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Carol sat down in a corner, her arms wrapped around her bony knees. She was the topic of the conversation between the two men in the room, but she did not bother to follow it. The outcome would change nothing: she would still be property, a slave. She cared little for who owned her next. It had not always been this way for her. She had once been a Starfleet officer, a celebrated weapons expert with a PhD in applied physics, born to a life of luxury and privilege, the daughter of an admiral who had plotted, schemed and assassinated his way to the supreme command post. But then he had found it: Botany Bay, the 20th century sleeper ship filled with augments locked in their cryopods. Among them the famed tyrant of a time past, Khan Noonien Singh. Alexander Marcus had thought that the brilliant tactical mind the Terran Empire in all its greatness that failed to parallel would be just the advantage they needed in their ongoing conquest of the galaxy.
For a whole year, the plan had worked: Khan’s military genius had helped built a new type of warship, the Dreadnought, a majestic one with giant phaser banks, long-range photon torpedoes, attack drones and defensive plating in addition to a new generation of shields. Her father had grown lax, drunk on his triumph and dreams of the imperial throne. That had been when Khan had escaped and in order to liberate his still frozen crew that her father held hostage, had allied himself with the captain of the ISS Enterprise, James Tiberius Kirk, who had a powerful friend with Command: Admiral Christopher Pike. Together Khan and Kirk had lured Admiral Marcus into a trap and murdered him, while Pike had decimated his supporters at HQ. Carol had been promptly stripped of her rank, expelled from Starfleet and sold into slavery.
At first, she had resisted, almost biting off the ear of the member of the Orion Syndicate who had bought her. He had ordered her whipped nearly to the bone then had her healed and given her to his crew. Afterwards he had sold her to Commodore Matt Decker, the commanding officer of the ISS Constellation. Decker had a personal beef with her dead father, who had passed him over for promotion one time too many. Carol had been angry and mad with grief and when Decker had tried to force himself on her, she had again fought back, giving him a black eye and scratching him, until her nails had broken off and her own fingers bled. His guards had dragged her to the agony booth, her clothes still torn and streaked with blood, and left her there until she had passed out from the pain. A medic had revived her, only for a new session to begin. She had lost track of time, her own distorted voice gurgling out animal screams she had barely recognized as her own, while everyone of her nerves had been flayed raw.
She had stopped resisted in the aftermath, letting Decker avail himself to her body, staring at the bulkhead with unseeing eyes, as he did. When he felt generous, the commodore mounted loud parties for his senior officers, during which the alcohol flowed freely and she was being shared around. Even her compliance did not spare her from the agony booth, in which she was regularly thrown on her master’s whim, or the use of the agonizer. Pain was part of her daily existence and as the weeks bled into months, it became all she knew, doled at random, vicious and eviscerating. Pain, fear and hunger. Only Decker had the code to the replicator in his quarters, where she slept as well on a narrow, hard pallet on the floor, at the feet of his bed, and he only fed her when he remembered, which was once a day at best, throwing her scraps from his own meals. She lapped at them like a dog trained at her master’s heel, while he laughed and taunted. She didn’t care. Her cramping stomach overrode the shame. Her diminishing body with bones protruding from the pale skin did not become less desirable for Decker and his loyal officers and she still had to endure frequent and awful violations.
Then today, as she was waiting for her owner’s return, curled naked on the floor, shivering in quarters that had been forgotten unheated, Decker walked in with a new companion. A low, thick baritone, sepulchral as it echoed against metallic walls, inquired about her price, before the stranger pushed back the cowl of his long, black coat to reveal himself to be Khan Noonien Singh, the man who had caused her father’s downfall. A fresh shiver of terror clawed its way up Carol’s spine. If Khan wanted to buy her, it could only be for some horrible, protracted revenged against her Dad, but then she recalled that anything the augment might do to her could hardly be any worse than the current nightmare that was her life and let her mind drift into that hazy zone of nothingness it so often wandered into these days.
She had no notion of how much time had passed, when a callused hand dug into an already bruised shoulder, dragging her to her feet. “Get up,” Decker snapped at her and pushed her forward via an elbow to her ribs that awakened several dormant ached in her body. “She’s all yours,” the commodore added in condescending tone.
Carol did not look up. There was no point. She knew to whom she belonged now. A heavy coat that was too large for her dropped around her shivering body a moment later. She did not react. A communicator opened within her ear shot.
“Two to beam up. Directly to sick bay,” Khan ordered.
# # #
Carol found herself in a medbay that was considerably larger than those on Constitution-class ships and had arched black walls. Blue light spilled from above and onto the equipment and the biobeds. Khan was speaking to someone Carol saw in the periphery of her vision: it was an elderly female Trill. Carol paid them no attention. After a while, the augment walked out leaving them alone. The alien removed the coat covering her. It occurred to Carol it might be the same one Khan had been wearing, when he had entered Decker’s quarters. She shrugged off the piece of information; she had no use for it.
“Don’t be afraid, dear,” the Trill spoke softly in a warm tone of voice, using Standard. “I am Renhol and I am a doctor.” She gestured that Carol lay down on one of the biobeds. Carol obeyed without a word. Decker always punished her, if she spoke unprompted or without prior permission. But most often he punished her for no reason, just to amuse himself.
