GRAVITAS

Title: Gravitas, 5/26
Author: Jaye (Copyright August 2002)
Codes: VOY/TNG/DS9 Many Pairings NC-17


Disclaimer: Star Trek and all related characters and concepts are the property 
of Paramount. Gladiator belongs to Dreamworks SKG and Universal. No infringement 
is intended or profit made. This is NC-17 for adult themes, violence and sex. If 
you aren't interested (or aren't old enough), don't read it.

Archive: Drop me a note first so I know where it's going. Please keep the text 
(especially the disclaimer) intact.

Feedback: Sure but be kind, or at least constructive. E-mail is 
reader8901@fastmail.fm

Summary: Treachery raises the stakes and changes lives when the leader of the 
Terran Empire seeks to restore the Federation.

Note: Very AU, as this is basically the plot of the film "Gladiator" set in a 
Star Trek universe. Some scenes and dialogue closely mirror the film. No Maquis, 
no Delta Quadrant, etc. This is my response to Polly's Cha!Club challenge about 
movies. Sisko is older here than he is in canon.

***************

CHAPTER FIVE

Death never came. Fate was not finished toying with its latest plaything. 
Instead, the only arrival was a ship of Ferengi, drawn by the residual signs of 
major weapons' fire. Where there was tragedy there was opportunity to exploit 
the living and scavenge from the dead.

Nog glanced at his chronometer nervously as they stood on Dorvan V in the last 
hour of daylight in front of a house and garden reduced to ash. "We're going to 
be late, Father. Uncle Quark won't be pleased that we made this stop with 
nothing to show for it."

Rom looked up from his tricorder. His head bobbed in a nervous agreement. 
"You're right, there's nothing here...but there is one lifesign." He pointed to 
a field some distance away. "It's faint, so we'd better hurry."

"Yes, Father." Nog's shoulders hunched as he trudged behind his swiftly 
scampering parent. A lifesign meant some unfortunate victim had survived this 
holocaust merely to end up a slave.

Nog *hated* being a slaver. He was happier before, when they merely traded in 
machines, exotic animals, and other contraband. But he couldn't deny their 
fortunes had risen considerably since his uncle had added this very lucrative 
sideline.

His boot made a metallic sound. Nog glanced down to see a knocked-over pail of 
purple berries. Squatting, he selected one and popped it into his mouth. The 
burst of sweetness pleased him. He quickly scooped the spilled fruit into the 
container and lifted it, hurrying to catch up with his father.

Rom was standing before two freshly covered graves, staring at the figure lying 
unconscious between them. He prodded the stranger with his foot, to no response. 
He turned to his son as the young man came up beside him. "Male human. Early 
30s, I think. We're lucky, his DNA doesn't raise a flag in the Empire registry. 
There's probably no one to protest if we take him." He gestured. "That's a 
pretty bad shoulder wound. It will take a lot of energy if we don't want it to 
scar."

Nog looked at the bronze face, handsome despite the lines of pain etched upon 
it. "He's pretty enough to fetch a good price as a bed slave, Father. I think it 
would be worth it." He didn't mention that such a thorough regeneration would 
also ensure the wounded man retained the full use of his arm.

Rom just grunted. He knew his tender-hearted son was concerned with more than 
potential profit. Quark was constantly griping that Nog needed to toughen up and 
forget these foolish stirrings of pity for their living trade goods.

Of course Rom would allow Nog to heal the stranger, though the likelihood the 
man would be purchased for bedroom use was slim indeed.

"I wonder what happened here," Rom mused a moment, then signaled for a beamout.

The butterflies departed for their rest and the fireflies picked up the dance as 
the three men disappeared from the field.

************************************************************
************************************************************

Over the next few days, Chakotay never truly woke. He was lost in a nightmare 
populated by the faces of his many dead. He burned with fever and the pain that 
accompanied the regeneration of the ravaged tissues and skin of his shoulder. 
His strength was so depleted though, his struggles were brief and weak.

Occasionally unfamiliar sounds and images penetrated his fog. Ferengi, their 
faces shifting from frowns to smiles. A dark man with grave eyes and gentle 
hands. The howls of animals he didn't recognize, and voices speaking languages 
he knew but could not name.

