadness in her eyes?
What were these weird thoughts that had affected him at the very moment, they were about to reach the city?
Hayes closed his mind, purposely and firmly.
Enough, now.
He speeded up even more, and his soldiers followed his pace without question.
Enough.
He immersed himself in the intoxicating flavour of the adrenalin stream running rampant throughout the whole of his body.
It was time to kill, and nothing else could be allowed to get in his way.
But – and he didn't understand why - his mind was still twirling around thoughts of Tucker, and he couldn't stop himself. As if that man, Tucker, was a looming presence, even though he was dead. These thoughts occupied his mind just as he and the Empire were about to stop the rebellion once and for all.
Why?
Finally Hayes was forced to focus on his task. They were entering the town, and in spite of the fact that no real resistance was expected, they still needed to be prudent and totally mindful.
In unison with his soldiers, he levelled his weapon.
But – unwanted - a disturbing shadow remained in his mind. It was the persistent thought that Tucker was different; special. Yes, Hayes had to admit that was it. He was very special, in some way.
What had T'Pol's eyes seen in him that he - Hayes - lacked?
And…why had he seen the large and sad eyes of Amanda looking at him? They were so terribly sad; as if they were trying to tell him something he would never be able to understand.
Then, all his weird musings faded away in an instant: his rifle vomited his wrath against someone who had suddenly appeared in front of him. He fired without caring if it was a man, or a woman, or what their age was, or if he or she had intended to attack or beseech for his pity.
Phlox was heartened when at last he could close the door behind Tucker - the General had finally gone away. At least something was going well, finally, after the mess his life had become when he had given into the tempting requests of Soval and T'Pol. Tempting - Phlox sighed – those opportunities had turned out to be damn dangerous in reality. His thoughts caused Phlox to laugh secretly to himself. His life? A mess? That word didn't give justice to what his life had become. He didn't even know how it was possible he was still alive; how he had escaped Human vengeance. The last thing he remembered was being knocked out by Tucker. He had lost consciousness and then when he had woken up he found himself in a cell.
Phlox remembered well his first thoughts when he had regained consciousness in that brig: surely Tucker had informed someone about what he had tried to do, and he had been dragged to prison to wait for a gentle interrogation, and then, obviously, execution. But, when he had been able to think coherently, he had seen that it wasn't a prison he could recognize. It wasn't built like the brig in a Human ship, even if this ship was from another Universe or even from the future of another Universe.
It was different; alien.
He had laboriously stood up, attempting to control his astonishment and the fear that he felt deep down.
He had examined the bare walls of the brig, noting anything which could be a surveillance device; the technology was completely different from anything else he had known. They were marked with symbols that did not belong to any Human alphabets or even any other alphabet he had ever seen.
He had fingered the door, a true and solid door, not like the barrier of metal bars he had seen on Human ships.
Finally, he had done the only thing he could do: he had shouted out loud and hoped he was not making a mistake. "Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here? What do you want from me?"
He had heard his own voice resound and be deadened by the thick walls that enclosed the narrow room, which only increased the scary estrangement that he felt.
Nobody had responded; not one movement, not a single noise.
He had raised his voice once more; a thrill of true fear in his tone, "Answer me, damn it!"
But there hadn't been a response. And that was how it continued from then on.
He had yelled lots of times, hammered on the door and the walls with his fists, cussed and beseeched; but there had been no answer, not once.
He had been so desperate and fearful that he started to believe that he would finish his days in that unknown and solitary cell, without seeing or hearing anyone. He would not ever know why and how he was there and who had imprisoned him. He did not know what he should do as he consumed his never-ending time between meals, which were automatically served by invisible devices while his physiological needs continued to be ignored by his jailors.
And, as an unknown and unexpected pain had gnawed at him, a thought began to form in his mind: this could be a punishment for his flagitious life; a punishment for his disloyalty toward the Empire.
Then, suddenly, on an otherwise unremarkable day, the door of the brig had opened and two tall and brawny guards appeared, their faces covered and wearing strange uniforms that seemed to be a type of leather armour. Without speaking, they had made their meaning plain – he was commanded to exit the cell. They then silently led him – Phlox not daring to say anything, dungy, unshaven and smelly; hopeful and fearful at the same time - along a corridor, until they reached a room where there were people - people who were not hiding their faces... their different faces.., and the strange aliens were talking to a person with blond hair, who had his back to Phlox.
While had he observed - his mind in a daze - the visages of the people standing in the room, one of his guards said in a loud voice.
"General Tucker."
And, before he had managed to fully take in the importance of what had been said, the man turned towards him and he had found himself face to face with the ex-Chief Engineer of Enterprise, and of Defiant.
That sardonic grin that was very characteristic of the man was painted on his face; he wore a weird and scary barbaric uniform which was the same in all respects to those worn by the guards and all the other people in the room. His scar looked subtly threatening in the dark room; a room which seemed like a sort of foreign sickbay. The Commander, surrounded by those silent and visibly unfriendly people - who looked Vulcans, but were not Vulcans – had all sarcastically greeted him, openly laughing at his evident bewilderment.
"A warn welcome to you, Doctor."
Phlox had been lost for words. Tucker grinned and then enquired:
"I hope your present aspect doesn't mean you won't be able to do your job."
Then he had become serious, speaking in a hard voice, while staring intensely at him.
"Your services are needed, Phlox."
Tucker had not even given him time to recover, to try to understand or even breathe. He had grasped him by his arm and dragged him toward a bed by the far wall of the room, situated beyond the group, all of whom had to stand aside to allow them to approach it.
Without speaking, the Commander had pointed towards the bed.
Phlox could not remember that moment without feeling a shiver run through his spine.
On the bed, he had seen T'Pol.
Or more accurately what had remained of T'Pol.
Although he was a sadistic and heartless doctor, he still shuddered in horror at the sight of her.
The splendid and vital woman that he had known was lying unconscious on the bed; clumps of her hair had been ripped from her head and she was covered in green blood - her blood. Her face looked swollen and yet also emaciated; she was unrecognizable. Blood and horrible bruises coated her nude shoulders and gaunt arms peeping out from the blanket, which mercifully hid her body, and which was also drenched with green blood.
Phlox had seen that she was still breathing; however it was just like someone about to give up the ghost.
Tucker's taut voice had further shaken him. "She must live, Doc. And recover well and completely."
Phlox had turned toward him, his mouth open to speak. But Tucker had cut him off and something in the General's expression had told him that it was better that he say nothing and not ask any questions.
Tucker had stared at him and then limited himself to a brief terse sentence, "You heard me, Phlox."
Yes, Phlox had heard Tucker and understood what he wanted from him. He repressed his astonishment, ignoring all that surrounded him as he restrained himself from asking all the questions which crowded his brain. He had felt that Tucker, the man who stood in front of him... was a Tucker that it was best not to contradict.
That man had watched him with a strained look on his face. He had then spoken bluntly to him.
"The brig you have been released from should have been your destiny, Doctor, and I would have liked to have kept you in it for eternity. But T'Pol needs your ability to heal."
Phlox remembered very well the Tucker's harsh face as he continued to speak.
"You will have all the time of the world to recover and to get cleaned up, Phlox. But before that you must cure – and help T'Pol to heal."
Tucker had backed away and then pivoted on his heels, heading for the sickbay's exit. All the people had then exited the room while the General hung back, remaining near to the door, and looking back at him with bristly eyes. Although his look was less bristly than the tone with which he issued instructions to the Phlox.
"You will have all you need, Doctor. The means, help, instruments; any device you need, all that you require, Doctor. You have only to ask. But remember: she must be healed; her body and her mind. See that you don't discover that prison would have been a marvellous destiny, in comparison with what you will experience if you fail to meet my orders."
Tucker had lingered at the door, for a moment longer. He had spoken one last time.
"She. Must. Heal."
Then he was gone.
The Doctor returned his thoughts to the present and turned around, breathing deeply, while looking at the woman who was on the mend, with unrepressed relief.
On the mend, thanks to heaven, on the mend! And soon she would be completely healed!
He didn't even dare think what Tucker – or rather General Tucker, as he was now - would have done to him, if he had failed to deliver in this task.
He had worked hard, day and night, night and day, without interruption; he watched and made up his cures, not stopping his care even while snatching some food, not even while he was taking care of his own needs, even while he slept. Expectantly and timorously he spied on any tiny change, or any wished for progress he could detect in the comatose Vulcan. Using all his skilfulness and knowledge that, as Tucker had told him, were required in order to cure T'Pol, because he alone had the power to heal, unlike the people he and Tucker were among.
And Phlox found that very strange considering what he later understood them to be. Or maybe it was not all that strange, if considering all the time that had passed since the Vulcans and these people...
But, on the other hand, the inevitable interaction he had to have with them so that he could acquire what he needed to cure T'Pol made him aware that they were a race for whom healing the badly injured or sick was, in reality, the least of their concerns. The sickbay was a place where people were taken who could be easily treated in order to return to combat. Nothing else was considered important. And those who were weak and useless... well... they would were left to die.
