This is an original fan story. However, it uses characters and situations copyrighted by Paramount. I make no claims to any copyrights regarding these characters. This story is simply for my enjoyment and for the enjoyment of readers.
Throbbing. His head was-- He slipped back.
Head. Ohmigodfuckshit, his fucking head. Big too big too-- He groaned. Hurting. Darkness beckoned, but--
Lieutenant Thomas Eugene Paris, chief flyboy of the U.S.S. Voyager and big fucking idiot, struggled to rouse himself. Head. Could he lift it? It seemed welded to the dusty place beneath his cheek. He groaned again, realizing he'd gotten no reponse the first time, realizing he'd been expecting one.
None this time, either.
He thought about opening his eyes. Dust. He smelled dust and old garbage and fresh smoke. Heard distant voices and occasional wooden creaking. Feet were cold. Mouth seemed packed with tongue.
He lay there for a while, eyes closed. Resting up for the major effort of--
Paris opened his eyes. Light scalded them.
He lay with closed eyes for the count of three. Open. Whimper and close and force them open again, groaning and then squinting the world into focus through a curtain of lashes.
Dust. Well, that explained the general dusty feeling. Planet of dust. Captain Proton on the Planet of Dust.
He heaved himself up on shaky arms before he could notice and stop himself. Ohmi--
The dusty world grayed at the edges. He swayed for a moment, fiercely focused; and then absolutely everything he'd ever eaten in his entire life spilled out of his stomach onto the beige ground. Throwing up just did his head no good at all, but his stomach seemed grateful.
He did it again and then retched a few times--mostly a reaction to the vile taste in his mouth--and then scrabbled backward away from the vomit, so it wouldn't happen again.
The wall was rough against his back, but it steadied him while he struggled to steady the world.
Dust and wall and-- He tried to look around without moving his overly large head. Walls on both sides of him: end of an alley. Alley punctuated by small heaps of ripening trash. All softened by the beige dust.
And no Chakotay.
Because-- Had Chakotay been here? Paris thought so. They'd been together--at least he seemed to remember it that way. They'd been--
Feet were bare. That was why they were cold. He didn't have shoes. Paris stared at his feet, trying to solve the puzzle of why they looked pinched and bluish, why he'd come out without his shoes, why the Captain had let him come down to the planet without shoes, because, really, she usually cared about things like that. But he'd had shoes, and Chakotay had had shoes, and--
Well, shit: think, Paris, think.
Okay.
Chakotay. He and Chakotay hadn't slept in the alley; that wasn't like them; they'd have found someplace less dusty. Someplace with beds, someplace with other travelers, other traders eager to share a meal and a friendly--
The memory was like a solid blow to his achy gut. Last night. Lousy little inn with the pretty serving girl and the chatty guys who'd sprung for the meal and for the wine. Wine that Paris hadn't liked much, but potent stuff: after a couple of mouthfuls his head was spinning, and then--
You fucking idiot, that stuff was drugged. And Chakotay hadn't drunk it at all, since he didn't generally drink. Was that why he wasn't here now? Paris remembered the guarded looks the other guests had given Chakotay during their meal, the way they'd sized him up, and his stomach clenched in sudden terror. What the hell had they done to the Commander?
He lurched to his feet and swayed for a moment against the rough wall. Oh, fuck, whatever the hell that had been in the wine, it was devastating. He spent some precious moments struggling with dry heaves. He pressed his forehead against the coolish plaster to steady himself.
Comm badge was-- Paris fumbled frantically over his clothes. Pockets empty. No comm badge, no redstones, no trader's fetish-- Fuck. Not even any lint. And no shoes; and, especially, no Chakotay.
Fuck, Paris, do you have ANYthing? Well-- He reached under his knee-length tunic to explore his lightly padded trousers at the inner thigh. Two--no, five tiny redstones. Right next to the family jewels. Chakotay had snorted as he watched Paris work redstones through the coarse cloth and into the padding; "All the valuables in one place," Paris told him, and Chakotay had laughed ....
Okay, so they wouldn't starve. Now, find the inn, find the thieves, and find Chakotay.
And find some shoes. Paris had been in situations before where shoes were currency; he'd wondered then what made them so damned important. By the time he reached the end of the alley, he knew. You needed the damn things because there was so much just waiting to stub your toe, bruise your arch, cut your heel. He came out into a noisy little courtyard just as a woman sloshed filthy water across his path. Thanks.
Damn city with its damn heat-reflecting white buildings. The sun ricocheted off all that white and straight through his brain. But there was the inn and there was the serving girl. Paris stumbled toward her like an undecided photon torpedo. She seemed surprised to see the state he was in--or maybe just surprised to see him, period.
"Where the fuck is he?" Paris said in a voice so harsh he barely recognized it.
"Who?" She held her broom as if it were a weapon.
"Chakotay! Where the fuck is he?"
But she was backing away into the inn, alarm and consternation mingled in her face, and the broom at ready to defend herself.
"What's going on?" It was the inn keeper, pushing past her. He saw Paris. "Oh," he said.
"Where is he?" Paris said.
"Who--the slave?"
"Chakotay! We were together!"
"The slave," the inn keeper said, as if that were the most reasonable description of Commander Chakotay he could think of. "Probably in the slave market. Your friends probably took him there."
"My fr--" Paris stared at him. Something must have happened to the universal translator embedded in him; maybe the stuff that had been put into the wine. "Those weren't my friends. They robbed me."
"They bought your meal, and they took you outside when you got sick," the inn keeper said. "I thought they were your friends." His tone implied that that was the story he was sticking with.
You piece of-- "What happened to Chakotay?"
"What always happens to slaves. You know we don't allow slaves in this part of the country. Someone probably took him back across the river."
Panic blossomed in Paris's stomach. "He isn't a slave."
The inn keeper blinked. "Of course he is! He's probably in the slave market right now, waiting for a new master. One that will know better than to bring him across the river where he doesn't belong."
New master-- Paris stared for a minute at the inn keeper. "Where's the damn slave market?"
The inn keeper gestured. "Across the river." He cast Paris a look of disgust as he turned on his heel and went back into the inn.
River. Paris stared around him, trying to orient himself. There was a dull roar from somewhere: continuous and monotonous. Probably the river. Before he followed the sound, he drank deep from the well in the middle of the courtyard--hoping desperately that it wasn't downstream from latrines--and let the trickle of water run over his head.
