Captive

The Beta Casarii mission came and went with few (fewer than normal, anyway) difficulties. Starfleet Command was reluctant to let the Enterprise make a major diversion to drop off its "guest". They continued to patrol the sector. There were other reports of Klingon incursion to follow up, as well as the detailed charting of outlying areas. Captain Kirk was never happy to have civilians aboard the ship, but there wasn't a lot he could do at the moment. At least the woman wasn't the most difficult passenger they'd ever had.

For many days, the patient in Sickbay (who Dr. McCoy eventually named Pelarr, meaning "golden light" in one of the languages of Miranor VI) remained poised between life and death. Only slowly did the balance tip in favour of recovery.

All the remaining surgical work was now complete. The facial reconstruction had gone well. The surgeons were confident that Pelarr's new face was nearly identical to the original. It would be too traumatic otherwise. It was an interesting face that didn't precisely match any of the racial groupings on file. Her eye colour (gold flecked turquoise, ringed with what seemed to be dark metallic gold...hence the name) was certainly unusual for humanoids. The medical computers couldn't decide if it was a mutation or a standard colour for her people. Taken with all the other data it seemed more and more likely that Pelarr was a member of a previously undocumented humanoid species. Her planet of origin would remain unknown for a while longer.

Gradually her level of unconsciousness decreased. The hardware array around the bed disappeared piece by piece. All the necessary data could now be acquired and processed by the diagnostic bed alone. Dr. McCoy was once again beginning to think he could cure a rainy day, although deep down he didn't really feel he had all that much to do with anything anyway. He decided that she must have one hell of a will to live. Hopefully she would now be provided with something to live for. He also knew that some of the crew had offered prayers, chants, petitions and whatever to their various Gods, gods and deities. McCoy himself wasn't particularly religious, but a few words to the top brass couldn't hurt.

When Pelarr finally surfaced to full consciousness briefly, it was in the middle of ship's "night". The late shift staff no longer kept a bedside vigil, so she was alone. She didn't have the strength to open her eyes or speak. She dimly registered the fact that she was no longer in any pain. In fact, she couldn't feel anything at all. Between the controlled temperature of her cubicle in Sickbay, and the antigrav pad suspending her a few millimetres above the bed, there was no particular sensory input through her skin. The audio output from the diagnostic bed was shut off, since the information was routed directly to the nursing station monitors. The light was dimmed in deference to the concept of "night". Pelarr drowsily decided she was dead after all and drifted off into normal sleep.

Mesnir, the duty nurse, noted the changes in brain wave patterns. It went over to the bed to examine the patient. Strictly speaking that wasn't essential since it had already seen all the necessary information. However the nurse had its own standards and traditions to uphold and "hands"-on care was one of them. After a quick but thorough examination, it decided that Pelarr was sleeping normally. It made a gesture of satisfaction and returned to its desk. Dr. McCoy (and the rest of the staff) would be pleased. The mood in Sickbay had been a bit tense since Pelarr had arrived. No medical personnel anywhere liked the prospect of losing a patient. Somehow this one seemed especially important.

Dr.McCoy was on duty when Pelarr woke again. She stirred slightly and managed to open her eyes a bit. The doctor was at the bedside instantly, checking her vital signs. She looked at him vaguely. Who was this? One of the Holy Ones? Had she made it to the Dawn Lands after all? She was too exhausted to think straight. She merely continued to assume that she was dead and fell asleep.

McCoy was relieved. Her bouts of wakefulness, brief as they were, were a good sign. Perhaps in another day or two she would be able to communicate. Everyone was getting more and more curious about Pelarr. The crew were all speculating industriously about their visitor. Bets were being made as to her planet of origin. No one but Spock or McCoy had access to all of her medical data, so no one had any way of knowing the truth. Hopefully a few of the punters had selected "none of the above".