Eventually his body recovered and his mind calmed. Chakotay knew he was on a 
ship moving at warp even before he opened his eyes. He blinked a few times to 
clear his vision, then cast his eyes upward to the vaulted ceiling of what 
looked to be a freighter. A few meters above him hung a series of large cages. 
In them, strange animals growled or hooted their anger at being restrained. 
Others lay listlessly, inured to their captivity.

Chakotay's eyes drifted down to the deck. Men and women of various species 
reflected much the same mix of resistance and resignation. They sprawled on 
pallets or stalked at the end of short chains. All wore collars about their 
necks.

The same weight encircled his own. He propped himself up on his elbows, but 
paused as the room swung dizzily.

"You are still somewhat dehydrated and weakened from your wound. Caution would 
be advisable." The voice held the barest hint of concern in its calm tones.

Chakotay turned toward the speaker. He vaguely recognized the Vulcan from his 
dreams. He swallowed to ease the dryness of his throat as his brow furrowed, 
attempting to remember.

"We are aboard a slave ship, bound for market." The Vulcan's tunic and trousers 
rustled as he stood and lifted a jug, crossing the small space to Chakotay. He 
slid an arm around Chakotay's shoulders and assisted him to sit against the 
bulkhead.

Tuvok wordlessly offered water to the stranger he had tended since their captors 
had dumped the wounded man beside him. He'd held the weakly thrashing figure 
down as the young Ferengi---Nog---cut away burned cloth and cleaned the scorched 
flesh. It had taken some time for the layers of muscle to be regenerated, as 
well as for the antibiotics to clear the infection. Though the injured man had 
protested the painful treatments, he'd never actually regained consciousness. 
Until now.

Tuvok regarded his companion. He was human, fairly young, with black hair, 
golden-brown skin and a strong physique. His rugged looks were accented by an 
exotic tattoo over his left brow.

But the eyes dominated. They sent a very un-Vulcan chill down Tuvok's spine. The 
deep brown orbs were dead, void of expression. It was as if the stranger's 
katra---his spirit---had died but the body remained. Tuvok wondered what 
horrible vision had passed before those eyes to drive the soul behind them into 
such darkness.

The human simply drank and watched as Tuvok stood and returned to his own 
pallet. Sensing there would be no conversation with this stranger, Tuvok 
retreated into his own thoughts. His yearning for home, for wife and children, 
swept through him. He tamped down the emotions, reminding himself that to lose 
the stoicism and logic of his people was to lose himself.

His reverie was interrupted by Nog's entrance. The Ferengi had introduced 
himself rather awkwardly while they were healing the human. The young man's 
discomfort with his role as a flesh-peddler was clear as he timidly stepped 
across the deck toward them. Occasionally one of the still-lively prisoners 
would make a grab for Nog, only to be brought up short with gasps of pain as 
their collars glowed.

Tuvok had ascertained that the more aggressively one approached the Ferengi, the 
more agonizing the collar's response. Yesterday one Cardassian had broken his 
chain and leapt at his captor, only to drop to the deck a half-meter in front of 
Nog, writhing and howling. The slave had eventually slumped into unconsciousness 
and remained that way for hours. When he woke, he joined the other vanquished 
spirits in lying listlessly on his mattress. He no longer needed a chain to 
restrain him.

Nog had asked for Tuvok's word that he would not attack while they worked on the 
stranger, and Tuvok had given it. It was illogical to attempt an escape while on 
a ship; there was nowhere to run and no way to gain control. Nog had pressed a 
command into the wristlet he wore so Tuvok's collar would not punish him for 
simply being near the Ferengi. The same routine had occurred every twelve hours 
as they healed the human. This time instead of rising to meet Nog, Tuvok 
remained seated and nodded toward the next pallet.

Nog hesitated as he looked into dark human eyes that were chillingly blank, then 
shook himself and briskly approached his patient. "I see you're finally awake. 
This should just be a quick checkup, since everything is already repaired." He 
set his case down and opened it, pulling out a medical tricorder. He turned it 
toward the human.

Without warning the black-haired man struck, reaching out one hand to grab Nog's 
arm and spin him, pulling the Ferengi to sit in his lap, back to the human's 
chest. The other pulled something from the medkit. A laser scalpel immediately 
made its way to the youth's throat. Nog panicked, dropping the tricorder and 
punching buttons on his wristlet. He heard a hiss of pain behind him, but he 
wasn't freed.

