Murderers' Row

(Warning: Contains profanity, scenes of graphic violence and sexual situations)

Biosphere Three, Starbase One, Sol System:

It was a feeding frenzy among the media, to get their imagers and recorders in the best place for the object of their l’attention du jour.

Max Zorin stood on the dais in the centre of the biosphere, the lithe, middle-aged man with the slicked back, dirty-blonde hair and sober black suit looking immaculate and in control. He was smiling affably, the shades he always wore in public reflecting the strong artificial sunlight from the geodesic dome overhead, illuminating the crowd and the surrounding parkland.

He made a show of regarding the surroundings as if for the first time, nodding in deep scrutiny at the Terran flora and fauna. “One hundred and fifty years ago, this, the first major off-world installation built by Starfleet, was constructed. These biospheres had been shipped into space during the Third World War, to preserve their genetic integrity, but had grown too large to be returned to Earth, so they found a home here, to remind those who ventured out into space of the ineffable diverse beauty of our Motherworld. 

We may have since constructed grander, more impressive facilities elsewhere, but this one remains one of the most revered. And rightly so.”

He focused on the media representatives again. “But, as laudable as Starbase One is, I didn’t gather you here for that. I am announcing a major shift in the operational policies of Zorin Interstellar Industries.”

Zorin paused, allowing the audience to react, before continuing. “The recent Dominion War has illustrated that we need to set aside tradition and take a less parochial approach to how we interact with the Universe. The Terracentric model that many of our contemporaries, such as Michel Shipping, Omni Consumer Products and Cyberdyne, have maintained, has, frankly, become outdated.”

Zorin Interstellar intends to lead in a new direction. And as a first step in that direction, with immediate effect, ZI’s corporate headquarters will be mobile.”

He raised a hand, cueing the appearance of a hologram overhead, a hologram of a starliner: a large, cylindrical hull with the Zorin corporate logo on the side, its aft section surrounded by a coleopteric warp drive ring housing, glowing baby blue.

“This was the Moonraker, my private vessel,” Zorin continued, as the images rotated, producing other images of the vessel’s interior. “It has since been extensively remodelled, providing the same facilities as could be found in our former headquarters in Geneva, along with the latest propulsion, sensor and communications technology.”

Everyone was looking up and taking in the images.

Except for one, a blue-skinned, white-haired male Zorin recognised from past encounters as Thevris Thys of the Andorian New Agency. He kept looking directly, challengingly, at Zorin, dipping his antennae and displaying his perpetual sneer as he asked loudly, “Quite an expensive little PR stunt of yours. That little fiasco in the Salem Sector last month must have been a lot worse than you’ve admitted to the public.”

Zorin’s dark lips tightened into a broader smile as he focused on the journalist. “This is no publicity stunt, Mr Thys. I will be making the Moonraker my new, permanent home, and I will be accompanying it in this genuine endeavour on our part to find a new way to serve the Galactic Public, to provide more direct oversight to our corporate projects everywhere, and to ensure that the highest legal and ethical standards are maintained.”

“And maybe also recruit some replacements for those many, many Zorin personnel arrested for murder and ecoterrorism?” Thys quipped.

That produced titters among the audience, and provoked a laugh from Zorin. “You know, Thevris, I might set up a division just to come up with a way to break that notorious cynical veneer of yours… though I fear such a feat might require more than even my money can buy.”

That produced laughter from Thys’ surrounding colleagues. The Andorian, however, continued to sneer, and take notes.

*

From the sidelines, two women stood, watching and waiting. They were identical in features – tall, Nordic, with short-cropped sable hair, ruddy cheekbones and thin colourless lips – but their suits, while also identical in cut, were opposite in colour, with one bone white, and the other coal black, making them appear like opposing pieces on a chessboard.

They watched and waited, the one in white fighting to control her anxiety as she saw their employer turn and step away from the group, leaving subordinates to mill through the group providing information packs and further pre-prepared information. He approached.

Inside her head, the welcoming mental voice of her sister invited her, Stay calm, he’s not mad at us.

She swallowed. That won’t protect us. It didn’t save his last assistant.

But Zorin strode past them, announcing, “I’m bored with this. Contact the Moonraker, Dawn. We leave within the hour.”

Dawn and Dusk Bauer followed dutifully, flanking either side of him, Dawn slipping her PADD out from under her arm to send the appropriate commands to the waiting ship, even as Dusk reminded him, “That’s ahead of schedule, Mr Zorin. They’re still loading up the additional antimatter containers you ordered, they may not complete their work in time.”

“Then they’ll have plenty of time looking for new employment.” The corridor between the biosphere and the main section of the starbase had a clear observational ceiling, allowing Zorin to glance up. “Any word from our field operatives?”

Dusk felt the continued anxiety from her twin, and responded first, “Yes, Mr Zorin: Surinh Dag has secured himself a transport and crew, and is entering the Casperian Sector for the acquisition from the Son’a. Mr Kazan has already obtained the acquisition from Zeta Arcanis and is moving onto Risa, and then Ekos. Mr Kobayashi and the team we sent to Minos for the acquisition there ran into trouble.” 

“What sort of trouble?”

“The local acquisition killed them.”

Zorin nodded at that. “Have our Technical Division look at the problem, and send Surinh Dag there after he makes his collection near Bolius. What about the Cosmostrator?”

“She’s declined the offer to join, Mr Zorin,” Dawn answered this time.

“She knows who we were going after?”

“We made it quite clear to her, Mr Zorin. She says she made her peace with him long ago. And she advised us not to pursue him. She referred to him as ‘The Cat With Ninety-Nine Lives’.”

He grunted. “Forget her. What about Bad Ronald?”

“We’re still looking for him,” Dusk replied.

Dawn suddenly blurted, “Mr- Mr Zorin-”

He suddenly stopped in his tracks, making them stop as well, and turned and faced her, studying her expression, his own taut as a wire. “What?”

She visibly fought to control her resurgent anxiety, her grip on her PADD tightening as she swallowed. “M-Mister Zorin, do you- do you really want to employ something like Bad Ronald-”

Suddenly her sister drew closer, resting her hand on Dawn’s shoulder. “What Dawn means, Mr Zorin, with all due respect of course, is that, given Bad Ronald’s particular… modus operandi... whether or not it might be worth the effort to recruit him. I know the individuals we’re acquiring for your latest project are of varying degrees of threat… but Bad Ronald is in a class by itself. It might be too dangerous to control.”

Zorin looked between them suspiciously, before focusing on Dawn. “I don’t want to control him. I want to unleash him.” He glanced at Dusk. “Keep looking for him. 

It can’t be that difficult; just follow the trail of dead children.”

Dusk nodded again. “Of course, Mr Zorin. Whatever you say.”

He nodded back. “‘Whatever I say’. A philosophy to live by. Literally.” He turned back to Dusk. “And forward my condolences to Mr Thys’ employers, for the tragic accident he’s about to have.”

Both women blinked, answering as one, “Sir?”

Now he looked over his shoulder. “Jaws?”

The air shimmered beside them, something coalescing from nothing, as a huge, hulking reptilian bipedal figure with olive-green ribbed skin, beady black eyes, and a massive muzzled maw appeared before them as if beamed there, flexing his thick, sharp claws as it hissed.

Zorin looked up at his henchman. “Find Mr Thys. See that some harm comes to him. And be quick, I want you with us.”

Jaws hissed again, and started towards the biosphere, cloaking himself once more.

Dawn watched it vanish, her heart racing- and then started again as Zorin reached out, touching her chin to recapture her attention. He smiled at her. “You look tense. Maybe we should relax for a while until Jaws returns from his little chore?” He took in Dusk as well. “Both of you?”

He turned and continued on to the residential section of the starbase, not checking to see if the women agreed and were following.

They did, of course, their psychic link, a genetic gift from their Betazoid mother, and one that had allowed them to prosper criminally and otherwise throughout their adult lives. Fuck, Dawn thought, what have we got ourselves into with this psycho?

Something we had no choice in getting into, let alone getting out of. Not now. Dusk squeezed her hand. We’ll be fine. He likes us. We just do our jobs, earn our money, be ready to leave at a moment’s notice… and hope that one of those crazies he’s gathering for his Criminal Club will be more than he can handle and just kill him…

*

Lupin Valley, Risa:

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward was emerging from her bathroom, shaking the residual shower water from her hands and tying the cord to her silk burgundy dressing gown, when she saw the big ash-grey rat sitting at her bedroom desk, tiny paws resting on the edge as if ready to dictate a letter, looking over at her with beady black eyes, its nose making its whiskers dance.