They were like Humans - or even worse than Humans.
And like Humans, or even more than Humans, they despised Vulcans, despite what they and Vulcans were; despite the evidence of their common origin.
He would never have believed that such a threatening race, that seemed to prefer to spy on others from afar with unclear intentions, could have something connection to Vulcans, but it was so.
Their words, the broken conversations he had listened in on, as well as what Tucker had revealed, even if not spelt out fully, had made him aware about a lot of what was happening.
But he did not know everything.
Why were these people there? What did they want? How had Tucker come to be with them and why? How had he been able to gain their loyalty and help? And what had he given in exchange? How had he managed to be recognised as General Tucker, by these people? How had it been possible for him to elude his death, if what he had told T'Pol when she woke up was true? Namely, that he had escaped certain death, which evidently T'Pol had been persuaded, was true? And exactly how had he, Phlox, also managed to cheat death – which he could only guess at, based on what little Tucker had said. It was clear that Tucker had saved him; but how and why? Oh, but of course, he was there to cure T'Pol. But why had General Tucker wanted him to cure her, let alone save her - the Doctor had become aware of this – at risk to his own life?
Why?
Phlox thought of the scene he had just witnessed between the General and T'Pol. He thought about Tucker's behaviour, about his words.
Was it possible?
The Doctor was what he was; a son of that Universe, of the circumstances and the unresolved aggressiveness that were part of that Universe; and he, himself, was part of the natural and untamed violence that were integral to all living beings and that had brought all of them to where they were now. It was certain that he would never dissolve in tears because cute puppy was dying under his knife; but he had the knowledge, he knew, even as he had made his life choices, that there was another way; a different way of living. Maybe he found it difficult to understand such things; after all, all he really wanted was some well shaped, ready and willing concubines. However, he still could recognize those… those incomprehensible things, as far from his way of being and thinking as they might be.
But…Tucker?
A Human, a single member of the race that had pushed all of them to become what they were, to an extreme degree? Sure, he was different somehow, even a little special; that was commonly known. But... but this?
And... and T'Pol? Was it possible that she also… she also…?
The Doctor looked at the face of the Vulcan.
She was staring at the door, as if trying to see beyond it, to the man who had disappeared from her view.
And there was a strange expression on her face.
Something... dreamlike, Phlox thought.
She realized he was observing her, and started to speak. "Doctor..."
Phlox knew she wanted to him answer all the questions she had in her mind and, regardless of the fact he didn't have any response to give her, he promptly blocked her attempt. "No, T'Pol. Not now. You must rest, and recover."
He purposely watched her. "Remember what General Tucker said."
The Vulcan stopped immediately and watched Phlox intensely. Then her body visibly relaxed and she closed her eyes.
While surrendering to her need for sleep, she spoke in a low and perceptibly content voice.
"Yes. I must obey him."
In a daze, Phlox absorbed the image, the behaviour, and the words of a T'Pol who he didn't recognize. Sure, the terrific ordeal she had to bear could be a satisfactory explanation, and in some way, unscramble her unusual and… and illogical conduct.
But, really? Could it completely explain this change in her?
And…what about Tucker?
The Doctor thought about him and the not in a totally sympathetic but still plainly respectful way - Phlox could bet that their regard was forcibly achieved – that he was treated by their unpleasant and overawing hosts.
Was there really something different about Tucker? Or could there be something really special about him?
The Doctor observed the Vulcan woman who was placidly resting on the bed. He saw that following her interaction with Tucker she now had a peaceful expression on her visage. Then he thought of the task she had conceived and worked on; the idea of a revolt, at the very core of the new Empire's force. She had been the source and the engine for this conspiracy, capable of involving Soval and him to achieve her purpose, as well as many other women and men. Intelligence? Cleverness? Adroitness? Courage? Determination? Those words were not sufficient to describe her ability and bravery.
A bravery that had cost her very dear - Phlox had been told all about what had happened to her by Tucker, so that he would be better placed to cure her.
And Tucker, by means of what sort of circumstances – Accidental? Deliberately sought? - only the devil could know, and with some unknown skill, had saved her, regardless of what she had done. Regardless of the fact he was a Human, and a Human betrayed by her; twice betrayed, both as a member of the Empire and as a man. She had betrayed his male pride and his good faith; not by betraying him with another man, but by deceiving his loyalty and expectation based on the promises she made. She had broken her pledge to love him without conditions, she acted with a hidden agenda, with an ulterior motive, which is the worst thing that a woman can do to a man. Tucker had understood this, and his bitterness and disappointment had been so deep and too great for him to express - even in half words - the roughness of his disappointment, his sadness. Yes; in the light of what he had seen pass between Tucker and T'Pol, Phlox could affirm that that term - sadness - was fitting.
And what other feeling, if not something even deeper – Different, Special - could the man have, who not only was determined to save T'Pol, at any cost, but also willing to rescue him, Phlox, to heal her? Despite the patent contempt, Tucker felt for him, the fact he still breathed was evidence that he had been saved by a man who had made it unequivocally clear that he had been given a task that should absolutely be accomplished.
Eh, he was a very special Human man.
Definitely.
But...
In the silence that descended in the room, the Doctor went on mulling over all that had happened and, not least, on the incredible force, the indomitable courage T'Pol had displayed in her desperate fight, as he had witnessed in the recording Tucker had given him, at his request, in order to know the exact nature of her physical and mental wounds. But he was also impressed by the equally amazing way in which she entrusted herself to Tucker, now, in spite of everything. Yes, in spite of everything.
How… how much had it cost T'Pol to deceive Tucker? Was it possible that even unconsciously she had to bend his logic for doing such a thing? Because… because… in reality…she…
If indeed, it was possible? Damnit, how it was! Phlox remembered the look he had seen in T'Pol's eyes, when she had watched Tucker. And now that he thought on it, he had seen that look a few times, even during their past relationship.
The eyes of T'Pol…
The eyes of a woman...
Could the eyes of a woman reveal what the woman does not even know about herself?
And what could they do to a man, the eyes of a woman?
Could they change him?
Could they have changed the destiny of this man? And, together with his, her destiny too, maybe without either of them ever realizing this fact?
The Doctor, with an unusual pensiveness, looked around, musing about where he was, about all things that had happened, about the road that destiny set them all on; what the future held for T'Pol, for Tucker, for him and for everyone.
Could the hidden and unfathomable strength unveiled in T'Pol's eyes change the destiny of the Empire?
Oh sure, Tucker was undeniably a very special Human man.
But what part would a very special Vulcan female play?
Phlox remembered well his first thoughts when he had regained consciousness in that brig: surely Tucker had informed someone about what he had tried to do, and he had been dragged to prison to wait for a gentle interrogation, and then, obviously, execution. But, when he had been able to think coherently, he had seen that it wasn't a prison he could recognize. It wasn't built like the brig in a Human ship, even if this ship was from another Universe or even from the future of another Universe.
It was different; alien.
He had laboriously stood up, attempting to control his astonishment and the fear that he felt deep down.
He had examined the bare walls of the brig, noting anything which could be a surveillance device; the technology was completely different from anything else he had known. They were marked with symbols that did not belong to any Human alphabets or even any other alphabet he had ever seen.
He had fingered the door, a true and solid door, not like the barrier of metal bars he had seen on Human ships.
Finally, he had done the only thing he could do: he had shouted out loud and hoped he was not making a mistake. "Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here? What do you want from me?"
He had heard his own voice resound and be deadened by the thick walls that enclosed the narrow room, which only increased the scary estrangement that he felt.
Nobody had responded; not one movement, not a single noise.
He had raised his voice once more; a thrill of true fear in his tone, "Answer me, damn it!"
But there hadn't been a response. And that was how it continued from then on.
He had yelled lots of times, hammered on the door and the walls with his fists, cussed and beseeched; but there had been no answer, not once.
He had been so desperate and fearful that he started to believe that he would finish his days in that unknown and solitary cell, without seeing or hearing anyone. He would not ever know why and how he was there and who had imprisoned him. He did not know what he should do as he consumed his never-ending time between meals, which were automatically served by invisible devices while his physiological needs continued to be ignored by his jailors.
And, as an unknown and unexpected pain had gnawed at him, a thought began to form in his mind: this could be a punishment for his flagitious life; a punishment for his disloyalty toward the Empire.
Then, suddenly, on an otherwise unremarkable day, the door of the brig had opened and two tall and brawny guards appeared, their faces covered and wearing strange uniforms that seemed to be a type of leather armour. Without speaking, they had made their meaning plain – he was commanded to exit the cell. They then silently led him – Phlox not daring to say anything, dungy, unshaven and smelly; hopeful and fearful at the same time - along a corridor, until they reached a room where there were people - people who were not hiding their faces... their different faces.., and the strange aliens were talking to a person with blond hair, who had his back to Phlox.