That knowledge sent a stab of fear through Nog. The human's closeness should 
have sent the pain settings skyrocketing, yet the man was either not feeling or 
simply ignoring the waves of agony shooting along his nerves. The Ferengi tensed 
as he saw the scalpel move out of his range of vision.

"Get rid of the tattoo." The voice was soft, but like the eyes the beauty was 
stripped from the melodic sounds by their utter coldness.

"What? Why? I'm just supposed to heal your shoulder." Nog was gripped by the 
throat and whirled to face the human. His soul froze with terror at the glacial 
gaze.

"The dermal regenerator will also remove the ink. Do it." The bronze hand 
holding the knife lifted, coolly cutting through the dark blue lines, sending 
blood trickling down a calm, implacable face. "Or I will."

The second Nog nodded the scalpel was switched off and returned to him as 
casually as if it had simply been borrowed to slice off a dangling thread. He 
continued to stare as the human simply closed his eyes and laid back against the 
bulkhead once more, bleeding, his collar still glowing. It was as if he simply 
lost interest.

The Ferengi swallowed, then put the scalpel back into the medkit. He picked up 
the dermal regenerator and, in a sudden refusal to be intimidated, switched off 
the human's collar. He set his jaw, straightened his shoulders and began to 
work, closing the new cut, then beginning the process of lifting the ink from 
the tawny skin. "Why do you want this gone?" he asked curiously, proud of the 
steadiness of his voice. There was no answer.

"Perhaps he wishes to cut ties to some old allegiance, or maybe it represents 
something that no longer is true." Tuvok noted human's eyelids twitched at the 
end of his statement. His own brow rose as he considered the reaction.

He chose the direct approach. "Sir, it is curious that you did not try to gain 
your freedom, despite the weapon and opportunity. Yet you went to great lengths 
to ensure that your tattoo would be removed. Your appearance suggests a tribal 
heritage, one that would place a great value on symbols. I prefer not to 
speculate, so I will ask: Who are you, and what is the meaning of those lines?" 
Tuvok was also greeted with silence.

Nog's nerves were jumpy, despite the human's complete bonelessness as he worked. 
"His designation is the Dorvan. That's where we picked him up. We don't know 
anything else about him except he had two weapons and a phaser wound when we 
found him unconscious." Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the Vulcan nod. 
The man under his hands didn't give any indication he was listening.

Finally Nog erased the last brushstrokes on the temple. He switched the 
regenerator off with a sigh. "It's finished, there's nothing left." The brown 
eyes opened again for a moment as the human nodded once before resuming his 
silent ruminations. Nog shuddered at the inadvertent truth of his words, then 
hastily packed up his kit. His voice was full of false cheerfulness as he began 
backing away. "A few meals and some sleep and you'll be good as new."

Tuvok didn't think Nog would return. He was right.

************************************************************
************************************************************

Chakotay sat slumped at the base of a squared-off column in a corner of DS9's 
promenade, his face resting against his raised knees and his arms wrapped around 
them. The chain on his collar was secured to a ring set in the pole. He was 
still wearing his tattered uniform, but between the burns and the dirt it wasn't 
recognizable as much more than scraps of cloth.

Not that he cared. For his remaining days on the Ferengi ship he ate and drank 
what was put before him, and spent the rest of his time staring into space until 
he slept. Now he was about to be sold, probably into a lifetime of hard labor in 
some landowner's field or bored sadist's bed. He felt no anxiety, nothing at 
all, when faced with either prospect. Where a week ago he was planning to free 
the Empire's slaves, now he was an unresisting slave himself. It simply didn't 
matter anymore.

He was nothing more than a shell being passed from one owner to the next, to be 
used until he was finally granted the release of death. He no longer even 
thought of himself as Chakotay. Chakotay had been a man proud of his heritage 
and the tribal mark he bore. That name belonged to a farmer, a family man who 
had done his duty to the Empire by leading its fleet to victory. The person who 
had tried to honor the final request of Emperor Jean-Luc Picard, was betrayed, 
and paid the ultimate price. Chakotay had died in a field next to his murdered 
wife and son. This body simply hadn't caught on and stopped breathing yet.

