Surefoot Ch 05 Show And Tell

USS Surefoot, Deck 5, Brig:

"Not very palatial in here, is it?"

Giles had been lying in his bunk in the brig, staring at the blank wall opposite. Now, at the sight of Captain Hrelle standing on the other side of the force field door, he rose to attention.

"At ease." As Giles relaxed a little, Hrelle nodded to the Security Officer at the brig control panel nearby, who turned off the energy screen long enough to allow the Captain to step inside. "Leave the screen down and go get yourself a coffee, Mr Gorman."

The crewman, a fresh-faced, ginger-haired Terran not much older than the cadet he was now supervising, blanched. "Sir? Um, the prisoner-"

"He's formidable, I know, but I think I can handle him. I'll call you when I want you back." As the crewman nodded and departed, Hrelle examined the stark interior, trying the retractable sink and toilet. "I don't think this brig was ever used. The ship was built sixty years ago, originally named the USS Martin Fettman and did mostly planetary surveys, but I think you might actually be the first occupant in here." As he stared, his nose picked up the fact that Giles still wore the clothes he'd wet after his accident at the party. The boy was probably too proud to ask for replacements.

Giles flinched. "Sir, I- I wanted to apologise for my remarks, both in the cargo bay and then later. They were offensive and uncalled for."

"Yes, they were," Hrelle agreed, facing the boy, his own hands clasped behind his back as if mirroring him. "You do realise how seriously Starfleet takes racist attitudes, in light of the nature of the Federation and the role we play within it? Now, admittedly I've let some people make jokes about Caitians over the years, but those people have been family and close friends - and you're definitely neither of those. As for the remarks about my time with the Bel-Zon-"

"Sir, I didn't mean to-"

"Of course you did, and the fact that you did it twice, the second time knowing full well that your Captain and First Officer could hear you, strikes you as being immature, reckless, stupid, or a combination of all three."

Giles was sweating now. "Sir, with all due respect, I said I was sorry-"

"Apologies do not automatically earn forgiveness. Hasn't anyone taught you that? Apologies are not the end of a matter, but the beginning. Especially when it seems like you've only apologised because you've been confronted with what you've done." He paused, watching the boy begin to tremble. "I've spoken with Commander T'Varik. It is her recommendation that you be returned to the Starfleet Academy Annex, removed from the Program and have the Article 89 Violation a permanent mark on your record.

Of course, your family's combined influence may overturn all that; it happens, despite efforts by Starfleet to maintain a meritocracy..." He looked at Giles. "Do you like that?"

"Sir?"

"Do you like going through life knowing that your family will pull you out of whatever trouble you get yourself into, that your connections will get you what you want, without honestly earning it yourself? Because you don't seem the type. You seem more like a decent young man who takes pride in his own achievements." He paused and asked. "Am I right?"

Giles swallowed, looking as if he was afraid he was being tricked in some way. But then he nodded slightly and replied, "Yes, Sir. I am."

Hrelle's eyes narrowed. "Then I have a deal to offer you. I will persuade my First Officer to drop the charges and start over."

The boy frowned. "You'd- You'd do that? Why?"

"T'Varik asked the same question. She doesn't believe it's logical to give you a second chance - or in this case, a third, since she was never a fan of the Naughty Step. Fortunately for you, I have been called many things in my life, but logical was rarely one of them."

Now he was confused. "But you- you hate my family."

The Caitian's expression furrowed. "Hate? I wouldn't say that. I mean, yes, your grandfather Jeffrey took an instant dislike to me when I was your age at the Academy, without ever telling me why. And he had your father and your uncles and aunts bully me during my time there. And your older brother accused me of treason and then harassed my child. And then you repeatedly insulted me." He smirked. "Well, I'm sure you have some distant second cousin somewhere I might almost like. But I'm not here about them, I'm here about you. Are you interested?"

Now it was Giles' turn to frown. "What do I have to do?"

"You have to look, and you have to listen."

"Look? Listen? To what?"

"You have to look at me. You have to listen to my story. Not what you might have heard from your family, or the sensationalist media channels. My story."

The boy blinked. "And that's it? That's all I have to do?"

Hrelle's gaze darkened. "It may not be as easy as you think. Sit down."

He did, his hands gripping the side of the bunk. Then he tensed as he watched Hrelle undress, running his fingertip along the fastener to the back of his uniform. "Um, Sir... what are you doing?"