His head felt clearer, but he shivered as he stumbled toward the sound of rushing water. It was chilly; autumn was coming on fast.
The town--city, to the Verkau--was a labyrinth of dusty little streets bounded by monotonous white buildings. Men leaned against the walls, staring at everyone who passed; women lounged at the doorsteps, staring at everyone who passed. Paris avoided looking them in the eyes, unsure of how an answering stare would be interpreted.
He walked, he walked. He wasn't even sure he was headed for the river; how the hell did anybody ever get where they were going? Finally there was a break in the buildings; and his street emptied onto a pathway beside a gorge. The river.
A handful of elaborate bridges spanned the gorge, linking this city of white, dusty buildings with a mirroring city of white, dusty buildings. Paris joined the Verkau streaming across the nearest, passing blue-clad guards slouching at this end--armed with bows, no challenge to someone with a phaser, except he didn't know anybody with a phaser.
As Paris started across, someone jerked at his arm, and a huge hand with a tattooed palm was thrust in front of him. He stared for a minute at the guard who had stopped him.
"One stone to cross the bridge," the guard said.
Paris blinked at him. What?
"Cheapest bridge in the area," the guard went on. "Sturdiest, too. The House of Bentau likes to give customers good value. One stone."
A couple baskets half full of redstones sat at the guards' feet. Up and down the river, other guards watched similar baskets at other bridges. Damn. Paris fumbled under his tunic.
The guards laughed. "First time in the city?" one called out.
Paris felt his face grow hot as he fumbled for the redstones--any stone at all. He ripped frantically at the coarse material, finally yanking one free.
His guard stepped back and raised his hands. "I wouldn't touch it!" he said in mock alarm.
Paris glared and dropped the stone into the basket. He stalked away from the raucous laughter with as much dignity as he could muster, hurrying to lose himself in the crowd. Good going, Paris.
The wide bridge was of wood, painted the blue of the guards' uniforms, with geometric designs in green covering almost every inch. The colors of a Verkau House. The damned Houses--the sixteen major ones--controlled everything, made money from everything. The river the bridge spanned was--mygod. Paris stopped and grabbed the railing with both hands. Hundred-meter drop, down to an expanse of raging water roaring across rocks. No swimming that.
Something jostled him. Paris whirled, ready to fend off an attacker.
"Sorry," his jostler said. "Slave thinks he can still get away from me." He gave Paris a grin of conspiratorial amusement, a grin that said, "you know how they are."
The slave in question had stopped struggling, at least temporarily. He plodded ahead in the grasp of the grinning Verkau, stony-faced, eyes on the dusty bridge ahead of him, hands bound behind him. It wasn't Chakotay.
Stomach suddenly flopping like a landed fish, Paris followed them to the other side.
The slave catcher grinned at the guards eyeing the crowd at this end. "Good catch!" one of them called out as he dragged the slave off the bridge.
"One more, and we can put a new wing on the house!" the Verkau called back happily. The guards laughed as he and his catch disappeared into the crowd.
Oh, fuck--Chakotay .... It suddenly hit Paris just what had happened to Chakotay. Somehow the Verkau had decided he was a slave; somewhere they were selling him; someone was actually selling him and thinking about whether to use the money for a good drunk or for a good lay or maybe for the local equivalent of a bunch of carrots and a toy to give a child. My god--Chakotay.
Paris pushed through the crowd in a sudden surge of panic. Find him find Chakotay fucking find fucking Chakotay-- It was all up to him: no comm badge no way to signal Voyager no emergency beam out even if they were in trouble because the underlying geology of the fucking planet fucked up the scanners in a major way and Voyager couldn't find them. Not even the local equivalent of Interstellar Travelers' Aid, because the Verkau hadn't even invented their equivalent of gunpowder yet, let alone space travel; they didn't even know they were being visited by space travelers stopping by to trade for dilithium crystals on their way to another part of the galaxy. They didn't know they were selling the commander of a starship like a basket of not-so-fresh fish.
Finally at last finally finally, Paris caught sight of the slave catcher. The slave seemed to have given up struggling, and the slave catcher was hustling him along. Must be trying to get home for dinner.
Paris followed at a casual distance, eyeing the crowd around him. Verkau carrying baskets or packs followed other Verkau at a respectful distance, eyes firmly on the ground. Slaves following their masters. Chakotay .... The masters--male and female--wore knee-length tunics over padded trousers, in the bright colors of the various Houses to which they were allied. The slaves dressed mostly in browns. They kept their heads down, and they followed their masters like sheep following shepherds, stopping obediently when the master stopped, silently adding purchases to their loads, never looking up. Chakotay--
Paris snorted. Chakotay as a slave was just-- Chakotay would incite the biggest revolt this planet had ever seen--Prime Directive be damned. Paris would love to see it. Prime Directive be double damned.
The slave market was huge. An enormous square stretched before him. Here a crowd studied the features a slave trader pointed out on the body of a naked Verkau man; there, a Verkau woman pursed her lips in deep thought on the relative merits of two naked Verkau children. Naked Verkau huddled together against the autumn chill, as clothed Verkau studied them and dickered, under the gaze of leather-armored guards with whips. Paris tasted bile. Fucking Prime Directive be triple damned.
He surveyed the square, trying to look casual. And as if he had all the redstones on the planet: that look would earn obsequiousness from the damned slave traders, that look would get him a better price than desperation would. At least the red and black of his tunic would impress them, though the color combination belonged to none of the major Houses; Tuvok had made sure of that. Paris looked at his chilled and dusty feet. Probably a Verkau who had all the redstones on the planet also had shoes. Well, fuck it. If he had to buy Chakotay out of slavery, he'd need all the stones he had; starship commanders didn't come cheap. Paris would have to be the eccentric Verkau with all the redstones on the planet--an eccentric who disdained mere shoes.
Paris scrabbled casually for the remaining four stones, clenching them tightly in his fist, which he shoved into his pocket with as casual an air as he could manage. Okay. He started off on his tour of the slave market.
Halfway into it, he spotted Chakotay, glaring at everyone around him. Paris let out a relieved breath. At least the commander hadn't been sold yet.