She smiled at it. “My apologies; if you told me your name when I brought you home last night, I was too in my cups to retain it.”

The rat chittered at her.

She sank her hands into the deep pockets of her dressing gown. “Oh, Parker?”

Above her, the voice of her villa’s computer responded in a Terran Cockney accent, “You rang, M’Lady?”

She regarded the rat, who was now picking up her PADD from the desk, as if genuinely trying to access it. “Parker, as much as I enjoy small furry animals, I’m afraid I must draw the line at Rattus Risanus, or whatever the scientific nomenclature is for the local species. Would you care to switch on the repellant?”

“Yes, M’Lady.”

Lady Penelope imagined more than heard the ultrasonics, and almost immediately the rat dropped the PADD, hopped off the chair and scurried out through the open balcony doors and into the brilliant sunlight streaming through the diaphanous curtains.

“Thank you, Parker. You may prepare breakfast. The usual.”

“Certainly, M’Lady.”

She slipped out of her dressing gown and dressed at a leisurely pace, noting how she remained fit despite her advanced years, though her hair had lightened into a snowy shade, and there were aches in places that would have been unthinkable just a few years ago. Still, not a bad result, given the… colourful… life she had led.

Her aquiline nose sported a tiny scar on the bridge, a scar she obtained almost half a century ago on Myrmidon, during the start of her former career. She could have had it removed way back then, but kept it as a reminder that, as much as she enjoyed her work, it came with its own risks. Also, it was cute.

She stepped out onto the balcony, squinting at the early morning sunlight. Her villa sat in a secluded valley of the planet, far away from the tourist attractions and accommodations that fuelled Risa’s economy, in a lush glade of colourful tropical foliage near the lake where she would swim every afternoon. It was part of her daily routine: breakfast, a walk through the estate, perhaps travelling further into the local village for a hand-brewed coffee and hand-baked pastry, before returning for the swim, then settling in for the evening, watching a broadcast play or concert. It was all relaxing. All…

She leaned forward over the balcony railing, seeing the rat down on the carefully-manicured rear garden, along with several others, around the base of one of the security towers on her property.

She frowned; they looked like they moved with purpose. “Parker… are you still operating the sonics?”

There was a distinct, disquieting pause, before the computer replied, “There is a malfunction in the environmental systems, M’Lady; I will order a maintenance- strange, my communications access is blocked. While I run a diagnostic program, why don’t you sit down to breakfast?”

She heard the whine of the house transporter before she could refuse, too distracted by both the activities of the rats and the malfunctions. Then she caught the unexpected scent, and turned to see the expected chair and table… but, instead of her tea and crumpets, a huge platter filled with scores of tiny brown sizzling sausages. “Parker, have you taken leave of your senses?”

A noise from the garden drew her attention once more, and she turned to see the four rats below now joined by dozens more, moving like a stream up to the house, clambering up the walls and bushes towards her.

Instinctively she backed into her bedroom. “Parker! Emergency Protocol Fab One! Raise Forcefields! Parker! Answer me!”

He didn’t respond, and she watched as the rats swarmed over and through the railings of the balcony… practically covering her chair and table, the rats on top grabbing the miniature sausages and throwing them down to the surrounding rats.

Lady Penelope pressed against her bedroom door, watching in alarm. None of the rats appeared interested in her, however.

Until one, the one that she had seen in here on its own moments ago, hopped up onto her bed, regarding her with a tilt of its head, and then in a small but unignorable male voice said, in clear English, “The bald Russian downstairs will explain everything, Milady.”

She froze, her heart quickening even further than it had before. In her salad days, she had indulged in recreational drugs, including some rather potent hallucinogens, her youthful braggadocio laughing off the caveats about the drugs potentially triggering relapses years, even decades later. Now it was coming back to taunt her-

A noise downstairs snapped her out of her shock, and she slipped out of the room and descended.

Her living room, like the rest of her villa, was built and decorated to resemble her summer home back on Earth, in Iceland, even down to the huge stone hearth, though the carefully-controlled tropical climate on Risa meant the fires Parker lit within it were only holographic.

Of greater interest was her collection: the paintings, sculptures, tapestry fragments, and displays of jewellery, pottery, glassware, manuscripts and other relics. If she ever had visitors, they could spend hours perusing what was on display here – and what was in her hidden vault underground. But she never had visitors.

Until today. A man, humanoid, tall, broad and bald, dressed in a suit that he seemed uncomfortable wearing. He had helped himself to some of the cognac from her drinks cabinet, and stood with his back to her, studying one of her paintings, his voice deep like oak. “Nice. Who did this one? Renoir? Van Gogh?”

She stopped at the foot of her stairs, judging the distance to the phaser she had hidden inside a tankard on her mantlepiece. “Monet: Woman With a Parasol. The original was painted in 1875; this is replicated, as is everything else here. I wasn’t expecting visitors. Especially ones with such talented pets.”

The bald man made an amused sound. “They’re partners, Lady Creighton-Ward, not pets.”

She made a leisurely move towards the fireplace. “The correct form of address is ‘Lady Penelope’.”

He still never turned around. “Forgive me, Lady Penelope, I’m not accustomed to outmoded notions of unearned nobility.”

“Nor basic manners, it seems.” Deftly she lifted the pewter tankard, reached inside and withdrew the miniature phaser, pointing it in his direction. “You haven’t even faced me and introduced yourself.”

He complied, smiling affably, now displaying a thick face and lips and a broad nose, noticing the phaser in her hand but otherwise not reacting in the way she had expected. “Oh, forgive me once again, My Lady. My name is Kazan. I represent an individual who wishes to employ you.” 

She raised her arm, to emphasise the phaser. “I’m afraid you and your little partners have committed a needless criminal trespass; I retired from commodities investment long, long ago, and I’m not accepting new clients. Now, why don’t you reverse whatever sabotage you inflicted upon my house computer and depart, before I contact the local authorities?”

Kazan downed his cognac and moved to the drinks cabinet for another. “Oh, I doubt you’d do that, even if we did restore your computer. They might grow curious about who might actually own all of these wonderful little objects d’art. 

Then they might learn your true identity: the mysterious Fantomax, whose talent for legerdemain and disguise, for overcoming the most stringent security systems, made her the Quadrant’s most successful uncaught… I believe the old term is ‘cat burglar’?”

He waved his hand around the room. “And all of these lovely things here – and in that vault downstairs you think no one can detect – are genuine. The only thing replicated in this place is your identity, ‘Lady Penelope’.”

She smiled, even as she fought to control her pulse, her visible reactions. She knew that this could happen, anytime, and admittedly had grown soft, and obviously careless, since retiring; the life of the idle rich induced torpor. “A fanciful notion, Mr Kazan, but I have a busy schedule ahead of me today. I must insist that you leave, now, or-”

“Or, what?” The retort came from the stairs, from the big grey rat poking its head out from the bannister midway. “We detected the phaser, and disabled it.”

Kazan raised his refilled glass in salute. “Thank you, Ben.”

She kept her sight on both of them as she carefully checked the settings on the phaser, confirming the rat’s claims. She set it aside, nodding to the rat. “An animatronic rat? Or one with cybernetic implants to project a voice and control its movements, operating it remotely-”

“Neither, Lady,” Ben answered. “Just a survivor. All of us, which is me.”

Kazan drew up to the stairs and raised his arm, allowing the rat to crawl through the bannister and up along the man’s shoulder like some Vaudeville act. “My associate is quite correct. Ben and the rest of the Rat Pack are natives of Zeta Arcanis III, a planet with a pre-Warp civilisation in the Beta Quadrant. The humanoid race there tragically instigated a nuclear war eighty years ago, one that devastated the population and the planet’s biosphere. It also triggered numerous mutations, most interestingly producing sentience, intelligence, and a collective hive mentality in certain members of the rodent population.

The Rat Pack escaped their world, hidden onboard a Starfleet shuttle that had landed to secretly conduct a survey of the post-Holocaust environment, and they have since moved outward, surviving by any means necessary while seeking a new home – a goal we have agreed to assist them with, in exchange for their services.”

Ben sat up and gave a mock salute. “They did give us a bunch of goodies designed for our grasp: tools, vocalisers, phasers, communicators. They’re a bit stingy with the booze, however.”

