Dead Star Dockyards

349 . . . May also be Taken

A constellation of appendages pressed onto Petunia's lower stomach, small white pads spreading outwards around the incision site as the pressure increased. Any slack her already taut flesh might have had was subsequently eliminated, providing Arc's scalpels an ideal surface to make an incision. The razor sharp edges combined with the mechanical precision of servo motors to allow the base of the razor to glide above the surface as if the blades had been retracted. Any doubt was eliminated as soon as the first bead of blood formed on the surface and the skin began to part.Suction arms, two of them, had their vacuums gently spin up while six retractors hooked onto the opening to reveal the internals. Before the incision on the tissue below was made, an odd looking arm with a long, blocky fixture with prongs and extrusions similar to the skin tensioning appendages at its end settled at the edge of one of the cuts, pulling it closed slightly before emitting two faint clicks. Two small green and white fixtures were left as it moved to the other side to repeat the action. They were surgical staples, the same type Arc would make use of should Donovan be uncomfortable with stitching, placed to prevent the cut from propagating uncontrolled from the outward force of the retractors. Clean cuts would heal faster and with less scarring than a tear.

Staples in place and outer barrier of flesh parted, Donovan focused on the center, where Arc had swiftly moved on to parting the abdominal muscles. A simple incision in the fascia parallel to the muscle fibers was all they needed beforehand, then there was a clear opening to the lining that kept her guts in place - reason for yet another cut. Of course Arc handled this with ease as well, the whole process of cutting Petunia open to expose the uterine lining took only a minute.

This was in no certain terms an absurd speed for this sort of operation. Similar designs on Terra might take closer to three minutes to get to this point, and an experienced surgeon with a perfectly synchronized team specialized for the operation might take seven if in excellent condition, but ten was normal. This difference in performance came from two sources, the overall information capacity Arc possessed, and the over the top design of the contraption. Arc outclassed any system that would have been produced in the aftermath of Skinnik, possessing autonomous decision making capability as well as information processing and analysis capabilities that may as well be a form of short-term prophecy assuming he knew enough about the properties of the subject to make a model. The surgical contraption was just overbuilt for this sort of operation, intended to handle such things as brain and heart surgery.

Arc took a bit more caution with the incision into uterus, the nature of the baby's thrashing episodes being an unknowable factor at this point in time, only cutting the sac open enough to fit a pair of retractor arms in. Once pulled far enough apart, all but the retractor and vacuum arms returned to their dormant positions above. The components without further function in this procedure, such as the scalpel and tensioning arms, were fully retracted to create space for other appendages.

"Chershei?"

"Yes sir?"

"I am going to remove the baby now. You have permission to close in." Donovan stepped forward into the gap created by the now vacant arms, looking into the cavity to identify his charge. 

- - - - -

"He's so cute . . ." Donovan could only just make out the breathy remark of his patient over the incessant crying as he toiled away on the sutures. ". . . so loud."

"Just as a newborn should be, Miss Petunia. Cute and loud!"

He wasn't the fastest, but Arc's assistance was greatly increasing his speed. The glasses were one thing, the automated forceps another, however Arc had in his arsenal a little tool for precision cauterization with a laser that was finding secondary utility as both fusion welder and cutter, removing the need for Donovan to tie the sutures together or sever the excess. All he needed to do was hand the curved needle off for re-stringing and grab the next one in line.

"I feel as though you could have done this yourself, Arc."

Rolling his eyes at the assertion, Donovan grabbed the next needle and slipped it into Petunia's flesh, taking over from the forceps with his fingers to pinch the opening shut. Once the needle poked through the skin on the opposite side of the incision, he grabbed it and pulled the thread through a reasonable length. A simple twist and pull to tighten the suture was all Arc needed to meld it together and cut away the slack, vacuuming up what was left behind.

Taking a moment to look upon his work, Donovan could only sigh. True, he'd done a lot better than he would have without time to prepare, but there were obviously some issues with his execution. Imperfect entries and exits left a bit more blood seeping from the holes than he was comfortable with, and in a few places the suture was dangerously close to the edge of the cut. Not unmanageable, they'd gone with single stitches so anything tearing loose would be less dangerous, however Petunia would need to be incredibly careful for a week or so.

"Petunia?"

"Y-yes milord?" Donovan allowed Arc to remove his gloves and perform a brief suction sweep of his suit and handle dressing the stitches while he addressed Petunia, who was looking a little pale. Blood loss aside, she'd probably seen a bit too much of her own ichor going up through the vacuum tubes to be entirely confident in her health.

"Until you are told otherwise, you are not to engage your core muscles, nor are you to attempt to move. Arc made multiple cuts, and while the stitches will hold the flesh in place they haven't immediately sealed the wounds. They need time to heal, and even movements you think are inconsequential could tear them open again. Am I understood?"

"Y-yes, milord."

"Good. Now if you'll excuse me, it seems there are other matters in need of my attention." He scrunched his nose a few times as the mask came off, fighting the urge to scratch the itch that had been present for some time now. "Titanyana?"