Now, he was merely a lump of flesh called the Dorvan. One slave among the many 
who would be poked and prodded by prospective buyers until one met the Ferengis' 
price.

***************

Benjamin Sisko eyed all the creatures for sale---four-legged as well as two. He 
sipped raktajino at a private table outside the replimat on the opposite side of 
the promenade from the market. Young Andorian slaves knelt on the floor on 
either side of his chair, waiting to be sent on errands great or small.

His eyes sharpened as he saw a Ferengi wave at him and eagerly hurry across the 
space. "Mr. Sisko, it is a fortunate day indeed that finds *you* here." The 
greed was clear in Quark's expression as he scurried to the richly-dressed man's 
side, ready to flatter and haggle over the price of his wares.

Quark's next words suddenly strangled in his throat as a large ebony hand snaked 
out and grabbed his genitals in an unrelenting grip. He panted, "Old friend, why 
do you---"

"Those harkens you sold me turned out to be two males," Sisko said calmly as he 
slightly twisted the delicate tissues. "Not only could I not breed them, one ate 
the other before the day was out." His eyes noted with satisfaction the greenish 
tinge to the Ferengi's face. "I want my money back."

"No refunds," Quark snapped automatically, then screeched as the hand around his 
privates became a vise. "But I'll offer you a special discount---an unbeatable 
price---on my new merchandise. You won't get a better deal anywhere."

"Count on it," Sisko said as he released the trader, set down his cup, wiped his 
mouth and hands and stood. The slaves jumped up immediately, ready to follow.

Quark was still catching his breath as he limped across the promenade to where 
he'd staked his claim on a corner of the marketplace. He should have known 
better than to try to pull one over on the wily, dangerous human.

Sisko wandered among stacked cages of snarling examples of known and unfamiliar 
species. He rattled the cage of a listless lion. "I'm surprised you don't have 
maggots crawling on your *new* animals, Ferengi. They're half-dead already."

"Nonsense," Quark's spine stiffened at the slight to his stock. "We just fed 
them before bringing them in, that's all. We couldn't have them taking bites out 
of the customers." He sidled up to the big man. "Let them starve for a few days 
and they'll eat their own mothers."

Sisko simply snorted, then moved to a different section. "What about the slaves? 
I have a bout coming up. Any fighters?"

Quark shrugged. "Some are good for fighting, some for dying. You need both." His 
eyes grew speculative. "There are also a few that you may want to bed before 
sending them into the ring. To personally...break them in."

Sisko's over-the-shoulder glare silenced the Ferengi as he walked around a 
column. Like the others, it held four figures, one chained to each side. He 
would occasionally grip open a chin to examine a woman's teeth, or prod a man to 
stand so he could get a better idea of his musculature. His examinations were 
met with stares that blazed with defiance or pleaded for help. He ignored both 
types.

At the end of the row, closest to the viewports, were the last two poles. He 
dismissed three of each set of slaves as useless, but was intrigued by the two 
men facing each other across the aisle. He pushed his toe into a dark-skinned 
Vulcan's thigh. "Stand up," he ordered.

Tuvok stood and suffered through a thorough handling silently.

Sisko liked this one's slim but muscled build; Vulcan strength was usually 
unrelated to bulk. "What were you before?" he asked.

Tuvok met the questioning gaze of his possible purchaser. "A security officer," 
he answered quietly.

Sisko's brows rose with interest.

Quark insinuated himself between the two men. "He was caught aiding the escape 
of two terrorists."

"I was assisting the victims of a shuttle crash. At the time of the incident 
there was no opportunity to inquire after their political ideologies." Tuvok 
sighed when he realized that they, like everyone else, were uninterested in his 
plight.

"Guilty by association is still guilty," Sisko said dismissively and turned to 
the other man who had caught his attention.

***************

Chakotay opened his eyes when a toe nudged his calf. He lifted his head, pushing 
his legs out straight before him.

"Get up," Sisko gritted. His temper flared when the human simply stared at him 
with dead eyes, unmoving.

"He'll jump soon enough," Quark said and tapped a few commands into his 
wristlet. His smug satisfaction turned to stupefaction when the slave just 
closed his eyes and ignored both them and the pain from the collar around his 
neck.