While had he observed - his mind in a daze - the visages of the people standing in the room, one of his guards said in a loud voice.
"General Tucker."
And, before he had managed to fully take in the importance of what had been said, the man turned towards him and he had found himself face to face with the ex-Chief Engineer of Enterprise, and of Defiant.
That sardonic grin that was very characteristic of the man was painted on his face; he wore a weird and scary barbaric uniform which was the same in all respects to those worn by the guards and all the other people in the room. His scar looked subtly threatening in the dark room; a room which seemed like a sort of foreign sickbay. The Commander, surrounded by those silent and visibly unfriendly people - who looked Vulcans, but were not Vulcans – had all sarcastically greeted him, openly laughing at his evident bewilderment.
"A warn welcome to you, Doctor."
Phlox had been lost for words. Tucker grinned and then enquired:
"I hope your present aspect doesn't mean you won't be able to do your job."
Then he had become serious, speaking in a hard voice, while staring intensely at him.
"Your services are needed, Phlox."
Tucker had not even given him time to recover, to try to understand or even breathe. He had grasped him by his arm and dragged him toward a bed by the far wall of the room, situated beyond the group, all of whom had to stand aside to allow them to approach it.
Without speaking, the Commander had pointed towards the bed.
Phlox could not remember that moment without feeling a shiver run through his spine.
On the bed, he had seen T'Pol.
Or more accurately what had remained of T'Pol.
Although he was a sadistic and heartless doctor, he still shuddered in horror at the sight of her.
The splendid and vital woman that he had known was lying unconscious on the bed; clumps of her hair had been ripped from her head and she was covered in green blood - her blood. Her face looked swollen and yet also emaciated; she was unrecognizable. Blood and horrible bruises coated her nude shoulders and gaunt arms peeping out from the blanket, which mercifully hid her body, and which was also drenched with green blood.
Phlox had seen that she was still breathing; however it was just like someone about to give up the ghost.
Tucker's taut voice had further shaken him. "She must live, Doc. And recover well and completely."
Phlox had turned toward him, his mouth open to speak. But Tucker had cut him off and something in the General's expression had told him that it was better that he say nothing and not ask any questions.
Tucker had stared at him and then limited himself to a brief terse sentence, "You heard me, Phlox."
Yes, Phlox had heard Tucker and understood what he wanted from him. He repressed his astonishment, ignoring all that surrounded him as he restrained himself from asking all the questions which crowded his brain. He had felt that Tucker, the man who stood in front of him... was a Tucker that it was best not to contradict.
That man had watched him with a strained look on his face. He had then spoken bluntly to him.
"The brig you have been released from should have been your destiny, Doctor, and I would have liked to have kept you in it for eternity. But T'Pol needs your ability to heal."
Phlox remembered very well the Tucker's harsh face as he continued to speak.
"You will have all the time of the world to recover and to get cleaned up, Phlox. But before that you must cure – and help T'Pol to heal."
Tucker had backed away and then pivoted on his heels, heading for the sickbay's exit. All the people had then exited the room while the General hung back, remaining near to the door, and looking back at him with bristly eyes. Although his look was less bristly than the tone with which he issued instructions to the Phlox.
"You will have all you need, Doctor. The means, help, instruments; any device you need, all that you require, Doctor. You have only to ask. But remember: she must be healed; her body and her mind. See that you don't discover that prison would have been a marvellous destiny, in comparison with what you will experience if you fail to meet my orders."
Tucker had lingered at the door, for a moment longer. He had spoken one last time.
"She. Must. Heal."
Then he was gone.
The Doctor returned his thoughts to the present and turned around, breathing deeply, while looking at the woman who was on the mend, with unrepressed relief.
On the mend, thanks to heaven, on the mend! And soon she would be completely healed!
He didn't even dare think what Tucker – or rather General Tucker, as he was now - would have done to him, if he had failed to deliver in this task.
He had worked hard, day and night, night and day, without interruption; he watched and made up his cures, not stopping his care even while snatching some food, not even while he was taking care of his own needs, even while he slept. Expectantly and timorously he spied on any tiny change, or any wished for progress he could detect in the comatose Vulcan. Using all his skilfulness and knowledge that, as Tucker had told him, were required in order to cure T'Pol, because he alone had the power to heal, unlike the people he and Tucker were among.
And Phlox found that very strange considering what he later understood them to be. Or maybe it was not all that strange, if considering all the time that had passed since the Vulcans and these people...
But, on the other hand, the inevitable interaction he had to have with them so that he could acquire what he needed to cure T'Pol made him aware that they were a race for whom healing the badly injured or sick was, in reality, the least of their concerns. The sickbay was a place where people were taken who could be easily treated in order to return to combat. Nothing else was considered important. And those who were weak and useless... well... they would were left to die.
They were like Humans - or even worse than Humans.
And like Humans, or even more than Humans, they despised Vulcans, despite what they and Vulcans were; despite the evidence of their common origin.
He would never have believed that such a threatening race, that seemed to prefer to spy on others from afar with unclear intentions, could have something connection to Vulcans, but it was so.
Their words, the broken conversations he had listened in on, as well as what Tucker had revealed, even if not spelt out fully, had made him aware about a lot of what was happening.
But he did not know everything.
Why were these people there? What did they want? How had Tucker come to be with them and why? How had he been able to gain their loyalty and help? And what had he given in exchange? How had he managed to be recognised as General Tucker, by these people? How had it been possible for him to elude his death, if what he had told T'Pol when she woke up was true? Namely, that he had escaped certain death, which evidently T'Pol had been persuaded, was true? And exactly how had he, Phlox, also managed to cheat death – which he could only guess at, based on what little Tucker had said. It was clear that Tucker had saved him; but how and why? Oh, but of course, he was there to cure T'Pol. But why had General Tucker wanted him to cure her, let alone save her - the Doctor had become aware of this – at risk to his own life?
Why?
Phlox thought of the scene he had just witnessed between the General and T'Pol. He thought about Tucker's behaviour, about his words.
Was it possible?
The Doctor was what he was; a son of that Universe, of the circumstances and the unresolved aggressiveness that were part of that Universe; and he, himself, was part of the natural and untamed violence that were integral to all living beings and that had brought all of them to where they were now. It was certain that he would never dissolve in tears because cute puppy was dying under his knife; but he had the knowledge, he knew, even as he had made his life choices, that there was another way; a different way of living. Maybe he found it difficult to understand such things; after all, all he really wanted was some well shaped, ready and willing concubines. However, he still could recognize those… those incomprehensible things, as far from his way of being and thinking as they might be.
But…Tucker?
A Human, a single member of the race that had pushed all of them to become what they were, to an extreme degree? Sure, he was different somehow, even a little special; that was commonly known. But... but this?
And... and T'Pol? Was it possible that she also… she also…?
The Doctor looked at the face of the Vulcan.
She was staring at the door, as if trying to see beyond it, to the man who had disappeared from her view.
And there was a strange expression on her face.
Something... dreamlike, Phlox thought.
She realized he was observing her, and started to speak. "Doctor..."
Phlox knew she wanted to him answer all the questions she had in her mind and, regardless of the fact he didn't have any response to give her, he promptly blocked her attempt. "No, T'Pol. Not now. You must rest, and recover."
He purposely watched her. "Remember what General Tucker said."
The Vulcan stopped immediately and watched Phlox intensely. Then her body visibly relaxed and she closed her eyes.
While surrendering to her need for sleep, she spoke in a low and perceptibly content voice.
"Yes. I must obey him."
In a daze, Phlox absorbed the image, the behaviour, and the words of a T'Pol who he didn't recognize. Sure, the terrific ordeal she had to bear could be a satisfactory explanation, and in some way, unscramble her unusual and… and illogical conduct.
But, really? Could it completely explain this change in her?
And…what about Tucker?
The Doctor thought about him and the not in a totally sympathetic but still plainly respectful way - Phlox could bet that their regard was forcibly achieved – that he was treated by their unpleasant and overawing hosts.
Was there really something different about Tucker? Or could there be something really special about him?
The Doctor observed the Vulcan woman who was placidly resting on the bed. He saw that following her interaction with Tucker she now had a peaceful expression on her visage. Then he thought of the task she had conceived and worked on; the idea of a revolt, at the very core of the new Empire's force. She had been the source and the engine for this conspiracy, capable of involving Soval and him to achieve her purpose, as well as many other women and men. Intelligence? Cleverness? Adroitness? Courage? Determination? Those words were not sufficient to describe her ability and bravery.
A bravery that had cost her very dear - Phlox had been told all about what had happened to her by Tucker, so that he would be better placed to cure her.