He stopped for a minute to reconnoiter. Chakotay stood, arms bound behind him, completely naked; good thing they'd done the full-body disguise. Paris studied him: uncut and a respectable size; smooth brown skin grazed in a few places; full lower lip puffy with bruise; right cheek bloody. Built-up epicanthic folds over the eyes intact; and if Chakotay turned, Paris knew he'd see the rich brown freckles the Verkau bore, spreading from his hairline down the nape of his stiff neck and across his shoulder blades; lighter down his spine; and nestled in a dark triangle at the crack of his ass. Paris's smile crinkled his own altered eyes. Even naked and bruised, Chakotay radiated hostility and defiance. And power. Four redstones wouldn't begin to buy this guy.
Except maybe in this market. As Paris watched, potential buyers approached, took one look into Chakotay's stony black eyes, and retreated, glaring hostility at the seller and not even glancing at the scrawny old naked Verkau huddled against Chakotay. A couple guards stood nearby, eyeing Chakotay and talking to each other--apparently deciding something. The slave merchant looked frustrated and desperate.
Paris made his move. Stroll forward, smile pleasantly at the suddenly hopeful merchant, stop and study the prospective purchase. Old guy first: stringy muscles, apparently on his last legs--
Paris felt ice settle in his belly as he realized what it was that made the Verkau think Chakotay was a slave.
He had to remind himself to look at the Commander, remind his face not to show the shock as he surveyed the merchandise from head to foot. Chakotay was giving him the warning glare a really caring commander usually gave the lieutenant who'd be spending the next ten years in the brig if he screwed up in the next ten minutes.
"Very strong," the merchant said. "New this morning. Look how strong he is. And probably breed you many more."
Paris struggled to control his breath, before it came out in a laugh. Chakotay was giving him the glare an especially caring commander always gave the lieutenant who was going to be cleaning Jeffries Tubes on all his off-bridge hours for the next thirty years, if he so much as smiled in the next thirty seconds.
"I don't know," Paris said. "I'm not really in the market."
"A good bargain," the merchant said coaxingly. "Won't be on the market long. Only twenty stones."
"Twenty?" Paris asked coolly. "Twenty for someone with that attitude?" Chakotay's glare burned brighter than Verka's twin suns; he probably thought Paris was joking around.
Paris lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, fanning four fingers on the hand that the slave merchant couldn't see, and watched Chakotay's glare fade to alarm as he understood the message.
"Fifteen," the merchant said quickly.
"Two," Paris said. Just hold on, Commander.
"No. Impossible. That's an impossible price for this strong slave who will breed you many more and make you rich. Ten. Ten, I might consider."
"Three."
"Do you want to ruin me? Six."
This guy was desperate, and the sudden smile in Chakotay's eyes said he knew it, too.
"Four," said Paris.
"This must never get around," the merchant said. "If it got around that I gave this slave away, I'd be ruined. Five. Five would allow me to at least keep some dignity. For five, my wife would still call me husband."
"Four," Paris said again.
"Four is an outrage. Four is an insult. Four would make my mother turn away from me in disgust. For four, my father would tear my name from the book of our family. Five. I can only take five."
Paris sighed. "Like I said," he said, "not really in the market." He turned.
"Ruin," the merchant said. "You were sent here to ruin me, weren't you? The House of Auln still hasn't forgiven me for that small matter of the third son's virtue, not that he had any to begin with, the little plump-bottomed slut. Out to ruin me." He heaved an enormous sigh. "But a man must pay for his pleasures, and those red lips and bold ways were worth even my economic ruin. So, four. Tell the House of Auln I have lost my mind and may lose my business. Tell them they have won. Four it is."
And Paris found he could breathe again. Chakotay gave him the glare a tender commander often gave the lieutenant who'd sidestepped a messy death by millimeters.
The slave merchant carefully placed the stones in a worn pouch that hung around his neck and unfastened the old man, who'd been tied to Chakotay. The old Verkau staggered; the merchant gently guided him to a seat on the ground, speaking to him in a low, mock-scolding voice.
Paris reached to untie Chakotay's hands.
"I wouldn't," the merchant said quickly. "He might-- He was very-- He's been disobedient."
"I think it'll be all right," Paris said, struggling with the knots. Damn. Chakotay's wrists were bruised and abraded.
Paris started when a leather strap was thrust at him. "I was going to beat him," the merchant said. "Remind him of obedience before the guard did."
"I don't think so," Paris said.
The merchant tried to put the strap into his hand. "Beat him now. A few strokes from a caring master is better than being broken by the guard." He indicated the men, now silent and staring at Paris and Chakotay. The ice settled again in Paris's belly.
"I don't need to." Paris held Chakotay's startled dark eyes with his own. "I think he knows better than to look directly into a master's face." My god, Chakotay, just pay attention. "I think he knows a slave just shuts up and looks at the ground." Good god, Chakotay-- "I think he knows he needs to blend in--"
Chakotay's eyes filled with loathing, but he turned his gaze to Paris's feet. His mouth was set in a line that didn't bode well for the future.
Paris stood for a minute, watching Chakotay's slow burn. Then he lifted his eyes to the watching guards. They still looked suspicious, but they were relaxing now, eyes drifting to other parts of the market, looking for other trouble spots.
"We need to get out of here," Paris said to Chakotay.
He started off, glancing behind to see what Chakotay was doing, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. My god, the first officer of Voyager was being paraded naked across the square, and nobody was even noticing.
"Don't enjoy this," Chakotay hissed in a low voice.
"I'm not." Much. Commander, stark naked with his head lowered in humility, walking a respectful distance behind a lieutenant? What wasn't to enjoy?
Paris turned, feeding himself with a glance of an outwardly humble Chakotay, and stopped, watching the scraggly old Verkau and the slave merchant, sitting together and sharing a snack. "What about the old guy?"
Chakotay stopped; his mouth went lopsided. "Don't worry about him; I think he's been on the market for years. Apparently this is some sort of retirement for him. He and that slave merchant bicker like an old married couple." Chakotay looked around. "My god, this place is vile."
"Well, we didn't mean to come here."
"Yeah, but we're here now." Chakotay's eyes burned dark fire. "Prime Directive or not, this society doesn't deserve--" He bit it off. "We've got to get out of here." He started off for the river, striding along with the arrogant power he exuded walking through Voyager's corridors.