Part of the Enterprise's new orders was to investigate Pelarr's planet as soon as it could be determined. They were also trying to follow up the origins of her captors. The little ex-pleasure craft had a legitimate history until recently. What transpired between its last legal sale and its first illegal sale was untraceable. There hadn't been enough of the escape pod debris in sufficiently large pieces to allow identification of its unfortunate passengers. Captain Kirk did not like unsolved mysteries. He'd had too many of them lately. There was sketchy evidence that there was an increase in smuggling in the explored parts of this sector. Other types of criminal activity on a huge scale had been rumoured, but no one seemingly knew anything about anything. He'd thought about badgering McCoy to use some of those high powered drugs they had down there to get the woman (he didn't know about the impromptu name) into good enough shape to be questioned. However he pictured the conversation (read: argument) he would have with his Chief Medical Officer, and abandoned the idea. "Patience" he told himself.

He didn't have any at the moment.

Pelarr had recovered sufficiently so that Dr. McCoy could order the antigrav pad removed. While she was unconscious, she had been given physiotherapy to prevent muscle atrophy and joint stiffness. Now that she was sleeping normally, she began moving somewhat on her own. McCoy watched her sleeping for a few minutes. Recently she'd begun to dream again. Pelarr was stirring restlessly and her heart rate and blood pressure were increasing. Suddenly she snapped awake with a gasp. McCoy quickly moved closer to her bedside. She'd raised her head a little and looked around her in terror.

The doctor gently placed a hand on her arm. She flinched slightly at his touch. He spoke softly to try not to frighten her further. "It's alright. You're safe here. Can you understand me?" he asked in slow, careful, clear Standard. There was a translator on the bedside table but it wouldn't be of any use until Pelarr spoke.

Pelarr looked up at the figure bending over her, her heart still pounding. Who was this? He wasn't the one who took her away. There was kindness and concern in this one's eyes. He was smiling. The other one, though, had smiled too. Especially when he had tightened the threads-that-cut. She lowered her head back on to the pillow, carefully so as not to cut herself again on the cruel threads. Pelarr then realised she was no longer tied up with the painful cords. A hand and forearm came up off the bed experimentally. The effort exhausted her and she let it drop. She turned to look at the man's hand still resting softly on her other arm. He wasn't hurting her or trying to hold her down. She tried to speak. Her mouth and throat were dry . She was still breathing hard.

"Yes.I... know... some." she whispered in Standard. McCoy couldn't place the accent. "...drink..." she continued, although she didn't really expect to get one. They hadn't given her anything to eat or drink. In the end she stopped begging them.

McCoy brought a container with a straw in it, and held it up for her. Her eyes widened as she cautiously sipped a little of the diluted nutrient cocktail. When she finished she settled further into the bed and looked around again ,warily but less terrified. So...her dream had been just that...she was no longer trapped in the Dark Place. The crushing, nameless horror creeping over her, ripping her last breath from her, wasn't real.

McCoy was satisfying himself that Pelarr's vital signs were returning to normal after their panic driven surge. She was relaxing slightly. He waited for the inevitable questions.

"Where? Where this?" she asked, her voice strengthened a little by the drink. She didn't seem puzzled or anxious. Not even confused. McCoy couldn't know that she was merely enquiring in order to add that fact to her mental store. What did it matter where she was? It was warm and comfortable. Nobody was hurting her. Maybe there would be food sometimes.

"A place for sick people. On a starship." the doctor replied. He wasn't sure how much she understood. The monitors over the bed couldn't tell him how her brain was dealing with the language. Somehow McCoy didn't think it was the best time to set up for an evoked potential scan which would tell him if she understood.

Pelarr made a slight gesture with her head, which might have signaled understanding. Sometimes when she was too sick to work, her various owners had her brought to a healer. Then she would get a day or two of rest, once in a while, even a few days. The man seemed to care enough to bring her to a healer . Maybe this new owner wouldn't hurt her too much.

She wasn't too sure what a "starship" was. It must be big . The room she was in was bigger than most healer's places she'd seen. Surely she was already in her new master's house. She rememberedwhen she'd been shipped to a new owner before. There were always others with her. Sometimes there was just enough room to sit. Rarely she could lie down. Sometimes it was a long time before they were let out. Some didn't even survive to be let out. When she was put into the Dark Place, it was very small and she was alone. Nobody came to let her out. This was different. She had space to move and breathe.There were only the two of them in this quiet place.