Hrelle grunted. "Relax, Giles, nothing inappropriate is going to happen between us; you're definitely not my type. You're not going to get to see all of your Commanding Officer. Just enough." He slid his uniform off his shoulders, removed his arms from the sleeves and let the material drape over the lower half of his body like a makeshift apron, before straightening up. "My people are casual about nudity; we do wear fur, after all. In fact, if you visit Cait on the hottest months, you'll see most of us running around with nothing on but belts. But lately, I've grown... reluctant to disrobe in front of others."

Giles looked at him, and paled, eyes wide and yet focused. Hrelle had seen that look before, on older, more professional people who had examined him. He understood it. The thin coating of fur on his upper body was threadbare where there were scars.

And there were scars everywhere: his chest, abdomen, biceps, forearms -- and when he turned around, he displayed the ones on his shoulders, and back, the scars all of many sizes and shapes, scars from cuts and scars from burns.

"They extend all over me," Hrelle informed him. "The worst is around the base of my spine, where my tail had been cut off and the wound crudely cauterised." He slipped back into his uniform quickly. "I trust I don't have to show that much?"

The boy shook his head; he looked like he was going to faint.

Once he was dressed again, Hrelle moved to the place on the wall where the retractable sink was hidden, drew it out, and filled up a paper cup with water from the tap, handing it to him. Then he tugged at his uniform. "The older uniform design was much better; I am going to miss the jackets and trousers."

Giles sat there, holding the cup by his fingertips as if it was hot, unable to look up.

Hrelle walked over and sat down on the bunk beside the boy. "Not very pretty, am I? I used to be considered quite attractive when I was your age."

They went silent. Hrelle looked around, wondering if it would hurt to put in some colours in these cells. Beige was so soul-destroying.

Enough delays... "Seven years ago, I left my family in the middle of Sasha's tenth birthday and flew off in the Furyk in response to a distress call from a research station on Banaris IX; ours was the only ship in the area at the time. Along the way, we found what appeared to be the wreckage of a starship. Within the wreckage were spatial charges, disrupting our engines and shields. We tried to call for help, but local subspace was being jammed.

Then the ships came, launching aceton assimilators that attached themselves to the hull, draining our power, including life support, even from our hand phasers, and converting it all into hard radiation directed back at us. I was on the bridge, trying to move the crew to the centre of the ship, as far from the radiation bursts as possible, urging them to pick up blades, improvised clubs, anything to help repel boarders.

But boarders weren't coming..."

*

Seven Years Ago, Banaris Sector:

Hrelle's eyes and ears filled with an orange-yellow transporter beam, and he could feel himself being pulled out of his chair on the bridge of the Furyk. It was unexpected, but he knew he would be ready for it.

Until he found himself materialising in mid-air.

His eyes adjusted quickly enough to realise he was some three metres above the ground, panic making him flail about for a moment as gravity reasserted itself and dragged him down. But he recovered enough to twist about - memories of bad cat jokes about always landing on his feet returning - and draw his limbs and tail into himself, protecting his head and neck at the expense of-

It was like a spike was driven through his right foot as he struck and rolled on a cold, hard metal floor. He cried out, but unfurled his arms and legs in an effort to rise and face their attackers-

Screams filled the thin, cool air.

Bodies were hitting the floor around him.

It was dark, dark enough to make even his senses strain, but he knew who was here: his First Officer Labine, Communications Officer O'Reilly, Navigator Shekrev, Tactical Officer Ellerton, Science Officer Rabin.

But there were others, too: strange scents, heavy boots, rapid approach. He started to call out, "Ellerton, there's eight of them, three near you-"

An electric jolt shot through Hrelle, sending him sprawling backwards. He heard more jolts around him, more cries from his crew. Hrelle fought with his numbed, trembling body, but he couldn't move, couldn't speak, could do nothing but listen. And scent the attackers: human, maybe Terrans, Klingons, Yridians, Orions, Nausicaans... this was no foreign power, but some terrorist or criminal organisation. But there had been no recent reports from Starfleet Intelligence about this threat...

A male spoke first, the accent definitely Terran. "What's this one?"

A pause, then someone else replied with an unknown accent. "Her name's Rabin. Abigail Rabin-"

"I want her position, not her name."