Shit. "Chakotay!" Paris glanced around as he went after the commander. He managed to step in front of him. "Commander! Just fucking stop!"
Chakotay stopped and glared at him. Just beyond him, the damned guards were interested again.
"You have got to fucking remember who the fuck you are here!" Paris hissed. "Commander," he added belatedly.
Chakotay glowered.
"These bastards just sold you to me!" Paris tried to keep his voice low. "They don't give a fuck that you command the greatest starship in the Delta Quadrant; to them you're just a slave. You have to act like one--at least until we get the fuck out of here!" One guard was striding towards them, the other watching warily.
Chakotay's eyes promised mayhem and revenge on an unprecedented scale. But he lowered his gaze to Paris's bare feet. Good.
"Quick," Paris said, watching the approaching guards. He started across the square just like nothing was wrong, aiming away from the guard. He could feel the guard behind him and ran a dozen possible scenarios through his brain; but the expected shout didn't reach his ears.
Paris glanced back casually--the master checking on the new slave, who was following obediently, glaring at the ground. The guard had given up. He felt his knees wobble in relief.
A narrow street led off the square, a quiet place with few pedestrians. A cul-de-sac; Paris took them to the end of it.
Chakotay's eyes burned cold fury. "Just what the hell happened back there, Lieutenant?" he said.
For some reason, Paris found himself moving between Chakotay and the street, as if hiding him from anybody who might be watching. Stupid, since Chakotay was so enraged he didn't seem to care that he was naked in public.
"They were going to whip you," Paris said. "I couldn't have stopped them."
Chakotay's mouth tightened, but that seemed to have gotten his attention. "We weren't supposed to end up on this side of the river," he said. "How the hell did it happen?" Barked out as if he thought it was Paris's fault.
"They think you're a slave. That side of the river catches slaves and sells them on this side."
"And why the hell would they think I'm a slave?"
Paris swallowed. Now he was in for it. "The tattoo," he said. "All the slaves have tattoos on their faces. Must be some sort of House mark. The masters don't have them."
That stopped him. There was a long, silent minute while Chakotay stared at him, color draining from his face. His hand went up absently as if to cover the mark that honored his father, that meant so much to him.
Then Chakotay's mouth quirked, and his eyes went blank. "My ancestors must be laughing their heads off," he said.
Huh?
"I didn't even notice," Chakotay went on. "Some observer."
"Well, everything was kind of chaotic," said Paris. "Besides, every time you look in the mirror, you see a guy with a tattoo. After a while, guys with tattoos probably just don't make that much of an impression."
Chakotay's grudging half-smile told Paris he knew bullshit when he heard it, but he appreciated the effort.
"Tuvok's going to have to do something about reconnaisance," Paris went on. "We should have known."
"I agree." Chakotay suddenly looked tired. "Cultural indicators said, 'slavery', and we just said, 'No, thank you.' We should have pursued it instead of blithely assuming we could sidestep the issue by avoiding the slavers. Caught by our own arrogance."
"So now what?"
Chakotay looked at him.
"We can't just cross back," Paris said. "They'll just jump us again and take you right back. Apparently slave catching is a good business."
"Can't communicate with Voyager; Voyager can't get a lock on us or our position." Chakotay had ceased to be the naked commodity, had donned his role as Commander, considering the situation.
"When we don't check in tonight, they'll send somebody after us," Paris said.
"Yes, but not until tomorrow, and a shuttle will have to land where ours did--there isn't any place closer with enough cover to hide it. Another day to get to the city, and they'll have to search street by street, since the scanners won't work. And even then they won't think to search on this side of the river. At least not for a while." He surveyed the area over Paris's shoulder. His mouth went wry, as if he'd tasted something sour. "We may be here for days."
"Great." Paris felt his stomach turn over. Days of dodging guards and trying to make sure nothing really bad happened to either of them. And they needed stuff: food, a place to stay. He glanced at Chakotay. And clothes for the shivering Commander. "We don't have any money."
"And we need it. These people have commodified everything." Chakotay's voice held no irony. "We'll need to figure out how to get some."
"You'll have to--" Paris's voice suddenly failed him.
Chakotay's gaze went straight to Paris's. "Act like a slave," he finished for him. The black eyes were neutral, though the jaw tightened. "What was it you said? Keep my head down? Walk behind you? Know my place?" Every word was as crisp as a phaser bolt.
Paris flushed. "I didn't make the rules, Commander!"
"No, but you're certainly benefiting from them. As usual."
Paris felt hot words rising to his lips, squelched them. Damn fucking stiff-necked Chakotay. As big a pain as a Starfleet commander as he'd been as a Maquis captain.
Chakotay let him stew a minute. Then, "Tom," he said, "I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I'm just not feeling very happy at the prospect of staring at your ugly feet for the next few days." The quirk of his mouth was an apology.
Paris accepted it. "We have to get you some clothes. I'll refrain from mentioning what part of your body I don't relish seeing for the next few days."
To Paris's surprise, the Commander flicked him a grin. "Then I suggest that the first thing you do is give me your pants."
His-- Great. Pantless, Paris would spend the next few days naked-legged and looking ludicrous.
Chakotay was giving him the Commander look--the one that promised that he could make sure that for the next thirty-five years, any time Paris wasn't in the brig, he could be scrubbing Jeffries Tubes with a toothbrush. "Or your tunic. I'm not picky. Lieutenant."
Well-- Paris started to pull the tunic over his head.
"Hooeeoo! Hooeeoo!"
Paris jumped, turned, stepped back to shield Chakotay, who hissed, "Shit!" into his ear.
A plumpish woman was scurrying toward them, beckoning. "I need a trunk carried out. I'll give ten redstones for use of your slave."
Uh-- ("Damn it!" muttered Chakotay.) "He doesn't--uh--he doesn't have any clothes. On," Paris said. ("Lieutenant," Chakotay said, warningly.)
The woman looked puzzled and a little impatient. "I don't need him to wait table. I just need something carried."
Uh-- "But he's--naked," said Paris. Think fast, Tom. "I wouldn't want to offend you with--with--uh--with his naked--uh--his nakedness." He heard an impatient sigh from behind him. Oh yeah? See if you'd do any better.
Now she really looked impatient. "He's just a slave. Who hasn't seen a naked slave? They're just animals. Come. I'll give you twelve redstones. But no more. The trunk isn't that big."
