“What could be worse than this,pinkskin?”

Archer knew that once Shran fired his weapon, the landing party would be very unlikely to get back to the ship intact. And getting everyone back to the ship alive was his primary responsibility. His body tensed as he prepared to bring Shran down hand‑to‑hand should it prove necessary.

In the meantime, he pressed on with an argument of necessity, despite the fact that he didn’t truly believe it in his heart. “I’ll tell you what would happen, Shran. Some of these people would be shot dead. Some would die after being trampled. A few might even make it outside. Most of those would freeze to death, and the ones that didn’t would starve. If we interfere, we make a horrible decision for these people. There’ll be no going back for any of them.”

Slavery is a terrible life,Archer thought, hating himself for being unable to end these people’s all but unimaginable suffering. “Shran, they’ll blame us, Earth and Andoria, and the Coalition we’ve worked for could die stillborn. But someday, together, we could wipe places like this off the face of the quadrant.”

Shran continued to stand where he was, angry but vacillating, his weapon in hand, though still concealed. Archer remained poised to body‑slam him, despite the very real risk of starting a panic in the crowd. “Shran.”

Slump‑shouldered with defeat, the Andorian finally holstered his weapon, then began moving toward Reed and the MACOs. Archer followed him, heaving a sigh of relief.

“Let’s find Jhamel, Archer,” Shran said as the group reached the periphery of the madly bidding crowd, where they could hear each other without having to raise their voices. “I’ll save my anger for those who took her–and for anybody who tries to stop me from getting to them.”

Thank goodness for Andorian restraint,Archer thought as the slave auction passed from his sight, though not from his conscience.

Eighteen

Monday, February 17, 2155

Adigeon Prime

ALTHOUGH ADIGEON PRIME was an Earth‑like planet in most respects, its significantly lower gravity took some getting used to–as did the natives. Trip looked out a window at the expansive city over which flew hundreds of winged Adigeons.

Outside of graphic novels and vids, he had never before seen flying humanoids with his own eyes. He’d heard of a race called the Skorr, but their homeworld was apparently some distance away from the sectors through which Enterprisehad traveled thus far.

The Adigeons he’d seen so far were all roughly three meters tall or taller, and were made more imposing by the large wings that sprouted from either shoulder blade. Unlike bird wings, however, these were more membranous; an intricate weaving of connective tissue and musculature striated the wings, over which were layered the membranes. The effect left Trip with the impression of fleshy feathers overlaid onto bat’s wings.

Other than their wings and their large, lidless, side‑mounted eyes, the Adigeons weren’t particularly avian in appearance, once one got past first impressions. For one thing, their wings terminated in exceptionally long, slender, and sensitive fingers, which must have accounted for the reputation of their surgeons, as well as going a long way toward redeeming their relative lack of binocular vision. Their skin came in a wide variety of colors, ranging from a mottled gray to deeper browns and purples, while the feathery hair they exhibited seemed to grow mostly on the backs of their skulls, just above their almost catlike, membrane‑feather‑covered neck ruffs. Their facial features were also striking: their mouths were vertical and lipless, with two gill‑like flaps on either side underneath high‑set cheekbones.

When they’d docked the Branson, Trip and Phuong were greeted by a pair of indistinguishable Adigeons–Trip took them to be females, though he couldn’t be certain–who greeted them politely but officiously. They had presented the two humans with small translation devices to attach to their clothing, and some sort of gravity‑regulating ankle bracelets that allowed them to walk with some semblance of normalcy in the planet’s low‑gravity environment, which Trip found reminiscent of Mars.

On their way to the c’Revno‑hibce–the surgical facility where their physical alterations were to be performed–neither of the females spoke unless spoken to, so both Trip and Phuong had mostly looked out the windows of their hovercab‑like transport.

Once they had reached the facility, an apparently male Adigeon went over the financial arrangements with Phuong; when those details appeared to have at last been agreed upon, Trip and Phuong were given a stack of papers to fill out. Another Adigeon, a clerical specialist with skin the color of expensive Beaujolais, sat with them to read the questions on the forms into their translation units and record their answers by hand in the Adigeons’ written language.

Trip answered the questions about his medical history as best he could, but a good half of the questions were not only being posed in an imperfectly translated alien tongue, but were also beyond his comprehension of human physiology.

Phuong had instructed the clerk that personal information about either of them–such as names, relatives, and other facts–was classified and therefore unnecessary. Although he knew that the subterfuge was appropriate for their mission, the words had jarred Trip at first. My life is “classified and therefore unnecessary,” he thought. Not exactly comforting.

Finally, they were shown into a smaller room, issued some loose‑fitting, pastel‑colored garments, and told to prepare themselves by taking medical decontamination showers. As they cleaned themselves with globular balls of squishy, foul‑smelling stuff that the Adigeon medical technicians had described as “active abiotic astringents,” Trip noticed that Phuong’s entire back, as well as his left side under his arm, was laced with a faint but easily discernible network of old scars. He wasn’t yet comfortable enough around the other operative to ask about them, but he hoped they hadn’t been the result of some past mission that had gone badly awry.

Once they were scrubbed and partially dressed in the garments that were clearly notmade for non‑Adigeons, Trip waited in the preparation room with Phuong. He turned away from the window and saw his companion on his knees, his arms crossed at the wrists, his palms resting on his chest. Trip watched him for almost a minute, then cleared his throat. Phuong opened his eyes.

“Praying before the operation?” Trip asked with a slight smile. “Does this mean I should, too? You seemed less nervous before about all this…” His voice trailed off as he gestured around the room.

“Don’t read too much into my actions,” Phuong said. He didn’t rise, but stayed on his knees. “I pray often,and almost never entirely out of fear. I was raised in a strictly religious family, and I believe that God watches over me, no matter where in space I may find myself.”

Trip nodded. “My family went to church a lot, too, but I haven’t kept up with it as much as my parents have.” He sat in a nearby chair–rather awkwardly, because it was made for Adigeons, who were far taller than most humans–and tugged at the billowing Adigeon medical garment to keep himself covered. “What I learned in Sunday school sometimes seems kind of weird to me these days, because we’ve been traveling to all these strange new worlds and meeting up with so many new civilizations. Most of them have their own version of God, or gods, or goddesses, or even whole pantheons…. It makes it seem a little silly for me to keep praying to the God I grew up being taught about.”

Phuong tilted his head, an inquisitive look on his face. “I’m not sure why it would be silly. It’s only a question of faith. I have faith in my God, just as the Vulcans and the Andorians have faith in theirs.”