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.Carnival Mirrors	By : keithcompany Category: Star Trek > Star Trek Views: 3189 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
"Would you like to listen to The Transmission, Captain?" Uhura asked.

"Not right now, Lieutenant," Kirk replied. "But go ahead and pipe it over the loudspeakers. Let the lower decks hear it."

"Aye, sir," the comms officer acknowledged as she started to configure the communications system.

"Make sure our guests receive it as well," Spock added. She nodded and pressed more switches.

The Enterprise navigated towards the Lilliputian outpost furthest from their homeworld. Various stations reported the weapons capability of the base, the number of inhabitants and the vessels available.

They transmitted a warning to the base of its imminent destruction. By the time the base commander protested that he lacked the vehicles to evacuate they were already well aware.

"Transport the population to the shuttle hangar, Mr. Scott," Kirk ordered.

"Aye, sir."

Massira heard the commander's rising panic in his broadcast. He stopped begging for his and his crews' lives from the invaders and started warning his people.

"The crew is vaporizing! One or ten at a time, they just glow, then they're gone! No burn marks, no loss of integrity, no-" There was a whine, then silence.

"That should enhance our message, don't you think, Mr. Spock?"

"Logically, fear of unimaginably advanced weapons should convince them to surrender faster," her owner agreed. Massira choked back a sob.

They used something called a phaser to destroy the base. Images of the destruction were lovingly recorded and piped throughout the ship. Laughter and cheers sounded on the bridge.

Massira remembered passing the planet on the way out of the solar system. She'd felt pride at how much they'd achieved, how much they were going to achieve in future exploration.

Instead, it was just target practice for odious giants.

The Imperials spiraled inwards, chivvying evacuees towards their home, collecting stragglers and the stranded.

After about seven hours of such persecution, they flew up above the solar plane to monitor the forced homecoming.

"Well," Kirk said as he stood, "that's a good day's work. Have the duty officers monitor their communications, mark resistance, the usual. We'll do the inner planets tomorrow." He clapped his hands together.

"Now, if anyone needs me, I'll be on the hangar deck. Lieutenant Moreau has had some ideas about using Lilliputians. She wants to pick out a few that are 'just right.'"

"Very well, Captain," Spock acknowledged. "I will direct the placement of monitoring satellites then turn over to the duty rotation."

"Great," Kirk said as he stepped into the turbo lift. He made eye contact with Massira where she cowered on the giant chair. He winked then the doors closed. The little woman shuddered.

The bridge crew spent some time identifying movement within the solar system and interpreting it. Orders were compiled for the duty shifts to keep them occupied until the next day's harrying.

Massira tried to drive the commands and observations out of her mind. She backed away from the center of the room where Spock sat. He surveyed the screen and the map of the system. He mostly sat in silence, stroking his beard.

Every so often he'd give a set of coordinates. The scarred men at the console before him would report a 'tight beam' sensor report. Each report was the discovery of a previously hidden station or colony. She wondered if it was his telepathy or some logical deduction that allowed him to do that.

Either way, she couldn't watch. She turned and found herself facing a bank of controls and indicators. None of them were labeled. That didn't make much difference, she could barely manipulate the control panels of the colony ship, and that was knowing what they were supposed to do.

"Mr. Spock!" a voice called. It broke through the gentle hubbub of sound as the duty section relieved the invasion section. She turned to see that it was one of the console controllers. The man was staring across at her.

"Yes, Mr. Chekov?"

"Sir, your slave is approaching your control panel, I believe she might-"

"Are you suggesting, Mr. Chekov, that I am unable to control my own slave? One fully within my visual range?" Massira checked her own defensive response. She noted that she even felt a thrill as she realized that the Imperial officer was the one in trouble, not her.

"Oh. Um, no, sir. I only meant-"

"Did you mean to draw my attention away from that sensor sweep you've been surreptitiously running from your own station?" She could tell nothing about what was going on at the Chekov's station. And her owner hardly seemed to be looking away from the main viewing screen.

"Sir? I have no idea what you-"

"Gold or dilithium, Mr. Chekov?" Chekov slumped in his seat.

"Gold, sir."

Spock nodded. "Dilithium would only be useful to the Empire. If you found a hidden source, you could use it to gain favor with someone higher in the command. Improve your position, perhaps at the cost of a superior officer.