And Tucker, by means of what sort of circumstances – Accidental? Deliberately sought? - only the devil could know, and with some unknown skill, had saved her, regardless of what she had done. Regardless of the fact he was a Human, and a Human betrayed by her; twice betrayed, both as a member of the Empire and as a man. She had betrayed his male pride and his good faith; not by betraying him with another man, but by deceiving his loyalty and expectation based on the promises she made. She had broken her pledge to love him without conditions, she acted with a hidden agenda, with an ulterior motive, which is the worst thing that a woman can do to a man. Tucker had understood this, and his bitterness and disappointment had been so deep and too great for him to express - even in half words - the roughness of his disappointment, his sadness. Yes; in the light of what he had seen pass between Tucker and T'Pol, Phlox could affirm that that term - sadness - was fitting.
And what other feeling, if not something even deeper – Different, Special - could the man have, who not only was determined to save T'Pol, at any cost, but also willing to rescue him, Phlox, to heal her? Despite the patent contempt, Tucker felt for him, the fact he still breathed was evidence that he had been saved by a man who had made it unequivocally clear that he had been given a task that should absolutely be accomplished.
Eh, he was a very special Human man.
Definitely.
But...
In the silence that descended in the room, the Doctor went on mulling over all that had happened and, not least, on the incredible force, the indomitable courage T'Pol had displayed in her desperate fight, as he had witnessed in the recording Tucker had given him, at his request, in order to know the exact nature of her physical and mental wounds. But he was also impressed by the equally amazing way in which she entrusted herself to Tucker, now, in spite of everything. Yes, in spite of everything.
How… how much had it cost T'Pol to deceive Tucker? Was it possible that even unconsciously she had to bend his logic for doing such a thing? Because… because… in reality…she…
If indeed, it was possible? Damnit, how it was! Phlox remembered the look he had seen in T'Pol's eyes, when she had watched Tucker. And now that he thought on it, he had seen that look a few times, even during their past relationship.
The eyes of T'Pol…
The eyes of a woman...
Could the eyes of a woman reveal what the woman does not even know about herself?
And what could they do to a man, the eyes of a woman?
Could they change him?
Could they have changed the destiny of this man? And, together with his, her destiny too, maybe without either of them ever realizing this fact?
The Doctor, with an unusual pensiveness, looked around, musing about where he was, about all things that had happened, about the road that destiny set them all on; what the future held for T'Pol, for Tucker, for him and for everyone.
Could the hidden and unfathomable strength unveiled in T'Pol's eyes change the destiny of the Empire?
Oh sure, Tucker was undeniably a very special Human man.
But what part would a very special Vulcan female play?
"Wake up! Come on, you can't abandon us!"
Harrad-Sar tried to clear his mind, to understand...
"Wake up, man. You're needed."
Harrad-Sar shook his head, fighting against confusion and pain. Laboriously, he started to emerge from the darkness.
"I said..."
"Yes! Yes."
Harrad-Sar had found his voice.
"Yes, I'm... I'm awake."
He weakly grasped at the hand that was clamped painfully tight around his shoulder and shaking it to bring him back to the living.
He realized he was lying supine on the floor and the Vulcan, was on his knees beside his body, looking down at him.
His brain was functioning again and he now remembered what had happened. He turned his head to view the destruction that surrounded them. The walls were broken and hanging at crazy angles over the rubble on the floor, there were pockets of fire, the screens were smashed and the ceiling, cloven and crumbling down on their heads.
And the bodies of his companions were on the ground, twisted and torn, lying in the positions in which they had fallen. They were motionless, without life.
Harrad-Sar's eyes returned to the face of the Vulcan and noticed at last that it was covered in green blood. He became aware that the Vulcan's breathing was harsh and broken and that he was gazing at him with a dull and yet strangely penetrating look.
Abruptly the Vulcan's hands snapped to Harrad-Sar's face, while his eyes seemed suddenly to spark with a vivid and strange light.
An unknown and disquieting sensation spread through Harrad-Sar's mind; even in his obfuscation, in the distressing staleness he felt, his hands were able to burst forth and seize those of the Vulcan, to try to detach them from his face.
For an undeterminable time they fought each other as the Vulcan maintained his grip, their eyes fixed on each other. Then, all of a sudden, the Vulcan yielded. He seemed to curl up on himself, and then he gave out a long breath and closed his eyes, collapsing on the Orion man.
Harrad-Sar felt ill at ease with an odd and uncanny feeling inside him. As the Vulcan's body slumped onto him, he was so shocked that his mind cleared and suddenly he was fully aware as his strength and vigour returned. He grasped the Vulcan by his shoulders and tossed him to the side, disentangling his own body from his. He snapped up to his feet and turned swiftly, as if fearing something he couldn't comprehend, and then he looked down at the Vulcan lying on the floor.
He bent down, as if searching for something - he didn't understand what - and the Vulcan, whose eyes were closed and who had appeared to be inert, suddenly roused himself. His eyes shot wide open, and he grabbed Harrad-Sar by his wrists, with a force that had he not felt it, Harrad-Sar would not have believed possible of a man loosing the breath of life.
The dying Vulcan pulled Harrad-Sar down closer to him and, with visible pain and effort, desperately tried to do what would surely be the last thing he would ever do, as he spat out both broken words and green-black blood.
"Take care… take care... of... of..."
His eyes widened even more, a river of blood gushed from his mouth, then he stiffened, and his spine arched as he clenched spasmodically Harrad-Sar's wrists and his heels knocked against the floor.
Then he went limp, his grasp on Harrad-Sar loosened even though it was still strong and he fell, landing on his back. There he finally remained, motionless, his chest immovable, his hands still weakly but stiffly holding onto the Orion's wrists. His eyes were wide open; in the nothing.
Harrad-Sar stayed still for a moment, staring down at the petrified eyes of the Vulcan. His wrists remained clenched by rigid hands; as if the dead man was attempting to transmit a message to him through the enduring grip, after death had prevented him from making his meaning plain.
The Orion was unable to decipher what had happened to his mind, as an obscure feeling compelled him, after he had freed his wrists from the Vulcan's cold grasp, to lower his hand and delicately close the Vulcan's eyelids, allowing him at last to abandon the world that he was now incapable of seeing.
But what had happened to him?
What was happening to him?
Why was he acting like this? Never...NEVER! NEVER! His stony heart, stonier than the rough Universe into which he had been born, had never had a surge of compassion, of comprehension, for anyone. And now he was being sympathetic toward a dead Vulcan!
A Vulcan!
A VULCAN!
They – the Vulcans - had contacted Humans! They had helped the Humans become what they were now! Regardless of the fact that Vulcans had been unaware of what would happen when they had first met Humans, they – THEY! THEY! - had been the ones who, willy-nilly, had given Humans the instruments with which to seize power! The slavery suffered by the Vulcans under the Human heel was not enough payment in comparison to what they deserved for their reckless imprudence.
And that was not all; Vulcans had become the complaisant slaves of the Humans. They served on Human ships, holding positions of responsibility, even if always under the iron control of Human Commanders. In that way they had allowed Humans to increase their power, explaining away their own behaviour in the name of Logic because according to them, there was no logic in denying the strength of Humans.
Logic, LOGIC! To the hell with Vulcan logic, and to the hell with Vulcans, too!
Harrad-Sar looked down at the dead Vulcan with repressed rage.
Sure. The Vulcans: and their faults.
Nevertheless...Harrad-Sar tried to make sense of his warring thoughts, which were so incessant and noisy he couldn't properly perceive that he was in immediate danger – and really should leave without delay. Nevertheless, he thought, that Vulcan female, that T'Pol, had attempted to rebel against Humans, and had paid a great cost for her unwary boldness. She had most likely, also repressed her attraction to that Human, that Charles Tucker, who had played such an important part in the improvement of Human engineering and who people murmured might have been her saviour, although it was well known that he no longer walked in this world.
And this man, this Vulcan, Arev... he was... he had been... the leader of a Vulcan sect, the Syrrannites, a sect disfavoured by Vulcan society, claimed by its to be different; they were trying to find something that Vulcans had lost and that its members asserted might be their salvation from Humans and... - Harrad-Sar remembered very well the exact words Arev had used when he asked if his group could join the rebels - for the Humans.
Much laugher, mockery and fierce diffidence had welcomed Arev's statement; Vulcans weren't popular among the races of the Quadrant and even less among the rebels; who were unable to forget or forgive what they had done and what they were. But he - Harrad-Sar - had silenced everyone. The rebels needed all the help they could get and even if the Syrrannites were Vulcans, they had to be made welcome, if they were able to demonstrate their good faith, their fidelity to the Rebellion's banner and their will for combat without limit.
And that was how they had been allowed to join the rebellion and Harrad-Sar had not regretted his decision. He had to admit that many times he had breathed a sigh of relief while observing the conduct of the Syrrannites during the war. Not just because he had been the one who allowed them to join the uprising, but also... well... there had been a concealed reason – in some way hidden from him – for his choice. The eyes of that Vulcan, of Arev, had spoken to him of something that he felt he hadn't known before but which in some obscure way, he had always known.