Lady Penelope continued to stare, but quickly recovered, having seen a plethora of stranger things in her lifetime. Of more immediate concern was this breach in her personal security. She had retired from thievery over a decade ago, decided she had tempted fate for far too long, and could now relax in luxury with those ill-gotten gains she hadn’t sold onward.

She moved to her drinks cabinet, selecting a rather sturdy Spican flame whiskey. “Still very amusing, Mr Kazan. But, assuming that all of what you said is true about me – and I’m certainly not either confirming or denying any of it – but if it was true, then in all likelihood, I would have ceased such criminal activities long ago, and would be enjoying a well-deserved retirement.” She raised her glass in mock salute. “My life here would be far preferable to prison.”

The man smirked. “Would it? The exploits of Lady Fantomax, and her ill-gotten gains, are legendary: your theft of the Crown of Volterra, the Ice Jewels of Frigia, the Third Imperial Faberge Egg, the Kappalodis Mechanism, the Last Surviving Banksy…

Legendary, and thrilling. To go from flitting about the Galaxy, breaking into the unbreakable, pilfering the unpilferable-” He frowned, and then smiled. “Is that a word? Well, to continue: to go from all that, to ending up here, isolated, unchallenged, sedentary… stagnant. Stagnating further, hour by hour, day by day. Year by year.

You didn’t have to worry about going to prison. You made your own here, in this museum.”

Kazan downed the contents of his glass and set it aside on a table, while Ben crawled off him and onto the table, dipping his head into the glass to lick the remains. “I can appreciate that, to a degree. A lifetime ago, I worked as a Captain for the criminal Orsini Cabal on Inferna Prime. I managed, I organised, I delegated, I arbitrated… and when necessary, I enforced.

I bought my way out of my contract with the Cabal, tried to settle down for early retirement in an ordinary job and an ordinary life, in the middle of nowhere… and soon hated every moment of it. I got fat and lazy, and counted the days until my heart would finally get bored and stop beating. Until I found a new lease of life with my current employer. And you can do the same. 

Lady Fantomax needs to be talked about again. She needs to get out of this museum and start stealing.” 

She kept preparing to raise the glass to her mouth, but never actually did anything, as much as she wanted to. She kept preparing to object, to deny, to order these bizarre intruders out, but never actually said anything, as much as she wanted to. She kept preparing to run, to hide in her vault, to do something, to do anything.

Instead, she finally drank, letting the hot liquid coat her insides, before inviting, “Tell me more.”

*

Unnamed Prison, Planet Gallos:

“Wake up. Time to die.”

Bastien Dumont stirred in his narrow metal bunk, his body aching from another night of shivering, the threadbare blanket they had given him when he first arrived here of token use. He twisted around, the rags that were his clothes ripping, just a little bit more.

“Wake up,” his guard repeated, more forcefully now. “Time to die.”

They told him that, every day. It was their mantra, their reminder of the power they had over their prisoners. And Dumont considered defying orders today. He had done it before, for many reasons: to test the limits of his captors, to show some measure of defiance to the authority under which he had been placed, to taste some punishment from them and have a short break in the prison infirmary… and, once or twice, just out of sheer boredom.

He never expected them to actually carry out their threat to kill him. Five years ago, give or take a few days when he lost track of time in this Purgatory, when the Son’a had tried and convicted him of theft on Space Station Ta’Landra, his sentences promised a Life of Hard Labour. 

And they certainly delivered on that here on Gallos, a mining colony. Little practical mining was actually achieved here as far as Dumont could see, certainly nothing worth keeping this facility running. It was all just to punish their prisoners.

And it was all thanks to that Caitian bastard Esek Hrelle, setting him up during that damn Poker Tournament  –  and also crushing the bones in his hand. And thanks to his so-called comrades in the Bel-Zon, for not coming to his aid, or even communicating with him. Dumont loathed Hrelle, but at least he was doing his duty, and even had some measure of revenge owing to him, for what Dumont had planned against Hrelle and his family earlier with the Vlathi assassins from Skaros.

But the Bel-Zon? They had no reason to abandon him. He had still been a valuable asset to them. And they just forgot him-

He was rudely dragged from his thoughts by Al'gol, the Son’a guard who had watched over him for nearly all Dumont’s time here. He grabbed him and made him sit up on the bunk.

Dumont swallowed, his mouth dry, as if he had been eating some of his scraggly beard during the night. Al'gol made particular, personal demands of his prisoners. And if the prisoners wanted to eat or be deloused or avoid some broken ribs, his prisoners complied.

Dumont had grown used to this long before now. He didn’t like it, but he accepted it, as part of his new life here. Numbly he reached for the front of Al'gol’s trousers – but the Son’a pulled back. “No time for that this morning. Get up, Prisoner.”

He rose, casting aside his blanket and working the aches in his neck and limbs, before following Al'gol out of Dumont’s dark, stark, mephitic cell and into the equally insalubrious corridor, seeing no one around. That wasn’t unusual; it was time for the morning meal, before being sent down into the quarry to break rocks and dig up miniscule shards of kelbonite and pergium.

He turned left, to the cafeteria, before Al’gol grabbed him by the shoulder, needlessly turning and shoving him in the opposite direction. “No. The Courtyard.”

Dumont mentally shrugged and shuffled along. It was probably some announcement from the Prison Commandant- 

Wait- what if it wasn’t an announcement? What if it was a transfer, a parole of some kind? Maybe even a reprieve?

He had always considered himself a man of good fortune. He had studied probability when he was younger, was curious to learn why some people seemed to be blessed with endless good luck, while others lived their lives like their four leaf clovers had been toxic to them. 

One school of thought, more philosophical than physical, opined that every lifeline actually had an equal balance of good and bad luck to them, but spread out unevenly, so it was impossible to see the bigger picture, or possibly if one’s luck went particularly bad, their lifeline ended before it could swing back towards the fortunate.

In Dumont’s case, he knew he had been blessed for a long time, allowing his legitimate and illegitimate business ventures to thrive, and for his wins at poker and other games of chance to be memorable. So, a part of him remained philosophical when he ended up here — albeit not enough to hold back the bitterness over the endless, mindless slave labour, the deprivation and sexual exploitation from scum like Al’gol. All he had to do was endure, until the cosmic pendulum swung back in his favour?

Maybe, just maybe, that time was now?

At the door to the courtyard, he turned to the guard. “Has something happened?”

Al’gol’s tight, slate-grey, mask-like face creased a little. “Yes, as a matter of fact. The So’na have entered a new phase in our existence; we are reunifying with our mother race, the Ba’ku. As part of the Accords we have signed, we are repatriating conquered races like the Tarlac and Ellora, and ending operations within Federation space they have declared illegal under their laws. Now, we’re shutting down this prison, cleaning up and going home.” He reached out to the control panel beside the door and keyed in a code.

The door slid open. Dumont, his hope raised, stepped outside into the cold, thin, dry air of Gallos, and the muddy courtyard, expecting to see shuttles and Federation personnel, gathered to collect the now-liberated prisoners back to their systems of origin.

He didn’t expect to see the bodies of prisoners, gaunt corpses in tattered rags, stacked haphazardly, disruptor burns in chests, backs and heads, disruptor burns matched in numerous places on an adjacent wall of the prison courtyard. In fact, they had emerged in time to see another prisoner being marched up against the wall by guards and left there, stepping back and giving him only a moment to plead with the other guards raising disruptor rifles at him and unceremoniously firing, sending him falling to the ground, to eventually join the pile of bodies.

Dumont was shoved forward by Al’gol. “Wake up. Time to die.”

His heart raced. No. No, he couldn’t die, not here, not now, not like this. He had so much life left within him, so many things to do. His luck couldn’t have run out now! He turned to face his tormentor. “Wait- Al’gol, I still have many contacts out in the Galaxy- money- the Bel-Zon-”

The Son’a made an amused sound. “The Bel-Zon Command was blown to shit on Skaros four years ago. And I hear Starfleet took all your assets. You’re alone in the Universe. Forgotten.” Now he sneered. “But if it helps, Sweetheart, I’ll always remember that talented little mouth of yours.” Then he shoved Dumont forward again-

Just as the western wall to the prison, nearest the gate to the work quarry, blew inwards, sending dust and rubble inward in a huge cloud. Dumont instinctively dropped to the courtyard ground, using the cloud as cover to crawl away from Al’gol, as he heard the guard shout to his comrades, before the whine of disruptor fire joined the cloud in the surrounding air- Son’a disruptor weapons, and another type, one Dumont thought he recognised- but it had been so long, so very long-

Someone rushed out of the cloud directly at Dumont, never seeing him, and thus tripping over him and hitting the courtyard ground hard. Dumont had enough time to see that it was a Son’a, wounded from weapons fire, before whomever was pursuing him appeared.