Uh-- "I could do it for you." He flashed her his best knock-'em-dead-with-charm grin. "Let me do it!" And maybe Chakotay could hide himself--
Now the woman looked offended. "Of course not! That's what slaves are for! Comecomecome!" And she reached around Paris and grabbed Chakotay by the arm.
She was strong, and she was fast, and she had the advantage of surprise. Chakotay stumbled past him, giving him a glare that said, Do something!
Yeah, but do what? Paris trotted after them.
This was just-- "Uhhhh," Paris said. My god, this was--
He felt hilarity bubble up inside him as he followed the woman and his naked Commander to a doorway a few steps away. My god, this was one scenario they'd never even thought of cooking up at Starfleet Academy; he hoped he'd make it back to the Alpha Quadrant and get it added to the syllabus.
One of what passed for a horse on Verkau stood hitched to a carriage outside the door. A glance at the wizened little driver explained why they needed someone to carry the trunk.
"Chair, Lashlee!" the woman called out, and a little girl, eyes respectfully averted, brought out a chair. "Sitsit!" The woman shooed Paris to the chair.
So he had a front row seat for the whole humiliating scene. Chakotay's hands were clasped at his crotch; his head was down at a respectful angle; but he was giving Paris a glare out of the corner of his eye that could have run Voyager at warp nine for the next fifty years. Paris gave him a sick and helpless shrug. The glare upped about ten more years.
"Comecome!" said the woman, and as Chakotay followed her into the house, he cast Paris a look that could have withered the Great Tree of B'n'a'ba, which had actually weathered a nuclear explosion.
Shitshitshitohfuck. But it was--well--funny. Paris's mouth warred with his instinct for self-preservation, which kept reminding him that he shouldn't grin, because Chakotay might see him out a window. His mouth won.
Lashlee set up a little three-legged table and brought out a glass and a pitcher of something tinged a cloudy blue. It was cool, not at all sweet, and very refreshing. Paris downed a glass of it and settled back to enjoy another one. Shit. This was just too ridiculous. Harry was going to love hearing about this.
Time passed. Paris planned. Twelve redstones. First thing they'd get was clothes for Chakotay-- --oh, god, Chakotay standing there stark naked, trying to hide behind his hands, while that woman-- --and shoes for himself. And they'd need a place to stay--
He heard merry chatter inside the house, coming closer. Okay, now, try to look humble enough to mollify the Commander.
Chakotay came through the door first, carrying the trunk easily on one shoulder. He was watching his feet, his face a stony mask. Behind him the woman chattered with another, who was wrapped in furry robes.
And right on Chakotay's heels-- Paris's fingers tightened on the glass, and all impulse to laugh evaporated.
Right on Chakotay's heels was a very small boy with a child-sized riding crop, slapping Chakotay's legs with it and chanting, "Go! Go! Go! Go!"
"That's it," the woman in the furs said fondly, "make him go faster."
The woman who'd hired them smiled over at Paris. Aren't they just adorable at that age, her smile said.
Everything went gray for a minute.
Then, Chakotay was strapping the trunk onto the back of the carriage, and the two women were embracing, and the child was being lifted into the carriage, and he and the woman in furs were being driven off; and Paris stood and poured a glass of the drink for Chakotay, his hand steadier than his stomach.
"Now, here's your redstones," the woman said. As he stowed them in his pocket she cast an appraising--and not unappreciative--glance at Chakotay. "I've been thinking of breeding Lashlee pretty soon, if your--"
"I don't think so," Paris said, not looking at her. He handed the glass to Chakotay and watched him drink, so he wouldn't have to look at the damned woman.
"Thank you," he said, handing her the emptied glass.
To his astonishment, she looked at it in disgust and then straightened her back and smashed it against the wall of the house. "Think I could use it after a slave--" she said; she glared at him and went inside.
Because Chakotay had drunk from it?
He stood for a minute, shaking and disoriented with sudden rage. Then, "Tom," Chakotay said quietly; and Paris's feet turned him around and walked him away from the damned house.
Walked him right down the street, down another street, down another. No idea where they were going; just getting awayawayaway.
"That was instructive." Chakotay's voice was dry.
Instructive-- Paris stopped, turned. Chakotay looked at him. They stood that way while Paris fumbled for thoughts.
"I don't think I can do this," he said.
"You're a Starfleet officer," said Chakotay. "You can do it."
"But, Chakotay, that--that child ...."
Chakotay looked at him for a moment, then he straightened his spine, became the Commander again. "Lieutenant, you have to do it. These people have--" His mouth twisted. "These people aren't going to listen to me; you'll have to take care of everything. For once in your life, you have to take responsibility for something."
You piece of-- Paris bit back the words.
But Chakotay saw the fury. He stepped forward, got right into Paris's face. "You have to take responsibility. I have to be able to count on you. No matter what happens. Whether you like it or not; whether I like it or not. Can I do that? Lieutenant?"
It was a minute before Paris could control what would come out of his mouth. "Yes, sir."
They glared into each other's eyes for a long moment. Stiff-necked, uptight, hard-assed-- And he knew just which buttons to push when it came to Tom Paris. Then Paris saw Chakotay relax a little.
"Tom," Chakotay said, "I can't even express how humiliating was to have to go into that house naked, have that child herding me, hear those women laughing about it." His mouth tightened. "That woman smashing the glass I'd drunk from .... Your anger was--" Chakotay smiled. "--heartening." Paris took a shaky breath. Shit--just which buttons .... "I hate having to depend on anybody. But--but I know I can count on you to get us through this. Can I?"
Fuck fuck fuck. Just what buttons to push. "Yes, commander," Paris said, though in his heart he knew he was going to screw this up somehow in his time-honored way, just completely fuck it up, get them both killed or worse. Shit.
And there was that wry look coming into Chakotay's eyes, that dry quirk to his lips. "And now that we have money, we need food, we need shelter, we need clothes. I suggest the clothes first. I'm freezing. And I'm sick of feeling like a Dendrelian pleasure boy advertising his wares."
Paris blinked. What the hell did Chakotay know about Dendrelian-- He just killed that thought right there.
The suns were setting, and the long shadows were chilly. The next street over, Paris spotted a clothing stall.