"You..." Pelarr paused, trying to find the right words. She was very tired. "You buy me?" she continued. An owner who visited a sick slave must be very special.

McCoy stared in amazement. Then he chuckled to himself. Why shouldn't she think he'd bought her? He would have liked to have had Mr. Spock here , just to see his reaction. He shook his head, then wondered if Pelarr would know what that meant (she did). "No. I am a doctor. A healer. "he added. Then he shook his head again slightly. He wondered sadly what sort of life must she have had, if she thinks that the first person she sees could only be her new owner.

Now Pelarr felt that she was on familiar ground. Her new owner was wealthy enough to own a healer! She'd been in a household like that once. It was probably the best time of her entire life. All the slaves were well treated, and there was always enough to eat. She even had had her own bed. When the householder died, all his possessions were divided up among the remaining relatives. It hadn't been so nice after that.

...

She'd been taken to another part of the world. The journey, in an open freight carrier, took several days. She and three other slaves from the old estate had been tied to each other the entire time. They were let out only when the animals sharing the container with them needed food and water. Their own food was very basic and never quite enough. Having come from a decent househod, they shared it equally. How long that would last none of them knew.

As they travelled, the air grew colder. It ws cloudy nearly every day, with biting winds. A cloth covering was lashed over the top of the carrier to protect the animals from the increasingly frequent rain. When the wind was in the right direction the slaves didn't get too wet. What little of the landscape she and the others could see through the slats of the carrier looked hard and tired. The plant life along the road was thinning out, and was stunted by the continuous wind. None of them knew where they were going. They had been ordered into the carrier when the household was broken up. The name of their destination would have meant nothing; they were all off worlders. Although she and the others had come from an estate where they were relatively well treated, they were still slaves. None of them were educated beyond what was needed to perform their work. Conversation between them was minimal. The slaves patois provided only the most basic shared vocabulary. Only very rarely did a slave meet someone who spoke the same language. Many owners deliberately chose slaves from different language groups. Escape and insurrection are more difficult in the absence of good communication.

It was dark when they arrived. The carrier was opened and they were hauled out. No one seemed to notice or care that they were tied together. She had lost her balance and fallen hard on one knee. The ground was wet, cold, and full of sharp stones. Her neighbour yanked her up as they were pushed indoors. They were untied and shoved against a wall. Their handler barked something at them, which none of them understood, and left. The huge door made no sound as it slid shut.

The four of them stood there; cold, dazed, aching, hungry. As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they began to take in their surroundings. They were in a large room or animal enclosure, dark now except for a few dim lights at the corners.All around them people were lying or sitting singly, in couples, or groups. Most were or seemed to be asleep. Despite the cold and damp, the sleeping mats and coverings were thin and shabby. Some of the occupants had neither. A few regarded the new comers warily. However it was obvious the new ones were in no condition to be a threat

. The little group sat where they had been pushed, near the door. They huddled together for companionship as much as for warmth. These weren't the worst quarters any of them had ever seen. The ship which had brought them to this planet had been far worse. That had only been for a few days. As far as any of them knew, they would be here for the rest of their lives.

The morning was murky; only marginally brighter than the previous night. Tiny windows near the ceiling let in some greasy light. She woke up when something struck her across the back. For a moment she thought she was still in the carrier, but the smell here was different, and the floor colder. One of the others she'd come here with had shoved her, not so lightly, to get up. She struggled to rise, but the knee she'd injured the night before was now swollen and stiff. Her companion pulled her upright and bent to look at her leg. It was dirty, cut, and bruised, but nothing seemed to be broken. There was nothing they could do at this point anyway. Their previous owner had a household healer. Would there be one here?

