Pathways - Jeri Taylor [86]
B’Elanna tossed her hair out of her eyes and glared at him. “What gives you the right to demand cooperation? You’ve boarded our ship illegally. We’re in Federation space and you have no authority here. I’m going to register a complaint with the Federation Council.”
His eyes narrowed and the start of a patronizing smile curled at his lips. “You’re a plucky one,” he murmured. “I’ve always enjoyed strong-minded women. But you are no navigator. This ship is in the demilitarized zone which buffers Federation and Cardassian space.”
Torres stared at him. She was sure he was wrong, but unless that could be proven, they were in trouble. Starfleet offered no protection to the denizens of the demilitarized zone. Cardassians, knowing that, routinely took advantage of the situation to harass the tenacious colonists who had refused to leave their homes. She and Mesler could hope for no reinforcements from Starfleet, and were essentially at the mercy of this pompous Cardassian soldier.
Nonetheless, it seemed wrong to show weakness. She kept her eyes locked on his and lifted her chin. “I’m afraid you’re wrong. I can prove to you that we’re still in Federation space and that you are the trespasser.” She took one step toward her console and felt a hand clasp her arm firmly and swing her back around. Suddenly she was drawn closely to the Cardassian and could smell a musky odor coming from him.
“You don’t move unless I tell you to move,” he said, extremely softly, and that quiet tone was somehow more menacing than a snarl. She stiffened, forcing herself to look at him once more.
“Let go of me,” she said, just as softly, but hoping the timbre of her voice was as threatening as his. But he didn’t move, keeping his tight grip on her upper arm.
“I don’t think so,” he said, and in his tone she heard complete authority and confidence. The voice of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. “I enjoy the feel of you. You’re wonderfully . . . firm.”
In spite of the heat of the engine room, B’Elanna felt a chill. What did this man want? Were there others? What was going to happen to her?
She endured the touch of his hand as he squeezed her arm lazily, staring at her with the proud look of possession. She felt herself become faintly nauseated; she wanted to shrink from him and curl up into a ball, shutting him out. But she willed herself to stand proudly, unyielding.
He smiled indolently, continuing to rub her arm, never relaxing his firm hold on it. “First I want to see your cargo. You may lead the way.” And he released her. He had become languid, fluid. Clearly he had more on his mind than cargo. Her mind began to race, trying to plan a strategy.
“The cargo decks are this way. Should I lead you?”
“Please.” He still had the weapon, and raised it slightly to remind her of his dominance. She turned her back on him and moved toward the ladders. She climbed upward, uneasily aware that he was right behind her, and she imagined his gaze on her.
As soon as she could, she swung from the ladder and onto the lowest cargo deck. Crates were stacked in neat rows—credit the Bolians with tidiness, anyway—which filled the shadowy confines of the space. One solitary light source in the rear of the room provided the only illumination. They could have had ten times the light for the same energy output, but Mesler for some reason claimed that one light was enough and that frugality was a virtue to be championed.
“Open one of the crates,” ordered the Cardassian as soon as he had joined her on the deck.
“You’ll have to speak to the pilot,” she retorted. “This is his ship, his cargo. You’ll need his permission before you touch anything.”
The Cardassian’s easygoing smile played again on his mouth. “Your pilot lies in a pool of his own blood,” he informed her quietly. “I suspect he’s being skinned. Bolian skin is considered a rare treasure on our homeworld. Our women particularly enjoy its suppleness.”
B’Elanna’s stomach turned