Twelve redstones. Hmmm--
Trousers and tunic and shoes for Chakotay--good, thick ones, because it was getting nippier by the minute. The stall owner was helpful and loquacious and informative. Slave clothing? Right here, sir! The boots were easy; there was only one color and one style. Paris's heart sank as he looked at the dull browns and grays of the clothing. Chakotay wearing this, just another generic slave--
Of course, there were other colors, sir! Chaneet the Clothier had everything a Master could need! But the rich red tunic that caught Paris's eye cost eight redstones.
And his own boots--
The Master should have only the best! That must be why they cost three times a slave's boots. Chaneet the Clothier was aghast when Paris asked about a pair like Chakotay's. Masters never wore the boots of a slave! No, not even as a joke! Such a thing was unheard of!
"Buy the good ones," Chakotay murmured, his gaze fixed on the ground.
Chaneet the Clothier politely rearranged his wares, ostentatiously not listening. Apparently little unheard conversations between master and slave went on all the time.
"But I don't want you to have to wear those--" Paris started.
Chakotay flicked a smile at him. "I appreciate that," he said. "But, it'll make it easier for us to blend in. We're in Rome, Tom. Dress like a Roman."
Damn it. He bought the damned boots, and two pairs of the socks fit for a master, and a tunic and trousers in a brown that wouldn't look half bad on Chakotay; and once it was all totalled up, they had exactly two redstones left.
They found an alley and donned their clothes.
"You always have to have your own way," Chakotay commented as he examined the soft, thick socks before putting them on.
"You're welcome," Paris said.
He could see Chakotay's grin in the fading light as he fastened up his boots.
Food took the rest of their redstones: little rounds of something like corn bread, and a couple handfuls of a small autumn fruit they'd both grown fond of in the last couple days: "And this cost half what you paid for me," Chakotay said. "I'm beginning to feel seriously underpriced."
Shelter--well, they sheltered themselves in a really nice alley, where there wasn't much in the way of garbage, and the wind didn't blow too hard. Paris froze when Chakotay lay right up against him, though, really, it was the only way they'd stay warm.
"How do you feel about rats?" Chakotay whispered genially into Paris's ear.
Paris sat up in a hurry. "Where?"
But Chakotay was grinning. "I just wondered. A man needs to know how his companion's likely to react."
"Oh, I react just swell," said Paris. "I scream and run all over the place."
Chakotay's chuckle warmed him until he fell asleep.
Ohmigod, sleeping on pavement was-- Oh, god, he felt about fifty years older than when they started this mission. And this was his second night in a row bedded down in an alley. Paris heard the sound of water trickling and opened an eye. Chakotay, pissing against a wall.
"Good morning, Lieutenant," Chakotay said over his shoulder.
"Morning, Commander." Paris groaned himself to his feet and shuffled over to the wall to empty his bladder. Oh, god, his back ....
Sleeping in an alley didn't appear to agree with Chakotay, either. Hair rumpled, face creased, eyes puffy with sleep, bruises gone an ugly color, back obviously protesting every move; and those dust-covered brown clothes-- Paris had definitely seen the Commander look better.
As Paris refastened his trousers--shit, he wanted a shower, a real shower, with hot water and soap and shampoo and--Chakotay started the moves of the Klingon-Vulcan-Earth variation of tai chi they'd all learned at the Academy. Good way to loosen up. Paris joined him.
Loosened wasn't fed, Paris's stomach kept whimpering. Well, it would have to wait until they earned some redstones.
It waited most of that morning, because earning enough for breakfast turned out to be a long process. His attempts to find a quick job for himself were met with amused bemusement by the Verkau: apparently a slave owner wasn't actually expected to work, himself, which was actually a part of this culture he could probably learn to live with, though, "Don't get used to that, Lieutenant," Chakotay murmured behind him.
Finally he found the hiring market, where lounging masters scrounged odd jobs for their slaves. Here, though, they ran into a humiliation Paris hadn't actually anticipated, though, in hindsight, he should have.
"What House?" an approaching client asked.
"House of Chakotay," Paris said. Voyager's senior staff had discussed the answer to this anticipated question for almost an hour, and decided that, since each pair of traders would need to identify with some House, using the name of the senior officer in the pair would sound plausible enough to pass, but obscure enough not to raise suspicion.
"Ah," said the man. "A House unknown to me, though undoubtedly a strong House."
Paris smiled and inclined his head modestly. "We come from far away. The southern continent." There was, in fact, no fucking southern continent on Verka, but he'd noticed a long time ago that for unexplainable reasons most intelligent beings in the universe prided themselves on a non-existent knowledge of geography.
This one was no different. "A lovely place," he said. "I have visited it often."
Of course you have. "How may my House be of service to you?"
The client smiled happily. "I am breeding a lovely pair of--"
Huh? "I'm sorry," Paris said hastily. "He's not for breeding."
"Pity. So much of our slave stock is inbred; a stud from a distant place could charge quite a fee."
"Such a pity," Paris agreed. (Behind him, Chakotay snorted.)
And another Verkau, five minutes later:
"I'm breeding a very strong and beautiful--"
And, three minutes after that:
"They're triplets, and I would love to breed them all to the same--"
And, six minutes later, the final touch:
"Five minutes, and you could be on your way--"
"Five minutes?" Chakotay said in a strangled voice when the would-be client scurried away.
Finally got to you, huh, Commander? "Obviously thinking of himself," Paris said, and was rewarded by Chakotay's chuckle.
"Stud service?" Chakotay said. "These people--" He sounded disgusted.
Paris thought of Lashlee, being bred to some other degraded lump of a slave as if she were an animal, and felt sick. But, Chakotay at stud--Harry would howl when he heard about it.
"You could have had triplets," Paris said.
"I'll just have to live with that." Chakotay's voice was rich with amusement. Then, "This won't appear in our final report, Lieutenant."
"Of course not, Commander." Stud.
When the next man bustled up, Paris almost greeted him with, "I'm not interested in breeding this slave," but,
"Work for a week," the man said briskly. "Carrying. Not heavy loads, not far." He walked around Chakotay, eyeing him critically. "Pardon me," the man said to Paris; and he lifted Chakotay's tunic to examine him.
Above the bunched tunic, Paris's sickened gaze met Chakotay's. My god, to be prodded like a side of suspect beef. The Commander's mouth tightened. Then his face went stony as he dropped his gaze to the ground.