Nearly all the slaves were standing or milling around. Mats and covers were shoved aside in disarray. In the limited light she could see troughs against the back of their quarters. Several people were at each one getting washed. Off to one side were the latrines, their presence made known as much by the smell as anything else. People were lined up waiting to use them. The slaves here were from many different races. There were some types she'd never seen before. Everyone moved quietly, with little talk. No one smiled even a little. There was some pushing aside at both troughs and latrines, but none of it was the good natured teasing she'd seen before.The four newcomers silently joined the end of the queue for the latrines. Most of the others had finished their ablutions, so they were left unmolested. The latrines were filthy. She moved as quickly as her leg would allow. The washing troughs, to her relief, had cold but clean water running through them. They all washed as best as they could with no cleanser of any sort. There were no cloths or towels. She wrung out her hair and wiped the water from her face. The water was cold enough to make the surrounding air seem warm.

The door slid open noiselessly. Everyone pushed through and silently formed lines outside, according to some order the new slaves did not understand. They hung back slightly. The massive door slid shut behind them. There were several handlers, of differing races, standing nearby. They were all armed with neuronic whips. Each line of slaves approached a crude booth where they received a bowlful of some unidentified foodstuff and a spoon. There were several rough tables and benches scattered about the clearing in front of the slave quarters. Some sat to eat, others stood or paced. None came near the handlers. The slave giving out the rations was scraping out the pot when she and the others arrived at the end of the queue. Only one of them got a full bowl, the others got less. As before, they shared it equally. The kitchen slave had seen them dividing up the meagre rations. He simply stared.

Everyone was forming their ranks again. The new slaves barely had time to gulp the unrecognisable meal down, when they were separated by one of the handlers. Now she had her first real moment of panic. Up to now it hadn't been so bad; there were familiar faces nearby. She calmed herself. It wasn't the first time, after all. She'd see them again in the sleeping quarters. The others were put into different ranks, while she was led away from the yard with another group.

As they turned the corner of the yard, what she supposed was the main house came into view. It was a squat, ugly building. The stones from which it was built were dark, some crumbling. There were no ornamental plants around the front as there had been on the previous estate. The house was simply part of the barren landscape. Nothing she could see of it looked the least bit attractive or comfortable. No one spoke to her. That was to be expected. She was new here and so at the bottom of the slaves social ladder. No one was speaking to anyone else either. That surprised her a little. In her old household the slaves always chatted with each other while working, despite the language differences. The Master, and handlers, didn't care as long as the work was done. Here it was nearly silent, except when the handlers shouted. Were some of the others deaf-mutes? She'd known owners who protected their privacy that way. She shivered, not entirely from the cold.

The group came around the side of the house.She'd expected an entrance to a courtyard, around which the rest of the house would be built. Here it was too cold for so much openness. They filed through a narrow door. Now the group split up as they went to their assigned work. She was left standing in what appeared to be a workroom, attached to a kitchen perhaps. There were sinks and taps along one wall, shelves full of utensils on another. The roughly coated walls and the stone floor were none too clean. Again, as in the slave quarters, the only windows were tiny and placed near the ceiling. One of the handlers came back and shouted at her. She still didn't understand his speech. She used the slave patois to say so. He responded by saying nothing and pushing her into what was clearly a kitchen. Tables had various food items on them. She recognised the ovens as being the same type as at the old estate. The whole place was dark, dirty and disorganised. The other slaves, male and female, went on with their tasks, ignoring her. She stood there, favouring her injured leg. An old woman came in and spoke with the handler. He pointed to the newcomer and left. The woman came up to her, and said something incomprehensible.

Again she used the patois to say she didn't understand. What language were they all speaking? The woman looked at her curiously , took one arm and examined the marks there. Then she looked carefully at the other arm.

"This one has been in a House of high rank" she thought. "How did she end up here?" She traced the last mark on the new slave's arm. "This is the mark of House Riintor. So...it's true...the old man is dead. You'll find things different here, my girl." she muttered, knowing the newcomer wouldn't understand. "Can you cook?" in the patois.

Finally! Words she could understand! She looked at the old woman. In fact the head house slave was not as old as she first appeared. Overwork, an inadequate diet, and years of brutal treatment had aged her. "Some, kheza." using a midlevel title of respect.

"In this house I am called pelza"... a less respectful title.