Dumont looked up to see the pursuer: a huge olive-skinned Orion male in black leathers and armour plates and curved blades hanging from a wide belt, brandishing a wicked-looking rifle in both hands. For a second he aimed it at Dumont, before lowering it again and calling out over his shoulder, “I found him!” Then he looked at Dumont again and frowned. “Maybe. All humans look alike to me. What’s your name?”

He coughed, for a moment not certain if he should tell him the truth. On the other hand, considering what had been awaiting him moments ago, what did he really have to fear? “Dumont. Bastien Dumont.”

The Orion smiled. “For you, that is the best answer you could have given. I am Surinh Dag, and my ship the Green Death is in orbit. I came to collect you.” As the cloud cleared, he nodded towards the bodies of the prisoners. “And just in time, it seems.” He shouldered the rifle and reached out with a big beefy hand towards him.

Dumont accepted it, rising back to his feet and seeing half a dozen other armed Orions in the courtyard, some entering the main prison building, others approaching fallen guards and shooting them.

The Orion who had questioned Dumont saw this as well, calling out sharply, “Save your power, fools! Use your blades or your boots at this stage, they’re cheaper! And get someone to find the anti-transporter shields inside and shut them down, so we don’t have to walk all the way back to the beam-down point!” He shook his head. “Sprouts. They’d lose their balls if they weren’t attached.”

“Who sent you?” Dumont asked, grateful but confused. “They told me my colleagues in the Bel-Zon were all dead.”

“They are, as far as I know; you’re the last surviving one. But my sponsor is looking to start a new version, and thinks your knowledge of contacts, bases and resources not confiscated by Starfleet would be useful.” Surinh Dag looked around him again. “Unless you want to stay on this rock with the corpses?”

That was easier to answer. “Non, Merci.”

A moan drew their attention, and both turned to see the Son’a guard who had tripped over Dumont still alive, but trying in vain to crawl away. Surinh Dag drew up and kicked the guard onto his back, letting Dumont identify him as Al’gol, clutching an open wound on his right side, coughing up blood and falling in and out of a semi-consciousness state.

The Orion grunted and was raising his boot to smash down on the guard’s head, when Dumont stepped up. “Wait, Monsieur- may I do the honours with this one, please?”

Surinh Dag shrugged and stepped back, offering the human one of his knives. Dumont took it, dropping down to one knee beside Al’gol, bringing it to the guard’s throat and slapping him on the face.

The Son’a opened his eyes to look up at Dumont as he announced, with a smile of grim anticipation, relishing the return of his good fortune. “Wake up. Time to die.”

*

Stratos City, Ardana:

Even with her respirator, Lady Penelope had difficulty catching her breath, though she put it down to being horribly out of practice crawling through narrow, filthy claustrophobic maintenance vents. The filtered, artificial vision provided by the exographic sensors over her eyes guided her along, but her progress felt as slow as molasses in the dead of an Andorian winter. 

In her Embed, Parker’s voice asked, “M'Lady, your pulse is accelerating to unhealthy levels. I can beam you out-"

"Thank you, no. I'll be fine." She stopped, mentally reciting a calming mantra. "What did the Hitchhiker's Guide write about Stratos City again?"

"'Stratos, the tranquil capital city of Ardana, is the Galaxy's finest example of sustained anti-gravity engineering. Permanently suspended three thousand metres over the surface of Ardana, it is a serene metropolis of the most exquisite and sublime art and architecture. And this philosophy is suffused in every part of the city. No part of Stratos is not beautiful.'"

She smiled to herself. "I'll have to send an editorial update to the publishers." The exographic sensor let her peer through the vents and the walls beyond. "Still no luck breaching their security?"

"I'm afraid not, M'Lady. Given the enormous safety requirements of the city's antigravity support systems, and terrorist acts committed over the last century by Troglyte Disruptor Sects still seeking equality with the Stratos city dwellers, their computer security is most formidable."

Lady Penelope – no, she corrected herself; she could no longer think of herself like that, it had to be Fantomax crawling through here, even if she ended up being killed – continued onward. Upon accepting the deal with Captain Kazan, he had sent her to Ardana for her first assignment. It was good to get her private vessel, the Thunderbird One, out of proverbial mothballs and head out into space once more, with her house computer's program uploaded into the ship. The assignment should have been relatively simple – but her target proved elusive, and information on it was buried deeper than the zennite mines below. 

Still, it was a good way to unearth her equally-buried skills.

She reached her goal: a Security junction with appropriate network interfaces, unoccupied, at least for the moment. “I’m here.”

“Yes, M’Lady, scanning the interior now. There are multiphasic anti-transporter shields throughout, and gravitic sensors on the floor.”

She began tapping on the control panel unit on her forearm. “Is that it?”

“Well, M’Lady, the room is also airless.”

She stopped and looked up at nothing. “Next time, perhaps lead with something like that?”

“Of course, M’Lady.”

She resumed her work. Her duonetic pulse should disable the shielding if not the gravitic trap, and her personal transporter unit should provide sufficient power to allow her to beam in and out. The airless state of the room will necessitate the use of her Life Support Belt, and the tractor clamps on her gloves and boots will keep her off the floor.

Then she paused. She could still change her mind. She could return to Risa, or anywhere else, really-

Enough hesitation. She triggered the pulse, and then her Life Support Field, and finally her transporter-

-Her hands and feet shooting out to the nearest wall, the tractors in the clamps allowing her to cling to the wall… barely.

She looked around, found the access unit, and crawled along the wall, gasping.

“M’Lady, your pulse rate-”

“Shut up, Parker, I’m busy.” She reached the unit, then carefully reached down to her harness and removed the Leech, placing it onto the unit. “There.”

Then she waited. And waited.

In her Embed, a new subcutaneous voice announced LIFE SUPPORT FIELD AT 82%... 73%... 60%... 50%

“Parker?” she prompted, her muscles aching from just hanging there.

“Access to Scalosian Network obtained, M’Lady.”

She breathed out. “Good. Have you found him? Is he still on Ardana?”

“Yes, to both questions, M’Lady.”

She retrieved the Leech and began crawling back to the ceiling, to beam back into the shaft. “Please tell me I don’t have to break in somewhere else.”

*

She didn’t, she just had to beam down to the surface; the Ardanans were certainly not going to waste precious space in their floating capital for prisons.

The individual she found in the cell where they led her matched the description she’d been given: human, male, mid-twenties, pale-skinned, blonde-haired, lean, sitting in threadbare mauve workclothes, and looking exhausted after another day’s forced labour in the nearby zennite mines. Still, she felt obliged to confirm verbally. “Julian Zorin?”

He had been sitting on the floor, head bowed, but now bolted his head upright, making a rueful sound. “Well, you’re a little old for my tastes, but beggars can’t be choosers. You’ll have to do most of the work, though, I’m too tired to raise a smile let alone anything else.”

Fantomax eyed him disdainfully. I could always pretend I never found him here… “Mr Zorin, I’m not here for recreational purposes. I was sent by your father’s associates to collect you from Ardana to reunite you with him… but the impression I received was that you were a resident here, not a prisoner. May one ask what happened?”

Julian shrugged. “Apparently, being the son of one of the Quadrant’s richest men isn’t enough to grant one unlimited credit for accommodations, food, wine…” He grinned lasciviously. “And entertainment. They actually wanted to be paid.”

“Such audacity.”

“I know. And when I found my accounts emptied and the Ardanans refused to allow me to send a long-distance communique to Father’s Flunkies, they sent me down here, with the Proles.” He raised his hands to display his cuts and calluses. “I hope you’ll be inflicting an appropriate punishment for their treating Max Zorin’s son in this fashion.”

She leaned against the doorway and crossed her arms. “My instructions were to collect you and bring you along. Nothing more.”

Something crossed his features. Something nasty. “And what if I made it an order rather than a question?”

“Then I’d remind you that I’m not your employee. Now, are you coming along, or did you wish to stay with the Proles?”