Harrad-Sar straightened up and then pensively looked down at the closed eyelids that hid the dead eyes of the Vulcan.
His eyes…
But much more than the eyes of Arev - Harrad-Sar relived the scene when Arev and some of his followers had first presented themselves to him - much, much more than their leader, other eyes had caught his attention; strongly enough to seem to pierce him.
Pierced; yes.
The eyes had belonged to the young Vulcan female who stood at Arev's side, T'Pau. Harrad-Sar knew that Vulcans could live a very long life so it was hard, not to say almost impossible, to establish the correct age of a Vulcan man let alone a Vulcan female. However he was sure he hadn't deceived himself and T'Pau was very, very young. She could almost have been the daughter he had never had. And in her eyes he had glimpsed a secret he had never told anyone; not even his mistress, Navaar. For within those eyes lived a flame, and also a pure innocence that was capable of smoothing away the steepest asperities of his calloused heart.
It had been a strange, strange impression to get from that female, to be sure. And it led to an idea which came to him, bizarre and unexpected, from deep in his mind.
Could there also be something in the eyes of that T'Pol, able to push a Human man, like that Tucker, which would smooth his harsh and prickly Human heart?
Might the eyes of a woman change a man?
And have the force to change their destiny?
Harrad-Sar suddenly stopped his odd cogitation.
There was something...
He felt observed.
He abruptly turned around.
On the threshold of what had been a door, stood that young Vulcan woman, T'Pau.
Without moving, she silently watched him with those large eyes of hers.
Those eyes; shining and so wide open, as if they could not accept what they were seeing.
Those eyes; so sad.
And there was fear there as well. Even though they were the eyes of a Vulcan woman, they looked scared, like they had just seen hell.
They were the eyes of a fearful woman.
It seemed to Harrad-Sar that something glittered in those shining eyes.
Tears?
Could he see tears?
Was it possible for a Vulcan female to shed tears?
An image, a vision, suddenly invaded Harrad-Sar's mind.
How… how did T'Pol's eyes look when she saw and understood the fate that had been decreed for her? Did they look for someone who could wipe away the tears of fear and terror that, Vulcan or not, she must have felt emerge on her trembling eyelashes?
T'Pau's eyes left Harrad-Sar and alighted on the motionless body lying lifeless on the floor. She peered intently, as if trying to detect movement; even the most infinitesimal that would reveal that he was not dead and could still act as her guide.
Then they went back to Harrad-Sar, even wider open if that was possible. She looked more scared and her eyes glistened even more.
Her eyes were searching for someone to aid her.
Harrad-Sar stared into those eyes.
"Take care… take care... of... of..." Arev's last words had asked him to take care of what? Of… whom?
Suddenly Harrad-Sar became aware of the danger he and the Vulcan woman were in. At any instant they could be buried under the rubble of the crumbling room. They had to get out this room, abandon the whole palace, to reach the outside.
But, outside – and there could be no doubt about this - they would find a city without any means to defend itself. They would be prey... - Harrad-Sar knew this for sure - …prey of the merciless soldiers of the Empire.
Abruptly Harrad-Sar felt a strange, unknown lump form in his throat.
They would be the prey of the brutal warriors that followed General Hayes.
General Hayes, General Hayes… very well known for paying particular attention toward women; especially Vulcan women. If what had been rumoured was true, the General liked to take personal revenge on a certain man in that way. Say for example, Tucker, who had managed to have what no other human man had had, a prize that he, Hayes, the true sadistic face of the Human Empire, craved.
The true sadistic face of the Human Empire; General Hayes.
Harrad-Sar clenched his eyes tight.
He wouldn't allow that to happen, not to this Vulcan woman; not to T'Pau.
He couldn't understand what the hell was happening to him, and, thinking in terms he had heard Humans use - he didn't give a damn about the how and the why.
All he knew was that it simply, wouldn't happen to T'Pau!
He did not know if the person who had plucked T'Pol from her fate was the same person she had searched for, to wipe away her tears, but T'Pau had found a person who would take care of her, who would wipe away her tears.
Him: Harrad-Sar.
He knew that Navaar would approve! Her eyes; the eyes of the mistress of his life, would smile with comprehension. She would be proud of her man! The eyes of his woman, who was waiting for him where he had left her, would meet the eyes of T'Pau, and they would understand each other. And perhaps they would be able to make sure that he could also understand.
He shook himself to action, abruptly rushing toward the young woman, who was still watching him, not realizing what he wanted to do. He grasped her arm and tugged it, trying to drag her away. But she resisted, unwilling to leave the place where her dead leader was lying.
Harrad-Sar took a short breath and stopped. He looked at the young woman and indicated the dead Vulcan with a curt movement of his chin. He spoke, in an even brusquer tone. "He is dead. Do you also want to die?"
The Vulcan gazed fixedly at him and then shook her head. She looked like a little lost bird seeking someone who might help her fly away.
Gruffly, Harrad-Sar spoke again. "So, follow me," then without giving her time to reply, he dragged her into the corridor.
They started a difficult and desperately hurried march, as fast as they could go, between burning walls and falling debris, thick choking smoke and the sinister creaking of collapsing walls and devices. They sidestepped inert bodies that lay on the floor and the craters that interspersed it. They did not meet a living soul and it was evident that they were the only ones left alive that were still in the palace, which was clearly on the verge of collapsing in on itself.
Harrad-Sar felt the hand of the Vulcan tightly hold his. She was behind him, while he worked to draw them away from that inferno.
Suddenly there was a dull roar behind them. They stopped short and swiftly turned around to see what had happened. The command room had completely collapsed, burying forever the bodies that were inside. Only rubble and debris could now be seen under the clouds of dust.
Then, just in front of them, the corridor leading from the collapsed door, started to disintegrate and fall.
The floor beneath their feet started to move and sink down as the ceiling began to crack and then crumble, breaking off in large chunks.
The noise of the fissures as they expanded became deafening. As in a nightmarish scene they moved toward them, widening threateningly.
T'Pau's hand spasmodically tightened its grip on Harrad-Sar.
It was clear to him that very shortly the corridor would entomb them in an embrace of death and then the whole palace would collapse dragging their lives and what remained of their senseless hopes along with its disastrous downfall.
Harrad-Sar ground his teeth. No! He was Harrad-Sar. His hands had crushed men and anything that got in his way; he had never surrendered, never given up. He had always managed to found a way out before.
And he must save T'Pau. He… must take care of her.
The corsair that was within him awoke; the herculean strength of his body, tired but not prostrated by the ordeal he had experienced, was invigorated by the tension and the need that stormed through his whole being. His senses which had saved his life so many times became as tense as harp strings; he was on full alert
His nose, keener than a Vulcan female's sense of smell, noticed something, an emanation; a scent which although it still smelt of choking dust, smoke and death, was also dissimilar, somehow slightly fresher.
He focused on it and his sensitive skin perceived a waft of air - feeble, nearly impalpable.
He turned around and looked toward a corner of the corridor, immersed in plumes of thick smoke, which was being continually enflamed by the reverberation of the fire blocking a clear view.
Perhaps it was his imagination; a desire to escape, but it seemed to him that he could see something. He was sure a feeble light was fighting to penetrate through the black spirals of dust and debris.
Could it be possible? Might there be a breach in the outer wall they could use? Had he found a way out?
Without giving his actions much thought, Harrad-Sar again grabbed T'Pau's hand and furiously dragged her towards the possibly imaginary light, towards the breach that was their only hope.
After a rapid and breathless breakneck steeplechase, they found themselves standing in front of a chipped and small hole in the outer wall. A dirty ray of light filtered through to them in a lack-lustre way.
Harrad-Sar let go of T'Pau's hand and left her standing before the breach. He raised his arms and with all his strength, brought the mighty hammers of his fists down against the wall.
The wall, which had already been hard tested, yielded suddenly under the momentum of his attack and Harrad-Sar pulled forward by the impetus, found himself balanced unstably; his body half in the corridor and half outside.
And what was outside was a void; he could see the battered streets of the city from a dizzying height.
In horror, he struggled to regain his balance, but was unable to halt his impetus. He felt himself going forward, falling forward, into the void.
Suddenly and unexpectedly he stopped dead. Two tiny arms were encircling his waist: T'Pau's arms. With the force of the desperate, she impeded the inevitability of his fall. Her arms dragged him backwards until he found himself sitting, breathless, on the floor of the damaged corridor.
He lifted his eyes and saw the young Vulcan woman looking down at him, as wide-eyed she continued to pant from the effort needed to rescue him.
Harrad-Sar didn't speak. He limited himself to a small nod, to give her thanks, before quickly getting to his feet.
He approached what was now a large breach and looked out into the void that was all around them.
He heard the sound of wind whistling; a cold emptiness.
It was the only way out.
It was their only means of escape.
But it was an escape route leading to certain death.