The Ferengi was reaching to deliver a devastating blast to the disobedient human 
when Sisko's hand stopped him. "Turn it off," he commanded.

Sisko noted the human reacted as little to the end of the pain as to the start 
of it. His eyes narrowed as he took a closer look. The power of the seated man's 
frame was obvious despite the dirty, singed clothes that covered it. He stared 
at the black-and-red outfit a moment, then squatted to grab the human's 
shirtfront as he demanded, "The uniform of the Fleet, yes? What are you, a 
deserter?" The only answer he got was another trip into the bottomless pits of 
the silent slave's brown eyes.

Quark leaned over Sisko's shoulder. "Who cares? He doesn't show up on any 
Imperial listing. He's from Dorvan, I'm told."

Sisko dropped the dirty cloth and dusted his hands on his outer robe. He stood 
and turned to address the Ferengi. "I'll take six. Him, the Vulcan, and four 
others." He pointed them out. "Five hundred bars of latinum for the lot."

"What? They're easily worth two hundred apiece. Why, that's an insult to my---"

"Five hundred. Or do we need to 'discuss' the harkens again?" Sisko's eyes 
gleamed with unveiled menace.

Quark gulped, his hands moving to protect his most precious possessions. "Five 
hundred it is."

The Andorian slaves handed over two padds containing a standard purchase 
agreement with all the details already typed in. Sisko set his thumbprint to 
both, then waited for the Ferengi to do the same. "Have them beamed aboard my 
ship. I've already made my other purchases, so I'll be leaving within the hour."

"Thank goodness," Quark muttered to Sisko's departing back. He then turned to 
summon his own people to collect the chosen slaves for delivery. He looked at 
the strange bronze-skinned human a moment more, then shrugged and went in search 
of his next customer.

************************************************************
************************************************************

After a few days in a smaller, rather better class of freighter, Sisko and his 
new acquisitions arrived at his home base. He had chosen a small planetoid that 
had no self-sustaining life more advanced than plants and a few rodent-like 
creatures. His gladiator school was an oasis in a desert of grasses; it meant 
there was nowhere for his slaves to run.

Still, there were forcefields and towers and plenty of guards with energy 
weapons. They ensured the obedience of the slaves, since Sisko knew he couldn't 
leave the collars on if he wanted them to fight. Even training exercises with 
wooden weapons triggered the standard punishment programming. It was even worse 
when the men and women used metal armaments.

He was already in position atop a small platform when the newcomers were 
transported to a cleared spot in the middle of a vast training field. He stood 
and looked down on the dozen men and women he had bought to serve him for the 
rest of their lives. However short or long a time that would be.

Sisko gave them a moment to settle into silence, then spoke. "There is no escape 
from this compound because there is nothing outside these walls. Leave if you 
wish, if you prefer to die of thirst or the madness of isolation."

He grinned down at the scruffy group. "Let me make something clear. I did not 
buy *you*. I have no interest in your minds, your talents, or even the pleasures 
of your flesh. I paid for your deaths. Brutal, gory ends will you meet, alone or 
with your fellow slaves. This much is certain: Death will look you in the eye."

His arms lifted. "But you do have one choice: to cower away, shivering and 
shrinking from that final sleep, or to face it with courage, weapon in hand. You 
can challenge Death to claim you, and fight it till the bitter end."

His arms came down, palms together. "If you can mark your passing with bravery, 
I promise you this much." He clapped slowly, in demonstration. "We will 
remember, and salute you---gladiators."

************************************************************
************************************************************

Sisko settled into his seat with a satisfied sigh. The comfortable chair under a 
canvas awning was his usual spot for watching the training. He was eager to see 
his new crop winnowed by his formidable instructor. This first test would 
determine if a slave would be marked with red or yellow. Those whose tunics were 
awarded a crimson daub were potential fighters; they would receive a day or two 
of weapons training before the scheduled bout back on DS9. The other color 
marked beasts for slaughter; they would be given a small shield just before 
entering the arena. Their only purpose was to bleed and die for the 
entertainment of the crowd.

Sisko's gladiator school was fairer than most. Every man and woman he purchased 
was tested only after they'd been given a sonic shower, fresh clothes, a full 
meal and a good night's sleep. As level a playing field as possible for these 
deadly serious games.