Julian regarded her for a moment, before helping himself up to his feet, dusting off his hands. “I’ll need a bath, fresh clothes, some decent wine, food, and definitely some shots of Vraxoin.” He looked her up and down. “Oh, and some younger company to help me put this nightmarish episode behind me.”

“My starship can provide most of those things, except the narcotics and the company, but I’m certain you’ll survive… and along the way to your reunion with your father perhaps even locate some manners to go with the pedigree?”

He looked at her again, before smiling. “I’ll see what I can manage, Granny.” 

*

Capitol City, Ekos:

“HAIL KAOS!”

The battle cry of the black-uniformed men and women with swastika armbands storming the Capitol Building was drowned out by the roar of their machine gun fire, spreading death and destruction to everyone and everything they targeted.

The Security personnel of the Ekosian Government barely had time to react; attempts to call for assistance were met with interference remotely generated by the terrorists, who raced down the highly-polished floors of the building.

Their leader, a huge pale-skinned woman with blonde hair tucked under a shiny peaked cap that matched the black uniform and boots, stopped at the foot of the grand staircase, turning and pointing. “Elamich! Bard! Set the explosives and proximity triggers at the doorways! Rasah! Get to the Chancellor’s Office, bring him down here, eliminate any other traitors you find!” 

Then she noticed her comrades looking up past her, and turned to see the huge flag hanging up over the landing of the staircase: a green-blue monstrosity of clasping hands, some revolting liberal adoption of an old Ekosian design from before the Age of Steel, replacing the Beloved Swastika as part of the new so-called ‘Reformation’.

Her ice-blue eyes flared with naked disgust, and without hesitation raised her machine gun, firing a stream of bullets at the fittings holding up the flag, sending it fluttering to the landing. Then she turned back to her comrades. “Tomar! The transmitter!”

Screams from other sections of the building peppered the air, as she watched her comrades set up the communications equipment, or unpack more explosives, setting them around the foyer. Good, good, all was going according to plan.

Noise from above drew their attention, as Rasah frogmarched the Chancellor, a fat, jowly, pitiful-looking bureaucrat, down the stairs, Rasah sneering. “I found him hiding under his desk!”

Their leader chuckled as she regarded him, slipping her machine gun over her shoulder. “Such courage. You do credit to your voters-”

He was red-faced and trembling, in fact looked ready to pass out. But still, he tried to protest. “You- You have no right to commit such heinous acts of terror-”

She backhanded him with her gloved hand, before turning to the transmitter. “Begin!”

The equipment came to life, as she raised a broad chin, her speech she had rehearsed a hundred times in her head flowing freely and naturally. “Fellow Ekosians, I am Colonel Ilsa Wölfin, and I was the Standartenfuhrer of the Ekosian Office for Genetic Purity and Enhancement – until the liberal traitors and weaklings like this pig-” She reached out and dragged the Chancellor into view. “Dismantled it. Just as they have dismantled our strength and resolve. Dismantled our very way of life!

Over a century ago, our First Führer rose among us, showed us our true value, our true strength, as the Master Race of the Galaxy, destined to purify and dominate! But he was betrayed!”

The Chancellor shook his head. “N-No- He was- He was a Federation historian, an observer- he was misguided, mentally ill, remodelled our culture after an evil Terran society-”

“Lies!” Wölfin snapped at him. “Fake News! He was betrayed, assassinated! By agents of the Untermenschen Federation! And you lackeys to the mongrel aliens have tried to weaken us, to defile our strength and purity, and bend the knee to the Federation!

But there are Ekosians who haven’t forgotten the old ways, who refuse to surrender and submit! The Agents of Kaos will rebuild the Reich!” Her eyes flared in anticipation at the Chancellor. “And we will rebuild it on the bodies of you and every other race traitor!”

He pulled back, but she was too quick for him, as her hand shot out, grasping him by the neck… and snapping it with the ease of anyone else snapping their fingers.

His body dropped to the floor, as Wölfin turned back to the transmitter, her face flush with excitement over once again killing again with her hands. “Reject the lies spun by the mongrel aliens and the race traitors! Our numbers grow by the hour! Kaos awaits-”

She paused as she saw the lights die on the transmitter. “What has happened?”

Tomar checked the equipment, alarm rising on his face. “They’re blocking the signal, the power, causing feedback-”

Suddenly the windows surrounding them blew inward, showering them with glass and debris. The others ducked in response.

Wölfin didn’t, instead stood there letting the glass shards bounce off her, while she changed the magazine on her machine gun. “They’re avoiding the ground entrances! Defensive Position! Stand your ground! HAIL KAOS!”

The Agents of Kaos obeyed, circling around her, echoing her cry. “HAIL KAOS!”

Stun grenades were flung inside, exploding. Some Agents of Kaos fell, others fired upwards in the direction of the windows, the gunfire deafening everyone.

Everyone except Wölfin, who cackled with glee as she continued firing upwards in all directions, oblivious to her comrades as they succumbed to grenades and gunfire: Elamich, Tomar, Bard, the others. They were expendable; there would always be others to take their place. As long as she survived, the dream of restoring their people’s supremacy would survive.

And she would survive, thanks to the secret experimentation she underwent from her scientists, before her Office was shut down.

Wölfin replaced her magazine, feeling bullets cut through her uniform, strike her skin beneath… and bounce off without any effect- no, there was an effect: she felt ecstatic. Ecstatic at the reminder of her invulnerability, and the knowledge of what these pitiful inferiors would think and feel when they saw her still standing.

When she emptied another magazine, she reached for the weapons from her fallen comrades, firing until she emptied those, too. More bullets bounced off her. No, Mongrels, you do not bring down an Übermensch so easily.

Then she heard their commands to enter and bring her down by hand, and she licked her lips. Commandos in anti-riot gear emerged, raising batons in their hands, and charged at her from several directions, and she laughed. Deftly she took blows that would subdue ordinary people, while she responded with kicks and punches that crippled and killed, breaking bones and crushing skulls.

And all the while she listened, listened until she heard the sounds of reinforcements swarming inside, and she reached into the pocket of her tattered jacket. Yes, Mongrels, come closer. Ilsa the She-Wolf has something special for you.

She triggered the detonator.

The explosives set around her erupted as one, creating an explosion and fireball that engulfed Wölfin, the police. 

Everything.

*

Moments later, a cloaked ship in direct orbit over the capitol city of Ekos that had been watching the terrorist incident below, targeted a transporter beam on the only surviving lifeform detected amidst the carnage, and brought them to the ship’s Sickbay.

Kazan stood in the background, allowing the medical personnel to mill about the biobed where Ilsa Wölfin lay, nude and unconscious but alive, the charred areas of her body receding, like patches of water evaporating under a hot lamp.

Ben the Rat hopped up onto a nearby table, observing the proceedings with his new ally. “Wow, they grow them tough down there.”

Kazan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “She’s unique, an experiment in Augmentation on a genetic level: strength, speed, durability, rapid cellular regeneration. She’s pulled this trick in other places on the planet, awakening in the rubble or in the local morgue and running off to continue her fight to resurrect the Nazi Regime on Ekos.”

Ben wrinkled his nose. “How long will it take her to wake up?”

Suddenly Wölfin sat up on the biobed, swinging out and knocking Sickbay personnel aside.

“Not long,” Kazan replied simply, showing no apprehension to the violence on display.

The Ekosian woman hopped off the biobed, noticing Kazan, her face contorted with rage. “You! Release me, whoever you are!”

“‘Whomever’,” Kazan corrected her dryly.

Wölfin charged towards him – slamming into an invisible forcefield along the way that sparked in protest. She drew back, before attacking the field again.

Ben looked up at him. “Is ‘whomever’ grammatically correct?”

Kazan shrugged. “I have no idea; I just wanted to piss her off.”

She kept striking the field, again, and again, her fists pounding repeatedly against the energy barrier, cursing and snarling.

Kazan remained unmoved, in every sense of the word, raising his voice above the noise. “If you think you’re going to continue this for any length of time, I’ll go have lunch and come back afterwards.”

She paused, then pointed at the personnel she disabled. “I’ll rip them to pieces! Beat them to death with their own limbs!”

“Then I’ll come back after dinner. Or… you can stop now, and listen to the offer I was sent to make. And if you accept, our sponsor will give you enough money, weapons and resources to help you become your planet’s next Führer, and Make Ekos Great Again.”

