The Good That Men Do - Andy Mangels [65]
“Captain, are you certain it’s wise to bring Shran along on this mission?” Malcolm asked as the turbolift began its descent toward D deck, where the transporter was located. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I’ve always found him rather lacking in… restraint.”
“Really, Malcolm. I hadn’t noticed.”
Malcolm continued, ignoring Archer’s jest. “And he’s been particularly touchy since he first brought this Orion slaver business to our attention.”
“I suppose I’ll have to take him aside before we beam down and give him a gentle lecture on restraint,” Archer said.
“Good idea, sir. I’d also recommend taking along a third MACO.”
“Why?”
Malcolm grinned sheepishly. “Just in case Shran needs a little additional babysitting.”
The landing party materialized in near darkness, standing in a tight, back-to-back circle. Archer’s eyes weren’t yet adjusted to the dim light, but he could feel the penetrating cold of the trade complex’s poorer quarters immediately. He could see the flicker of the fires that Rigel X’s homeless, hopeless transients were burning to cook their meals, or perhaps merely to stay warm. He could smell the pungent mixture of smoke and sweat, despair and greed that swirled in the chill air. He could feel the harsh solidity of the metal floor beneath his boots. And in the middle distance, he could hear the roar of a crowd, punctuated by the fast, terse vocalizations of a humanoid speaking into a public address system of some sort, announcing what sounded like quantities and prices in various alien currencies.
Archer ordered the team to move out, taking the point while a pair of MACO troopers- their company leader, the petite and dark-haired Sergeant Fiona McKenzie, and the eagle-eyed Corporal Hideaki Chang- flanked him, their phase pistols holstered to avoid provoking anyone, yet still within easy reach. Reed, Shran, and the remaining MACO, a small, wiry, shaved-headed corporal named David McCammon, watched the rear as the group moved quickly through a twisting maze of causeways, alleys, and ramshackle galleries, toward the source of the sounds.
Although Archer had visited this trading facility before, what he saw when the team finally reached the large, crowded gallery-cum-amphitheater truly shocked him.
Of course, it wasn’t as though he’d never seen a slave auction before. Nine months earlier, T’Pol and several other members of his crew had briefly become trapped in just the sort of nightmare that now lay spread before him. Now as then, helpless, shackled people of every imaginable species, and members of more than a few he didn’t recognize, were being herded by armed, green-skinned overseers toward a raised dais, where a large, bejeweled, and lightly armored Orion male vended his wares to an equally diverse group of much more finely attired sentients. These obviously well-heeled buyers probably originated from points all over known space, if not from considerably beyond as well.
As his team insinuated itself close enough to the stage to get a clear look at the seemingly endless pageant of chained and nearly naked flesh from countless worlds, the fact that there were no humans among the captives being sold gave Archer only cold comfort. After all, no species had a monopoly on fear; in Archer’s experience, all sentient beings experienced that emotion in pretty much the same way. The stage presently abounded with ample evidence that fear was as universal as life was cheap.
At least in places like this, where those who thought that their wealth entitled them to purchase people seemed to be as common as hydrogen.
“There are no Aenar here, Captain,” said Shran, who was standing at Archer’s left. He, too, was studying the stage intently. Archer could see that the Andorian was as disgusted as he was by the flesh market before them.
“I haven’t seen any, either,” Archer said. The two men had to shout to hear one another over the all-enveloping white noise made by the bidding crowd around them.
Malcolm, who had sidled up to Archer’s immediate