"I'll trust your judgement." As much as he would have liked Titanyana's ambient authority among her people to back up whatever judgement he ended up passing, she was so enamored with baby Boromir that it wasn't worth prying her away. His standing and the presence of Leno, who was effectively her second in command, would be enough.

"You won't even say hi to the baby?"

"I'll have more than enough time for that in the future, Diana. Other matters take precedence." He took a moment to stretch his arms as he turned towards the door. "Besides, I gave him my greetings first. There was just a lot blood and fuss about it."

"Oh come on, Don, a hasty eviction isn't really much of a greeting."

"Well,  he should have considered not having such a massive noggin. Then our meeting could have been on slightly more amicable terms."

- - - - -

"Ready to go?" Donovan nudged Leno with his foot, waking the man who had set up camp just inside of the cargo bay.

"Huh!? Oh, yes, just a second." Looking out towards the open door past the busy little work stations set up to avoid the rain, Donovan almost wished he kept his flight suit on instead of changing into dress uniform. It was the single piece of truly waterproof clothing he owned, the perfect defense against the wall of water descending from the heavens. The only weakness would have been his head, the helmet not being a good idea for such a venture. "I'll go hail a car."

"Don't. Let's take my vehicle." He'd been hesitant to take out the electric vehicle with traffic on the roads given his inexperience with driving, however it was a vastly superior alternative to one of the shoddy little staff cars at the moment, even more so when he considered some of the drivers would be inexperienced. Better wheels, traction control, windshield wipers . . . a closed cabin with climate control. Given how slow everyone else be going in this deluge, the rover was just about perfect for the job. "Did you see if your driver made it here?"

"I haven't seen him, no."

"Then we'll look for him on the way. Hop in."

"Yes sir!"

- - - - -

". . . what was the crime?" Donovan had been driving for about five minutes at this point, moving at a snail's pace compared to normal. 

"I ran off to get you once the commotion was put to rest, and the few of those in the mob I spoke to weren't aware of the specifics. All I know is that it was serious, and the perpetrator is being treated for his injuries."

"The victim?"

"I don't know. There might not have been one."

Donovan pondered that possibility, wondering what would constitute a crime with no victim. Indecent exposure came to mind, though he supposed that crime had victims of a lesser kind - nothing like assault or murder at least. Sabotage of some sort then? Maybe some dissatisfied and resentful individual tried ripping up some sort of public infrastructure like a road or drainage culvert. The Nekh were a bit neurotic about infrastructure after all, to the point that any intentional sabotage of such carried the expectation of a death penalty. This sort of punishment felt a tad extreme if the damage was minor or easily reparable, fines and prison time being sufficient in such a case . . . but he would be lying if he claimed not to understand where they were coming from.

As a matter of principle, Donovan was really quite amenable to execution as a potential option for punishing the sabotage of infrastructure. In terms of outcomes for a crime, there wasn't likely to be much benefit for the perpetrator. Building and structural materials lost most of their value once used, and in an ideal economic environment scrapyards and parts shops would have little reason to accept components clearly marked as 'public', but the damage and inconvenience foisted upon the general populace could be quite immense. For example, the amount of productivity lost during the time a traffic light is out of service could vastly outgrow the price of it's component parts sold for scrap and such. Executing someone for the crime of damaging public property for personal profit (or worse, pleasure) just seemed to be a reasonable response.

If nothing else, the occasional 'extreme punishment' would disincentivize the more rational elements of the criminal public. If you desperately need money, steal a wallet or rob a bank, don't tear out a power conduit. You'd cause less damage, and hopefully get shot or something in the process. Much less paperwork that way.

He shook his mind free of these trigger happy fantasies, recognizing that to be a less than ideal headspace for someone expected to serve as judge. If there was no victim to the crime, Donovan supposed it was much more likely that the perpetrator had spoken ill of Titanyana or possibly himself and Diana. The reverence the Nekh held towards the Strapper line bordered on religious zealotry in some respects, and there was plenty of precedent in history for people being executed for 'heresies' of a somewhat inconsequential nature. The Nekh were somewhat more reasonable than such zealots more generally though, so any offense towards the crown would have to be substantial.

"Stop! There, the crowd's over there." Donovan slammed on the brakes and looked down a small alley through the rows of shanties, barely making out some movement obscuring torchlight through the rainy haze. "We'll need to walk."

"Evidently." The rover was not going to fit down that alley, and it would take much longer to drive around.

Donovan's heart sunk as deep into his gut as his boot did into the mud. The gravel quarry had been up and running for a while now, but not long enough to cover every road and certainly not the footpaths. He could only count his blessings that the muck had yet to become deadly - the roots of the grass once covering the landscape managing to maintain the integrity of the soil at a certain depth.

"Well this sucks." He'd not been free of the rover more than ten seconds and he was already soaked, the supposedly waterproof cloak defeated nigh instantly by the atmospheric river and a rather untimely gust. At this point it was just getting in his way, so he tossed it back inside the rover to save himself the weight and started his trek.

"Watch your step!" Donovan turned to face Leno, who was struggling to keep his cloak settled over his head despite being propped up by his ears. His face suggested some envy towards Donovan's decision to abandon it early, but he kept wearing it. Evidently cold rain on those thin, sensitive ears of his wasn't worth the freedom of motion. "Some of the puddles are deeper than they look."