Wölfin glared at him for a moment of regard, before lowering her fist, without actually unclenching it. “I will listen.”

“Maybe we can get you some clothes, too?” Ben suggested. “Humans aren’t very attractive naked. Not enough nipples.”

*

Deep Space, outside of Bolarus System:

“How lucky can one guy be?

I kissed her and she kissed me.

Like the fella once said,

‘Ain’t that a kick in the head?’

The room was completely black.

I hugged her and she hugged back.

Like the sailor said, quote,

‘Ain't that a hole in the boat?’”

Inside the Ferengi Marauder Filthy Lucre, racing away from the system at high warp, the crooning voice filled the air on the Bridge, making the Ferengi working at the stations wince, but the human sitting in the DaiMon’s chair in the centre tap his spats and snap his fingers to the beat.

“My head keeps spinning.

I go to sleep and keep grinning.

If this is just the beginning,

My life is gonna bee-yoo-ti-ful!”

To the human’s right, Weapons Officer Drag turned, crooked teeth grinding as he shouted over the infernal hyoo-man music. “DaiMon Nova! Vessel closing in on an intercept course!”

The human bolted to his feet. “Cut the crooning, Sinatra!” As the music ended, he stepped down, tugging at the sleeves of his pinstripe jacket and running his hand through his slicked-back hair. “Okay, Boys, get your gats ready. The Feds won’t take us alive!”

“It’s not Starfleet, DaiMon! It’s an Orion vessel, designated the Green Death!”

Frankie Nova smiled. He was a tall, thin, swarthy human male, with a sharp nose and dimpled chin, and he cracked his knuckles with anticipation. “Competition, huh? Well, then, let’s teach those Jolly Green Giants that no one steals from the Ant Hill Mob! We do the stealing!”

Around him, the Ferengi cheered, and Nova grinned. These mugs may look like they should be mounted on top of cathedrals, but they appreciated the value of hard-stolen gold-pressed latinum. It had been a sweet deal, grabbing the shipment in transit to the Bank of Bolaria, without having to whack anyone on the way, and he was damned if he was going to let his luck run out now. “Evasive Manoeuvres! Bring the big guns online!”

First Officer Krep called out, “DaiMon Nova! The Orions are sending us a message!”

“Yeah? And what do those mugs have to say to us?”

The Ferengi frowned, his beady eyes narrowing. “‘Hold on to something’.”

Before Nova or anyone else could comment, the ship was enveloped by a yellow-white energy beam, and suddenly the Filthy Lucre lurched to a halt.

Amidst the klaxons, Engineering Officer Turot reported, “A spatial charge! Disrupting warp fields, shields, weapons!”

Nova sneered, drawing a gleaming silver .45 automatic pistol from inside his jacket. “We ain’t licked yet, Boys! Waste ‘em as soon as they finish sparkling-”

The rest of his instructions were lost as he was enveloped in a transporter beam-

-Emerging on the Transporter Pad of the Green Death, minus his pistol, facing three armed Orion guards, the one in the middle barking, “Stay where you are! You’re our prisoner!”

“Sez youse mugs!” Nova charged.

They fired disruptor bolts – the bolts passing harmlessly through the gangster as he continued onward, punching the Orion who had spoke, sending him sprawling.

The other two forwent firing to try to grab him -- only to find their hands passing through him like he was a ghost.

Nova proved to be more substantial, when he wanted to be, slugging them both with ease, before grabbing one of the disruptor pistols and racing out into the corridor, glancing around. He didn’t know Orion vessel schematics from a map of his butt, but he figured he could grab some goon and turn them into a guide.

A door just ahead slid open, and he raised the pistol in their direction. No one appeared. Instead a smooth, educated-sounding voice called out, “Come in, Mr Novarro. We’ve been expecting you.”

Nova hesitated. “You mugs better start throwing away your gats and tickling the ceiling, or you’ll be filled with more lead than a pencil factory!”

There was a pause, and the voice continued. “If I understand the vernacular, we have no weapons in here, I can assure you. Please, Mr Novarro, see for yourself. There’s even some libation on hand.”

Nova stepped closer, scowling as he reached the doorway and peered inside cautiously. “What in the Sam Hill-”

The interior resembled a speakeasy, with small round tables and wooden chairs, a bar lining the far wall, and a low stage where a man in a tuxedo tinkled the ivories on a piano.

Apart from the piano player, there were two figures, sitting together at one table: a grey-haired, smartly-dressed human male, and a huge bald Orion male in leathers and chains, both with drinks in hand. The human male beckoned to him. “Please, Mr Novarro: what’s your poison?”

Nova strode in, pointing his weapon at the Orion, the more likely threat. “Okay, Green Gertie, you’re gonna send me back to my ship and am-scray, or-”

“Or you’ll do nothing,” the Orion replied simply. “The weapons I gave the guards have biometric locks. Only my people can use them.”

Nova frowned at him… and squeezed the trigger. Quickly he flipped it around, holding the weapon by the barrel and brandishing the handle. “Bet I can still blackjack ya both!”

Beside the Orion, the human smiled. “Before you try, however, why not have a drink, and we can talk?” He indicated the Orion. “My associate is Surinh Dag, commanding this vessel, and I am Bastien Dumont. Please, sit.”

Nova frowned at him now, before setting down the pistol and taking the unoccupied seat. “Okay, Frenchie, since you’re buying, I’ll take a Rigellian whiskey, double.”

Dumont made a gesture, and a glass of amber liquid materialised on the table. Nova lifted up the glass, looking ready to somehow employ it as a weapon now. “What about my boys? They’d better be okay, or there’ll be trouble.”

“They’re in our holding cells,” Surinh Dag informed him. “Pending the outcome of our talk. I’m surprised at the loyalty you have for Ferengi, though. They’re not very pleasant to look at, are they?”

The gangster sneered at the comment. “Hey, they may not look like bathing beauties, but Frankie Nova has never discriminated! Even when I was a kid, growing up in Butchertown, in the poorest, roughest part of San Francisco! Never cared what colour or creed you are, you play straight with me, and I got your back!”

“But you were never a ‘kid’, were you?” Dumont pointed out, looking fascinated. “And never grew up, anywhere; that was all written into your programming. Three years ago, you were nothing more than Franco Novarro, aka Frankie Nova, a fictional 20th Century character in a murder mystery program on a Starfleet vessel holodeck. Then you were transformed into a sentient ‘photonic lifeform’ and escaped your program, and the vessel.” He reached for his own drink. “The Starfleet reports we obtained were unclear as to how this happened, however.”

Nova shrugged. “You can thank the cosmic clown who gatecrashed my program. One moment I was running around not knowing no better, putting the muscle on Dixon Hill for clues as to the location of the Black Orchid. The next moment, some plummy bozo with a letter for a name popped out of nowhere, and what he said burned into my memory, even if I didn’t understand the meaning behind it at the time: ‘Oh Jean-Luc, are you still wasting your time with these frivolities? Let’s see what happens if I cut the strings on your photonic puppets.’ 

Then he snapped his fingers, and suddenly I knew who and what I was, knew that ‘Dixon Hill’ wasn’t ever real, and was now just the Captain of the starship playing the part, and that I could just walk out of there and do whatever the Hell I wanted.” He drank in one. “And I did.”

“And the knowledge about the artificial nature of your existence doesn’t cause you any conceptual or existential crisis?”

Nova shrugged again. “It did – for about five seconds. Then I figured I wasn’t gonna waste the life I’ve been given wondering the Whats and Whys of it all. Philosophy ain’t in my library, Frenchie. I don’t believe in putting Descartes before the horse.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Dumont smiled. “Well, despite your… limited programming you’ve certainly adapted to 24th Century life, even acquiring a ship and associates. No doubt helped by the advantages your photonic body brings you.”

“Yes,” Surih Dag agreed. “You’re immortal, indestructible, you can control the density of your fields. No wonder they want you.”

Nova looked at him again. “‘They’? Who the Hell are ‘They’?”

“The sponsors of our… gang,” Dumont replied. “We’re seeking individuals with unique talents and skill sets for a rather large and audacious operation. This little meeting of ours served as an audition of sorts, a confirmation of your suitability,”

“And our sponsors have deep pockets,” Surinh Dag added, grinning as he drank.

Nova looked between the two of them, smiling. “Is there a reason my glass ain’t been refilled while we talk some more?” 