Renhol covered her with a sort of medical sheet, but not before scanning her body with a triocorder, making disgruntled noises low in her throat, as she surveyed her readings. Carol stared at the ceiling, losing herself in her head again. She was disturbed several times, when the doctor stabbed her neck with hypos, but the slight pinches were a far cry from the torment of the agonizer. Her pupils grew heavy and her head fuzzy so she let her eyes drift closed and fell asleep.
She awoke with no idea of how long it had been, but feeling surprisingly refreshed, warm and blessedly free from pain, although her head still felt off. She stretched, enjoying the lassitude in her muscles, and noted that she was now covered by a duvet. After a moment of disorientation, she remembered that Decker had sold her and to whom. Her fear spiked again, now that she was rested, and she wondered if Khan had brought her to the infirmary to have some retaliatory medical experiments performed on her. If he had, there was nothing she could do to stop him. Opposition would only bring about more pain and violence. All she could was wait.
She did not have to wait long, for the doctor returned almost immediately and with a glass of water, which she held out to Carol. Not knowing what else to do and feeling parched, the woman took it and drained it instantly. The Trill smiled slightly at that.
“How are you feeling?”
Carol fell back on the bed. “Better,” she confessed.
The Trill tutted approvingly. “Good. I gave you a sedative, while I tended to your bruises and lacerations and you had quite a few of both. You also had a broken rib and stress cardiomyopathy undoubtedly caused by intense physical distress. I took care of that as well. The malnutrition will take longer to remedy, however. I gave you some vitamins already, but we’ll start slowly with some soup and fruit. What do you say?”
Carol nodded mutely, determined to take what she could get for now, especially if that was food. The alien left and returned shortly with a steaming bowl of broth and a plate containing pieces of apples, bananas, various berries, gespar and grapes, both Terran and Rigellian. Renhol placed them on Carol’s bedside table and gestured that she should help herself. Carol did, starting with the soup, which was chicken, and tasted heavenly in her watering mouth.
“I will be keeping you in the sick bay for a few days to monitor your progress,” the doctor spoke again.
Carol said nothing, busy practically inhaling her food. She had forgotten when it had been the last time she had had a warm meal.
“You are not very talkative, are you? I know it’s difficult, but you might want to eat slower. You can have more later, but for now we’ll have to be careful not to make yourself sick.”
There was a pause during which the Trill studied her with a concerned gaze. “Nobody is going to hurt you again in this manner on the Vengeance,” she said confidently.
Carol ignored her, grabbing for a banana. Renhol either flat-out lied or was delusional.
# # #
Khan came for her three days later. Carol was in a way relieved, no longer cooped up in the medbay with the doctor, who was probably mad, since she conducted no dissections on animals or tested drugs and torture instruments. Nobody else came there, either, which was no surprise on a ship probably full of augments. Renhol spoke a lot, mostly about Carol’s poor health and the virtues of good nutrition but fed her regularly and even gave her sedatives to help her sleep better so she saw no reason to complain. The alien also insisted Carol wore clothes and replicated plain, white Trill dresses for her.
Carol would miss the steady supply of food and the strange lack of pain, but at least, she wouldn’t have to spend her every waking minute on edge or waiting for the ax to fall. Khan had strolled in at a self-assured pace and walked straight up to Renhol. They had talked for a short while in hushed tones and then his gaze, dark despite the iridescent blue of his eyes, flickered to Carol and he inclined his head in her direction, summoning her without a word. Carol scrambled off the biobed and rushed to him. The Trill called after her, telling her she was supposed to come down for a check-up in a day or two. Carol barely nodded in her direction, fairly sure she would not be allowed to keep the appointment.
Khan led her through corridors bathed in the same bluish light halo from the infirmary and if Carol cared to guess, she would say they were aboard one of the Dreadnought ships. She had no idea where they were and what they were doing there, but she doubted she would ever need to know the answer to those questions. They took a turbo lift five decks down, from where Khan proceeded down yet another hallway, where he stopped to key a few commands on a panel, opening a door as he did to what were presumably his living quarters.
“Lights 100%,” he commanded.
The area was spartan and rather cramped for what she had expected of a major political leader from the 20th century, but it was functional and furnished with all the necessities: a bed right below a tiny window to the stars outside, a desk with a monitor and a pad, two chairs, dresser, built-in replicator fixed in the wall and a second door no doubt permeating access to an en-suite bathroom. Carol wasted no time in pulling her dress over her head.
“Stop,” he snapped, his voice vibrantly resonant in the cramped space they were in.
Carol dropped to her knees without thought, the impact resounding in her bones, as her heart leaped in her throat. She would be punished for whatever she had unwittingly done wrong.
“Get up,” he ordered again. “This is not why I bought you. I need a physicists and weapons expert, not a whore.”
His words took her off guard and she lifted her gaze hesitantly. He stood no farther than a foot from her. Her eyes traveled over black boots, straight black trousers and a plain gray sweater. It was more clothing and less revealing than Starfleet officers usually wore. His face was hard to read and looked as though sculptured from marble. His chin was put up, pride and confidence radiating from his ramrod straight posture and his penetrative gaze.
“Renhol says you will need a few more days to rest and that you should continue to eat slowly and often,” he added. “If you want to use the bathroom, I suggest you knock. You are sharing it with Kati.”
Carol looked around, bewildered, but whatever questions she might have went unanswered, because he pivoted on a heel and left.