It would be the end of the rat; he was looking at what would be his fate. The end of the rat; him! The end of Harrad-Sar! And, T'Pau would meet the same fate.
The end of the rat!
He looked down, towards the distant ground, his head protruding into the void while his body was braced against the wall next to the breach.
Opposite their position, but slightly lower down, was the high dome of the main Temple of the city.
It looked as though it was intact; probably because the deadly ray had concentrated its fire on the building where they were, sparing the massive Temple.
It was only a matter of time, of course. The final destruction of the Command Palace would ruinously involve the Temple, but for the moment it looked intact. Yes, intact. With all the soaring spires that surrounded the dome.
Spires; could they act as anchor points?
They were intact.
They were lower down and some distance away.
Lower - Though not by too much.
Distant…
Distant, yes – but not too far.
His hand went, almost by its own volition, to the butt-stock of his long whip which hung tightly coiled, on the belt around his waist. It was the symbol of the ancient power of his people; of his savage and cruel profession. It was the means by which so many times - without needing the pain devices invented by Orion technology and with the pure, fierce joy found in utilizing his hands - he had foisted the ruthless law of slavery on his victims. The men, children and women he had bound into servitude.
The women…
Women, whose eyes can display such heartbreaking anguish, never mind transmit so many other emotions; like the fiercest cruelty, or the greatest joy. And of course the purest love.
The eyes of women…
The power of the eyes of a woman…
Harrad-Sar gripped the whip strongly in his hands. Could that instrument of torture turn into one of salvation? Could it bring him redemption?
Redemption…Redemption? What did he mean by that? Where the hell were these thoughts coming from? What the devil had happen to him? WHAT THE DEVIL HAD THAT DAMNED VULCAN DONE TO HIM?
Harrad-Sar recoiled, jumping back down onto the floor, and then enraged he brusquely turned around and saw the Vulcan woman watching him with those gleaming eyes of hers. They looked at him expectantly and trustingly.
The eyes of a woman expecting that a man – a father - should provide her with…
Safety, and his protection.
In another universe, maybe but in their one...
Or perhaps… it didn't have to be that way?
Perhaps he could change things?
Harrad-Sar inhaled hard and purposely shut his mind to every strange thought. He chased away any hesitancy. The time had come to act.
Looking intensely at T'Pau, he extracted the whip from his large, long and stout belt and held it with his right hand. Next he unfastened the belt and pulling it from his waistband offered it to T'Pau. The Vulcan stared at him with a frown; without understanding.
He spoke in a hollow voice. "Take the belt."
There was no more time. It was necessary to act quickly.
Harrad-Sar spoke again. "I will now turn around. You must use the belt to tie yourself tightly to me, your chest against my back. Then you must put your arms around my neck and hold on tightly to me. You must also make use of your legs; put them around my hips."
Then, swiftly, he added without grace, almost grunting, "There's no time whatsoever for any Vulcan idiotic taboos."
He turned around immediately after he had spoken, ignoring the light of incredulous understanding within T'Pau's dark pupils. When she failed to react, Harrad-Sar looked back and yelled "Come on! You must act now!"
He felt the body of the Vulcan move against his; her hands which were trembling still managed to rapidly fasten the belt around them. Her arms which were quivering still had sufficient force to encircle his neck. Then she jumped up, using his shoulders for support as she mounted him. Her legs which were initially secured tentatively then wrapped around his hips.
Now she was completely hanging onto his back and he was able to feel her body shivering and her breasts palpitate with rapid breaths; he could feel the warm waft of her respite on his neck.
He made a bet with himself that T'Pau's eyes were wide open again and showed how petrified she was, in the face of her destiny; as petrified as T'Pol's eyes had been, when she saw her fate. As terrified as the eyes of all the women that he, Harrad-Sar, had made suffer, never mind all of the women who had suffered and would go on suffering because of the wickedness in their Universe. And this would continue because of the evil in men.
As would the eyes of his Navaar, if he met his death, because, even with all the impalpable protection that her pheromones offered her, she would inevitably met the horrible fate of all women who fall prey to the wicked arrogance of the winners.
There was no salvation for women.
There had never been any hope for them.
That was until now.
Harrad-Sar climbed up to stand at the edge of the breach, tormenting the whip with his fidgety hands.
He stayed firm for an instant, in face of the void.
T'Pau's light body clung to his. Her face buried against his neck.
Harrad-Sar grabbed the broken wall of breach with his left hand to steady himself in preparation for what he was about to do. He was careful at the same time to keep a firm hold of the whip in his right hand and to have it in a position that would readily allow him to use it. He knew he had to trust the dexterity acquired in the course of his whole life, in the puissant vigour of his body, in his feral agility.
There was neither boastfulness nor braggadocio in his belief in his abilities; they were qualities that he knew he possessed in abundance. Like having the courage to act when all seemed lost.
But this time he faced the toughest ordeal of his life. And it would be a trial without the chance of appeal.
He raised his voice to dominate the whistle of the wind and the clanging that now came without interruption from inside the palace they were about to leave.
"Ready?"
He felt T'Pau's face rub the skin of his neck as she silently nodded.
T'Pol had found her saviour, whoever he was.
He crouched slightly to get as much momentum as the weight of T'Pau's body would allow. Her arms and legs clenched against his body spasmodically.
T'Pau had found hers.
Harrad-Sar leapt out into the void.
Harrad-Sar tried to clear his mind, to understand...
"Wake up, man. You're needed."
Harrad-Sar shook his head, fighting against confusion and pain. Laboriously, he started to emerge from the darkness.
"I said..."
"Yes! Yes."
Harrad-Sar had found his voice.
"Yes, I'm... I'm awake."
He weakly grasped at the hand that was clamped painfully tight around his shoulder and shaking it to bring him back to the living.
He realized he was lying supine on the floor and the Vulcan, was on his knees beside his body, looking down at him.
His brain was functioning again and he now remembered what had happened. He turned his head to view the destruction that surrounded them. The walls were broken and hanging at crazy angles over the rubble on the floor, there were pockets of fire, the screens were smashed and the ceiling, cloven and crumbling down on their heads.
And the bodies of his companions were on the ground, twisted and torn, lying in the positions in which they had fallen. They were motionless, without life.
Harrad-Sar's eyes returned to the face of the Vulcan and noticed at last that it was covered in green blood. He became aware that the Vulcan's breathing was harsh and broken and that he was gazing at him with a dull and yet strangely penetrating look.
Abruptly the Vulcan's hands snapped to Harrad-Sar's face, while his eyes seemed suddenly to spark with a vivid and strange light.
An unknown and disquieting sensation spread through Harrad-Sar's mind; even in his obfuscation, in the distressing staleness he felt, his hands were able to burst forth and seize those of the Vulcan, to try to detach them from his face.
For an undeterminable time they fought each other as the Vulcan maintained his grip, their eyes fixed on each other. Then, all of a sudden, the Vulcan yielded. He seemed to curl up on himself, and then he gave out a long breath and closed his eyes, collapsing on the Orion man.
Harrad-Sar felt ill at ease with an odd and uncanny feeling inside him. As the Vulcan's body slumped onto him, he was so shocked that his mind cleared and suddenly he was fully aware as his strength and vigour returned. He grasped the Vulcan by his shoulders and tossed him to the side, disentangling his own body from his. He snapped up to his feet and turned swiftly, as if fearing something he couldn't comprehend, and then he looked down at the Vulcan lying on the floor.
He bent down, as if searching for something - he didn't understand what - and the Vulcan, whose eyes were closed and who had appeared to be inert, suddenly roused himself. His eyes shot wide open, and he grabbed Harrad-Sar by his wrists, with a force that had he not felt it, Harrad-Sar would not have believed possible of a man loosing the breath of life.
The dying Vulcan pulled Harrad-Sar down closer to him and, with visible pain and effort, desperately tried to do what would surely be the last thing he would ever do, as he spat out both broken words and green-black blood.
"Take care… take care... of... of..."
His eyes widened even more, a river of blood gushed from his mouth, then he stiffened, and his spine arched as he clenched spasmodically Harrad-Sar's wrists and his heels knocked against the floor.
Then he went limp, his grasp on Harrad-Sar loosened even though it was still strong and he fell, landing on his back. There he finally remained, motionless, his chest immovable, his hands still weakly but stiffly holding onto the Orion's wrists. His eyes were wide open; in the nothing.
Harrad-Sar stayed still for a moment, staring down at the petrified eyes of the Vulcan. His wrists remained clenched by rigid hands; as if the dead man was attempting to transmit a message to him through the enduring grip, after death had prevented him from making his meaning plain.
The Orion was unable to decipher what had happened to his mind, as an obscure feeling compelled him, after he had freed his wrists from the Vulcan's cold grasp, to lower his hand and delicately close the Vulcan's eyelids, allowing him at last to abandon the world that he was now incapable of seeing.
But what had happened to him?
What was happening to him?