The new slave was startled. She had expected to be chastised for not using a higher honorific. Calling someone by a higher title than was theirs was sometimes treated as a mark of disrespect, implying the possessor was working beneath their true station. She looked at the head slave again, then remembered her manners and looked down.

The pelza approved. In this House it was better not to look beyond one's task.She could see the poor girl was cold, tired, and had evidently injured her leg. Probably hungry too. Kitchen slaves at least were slightly better fed than most of the others, even if it was only the scraps that would be animal food in other Houses.

"What else can you do?"

Still looking down, she recited the duties she'd been trained to perform, ending with the musical instruments she could play.

"Not much call for that here. What about the 'intimate arts'?", using the patois for sexual endeavours. The girl wasn't bad looking, and in reasonably good shape. Not that the Master was particular anyway.

She looked up, and held out her arm again. She pointed to the mark preceding the one of Riintor. It designated one of the planet's most well known brothels. The old man had bought her after one of his frequent visits there.

The pelza made a sign of assent. The girl would be well trained and used to anything. "How old are you?"

The new slave shrugged. "I don't know." Slaves aren't usually taught how to compare year lengths which vary from planet to planet.

This was nothing new for the pelza.. Many of the slaves didn't know exactly how old they were. Not all births were registered on any world. "How are you called?"

"Merrenn", the little one, in the Southern dialect. The name the old man had given her.

Now the pelza shrugged. As good a name as any. "Come with me. You will assist in the kitchen to begin with. Other work will be given, in time. You will sleep in the house. You are not to leave the house without permission, ever. Is that clear?"

"Yes, pelza." Merrenn stood shivering.. "The others...from Riintor...we came together..." Would she ever see them again?

"They are not my concern. Only you. Come." The pelza turned, Merrenn followed. She shivered again, but not just from the cold. The others in the gloomy kitchen only looked up briefly at the newcomer. Her position was too low to be a threat to any of them. They resumed their work, more intent on avoiding punishment than anything else. The new one would learn quickly enough, and die if she didn't.

...

Pelarr awakened gradually. It was very quiet and dim in the healer's cubicle. She stretched slowly and cautiously, her newly healing body protesting. She was uncomfortable but not suffering. Her stomach reminded her it was empty. Pelarr wondered if she dare ask for food. The healer was kind, but she didn't want to get him into trouble. After all, she knew nothing about the Owner, but he probably wasn't too bad. No one she'd seen since she'd come here seemed very frightened or unhappy.

At the nursing station, Chris Chapel noted the patient's change in consciousness. All of the sensors indicated some degree of normality, for humanoids in general. However, since they didn't know exactly what was normal for Pelarr's species, such things were taken on faith. Pelarr looked better, and was awake more. She didn't appear to be in any undue pain. Her brain activity was increasing hourly, with the scan traces regularising. The Rigellian neurosurgeon was gratified, but amazed that no apparent lasting damage had been done to the brain. Unfortunately, damage to "special senses" would not be so readily detectible, until the patient could be questioned, and normal values established.

Chapel studied the visual monitor, and observed Pelarr's careful stretching. She noted the nutrient levels in the patient's blood. "She's ready for some food" Chris thought. McCoy had authorised soft foods, so the transition from the liquid diet could begin. "I'll give her a few minutes to herself, before I go in." As she watched, Pelarr rolled sleepily onto her side and tucked up her legs. The loose sleeve of the surgical tunic fell away, leaving the now smooth arm exposed. The dermoplasty had been a resounding success. Not a single mark was visible. Christine smiled with satisfaction at their handiwork.

Pelarr had also noted the absence of the accustomed marks. She started to scream.

Nurse Chapel was utterly astonished. Reflex made her check all the monitors. Pelarr was not in severe pain, there was no bleeding, no sharp rise or fall in critical blood levels of anything. In short an emotional crisis, not a physiological one. She rushed to Pelarr's bedside, pausing briefly only to touch the "panic button" which would summon Dr. McCoy.