"Good muscle tone," the Verkau said to Paris, dropping the tunic and running his hands appraisingly down Chakotay's arms.
He was going to pay for that--dearly.
He did. "For thirty a day, I had better get full bargain out of him," the Verkau snapped at the end of their dickering. "You're lucky that Vaneet the Importer needs a worker in a hurry."
"And half in advance," Paris said.
The Verkau glared, and then laughed. "The House of Chakotay is unknown to me," he said. "But with bargainers like you, it is a House that will live in legend." He handed over the fifteen stones almost cheerfully.
The job actually was as Vaneet had described: Chakotay loaded baskets off carts for the rest of that day, with a couple male slaves. Paris watched. It was monotonous and, watching the deadened expressions of the slaves, Paris could see why the other Verkau thought of them as animals: they had retreated so far into themselves that they looked almost incapable of thought.
At noon, Paris learned something else. First, he learned how to feed a slave. Vaneet sat with the food in front of him, his slaves just behind him; and as he ate, he passed them their own meal. They ate only what he gave them, when he handed it to them, but even without looking he seemed to know when they wanted another piece of meat, another chunk of bread.
Chakotay heaved a disgusted sigh and sat just behind Paris, who shared out the food he'd bought on the way to the shop. It was, Paris decided, a ridiculous way to feed somebody: he was so worried that Chakotay would go hungry that, "Slow down," Chakotay hissed; "You're loading me up worse than Neelix trying to finish off that leftover leeola root casserole!"
And then he learned something else. Finished, Vaneet stood, tapped one slave on the shoulder, and led the way to the alcove where he apparently did the books. The other slave lay down and appeared to fall asleep.
After a minute or two, the sounds from the alcove made it very clear that Vaneet was enjoying the dubious pleasures of his slave's body.
"Don't get any ideas, Lieutenant," Chakotay murmured in Paris's ear.
"Commander!" Paris squawked, turning a shocked look to him.
A smile flickered at the corner of the lush mouth.
"All these people seem to think about is sex," Chakotay said as the sounds began to build.
"And money," Paris added.
"Like Ferengis," they said together. Chakotay's laugh sounded good.
A few minutes later, the noises reached a crescendo and then stopped, and Vaneet soon strolled out of the alcove, completely unruffled. The sleeping slave sat up and stretched. When the other slave emerged, the two grinned happily at each other; the one Vaneet had used rubbed his ass briskly, cheer radiating from every pore. He showed his friend two fingers; apparently a very good time had been had by all.
"Good god," Paris breathed. He could hear Chakotay choking behind him.
The afternoon stretched on and on. It was pretty damned boring watching Chakotay and the other two trudge back and forth, back and forth. Maybe he could find something to do, get a job from somebody who didn't know he theoretically had a slave to do all the work, earn enough that they could both relax for a few days--
The shout and the clatter of a metal cup hitting the ground brought him to his feet; when he saw Vaneet glaring at Chakotay, Paris was moving before his brain even told his feet to go.
They were beside a pottery jar that held water. Chakotay was wet, the ground was splashed, and a cup rocked at his feet. He was glaring at the ground, his fists clenched; his jaw was working hard.
"Your slave should know when it is proper to drink and when he should be following his orders," Vaneet growled.
"Where we're from, we pretty much drink whenever we feel the need." Paris picked up the cup, handed it to Chakotay. "He knows to drink as much water as he needs, as often as he needs it."
Vaneet's eyes narrowed as he watched Chakotay take his drink. "Your slave acts as if he thinks far too well of himself. He doesn't walk much like a slave."
What the hell's he supposed to do, shuffle and say, "Yes, massa"? "Chakotay acts just the way he should." Paris stepped very close to Vaneet and said quietly, "And if you do that again, I'll hand you your head."
The idiom may not have translated well, but Vaneet seemed to get the gist of it. "You're right," he said. "It is for the master to beat his slave. But see that you do it."
Then he shoved Chakotay back to work, and Paris realized that his own hands were shaking. Fucking planet, fucking Verkau, fucking slave culture, fucking-- "Observe, so you can blend in," the Academy had drilled into both of them; but first contact usually didn't involve trying to stay invisible, learn the culture, and protect your commanding officer from bullies with whips.
The most painful part of the rest of that day was watching Chakotay watch the two slaves, slowly learning from them how to move.
The suns were just setting on the short autumn day when Paris and Chakotay set out in search of shelter. A room where nobody watched to make sure Chakotay acted like a slave, a room with a bed, a real bed, a real fucking bed ....
At an inn that didn't actually look half bad, when they found it. Seven redstones a night bought them a bed and a meal. When he saw the room, Paris blinked. A bed. One bed--one very narrow bed. One.
"Chakotay needs a bed," he said.
"Slave's bed," the innkeeper said, pointing to the rug beside the bed.
Oh, for-- Paris could feel his blood pressure rising; he was just not in the mood for this. "He needs a mattress."
The innkeeper looked puzzled. "You have a mattress, so when you fuck your slave, you are comfortable. No slave needs a mattress just to sleep on."
Deep breath, Paris. Deeeeep breath.
Paris stepped very close to the innkeeper, looked down at him, and said very calmly and precisely, "When I fuck my slave, we use his bed; and I want another mattress."
The innkeeper bustled outside in a hurry to shout down the stairs for another mattress.
"'When I fuck my slave'?" Chakotay murmured.
"Please don't start, Commander." Deep breaths, Paris. Deeeeeeeep breaths.
Chakotay strolled to the window, where the candle light bathed his face; and Paris could see his grin reflected in the dark glass.
Supper was communal: Paris sat with the others on low stools around a low table, sharing bread and fruit and platters of vegetables and some sort of meat. Good: plenty for Chakotay, who was a vegetarian. No silverware, though, so Paris had to keep wiping his fingers on his napkin, to keep the juices from the meat off the food he passed back.
There were baths next door, and the minute Paris realized what they were in for, he wished he could just drown himself and get the misery over. First you undressed, then you washed, then you soaked: the procedure wasn't that alien. Except that slaves were involved.
"Don't get used to this, Lieutenant," a naked Chakotay murmured as he stripped Paris.
"I won't, sir," Paris said. He had a sinking feeling he knew what was going to happen next.