"Oh... Science Officer."

"We don't need her."

An energy blast. A Klingon disruptor, set on maximum.

No.

"And this one?"

"Tactical Officer."

"Take him along."

"And this one?"

"Navigator."

"We don't need him."

Mother's Cubs, no- no, please-

Another disruptor blast.

Hrelle struggled to rise, to speak, to plead, to distract them from their work. He had to stop them! He had to do something!

"And this pretty thing?"

"Mmm... Communications Officer."

A pause. "Take her along."

"And him?"

"He's dead, whoever he is. Neck's broken."

Labine.

A strangled gasp escaped Hrelle. Labine... Seven Hells, Labine was getting married later this year. And Rabin just had a child. And Shekrev was planning on returning to Andor and running his own iceship business.

He was staring upwards, and the attackers had to step around him for him to see: a slim, pale-skinned Terran male with a bald head, ashen beard and a sober black suit; a tall, burly Klingon male with a disruptor in hand; and an unknown sentient, a tall, gaunt, pale-skinned, white-haired humanoid with pronounced bulges on the side of its skull.

The Unknown sentient tilted its head. "This one is-"

The Terran regarded Hrelle. "No need. I know who he is and what he is. Take him along."

*

"They spared you," Giles noted, clearly distraught but unable to resist wanting to hear more.

"And my Tactical and Communication Officers. We had the information they needed about Salem Four's security systems, to steal the trilithium being stored there - though they never told me that at the time." Hrelle wouldn't take his gaze from the cell wall opposite. "The rest of the crew weren't... useful to them." He leaned back. He had told the story, many times before, in debriefings and during his court martial. It should grow easier with each new retelling. It didn't. "I never saw Ellerton or O'Reilly again." He averted his eyes. "I like to hope that they didn't suffer too much, for too long. But that was a slim hope at best..."

*

"There is no such thing as a harmless setting on an energy weapon," his Academy arms instructor, a squat but formidable-looking Rigellian, once taught him. "Even the lowest setting of one of our phasers causes cellular and neural disruption. And multiple bursts over a short period of time accumulate, and can end up being as lethal as a point blank Klingon disruptor blast."

She was right. Hrelle had been hit when he first arrived among his captors. He had been hit again when they began stripping him, and he used his claws to open the carotid artery of some fool who got too close and too careless. He awoke hours later in a cell, naked... and the tips of his fingers bleeding after they had forcibly removed his claws. Mother's Cubs... to take a Caitian's claws from them like that was...

The next time a beam hit him was when his captors visited: the Terran, the Klingon and the Unknown sentient. He had pretended to still be groggy, until he attacked. But the Klingon was ready for him with a painstick, and used it liberally. When he woke after that, he was alone again, nursing a tremor that wouldn't leave, and an inability to rise to his feet without getting dizzy.

He really had to avoid another one of those any time soon.

His cell was freezing, constantly lit, and the silence was randomly broken by high-pitched sonics that made him howl in pain. He could only measure time by how hungry he was. He was exhausted.

When the trio returned, he stayed on the ground, his back against the wall, glaring up at them, trying to gain some clue as to who they were and what they wanted with him. No doubt they would begin his interrogation in earnest; that was fine by him, because he could learn almost as much from their questions as they would from his answers - that is, if he was of a mind to give them any.

For now, he just had to hold out until help came, and give them only what was expected. "Name: Esek Hrelle. Rank: Captain. Serial Number: FSN 066-44-7789. Birthdate: Stardate 8479.51."

The Terran nodded at this, then asked genially, "What's the best restaurant on Salem Four, Captain? I've heard it was the sushi place on the Lower Promenade, but there have also been good reviews of the Tellarite Grill on the Upper Promenade, Section 3. Have you and Hannah and Sasha eaten at either of them?"

Hrelle started, and not just because he mentioned his wife and stepdaughter. What was the point of asking him that, except to possibly put him at ease? If so, it was a wasted effort, after all they've done to his crew and himself. "Name: Esek Hrelle. Rank: Captain. Serial-"

"I read that there was an infestation of leopard spiders in the Operations Centre last year." the Terran continued, smiling slightly as Hrelle stopped his rote. "They would accidentally drop down on people in Security, in Stores, even in the Vaults where the trilithium resin was stored. Can you imagine the look on people's faces when they're going along, doing their jobs or visiting their possessions, and suddenly a spider the size of their hand lands on their heads?"