Pelarr had stopped screaming and was sobbing hysterically. Christine tried to comfort her but was held back by Pelarr's thrashings. She was on the verge of activating the restraining field to protect the patient from damaging herself when McCoy arrived. In an instant he too noted the absence of an obvious medical problem. While Chris was still trying to help Pelarr, he found the necessary drug cartridge, and snapped it into a hypospray. Taking a well educated guess at the needed dosage, he applied it to the young woman's arm. "Not bad for a moving target" he thought.

The effect was magical. "Neoataraxin?" Chapel asked, as she watched Pelarr subside, gasping, on to the bed.

"Mm hm" McCoy confirmed. He wanted Pelarr relaxed, but conscious and coherent. "Now what the devil's going on here? I was winning for a change!" The "panic button" activated a subdermal implant in the doctor's arm. It was a discreet way to summon the Chief Surgeon to sickbay in an emergency. Poker game notwithstanding.

Christine brought him up to date. She showed him the visual of Pelarr's behaviour up to the moment of her terrified outburst. McCoy was as puzzled as his chief nurse. He examined Pelarr's arm. Everything was as he expected. He too was justifiably pleased at the excellent outcome of the dermoplasty. Pelarr was quiet now, her breathing becoming slower and more regular. "Can you tell me what's wrong? What happened?" he asked gently.

Pelarr looked at the healer. She silently extended one arm to him, in explanation. McCoy took it cautiously. The drug would dampen down any fear on her part, but he was trying to build long term trust.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, although the bed's sensors told him it didn't.

"No. Not hurt." She seemed puzzled that he didn't understand. "Doesn't he know about the House marks? Don't they do that here?" she thought. She tried weakly to push up the loose sleeve of McCoy's off-duty shirt. Without releasing her arm, he did it for her. She looked carefully at his unmarked arm. She then indicated she wanted to see his other arm. The doctor now let go of her arm and repeated the sleeve shift.

Pelarr's mind couldn't grasp what she saw. A healer with no ownership marks? A free man trained as healer, and attending a slave? What kind of place was this? But where were her marks? She hadn't been freed. Had her services been ended? Was she being left to fend for herself, and starve?

Her well of Standard wasn't up to explaining. She tried to make them understand how desperate her situation was. She ended up just running on with whatever vocabulary came to mind.

"No one will buy me...only pirates or drestar ...they won't know where I've been...what I can do...maybe a runaway...no papers of freedom...no place to live...no food...no name mhend ...no owner's record...I'm nobody...!" she fell silent, then started to cry again, despite the calming drug.

McCoy and Chapel stared in amazement. The translator lost the odd word here and there, but they got the idea. "My god..." McCoy faltered, "She feared freedom more than slavery."

They were momentarily at a loss. Then Chapel tried again to offer some comfort to their patient. Pelarr was too miserable to notice the nurse's presence. Dr.McCoy could see that there was no point in trying to go on, so he prepared another hypo.

"I'm going to give you some medicine to help you sleep." he said, but Pelarr gave no indication that she heard or understood. He administered the sedative gently, and waited for it to take effect. Gradually his patient stopped sobbing, and relaxed from the near fetal ball into which she'd curled herself. He pulled up the bed cover which had been thrown awry, ensuring that Pelarr stayed warm enough.

Nurse Chapel looked strained and pale. McCoy was sure that he didn't look much better. They left the cubicle, and by unspoken agreement went to the doctor's office. McCoy gestured for Christine to sit down, and got two mugs of coffee from the replicator. He placed them on the desk, and sat down as well. They drank in silence for a few moments.

He made a mental note to have the translator memory interrogated to find out what languages Pelarr used, since her outburst was clearly multilingual. He also wanted to do a more thorough DNA analysis to refine drug compatibility. The neo-A hadn't worked for very long. A different derivative might be better.

Chris also made a mental note...to finish reading the files on slavery and other forms of captivity, that Mr. Spock had compiled. She was shocked at Pelarr's reaction to the absence of the ownership brands. More information was needed, so she could provide the best physical and psychological care for her patient. She broke the silence.

"What do we do now, Len?", holding the warm mug a fraction too tightly.

McCoy's gaze returned from its distant focus. He sighed slightly, shrugged, and shook his head slowly as he said "I don't know, Christine. I just don't know."

chapter 6