"I'll keep it in mind." He kept trudging through the mud regardless, trusting his judgement and that Leno would help him up if he fell. A muddy uniform wasn't that much of a concern at this point. "Excuse me."

He patted the shoulder of a somewhat agitated man on the edge of the crowd, grabbing his attention in what would be the first of many similar actions needed to reach the center of the mob. Agitated or not, he faced no issue getting through. They were not angry at him, after all, and the uniform implied a degree of authority which promised some sort of resolution to their fury. The men forming a perimeter around the scene of the crime similarly let him pass, the cries and shouts from the assembly beyond subsiding somewhat as he closed in on the lean-to erected at the corner of one of the shanties.

"What's the situation?" The person tied to the corner support might have been mistaken as a victim had the crowd not been screaming for his head on a pike, beaten, bruised and bloodied with inflammation distorting the visage of the man beyond all recognition. A medic of some variety was fighting a losing battle against the wounds, the poultices and balms being applied not having any readily apparent effect. 

"It seems to be an assault of some variety." The 'officer' supervising the operation, someone dispatched from the Sanctum given his garb, filled him in. "The people are claiming rape, but we haven't gotten the victim's side yet. I don't feel comfortable ruling out some form of misunderstanding, and he keeps asserting it was consensual."

"But she won't speak about it?"

"Can't really justify action without proof of wrongdoing. One of the gentlemen in the crowd supposedly caught him in the act, but we didn't arrive until he was already knocked unconscious. Like I said, could be a misunderstanding of some variety."

Donovan bit his lip, mildly frustrated at this revelation. He appreciated the efforts taken to keep this from turning into an unjustified lynching, but he had to admit the Sanctite's drive for a neutral interpretation wasn't making the situation better. Some sort of formal arrest and removal from the premises should have been the primary objective to put distance between the mob from their target . . . though he supposed that might be difficult in this weather. It wasn't like they had a detention facility set up yet either, unless you counted the brig on one of the galleys, however those were literal miles away.

"Is she inside?"

"Yes sir."

"I'll go talk to her." Donovan wiped the wet on his face away as he broached the entryway, stripping his sopping wet cloak from his body and hanging it on one of the nails hammered into the wall adjacent the door to dry. He contemplated doing the same with his hat for a moment, a brief look at it revealing it to not be as wet as he thought. Better to keep the uniform's intended appearance, he supposed. "Excuse me."

The interior, while technically quite voluminous given the total lack of walls, high ceiling, and wide footprint, did not feel like it when packed with bunk beds in such a manner. Here the living conditions were closer to canned sardines than even the Trawlers, barely enough space for a fully grown man to shuffle between rows of crude bedding for his place of rest, and the gathering of people beyond the insubstantial clearing by the entryway did not help this perception. There was, fortunately, an open path to the victim, easily identified by the cluster of women in one of the corners fussing over someone but not apparently doing anything. The rest of those present were either sleeping on the other half of the room, or solemnly standing watch against interlopers along the closest route. None displayed surprise at his presence.

"How is she doing?" He broke through the lethargic wall of women with a question addressed to whomever might answer, not receiving an immediate response. It turned out he didn't really need one, laying eyes upon the victim was enough. Though she huddled into the corner of the building, curled up and shivering in fear at those who had gathered to help her, fists white from clenching the blanket used to cover her so tightly, enough of her was exposed to reveal the extent of the transgressions levied against her.

A black eye and swollen cheek accompanied traces of a bleeding nose as evidence of trauma to the head, likely some combination of punching and slapping. Dilated pupils, while possibly a response to the dim lighting, could also be a signifier of a concussion from that damage. Contusions on what little was exposed of her neck suggested she'd been grabbed there quite tightly, restrained from moving and likely choked out to prevent her from fighting back, while a nasty set of similar marks on her arms and heavy bruising around the shoulder exposed to him said she'd been pulled around and manhandled hard enough to tear the tissue at that incredibly vulnerably joint - the pain of which Donovan was all to familiar with given his early experiences in hand to hand combat training.

Upon registering these wounds and their implication, Donovan immediately turned around and headed for the door, making haste at a speed he rarely deemed necessary. He didn't even grab his cloak on the way out - he wouldn't be out there long enough to make much difference. It did not show on his face, but Donovan had snapped. He didn't bother to recognize that some form of sacred taboo had been violated within his subconscious as he drew his pistol and racked the slide, merely operating on instinct to complete a task as a machine might. Because as gut wrenching as those injuries were, they did not approach the worst part of this whole incident according to Donovan's subconscious, in fact they barely even registered. 

"Hey." He maintained a neutral tone as he nudged the perpetrator with his foot, giving the medic tending to his wounds the signal he should back off. "Look at me real quick."

Donovan leveled the barrel at the man's forehead, not even bothering to check his aim at this close a range. Rage and adrenaline would take care of it, and after all was said and done, he wasn't concerned about justifying an extra bullet. Not because this man had raped a woman . . . 

. . . but because he raped a .