Hrelle tensed. What was he doing? What was the point of these questions? His teeth clenched and bared, he repeated, "Name: Esek Hrelle-"

"Speaking of which, how many Romulans does it take to clear the trilithium resin from a warp core? Two: one to do the work, the other to kill him and assume the praise."

Hrelle looked up. He was telling jokes? What the hell was going on?

Then he looked up to see the Terran and the Unknown exchange expressions, before both departed, leaving the Klingon behind.

Then the Klingon was upon him, punching and kicking him...

*

"That's it?" Giles asked. "They just left you to get beat up?"

Hrelle grunted. "That sounds so... cute: 'beat up'. Funny, it didn't feel so cute at the time. I figured they had changed tactics, from the psychological to the physical, in order to get the information they needed."

He looked at Giles again. "The problem was... they never came out and asked me anything of importance. Certainly nothing warranting all the death and pain they'd committed to get me there..."

*

Hrelle had never felt such pain. He couldn't move anything without feeling it. Not even just lying there on the cell floor relieved him of it. Some bones were broken, or just fractured; he tried to count them, but couldn't get past a dozen. Even in his tail, which hung limp against his leg after a Nausicaan repeatedly stamped on it.

And where he hadn't been broken, he'd been beaten, burned... assaulted in places best left untouched. They had injected him with drugs that made him feel like he was suffocating, and drugs that induced terrible hallucinations. One eye was sealed shut. His lips were cracked; he'd had no food in a long time, though at least his stomach had stopped rumbling, and what little liquids they fed him tasted like they had passed through someone already. If Hannah saw him now...

Hannah...

He would never see her again. He knew this. He would never see her, smell her hair and skin, hold her in his arms, make love with her.

And Sasha... he would never see her grow up, become the remarkable young woman he knew she as destined to be. Maybe she would join Starfleet, maybe not, but regardless, she would be amazing at everything she did.

Agony shot through him, as the Terran activated the pain implants they put in places along his spine. He spasmed and howled incoherently, as it felt like spikes were driven into him. Mother's Cubs, he couldn't bear it!

But he had to. He had no choice. But he did have a chance. He was still alive, which meant that they hadn't broken him yet, they hadn't obtained the information they wanted. He could hold out. He could hold out as long as necessary. There was probably a ship on its way here now to rescue him. Any hour now, he'd be beamed away-

"You've resisted quite well, Captain," the Terran taunted. "I wonder where your strength lies. It wasn't in your claws, since we removed them. Your fangs? Perhaps we shall remove them next."

"F-F-F-Fuc-" Hrelle screamed again from another wave of pain, biting down and drawing blood from his tongue and inner cheek, coughing and sputtering, his stomach twisting so hard, wanting to bring up contents that weren't there. His brain was on fire, his eyes veiled with red.

The pain stopped, but the pounding in his ears continued. Dimly he became aware of the Terran rising and approaching, dropping to one knee, offering a smile that never reflected in his eyes. "Your tail, perhaps? I understand it helps with your balance, but maybe it's more? Let's see, shall we?"

No. NO.

Several Nausicaans who had been standing nearby, witnessing the torture, approached, pinning him face down. Hrelle looked up to see the Klingon brandishing a mek'leth, one of his people's shorter blade weapons, and shook his head. "N-No- No, please, no-"

The Terran drew back. "Make sure someone has a heat beam to cauterise the wound, we don't want him bleeding to death."

Hrelle felt one of the Nausicaans grabbing his tail and roughly holding it up. He cried out, his cracked, ragged voice even more pitiful. "No! Please! I'll tell you anything! Anything!"

The Terran regarded him now, looking coldly amused now. "And what do you think we would want from you that we haven't already taken, Captain?" He leaned in again, as if to make sure Hrelle understood. "We accomplished that days ago. What we're doing now is for someone else.

A year ago, the Furyk fought and destroyed a smuggler ship owned by the Orion Syndicate. The father of the captain of that ship never forgot what you did, and was wealthy enough to employ us for revenge. He wanted your ship and crew dead - but not you. You are meant to stay alive as long as possible, and to make you suffer for as long as possible. And the Bel-Zon always honour a contract." He nodded to the Klingon. "Do it."