Why was he acting like this? Never...NEVER! NEVER! His stony heart, stonier than the rough Universe into which he had been born, had never had a surge of compassion, of comprehension, for anyone. And now he was being sympathetic toward a dead Vulcan!
A Vulcan!
A VULCAN!
They – the Vulcans - had contacted Humans! They had helped the Humans become what they were now! Regardless of the fact that Vulcans had been unaware of what would happen when they had first met Humans, they – THEY! THEY! - had been the ones who, willy-nilly, had given Humans the instruments with which to seize power! The slavery suffered by the Vulcans under the Human heel was not enough payment in comparison to what they deserved for their reckless imprudence.
And that was not all; Vulcans had become the complaisant slaves of the Humans. They served on Human ships, holding positions of responsibility, even if always under the iron control of Human Commanders. In that way they had allowed Humans to increase their power, explaining away their own behaviour in the name of Logic because according to them, there was no logic in denying the strength of Humans.
Logic, LOGIC! To the hell with Vulcan logic, and to the hell with Vulcans, too!
Harrad-Sar looked down at the dead Vulcan with repressed rage.
Sure. The Vulcans: and their faults.
Nevertheless...Harrad-Sar tried to make sense of his warring thoughts, which were so incessant and noisy he couldn't properly perceive that he was in immediate danger – and really should leave without delay. Nevertheless, he thought, that Vulcan female, that T'Pol, had attempted to rebel against Humans, and had paid a great cost for her unwary boldness. She had most likely, also repressed her attraction to that Human, that Charles Tucker, who had played such an important part in the improvement of Human engineering and who people murmured might have been her saviour, although it was well known that he no longer walked in this world.
And this man, this Vulcan, Arev... he was... he had been... the leader of a Vulcan sect, the Syrrannites, a sect disfavoured by Vulcan society, claimed by its to be different; they were trying to find something that Vulcans had lost and that its members asserted might be their salvation from Humans and... - Harrad-Sar remembered very well the exact words Arev had used when he asked if his group could join the rebels - for the Humans.
Much laugher, mockery and fierce diffidence had welcomed Arev's statement; Vulcans weren't popular among the races of the Quadrant and even less among the rebels; who were unable to forget or forgive what they had done and what they were. But he - Harrad-Sar - had silenced everyone. The rebels needed all the help they could get and even if the Syrrannites were Vulcans, they had to be made welcome, if they were able to demonstrate their good faith, their fidelity to the Rebellion's banner and their will for combat without limit.
And that was how they had been allowed to join the rebellion and Harrad-Sar had not regretted his decision. He had to admit that many times he had breathed a sigh of relief while observing the conduct of the Syrrannites during the war. Not just because he had been the one who allowed them to join the uprising, but also... well... there had been a concealed reason – in some way hidden from him – for his choice. The eyes of that Vulcan, of Arev, had spoken to him of something that he felt he hadn't known before but which in some obscure way, he had always known.
Harrad-Sar straightened up and then pensively looked down at the closed eyelids that hid the dead eyes of the Vulcan.
His eyes…
But much more than the eyes of Arev - Harrad-Sar relived the scene when Arev and some of his followers had first presented themselves to him - much, much more than their leader, other eyes had caught his attention; strongly enough to seem to pierce him.
Pierced; yes.
The eyes had belonged to the young Vulcan female who stood at Arev's side, T'Pau. Harrad-Sar knew that Vulcans could live a very long life so it was hard, not to say almost impossible, to establish the correct age of a Vulcan man let alone a Vulcan female. However he was sure he hadn't deceived himself and T'Pau was very, very young. She could almost have been the daughter he had never had. And in her eyes he had glimpsed a secret he had never told anyone; not even his mistress, Navaar. For within those eyes lived a flame, and also a pure innocence that was capable of smoothing away the steepest asperities of his calloused heart.
It had been a strange, strange impression to get from that female, to be sure. And it led to an idea which came to him, bizarre and unexpected, from deep in his mind.
Could there also be something in the eyes of that T'Pol, able to push a Human man, like that Tucker, which would smooth his harsh and prickly Human heart?
Might the eyes of a woman change a man?
And have the force to change their destiny?
Harrad-Sar suddenly stopped his odd cogitation.
There was something...
He felt observed.
He abruptly turned around.
On the threshold of what had been a door, stood that young Vulcan woman, T'Pau.
Without moving, she silently watched him with those large eyes of hers.
Those eyes; shining and so wide open, as if they could not accept what they were seeing.
Those eyes; so sad.
And there was fear there as well. Even though they were the eyes of a Vulcan woman, they looked scared, like they had just seen hell.
They were the eyes of a fearful woman.
It seemed to Harrad-Sar that something glittered in those shining eyes.
Tears?
Could he see tears?
Was it possible for a Vulcan female to shed tears?
An image, a vision, suddenly invaded Harrad-Sar's mind.
How… how did T'Pol's eyes look when she saw and understood the fate that had been decreed for her? Did they look for someone who could wipe away the tears of fear and terror that, Vulcan or not, she must have felt emerge on her trembling eyelashes?
T'Pau's eyes left Harrad-Sar and alighted on the motionless body lying lifeless on the floor. She peered intently, as if trying to detect movement; even the most infinitesimal that would reveal that he was not dead and could still act as her guide.
Then they went back to Harrad-Sar, even wider open if that was possible. She looked more scared and her eyes glistened even more.
Her eyes were searching for someone to aid her.
Harrad-Sar stared into those eyes.
"Take care… take care... of... of..." Arev's last words had asked him to take care of what? Of… whom?
Suddenly Harrad-Sar became aware of the danger he and the Vulcan woman were in. At any instant they could be buried under the rubble of the crumbling room. They had to get out this room, abandon the whole palace, to reach the outside.
But, outside – and there could be no doubt about this - they would find a city without any means to defend itself. They would be prey... - Harrad-Sar knew this for sure - …prey of the merciless soldiers of the Empire.
Abruptly Harrad-Sar felt a strange, unknown lump form in his throat.
They would be the prey of the brutal warriors that followed General Hayes.
General Hayes, General Hayes… very well known for paying particular attention toward women; especially Vulcan women. If what had been rumoured was true, the General liked to take personal revenge on a certain man in that way. Say for example, Tucker, who had managed to have what no other human man had had, a prize that he, Hayes, the true sadistic face of the Human Empire, craved.
The true sadistic face of the Human Empire; General Hayes.
Harrad-Sar clenched his eyes tight.
He wouldn't allow that to happen, not to this Vulcan woman; not to T'Pau.
He couldn't understand what the hell was happening to him, and, thinking in terms he had heard Humans use - he didn't give a damn about the how and the why.
All he knew was that it simply, wouldn't happen to T'Pau!
He did not know if the person who had plucked T'Pol from her fate was the same person she had searched for, to wipe away her tears, but T'Pau had found a person who would take care of her, who would wipe away her tears.
Him: Harrad-Sar.
He knew that Navaar would approve! Her eyes; the eyes of the mistress of his life, would smile with comprehension. She would be proud of her man! The eyes of his woman, who was waiting for him where he had left her, would meet the eyes of T'Pau, and they would understand each other. And perhaps they would be able to make sure that he could also understand.
He shook himself to action, abruptly rushing toward the young woman, who was still watching him, not realizing what he wanted to do. He grasped her arm and tugged it, trying to drag her away. But she resisted, unwilling to leave the place where her dead leader was lying.
Harrad-Sar took a short breath and stopped. He looked at the young woman and indicated the dead Vulcan with a curt movement of his chin. He spoke, in an even brusquer tone. "He is dead. Do you also want to die?"
The Vulcan gazed fixedly at him and then shook her head. She looked like a little lost bird seeking someone who might help her fly away.
Gruffly, Harrad-Sar spoke again. "So, follow me," then without giving her time to reply, he dragged her into the corridor.
They started a difficult and desperately hurried march, as fast as they could go, between burning walls and falling debris, thick choking smoke and the sinister creaking of collapsing walls and devices. They sidestepped inert bodies that lay on the floor and the craters that interspersed it. They did not meet a living soul and it was evident that they were the only ones left alive that were still in the palace, which was clearly on the verge of collapsing in on itself.
Harrad-Sar felt the hand of the Vulcan tightly hold his. She was behind him, while he worked to draw them away from that inferno.
Suddenly there was a dull roar behind them. They stopped short and swiftly turned around to see what had happened. The command room had completely collapsed, burying forever the bodies that were inside. Only rubble and debris could now be seen under the clouds of dust.
Then, just in front of them, the corridor leading from the collapsed door, started to disintegrate and fall.
The floor beneath their feet started to move and sink down as the ceiling began to crack and then crumble, breaking off in large chunks.
The noise of the fissures as they expanded became deafening. As in a nightmarish scene they moved toward them, widening threateningly.
T'Pau's hand spasmodically tightened its grip on Harrad-Sar.