His ears picked up the sounds of experienced gladiators beginning the day's 
workouts as his keen eyes watched the new slaves file from the dormitory onto 
the training ground. Limbs of every shade and texture flashed under the morning 
sun. Most of the men and a few of the women were getting used to their 
unfamiliar outer attire of sleeveless knee-length tunics and sandals. Many years 
ago, when the games were reintroduced, traditional clothing was adopted to 
accompany the traditional weapons. Sisko grinned to himself. He'd bet this was 
the first time a lot of them had ever worn a dress.

The guards prodded the newcomers into a line against a stone wall near a small 
fenced-in area of packed dirt. The first man was pulled to the gate, handed a 
wooden sword and pushed into the ring. The slight human whirled, looking for an 
opponent.

A door to another dorm opened, drawing all eyes. Out of the rectangle of shadow 
strode a small but formidable figure, also carrying a wooden sword. As the woman 
drew closer the ridges on her forehead became visible. She was B'Elanna Torres, 
a half-Klingon gladiator of fierce reputation. She was also Sisko's chief 
armsmaster.

She took personal pleasure in these tests, enjoying the look of terror on her 
opponents' faces as she knocked the wooden weapons out of their clumsy grips and 
bashed the hapless newcomers to the ground. As she vaulted over the fence and 
landed in the ring she bared her teeth at the human already there.

Durst, the unfortunate facing this pint-sized terror, swallowed and grasped his 
sword with both hands. Two heartbeats later his weapon was outside the ring and 
he was flat on his back in the dirt, B'Elanna's sandal on his chest and her own 
sword at his throat. She backed off and sneered as he shakily exited, receiving 
a yellow streak on his blue tunic.

The next few bouts were identical. The only exception was Tuvok, who held his 
sword in a firm and ready grip and swung with both power and knowledge behind 
the blows. Klingon and Vulcan sparred for a few minutes, their weapons meeting 
with sharp clacks as each one blocked the other's strikes.

Sisko stopped the fight with a hand signal, nodding in pleasure as the dark-
skinned alien relinquished his weapon. Perhaps the Vulcan *had* been a security 
officer after all.

As B'Elanna took a break for a drink of water Sisko's eyes wandered down the 
line of bodies, coming to rest upon the only seated figure. The one Quark had 
called the Dorvan had settled down cross-legged with his back against the wall. 
He looked half-asleep.

Sisko caught B'Elanna's eye and pointed to the black-haired man.

Torres nodded and her voice rang out. "Dorvan!" She'd heard rumors of the slave 
who had ignored the pain of the collar. Having very clear memories of her own 
acquaintance with the device, she was looking forward to a challenging opponent.

Chakotay opened his eyes and looked around. He slowly got up and at the guards' 
prodding approached the ring. He stepped into the combat area and accepted the 
sword. He hefted it a moment.

Everyone nearby perked up with interest. Something about the way the bronze man 
held the sword, his relaxed yet ready body language, shouted that he knew how to 
use this weapon. The look in his eyes proclaimed that he also knew how to kill 
with it.

Then the Dorvan lifted a brow, and with a contemptuous glance at both Sisko and 
Torres, tossed the sword into the dirt. His arms fell to his sides as he stood 
in the ring, unarmed and unconcerned.

A murmur ran through the watching slaves. The gladiators stopped practicing to 
see what would happen. B'Elanna looked to Sisko for instructions.

Sisko nodded as his eyes flicked to the waiting slave.

B'Elanna's mouth formed a grim line. She hefted her sword in both hands and hit 
the man squarely in the stomach.

Chakotay doubled over a moment, then straightened and looked at B'Elanna. His 
expression was completely blank.

B'Elanna took another swing, this time landing her strike across the slave's 
back. He lurched forward a step under the blow, resting his hands on his knees 
for a breath before returning to his original stance. As she circled back to 
face him he stared directly into the half-Klingon's eyes. Something in that 
steady gaze sparked her ready temper. She raised her arms high, preparing to do 
some real damage with her next attack.

Sisko spoke just before the sword began its downward motion. "That's enough for 
now. His time will come." As the silent man left the ring, Sisko gestured for 
the yellow paint to be used. But his curious gaze followed the muscular figure 
until the Dorvan returned to the wall, sinking down and closing his eyes once 
more.

TBC