"Gold, on the other hand, merely signifies personal greed." He stood, placed a hand on the shoulder of the navigator. The man shuddered visibly. Massira almost felt sorry for him, but he was trying to get her in trouble. Imperial bastard.

Spock pat the shoulder gently three times. "Good. Greed is always an acceptable motivation, as long as it doesn't create difficulties in the work place. Carry on, Mr. Chekov." He turned towards his slave, beckoning her to approach. She jumped to the deck and followed him to the turbo shaft.

"Sir?" a stunned navigator responded.

"You will, of course, share thirty percent of your profits with the bridge crew," Spock said gently. "Or a pound of your flesh. Either way is acceptable to me."

Massira managed not to giggle until the shaft doors closed. She felt her stomach flutter as the thing dove through the decks.

"Food scholar?"

"Oh, the look on his face," she replied. "It was just so..." She looked up as one of his eyebrows rose. "You weren't kidding, were you?" She shook her head. "I think I may vomit. Just a little bit."

"Keep it off of my shoes, please," he replied. He didn't shuffle to move his boots, so Massira stepped back. Her butt bounced off of the wall of the lift. She tried to lean against it but ended up sliding down to sit upon the deck, legs splayed out.

"Nice boots," Spock said. She glanced up, trying to decide if he was offering a compliment or satire. Either one would seem alien from this alien...

She scampered after him as he walked down to his stateroom. Another joint of meat was dialed up and she took her diagnostic bites.

After she failed to curl up and die, he was still staring at her. "Sir?"

"Your boots. They remind me of... Someone I used to know."

"Someone special?" she asked. Maybe she could play on his emotions for something.

"My mother," he said. Then, to her utter shock, the aloof alien burst into song. "I just want a girl, just like the girl, dear old dad chained to his bed..."

He drank from his stein and went on singing. Massira tried to look appreciative. Thoughts were nagging at her.

She knew better than to think disloyal thoughts around a telepath but she couldn't seem to stop herself. Escape, sabotage, assassination, she found herself contemplating a number of anti-Imperial actions.

Then she realized that she wasn't the one having those thoughts. She remembered Spock's assessment of her people's latent telepathy. The instant she recalled the conversation, the external thoughts blossomed in her mind.

She stood in what she imagined the Central Coordinator's Office looked like. Rows upon rows of lecterns lined the room. Each had a specialist communicating by phone, radio and intercom. Their supervisors coordinated the flow of information into the room and commands back out.

They talked a mile a minute, far too fast for a nutritionist to understand. But the urgency was clear. These people were fighting to save their world, their very species. And they were trying to understand what they faced.

"It is vital that you work with us," a voice said. She turned to find a special row of podiums. They lacked the electronic communication resources but they were just as active.

Men and women stood at them, mouths moving silently as they communicated telepathically. One woman looked Massira right in the eyes.

"Vital," she repeated.

"What can I do?" Massira asked. "If I have sex with my owner, he's going to know everything I know, including whatever I tell you!"

"It can't be helped," the coordinator said. "We must have information."

"Right, well, uh, there's about 400 crew and 300 invasion troops on board. The ship uses-"

"We don't have time for this," the other woman said. Massira found herself face to face with three more people. All four met her gaze.

"Oh! It's not real!" she realized out loud.

"You're new to the Secret Voice," someone said. "If it were not a crisis, we'd take this more slowly. But it may work in your favor."

Before she could ask why slowly was better, or what the favor was, a vibroblade was driven into her eye sockets. Her brain felt as if it were being turned inside out and tenderized like an old meat-animal hump.

Fingers poked around her memories, snatching out nuggets of information. She felt sick. She felt very sick. The imaginary CCO burst like a bubble and she was back on Spock's table.

"...and trained to the whip!" he sang. She tried to clap, then curled up into a fetal position. Her body shuddered and she threw up. She convulsed a few times, soiling herself at both ends.

Spock stared at her for a second. He waved to the "Clean yourself up," he told her without pity. "Then sleep in your cage. I find myself not in the mood to play with you this evening."

She apologized and crawled towards his sink. He glanced from her to his waiting dinner. After a moment, he threw it into the recycler and got ready for bed.
- 6
- 7
- 8
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.Carnival Mirrors