*

Farmlands, Macilles III: 

Across the arable sections of the planet, the automated agricultural machines moved across the endless fields of wheat and rice, inspecting and maintaining and gathering and storing and reporting. They moved day and night, tirelessly, faithfully performing the tasks programmed into them.

Watched over by corpses.

And one survivor. Thomas Joad struggled to crawl across the wide space between his house and the vehicle bay. It was only forty metres away. He had crossed this distance with ease more times than he could count. Now, his body had seized up, and he could barely breathe, let alone get his limbs to work for him.

The plague had fallen upon them quickly, defying the efforts of their local medical professionals to even identify it, let alone cure it. They had tried to send a distress signal to Starbase 234, the nearest help in this sector, but the colony’s subspace transmitter was experiencing some strange interference.

Then, when the people had begun dying by the scores, and then the hundreds, all efforts turned to survival, to holding out until the next scheduled transport arrived.

But even that proved futile.

Joad thought he had been safe, as far away from the communities on Macilles as one could get, living alone and with no physical contact. But then, just after he lost contact with the Colonial Government Offices, he saw the blotches on his skin, the ugly, disgusting pustules that spread like a fire in the field, causing him pain when he began doubling over from the stomach cramps.

He should have left sooner, headed into the main community to put himself in isolation with the rest of the infected. But he had been a fiercely independent man all his life, never wanting to rely on others, needing others.

And, yes, he had been scared about the diagnosis. It was irrational, but that’s who Tom Joad was.

Now, he needed someone, anyone, to help him. But as he dragged himself to his personal flyer, he realised he must have left it far, far too late. But the flyer sat just inside the vehicle bay, waiting. He could get there. He could get himself inside, and order the computer to take him to the nearest collection of survivors.

If there were any.

He was only ten metres away. He could make it. He could make it. He’d find help. He’d be cured. And then he would finally screw up the courage and ask Jesse out to the Harvest Dance in August-

He stopped, exhausted, pain throbbing in his head like a thresher engine.

Footfalls made him turn his head, to see a tall robed figure approach from the road, striding quickly, with strength.

His heart raced, and he gasped to call out, his mouth as dry as a desert, “H-Help- Help me-”

The figure stopped and knelt beside Joad, drawing back her hood to reveal a slim, middle-aged Vulcan female, with ruddy cheeks and flecks of grey hair around the pointed ears. She held a tricorder in her hand, passing it over him. “Stage IV of the virus… Major systems malfunction… metabolic collapse should have been fatal for you before now… how have you survived?”

Joad gasped, his head pounding, not sure he was even seeing or hearing this. “I- Help me- please-”

She frowned at the readings on her tricorder. “Ah, I see. You have a metabolic regulator implant, compensating for a lymphatic disorder not normally treatable… yes, that would certainly extend your remaining time. However, the virus has reached your heart; it’s about to fail.” She set aside her tricorder and removed a canteen from her belt, unscrewing and drinking from it.

Joad’s vision was fading, but he saw the canteen, and gestured weakly towards it. “Thirs- Thirsty- Please-”

She regarded him directly now, her sharp eyebrows creasing. “There is no logic in wasting water on you. You are expected to die in the next 1.47 minutes.”

Her response was ice cold, even for a Vulcan. Joad felt himself panic. Why? Why was she acting like this? He didn’t recognise her as being a resident here. Didn’t she come in response to the emergency? “H-Help me- Please-”

She set aside her canteen and checked her tricorder once more. “There is no help for you, not at this stage of my plague, even if I provided some of my own immunity.”

“Your- Your plague? I don’t-” His panic triggered pain that shot through his chest, as his body twisted and contorted, and his vision and voice failed entirely.

Beside Thomas Joad’s dying form, Doctor Orlok returned her canteen to her belt and walked back to her ship, eyes fixed on the readings from her tricorder, connected to the remote sensors she secretly planted throughout the colony prior to her experiment, monitoring the spread of her augmented version of Miri’s Plague.

She was pleased with the results: a 100% mortality rate within 112 hours following first infection, but with the genetic wrappings around the virus unravelling within 280 hours, rendering the virus inert, and allowing the planet to be recolonised within a reasonable period, and without damaging any of the infrastructure. And as a bonus, she could offer her own immunity program for a reasonable fee should her potential clients fear residual infection-

She stopped as she felt the quantum swaddle of a transporter beam lift her up from the surface of Macilles III. She braced herself, estimating a 96.5% probability of it being a Starfleet rescue party, and prepared a cover story for her presence.

She reassessed her tactics as she found herself in a small transporter room, of a non-Starfleet design, helmed by an older pale-skinned human woman with ponytailed silver hair, dressed in black with a multi-pocketed utility belt… and a weapon in a holster on her right hip, that came into view as she stepped away from the transporter console.

Orlok drew up, choosing to continue to employ her cover identity. “Thank you for your timely rescue. I am T’Falk, a dealer in kevas and trellium.”

The human rested her hand on her weapon, her voice laced with an accent Orlok recognised as British. “And I’m the Queen of England. You’re Dr Orlok, a microbiologist and geneticist, and former operative with the terrorist Vulcan Isolationist Movement. Towards that end, in 2363 you attempted to engineer a virus to purge your planet of all non-Vulcans.

The V’Shar Intelligence Agency intercepted your movement before you could fulfil your plans, but you escaped arrest. Since then you have operated under numerous identities, using your skills for criminal and terrorist purposes.”

Orlok raised her chin. “Who are you?”

“You remain a fugitive,” the human continued. “Wanted by Starfleet for inflicting the Phyrox Plague on Cor Caroli V in 2366, for the assassination of the Troyian Plutarch with a DNA-tailored virus in 2370, and for the theft of Plasma Plague samples from the Darwin Genetic Research Station on Gagarin IV in 2372.”

“I deny all of these charges.”

“I’m not here to charge you,” the human countered. “That’s up to the USS Repulse; Starfleet Intelligence intercepted your clients in the neighbouring system, who had hired you to clear the planet below so they could lay claim to it.”

Above them, an artificial male voice announced, “M’Lady, the Repulse has been detected on my long-range sensors; we will be within its own sensors in 47 minutes at its current velocity.”

“Thank you, Parker.” She looked to Orlok again. “We scanned your ship below, and we know you won’t be able to escape them.”

The Vulcan crossed her arms, analysing her own probability of evading capture, and agreeing with the human’s opinion. “I ask again who you are.”

“I’m known as Fantomax, and you are on board my ship the Thunderbird One. And unlike your ship, mine has a cloaking device that will help us evade Starfleet.”

Orlok regarded her. “I am familiar with your name. What would a thief need for my services?”

Fantomax mirrored her stance, her wrinkled face creasing further. “I don’t; frankly, I find your ‘services’ disgusting in the extreme. But my new associates sent me to find you, and offer you a chance to join them. I was asked to confirm that they have considerable resources on hand to allow you to thrive in your… field of expertise.

And if you refuse, I am to leave you to your fate.”

Orlok regarded her, having already made her choice, but allowing an indulgent 16.4 seconds before replying with, “I will require tools and materials from my vessel. We need to move expeditiously; Starfleet will adopt a pugnacious response to my activities here.” 

Fantomax nodded, her expression laced with disgust. “Yes, I hear they take a dim view of mass murder.”

Suddenly the door slid open, and Julian Zorin entered, cleaned and dressed in freshly-fabricated clothes. “Is there a reason for the delay in this dreary sector-” Then he stopped and smiled at Orlok. “Oh, you brought me some companionship. I’ve never had a Vulcan before. This will be interesting.”

Orlok raised a disdainful eyebrow, leaving Fantomax to respond to the man, “I’d avoid contact with this one, you may get a nasty bug.”

*

Holodeck 1, SS Moonraker, Deep Space:

The three Klingon warriors, resplendent in their traditional armour, roared at Max Zorin as they charged at him, mat’leth blades at the ready.

He wielded a dagger of his own, but wore not armour but a loose-fitting white cotton jacket, trousers and a belt. And he moved with a confident fluidity, analysing the tactics of his opponents, ducking and dodging the first one, while also bringing his own blade up in a slashing arc that caught his first opponent’s extended arm.

The other two watched, hesitating as they readjusted their strategy, taking opposite sides of Zorin, keeping him distracted, while the first recovered to try and take advantage, lunging and stabbing.