He was right. Chakotay got to soap him up.
With his bare hands.
Where everyone else getting soaped was watching.
My god. Paris was going to be hearing about this for the next sixty or so years.
"Just close your eyes and think of Starfleet, Lieutenant," Chakotay murmured into his ear.
Which was funny, except--oh, god--closing his eyes wasn't a good idea, since it left him free to focus on the slide of Chakotay's soapy hands on his back, his stomach, his thighs, his--
"That's probably going to get clean enough without the soap, Commander," he said briskly when Chakotay's hands wandered just south of Paris's stomach.
"Just being thorough," Chakotay muttered.
I'll just bet. Paris frowned down at Chakotay's sly grin. Damn you, Chakotay; quit making this worse.
Chakotay seemed in good humor while he finished with Paris's legs. He was very thorough in soaping Paris's ass, massaging, stroking, circling--
"I think that's enough soap, Commander," Paris gasped finally. Damn it.
"Yes, Lieutenant." Meekly.
Those strong hands went up to shampoo Paris's hair. It felt good. Very good. And then, unbidden, Paris's mind reminded him that this was a naked body behind him, radiating heat, occasionally bumping him, smooth skin glistening with water and flecked with soap suds, and--
What? His eyes snapped open. What the hell was he thinking? This wasn't some hot and willing flirt. This was upright, uptight Chakotay. His commanding officer. Paris took a deep breath. Just get a grip, Paris.
Rinsed and neck-deep in the communal tub of steaming water, Paris tried to relax. But, my god, there was Chakotay washing himself in the area set aside for slaves: soaping himself, rinsing, absorbed in the dreamy pleasure of getting thoroughly clean. Lamp light on that glistening skin, turning it golden-- Paris tore his gaze from the kneeling figure and focused instead on the skeletal merchant across from him, droning on to a friend about some complex deal involving rotten fish.
Chakotay seemed cheerful when he knelt on the deck just behind Paris's head. "Bed, Lieutenant?" he murmured into Paris's ear.
Damn you, Chakotay. As Paris clambered out of the water, he caught a glimpse of Chakotay's mischievous grin. Double damn you, Chakotay.
When the Commander meekly wrapped Paris in what passed for a towel here, and began to rub, Paris grabbed it away. "I can do that," he said drily. "Commander."
Chakotay inclined his head. "Yes, Lieutenant."
It was a relief to reach their room, away from judging eyes.
Paris dropped onto the mattress on the floor. "You wouldn't have been trying to humiliate me, would you, Commander?"
Chakotay's grin was pure mischief. "Sorry, Lieutenant; I couldn't help myself." Then, "I should probably be sleeping there, you know."
Shit. Paris stretched out on the rustling mattress--what was it filled with, hay?--and closed his eyes. There was a draft. "You'd need another blanket," he said.
"We'll take care of it," Chakotay said briskly. Paris opened his eyes; Chakotay was looking down at him with undisguised friendliness gleaming in his dark eyes. "Come on, Lieutenant." He reached down to pull Paris up.
"I hate this planet," Paris said. He grabbed a blanket, felt it, tossed a thicker one to Chakotay.
"I've certainly had more enjoyable away missions," Chakotay said drily. He wrapped the blanket around himself and paused. "But you're doing a very good job, Lieutenant."
Praise from Chakotay? "Uh, thanks, Commander. Oh--and remind me tomorrow that I beat you black and blue tonight."
Chakotay eased himself onto the mattress and closed his eyes. "I'll limp and whimper a lot."
"Don't overdo it." Paris blew out the candle and stretched out. A bed. Migod, a bed.
"You know, Vaneet's men are actually pretty intelligent and interesting." Chakotay's voice was sleepy. "Rao makes up stories. Sei knows about a hundred funny songs. They like Vaneet. They feel lucky, because when he beats them, he uses his open hand instead of his fist or a whip; and when he has sex with them, he makes sure they enjoy it."
"Shit, that's pathetic."
Relaxed sigh. "They're surprisingly happy."
That was even more pathetic. "Good night, Commander."
"Good night, Lieutenant."
Happy. Pathetic. But Chakotay said it as if he sympathized--or at the very least understood.
Sometime during the night, Paris woke. He raised up and looked around the room. Everything okay. The blanket-wrapped bundle that was Chakotay snored gently. Paris grinned down at him. This was familiar; it was reminiscent of a hundred sleep-overs he'd hosted as a child. He lay back, smiling. Kevin Seabring, who'd wet the bed. Luis Radowsky, who'd spooked both Paris and himself with his scary stories. Ned Smithton, who'd--
Paris caught his breath. Well, actually, Paris had instigated that. Both of them teenagers and full of hormones, Ned honest about his homosexuality, and Paris curious, especially after watching Roger Ives' Iliad in all its unexpurgated glory: Achilles, beautiful and fierce, bedding an eager Patroclus in luscious detail; and Paris's mouth had dried with lust.
So, Ned, sleeping over, on a mattress beside the bed, awakened to find Paris nervously slipping in beside him. And shyly reached out.
In his cold bed on Verka, Paris wrapped the blanket closer and smiled. My god, they'd both been virgins--at least, when it came to that--though virginity was long gone by sun up. It had been awkward and painful and glorious, all at the same time. And then the summer--they must have tried every damn thing two males could do with each other. Now he sighed into darkness at those impossibly innocent days, when they'd happily explored the boundaries of pleasure, before either learned that he couldn't always feel this happy or this strong.
Chakotay murmured and shifted. When I fuck my slave-- Ned, on that bed beneath his. Get your mind away from that, Paris.
But what would it be like to have the right to use the body on that mattress? Naked, in a soft nest of thick blankets, the warm body stirring as Paris slipped into the bed, the thighs automatically parting and the snug ass obediently lifting to the perfect angle, even before the slave fully climbed out of sleep; lush mouth slackening with pleasure as Paris slid again and again into tight, compliant flesh, husky voice crying out ecstatically--
Oh, for-- Paris savagely wrenched his mind right away from that scenario; such a lovely one, too--the rape of a passive slave--and was that supposed to be Chakotay? Slip into Chakotay's bed, and you'd be lucky leave it with just your genitals ripped off.
He grinned into the darkness. No tapping Chakotay on the shoulder. Just go back to sleep, Paris. Nothing doing there.