It was clear to him that very shortly the corridor would entomb them in an embrace of death and then the whole palace would collapse dragging their lives and what remained of their senseless hopes along with its disastrous downfall.
Harrad-Sar ground his teeth. No! He was Harrad-Sar. His hands had crushed men and anything that got in his way; he had never surrendered, never given up. He had always managed to found a way out before.
And he must save T'Pau. He… must take care of her.
The corsair that was within him awoke; the herculean strength of his body, tired but not prostrated by the ordeal he had experienced, was invigorated by the tension and the need that stormed through his whole being. His senses which had saved his life so many times became as tense as harp strings; he was on full alert
His nose, keener than a Vulcan female's sense of smell, noticed something, an emanation; a scent which although it still smelt of choking dust, smoke and death, was also dissimilar, somehow slightly fresher.
He focused on it and his sensitive skin perceived a waft of air - feeble, nearly impalpable.
He turned around and looked toward a corner of the corridor, immersed in plumes of thick smoke, which was being continually enflamed by the reverberation of the fire blocking a clear view.
Perhaps it was his imagination; a desire to escape, but it seemed to him that he could see something. He was sure a feeble light was fighting to penetrate through the black spirals of dust and debris.
Could it be possible? Might there be a breach in the outer wall they could use? Had he found a way out?
Without giving his actions much thought, Harrad-Sar again grabbed T'Pau's hand and furiously dragged her towards the possibly imaginary light, towards the breach that was their only hope.
After a rapid and breathless breakneck steeplechase, they found themselves standing in front of a chipped and small hole in the outer wall. A dirty ray of light filtered through to them in a lack-lustre way.
Harrad-Sar let go of T'Pau's hand and left her standing before the breach. He raised his arms and with all his strength, brought the mighty hammers of his fists down against the wall.
The wall, which had already been hard tested, yielded suddenly under the momentum of his attack and Harrad-Sar pulled forward by the impetus, found himself balanced unstably; his body half in the corridor and half outside.
And what was outside was a void; he could see the battered streets of the city from a dizzying height.
In horror, he struggled to regain his balance, but was unable to halt his impetus. He felt himself going forward, falling forward, into the void.
Suddenly and unexpectedly he stopped dead. Two tiny arms were encircling his waist: T'Pau's arms. With the force of the desperate, she impeded the inevitability of his fall. Her arms dragged him backwards until he found himself sitting, breathless, on the floor of the damaged corridor.
He lifted his eyes and saw the young Vulcan woman looking down at him, as wide-eyed she continued to pant from the effort needed to rescue him.
Harrad-Sar didn't speak. He limited himself to a small nod, to give her thanks, before quickly getting to his feet.
He approached what was now a large breach and looked out into the void that was all around them.
He heard the sound of wind whistling; a cold emptiness.
It was the only way out.
It was their only means of escape.
But it was an escape route leading to certain death.
It would be the end of the rat; he was looking at what would be his fate. The end of the rat; him! The end of Harrad-Sar! And, T'Pau would meet the same fate.
The end of the rat!
He looked down, towards the distant ground, his head protruding into the void while his body was braced against the wall next to the breach.
Opposite their position, but slightly lower down, was the high dome of the main Temple of the city.
It looked as though it was intact; probably because the deadly ray had concentrated its fire on the building where they were, sparing the massive Temple.
It was only a matter of time, of course. The final destruction of the Command Palace would ruinously involve the Temple, but for the moment it looked intact. Yes, intact. With all the soaring spires that surrounded the dome.
Spires; could they act as anchor points?
They were intact.
They were lower down and some distance away.
Lower - Though not by too much.
Distant…
Distant, yes – but not too far.
His hand went, almost by its own volition, to the butt-stock of his long whip which hung tightly coiled, on the belt around his waist. It was the symbol of the ancient power of his people; of his savage and cruel profession. It was the means by which so many times - without needing the pain devices invented by Orion technology and with the pure, fierce joy found in utilizing his hands - he had foisted the ruthless law of slavery on his victims. The men, children and women he had bound into servitude.
The women…
Women, whose eyes can display such heartbreaking anguish, never mind transmit so many other emotions; like the fiercest cruelty, or the greatest joy. And of course the purest love.
The eyes of women…
The power of the eyes of a woman…
Harrad-Sar gripped the whip strongly in his hands. Could that instrument of torture turn into one of salvation? Could it bring him redemption?
Redemption…Redemption? What did he mean by that? Where the hell were these thoughts coming from? What the devil had happen to him? WHAT THE DEVIL HAD THAT DAMNED VULCAN DONE TO HIM?
Harrad-Sar recoiled, jumping back down onto the floor, and then enraged he brusquely turned around and saw the Vulcan woman watching him with those gleaming eyes of hers. They looked at him expectantly and trustingly.
The eyes of a woman expecting that a man – a father - should provide her with…
Safety, and his protection.
In another universe, maybe but in their one...
Or perhaps… it didn't have to be that way?
Perhaps he could change things?
Harrad-Sar inhaled hard and purposely shut his mind to every strange thought. He chased away any hesitancy. The time had come to act.
Looking intensely at T'Pau, he extracted the whip from his large, long and stout belt and held it with his right hand. Next he unfastened the belt and pulling it from his waistband offered it to T'Pau. The Vulcan stared at him with a frown; without understanding.
He spoke in a hollow voice. "Take the belt."
There was no more time. It was necessary to act quickly.
Harrad-Sar spoke again. "I will now turn around. You must use the belt to tie yourself tightly to me, your chest against my back. Then you must put your arms around my neck and hold on tightly to me. You must also make use of your legs; put them around my hips."
Then, swiftly, he added without grace, almost grunting, "There's no time whatsoever for any Vulcan idiotic taboos."
He turned around immediately after he had spoken, ignoring the light of incredulous understanding within T'Pau's dark pupils. When she failed to react, Harrad-Sar looked back and yelled "Come on! You must act now!"
He felt the body of the Vulcan move against his; her hands which were trembling still managed to rapidly fasten the belt around them. Her arms which were quivering still had sufficient force to encircle his neck. Then she jumped up, using his shoulders for support as she mounted him. Her legs which were initially secured tentatively then wrapped around his hips.
Now she was completely hanging onto his back and he was able to feel her body shivering and her breasts palpitate with rapid breaths; he could feel the warm waft of her respite on his neck.
He made a bet with himself that T'Pau's eyes were wide open again and showed how petrified she was, in the face of her destiny; as petrified as T'Pol's eyes had been, when she saw her fate. As terrified as the eyes of all the women that he, Harrad-Sar, had made suffer, never mind all of the women who had suffered and would go on suffering because of the wickedness in their Universe. And this would continue because of the evil in men.
As would the eyes of his Navaar, if he met his death, because, even with all the impalpable protection that her pheromones offered her, she would inevitably met the horrible fate of all women who fall prey to the wicked arrogance of the winners.
There was no salvation for women.
There had never been any hope for them.
That was until now.
Harrad-Sar climbed up to stand at the edge of the breach, tormenting the whip with his fidgety hands.
He stayed firm for an instant, in face of the void.
T'Pau's light body clung to his. Her face buried against his neck.
Harrad-Sar grabbed the broken wall of breach with his left hand to steady himself in preparation for what he was about to do. He was careful at the same time to keep a firm hold of the whip in his right hand and to have it in a position that would readily allow him to use it. He knew he had to trust the dexterity acquired in the course of his whole life, in the puissant vigour of his body, in his feral agility.
There was neither boastfulness nor braggadocio in his belief in his abilities; they were qualities that he knew he possessed in abundance. Like having the courage to act when all seemed lost.
But this time he faced the toughest ordeal of his life. And it would be a trial without the chance of appeal.
He raised his voice to dominate the whistle of the wind and the clanging that now came without interruption from inside the palace they were about to leave.
"Ready?"
He felt T'Pau's face rub the skin of his neck as she silently nodded.
T'Pol had found her saviour, whoever he was.
He crouched slightly to get as much momentum as the weight of T'Pau's body would allow. Her arms and legs clenched against his body spasmodically.
T'Pau had found hers.
Harrad-Sar leapt out into the void.
End of Chapter Four
My friends, but can you really think that such a story can be invented? By me or by my ancestor?
Come on! You can not!
Or maybe it is?
Well, let's see. Maybe the next chapter will be enlightening in this regard.
However ... mh, difficult to say whether these things are true or invented or, rather, dreamed.
Yep. Because, you see, my friends, slavishly following the indications of my ancestor, the title of this chapter is, in fact,...
Come on! You can not!
Or maybe it is?
Well, let's see. Maybe the next chapter will be enlightening in this regard.
However ... mh, difficult to say whether these things are true or invented or, rather, dreamed.
Yep. Because, you see, my friends, slavishly following the indications of my ancestor, the title of this chapter is, in fact,...
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COPYRIGHT 2013 © Asso - [email protected]
COPYRIGHT 2013 © Asso - [email protected]