The Good That Men Do - Andy Mangels [71]
The Orion had only laughed. After repeated questioning, and after several suggestions that the human soldiers might soon take stern measures to loosen the clerk’s tongue, he actually spat at Archer. Again, the greenskin laughed.
Because he knows where that ship is, Shran thought, fuming in silence. So far, he had bowed to Archer’s earlier insistence that his participation in this mission was to be contingent upon his, Shran’s, restraint.
But now he could restrain himself no longer. The Orion’s intransigence, along with his dismissive laughter, sparked an icy blue rage within Shran’s breast, a passion so intense that he could think of nothing other than beating the man to a bloody, senseless green pulp.
The fact that the Orion was nearly twice Shran’s size mattered to him not at all.
Shran charged, hitting the Orion hard in his thick midsection, knocking the flabbergasted slaver onto his back, slamming him to the concrete floor with a nearly bone-shattering impact. Shran landed on top of the supine Orion, wedging a knee tightly into the hollow of the big man’s throat while pressing down with all his weight.
“You know where the ship carrying the Aenar was headed,” Shran snarled into the Orion’s face, his uneven antennae lashing forward like a pair of hungry vipers. “Now you’re going to share your knowledge.”
The Orion coughed and sputtered as he grabbed for Shran’s throat with his huge, spatulate hands. The Andorian slammed both of his fists into the other man’s face in quick succession, and the large green hands faltered.
“Shran.” Archer’s voice, behind him, urgent. Shran ignored it and continued bearing down on the slaver’s throat.
“Talk to me!” Shran said. He pummeled the Orion again, left-right-left.
“Shran!” Lieutenant Reed this time.
Shran felt hands grabbing him roughly, two pairs of arms on either side of him. He turned, snarling, and saw that the intrusive arms and hands belonged to Archer and Reed. They dragged him off the stunned Orion, around whom now stood the three MACOs, their weapons poised to counter any surprise move the slaver might make.
Shran didn’t think the Orion would be doing a lot of moving in the foreseeable future, however. But he believed that the green giant was probably still able to speak.
“Release me, pinkskins!” Shran bellowed, shaking off Reed and spinning toward Archer, who did indeed release him. Archer stood his ground, facing Shran- who had instinctively adopted a half-crouching combat stance, without showing any trace of fear.
“Why did you interrupt my interrogation?” Shran demanded.
“Interrogation?” Archer said, his expression one of incredulousness. “It looked more like an attempted grudge killing to me. We can’t learn anything from dead men, Shran.”
“When your loved ones are those whose lives hang in the balance, I’ll play by your rules.”
“Shran, when you’re part of my landing party, you’ll play by my rules. Regardless of whose lives hang in the balance. Now stand down, before you force me to take off your other antenna.”
Why did he have to bring that up? Shran thought, his rage now almost entirely redirected from the greenskin to the pinkskin. The still incompletely healed stump of his left antenna throbbed to the beat of his racing pulse.
“I’ve already been down this path a time or two myself, Shran, during the Xindi crisis,” Archer said. “All it ever got me was blood on my hands, and stains on my conscience.”
“Until Jhamel is safely returned to me, a conscience is a luxury I can’t afford.”
“Can you imagine what Jhamel would have to say about that?”
Shran did imagine it then, and his cheeks burned with sudden shame. As suddenly as the fury had come upon him, it dissipated.
He stood staring at Archer, abashed.
“So, what’s your idea for making him cooperate with us?” Shran said at length. “Do we prepare him dinner?