The Good That Men Do - Andy Mangels [70]
“Yeah, me too,” Trip said. He resisted the urge to pat the Section 31 operative on the shoulder, since he was unsure just where it might be safe to touch him.
“I’ll see you on the other side of the gauze,” Phuong said as the three Adigeons pushed his hovering conveyance away.
My turn now, Trip thought as he entered the operating chamber, which had been sterilized by some sort of mist during the brief time he had been talking with Phuong in the other room.
MoulMa’s and the other doctors entered the room again, with three new assistants in tow. All of them were clad in fresh, unbloodied surgical apparel. “Disrobe and place yourself on the table,” MoulMa’s said crisply and emotionlessly.
Trip shivered as he dropped the blouselike garment to the floor, then approached the table. Sitting on it and lying back, he was pleased to find that the padded surface was warm to the touch.
MoulMa’s hovered over him, looking down. The effect of the surgeon’s sideways mouth and gills and dinner-plate eyes was even more disorienting from below, and Trip’s already racing heart began to beat even faster.
“Shkt’kooj will administer some farron gas to you as an anesthetic,” MoulMa’s said. “You will feel nothing until you wake up after our carving is complete.”
Yeah, and then I bet it’ll hurt like hell, Trip thought, remembering Phuong’s words.
“One question before we start, Doc,” Trip said aloud. “I just want to be certain that this operation is reversible. I’m not going to be stuck looking like a Romulan forever, am I?”
MoulMa’s tilted his head, his eyes widening. “Your agency has paid us to reverse the carving after you return. The amount they paid is significant enough to make certain that your current… countenance will be restored with an extremely high degree of fidelity.”
Trip let out a breath, not quite certain if the Adigeon had reassured him or not. “Just wanted to be sure,” he said.
With a flick of a long wingtip, MoulMa’s signaled to one of the assistants, and Trip felt a tiny prick at the side of his neck a moment later. Almost instantly, he felt his muscles go completely limp, and his mind began to fog.
As if from a great distance, he heard MoulMa’s, but he wasn’t even sure if the carver was talking to him or to the others.
“Not that we expect to actually perform the later carving,” MoulMa’s said, his voice distorted. “Our work today will be utterly flawless and discreet, of course, as compelled by our agreement with your superiors. But we expect that the two of you will never return once you pass the borders of the Romulan Star Empire.”
Too groggy to be alarmed, or even to comprehend what he’d just heard, Trip felt himself sinking into darkness. In his last moments of consciousness, he reverted almost reflexively to the prayers he had learned as a child.
Nineteen
Monday, February 17, 2155
Rigel X
THE HUGE MALE ORION the team had waylaid wore a uniform that marked him as a fairly high-ranking logistics clerk, an Orion Syndicate underling charged with responsibility for many of the comings and goings of captives as they wended their way through the slave market’s complex and circuitous vending process.
Among the things Shran expected this man to know were the comings and goings of the many ships that picked up and delivered the market’s countless sentient cargoes.
Luckily enough, the fellow hadn’t raised a hue and cry when Shran, flanked by Captain Archer and Lieutenant Reed, had confronted him while a trio of MACOs cut off any possible avenue of escape. The team had caught the Orion walking alone through a darkened and empty side passage, and gently “encouraged” him- with the muzzles of their energy weapons- to enter a small nearby storeroom that both Shran and Archer had already agreed would be ideal for conducting interviews with some of the less forthcoming locals.
Once the team had escorted the Orion into the poorly illuminated and