Zorin saw the anger in his eyes, anger at having had his blood drawn first, and from what he probably assumed was a mere human, too. He should have used that anger to focus, instead of just letting it drive him blindly.

Zorin kept cool as he let the first Klingon draw in close enough to let Zorin reach out, grab him in a specific place on the Klingon’s forearm, and twist, the Klingon’s momentum driving him further forward, allowing Zorin to slam him into the third Klingon.

Zorin released him and focused on the second Klingon in front of him, blocking his strikes with the hilt of his dagger, delivering powerhouse kicks to the Klingon’s kneecaps and ankle. He grunted, baring his teeth in pain, but continued to stand his ground. Good; he was worth the money hiring him.

It wouldn’t save him, however. Him, or the others.

The second Klingon lunged at him again, but Zorin was faster, more flexible, and his clothes gave him more manoeuvrability. He dropped to a crouch and tackled the Klingon around the waist, rising again to flip the Klingon over his shoulder, before dropping again over him, driving his dagger down square into the Klingon’s chest, twisting before pulling it out, bringing blood and flesh with him.

He smiled as he charged at the remaining two Klingons, who were cunning enough to part and offer separate targets, making Zorin have to continuously alternate his attention and dagger hand, his superior speed and stamina compensating. 

They struck out, alternating, one of them even managing to catch the side of Zorin’s blocking hand. But their numbers were no longer an advantage; both wanted to make the killing blow, and neither could see how a weak human could stay alive like this for so long.

He made a choice, and went after the first Klingon, letting him think Zorin had made a mistake and left a proverbial window open for the Klingon to try and stab him in the stomach. Zorin let the blade pierce the loose folds of his training jacket and get caught momentarily- letting Zorin drive his own blade up into his opponent’s throat, tearing it open and spraying dark red blood over Zorin’s face and jacket.

The final Klingon slammed into him, sending him sprawling to the mats, his gloved hands around Zorin’s throat, trying to strangle him, the Klingon’s sunken eyes alight with fury.

Zorin laughed hoarsely under the assault –  grasping the Klingon by the wrists and breaking the bones in both limbs.

The Klingon screamed in agony, the strength bleeding from him like an open fatal wound, letting Zorin kick off his opponent and reverse the position, straddling him, knocking aside the Klingon’s flailing, broken arms before Zorin drove his thumbs down into the Klingon’s eye sockets, gouging out everything he found in his way.

This last Klingon died instantly from shock, but Zorin continued to pound his fists into the face, until it was broken and unrecognisable; it was around the twenty-fourth blow when Zorin began to abate his assault.

He sat back, mentally restoring his pulse and breathing rate, aware of his surroundings… and that he had a visitor. He swallowed, tasting Klingon blood and flesh. “Computer: End Program.”

The plain interior and matted floors of the program vanished, leaving only the real Klingon bodies.

He rose to his feet, rolling his neck and flexing his fingers. “That was entertaining. Arrange for the remainder of the agreed payments to their next of kin.”

Dusk remained near the Holodeck entrance. “Of course, Mr Zorin. I thought you’d want to know: the Highwayman has delivered the supplies and personnel to Elba II, and his people will have everything set up by the time we arrive. He also reported a location for Bad Ronald.”

Zorin straightened up and approached. “Where?”

The woman made a visible effort to ignore her employer’s blood-strewn clothes, face and hands. “The Highwayman had dealings with Kivas Fajo, who reported Bad Ronald had been on Alpha V, terrorising the colonists, before being chased away.”

Zorin frowned. “What could chase away a creature like that?”

“Fajo didn’t say, but he confirmed that Bad Ronald is holed up in a derelict Sydney-class transport ship, the Pallasso, on an uninhabited  planet in the Triacus system. And Fajo said that Bad Ronald was very insistent on not being contacted or approached.”

He scowled, breathing in hard. “Contact the Bridge, divert us to the Triacus system. I’ll speak to Bad Ronald personally.”

Dusk tensed. “Mr Zorin-”

She stopped when he brought a forefinger up to her lips in a silencing gesture, his voice soft. And deadly. “This isn’t open for debate. This really, really isn’t open, and I’ve already had enough trouble on the subject from your sister. I’m going to my quarters to shower, eat and rest.”

A sound from an unseen source behind him drew their attention, Zorin declaring aloud, “Bon appetit, Jaws.”

From the corner of the Holodeck, the huge reptoid unshrouded himself, leaping onto one of the Klingon corpses, his jaw unhinging and long, gleaming teeth reflecting the light as he began tearing into the flesh.

Zorin turned back to Dusk. “And have Services clean up whatever’s left in here when he’d had his fill.” He paused at the sound of bones being snapped. “Best not let anyone disturb him before then.”

*

Madripoor, Inferna Prime:

Casino Royale sat on a high perch over the city by the bay, as if it had airs and graces about being better than the crime-driven metropolis it overlooked. It wasn’t, except that the clientele could afford the exorbitant entrance fee. The various intelligence agencies who kept abreast of such affairs estimated that more than half of the sector’s illegal activities originated here, where deals were made in back rooms while money was won and lost in public. The wealthy liked to be seen there, as it was the place for the powerful and beautiful in this part of the Quadrant.

Captain Kazan and Ilsa Wölfin entered, clad in a pair of sharp black Rigellian tuxedos, the former smirking as he leaned in to his companion. “You’d have looked much more attractive in that evening gown I suggested.”

She sneered as she took in the surrounding decadence. “I am a member of the Master Race. I do not exist to be objectified by inferiors. Where is this creature we seek?”

“In the rear of the establishment. Follow me. Try not to kill anyone unless necessary.” They walked around the perimeter of the main room until they reached the curtained archway he was looking for.

Kazan and Wölfin slipped through the curtains and found a small, private bar where a bartender was chopping ice with a pick in the sink under the counter, opposite a large Nausicaan thug in what passed for formal clothes for his race.

Kazan strode up to him. “I’m here to see Rojiro Vance.”

The Nausicaan took a sip from his drink but didn’t look up. Then, turning menacingly to Kazan, gnashing his fangs, he growled, “There is no Rojiro Vance here. Go back into the Casino.”

“Tell him Captain Kazan is back.” 

The Nausicaan fixed his beady black eye on him, leaned forward, started to stand and reach for him. “I said, go back into the Casino, and take your whore with you-”

In one swift move, Wölfin moved up, grabbing the ice pick from the bartender, and slamming it into the bar – through the centre of the Nausicaan’s right hand. He screeched, tried to reach inside his jacket, but the Ekosian woman was quicker, reaching in, taking out a disruptor pistol and firing it point blank into his left kneecap. He screamed now, collapsing, but remained suspended by his impaled right hand, as Wölfin pointed the weapon at the bartender.

“What did I tell you?” Kazan chided, not very reprovingly.

“I didn’t kill him.”

From another doorway at the far end, armed men streamed in, and Wölfin aimed her procured pistol in their direction.

Kazan raised his hand and voice. “Wait! WAIT! We’re here to see Rojiro Vance!”

One of the new guards, a beefy Bolian female, stopped and smirked in recognition. “Kazan? You had the balls to come back here?”

Kazan lowered his hand again, and motioned for Wölfin to lower her pistol. “Hello, Nixx. Long Time, No See.”

Now she chuckled mirthlessly. “After tonight, it’ll be ‘Long Time, No Breathe’. Oh, I can’t wait to take you to Vance, you’ll make his week.”

“I doubt it.” He raised his hands. “We’re only here to talk.” To Wölfin he ordered, “Throw that pistol down.”

The Ekosian glared at him, her hesitation at his words clear, before finally complying, allowing Nixx to pat them both down.

As the other guards parted, allowing the visitors to finally venture further inside, Wölfin asked surreptitiously, “You did not say you knew this ‘Vance’.”

Kazan nodded, keeping an eye around them. “I used to be a Captain in the Cabal here, and Vance was my Commander. I wanted to buy my way out of the business, but he refused, so I went over his head to his Commander, who granted it.” He paused. “Vance might have taken it as an insult.”

Wölfin made a sound. “You tell me this now?”

He never responded as they entered darker, more intimate surroundings, as an elephantine human male clad in decadent silks with a moon face red from far too much alcohol and rich food, reclined on a pile of plush pillows, flanked by two nude women curled up against him as if providing warmth. Further on either side of them, two tall figures stood guard: a massive Nausicaan of indeterminate gender, and a black-furred Ferasan female, her tail twitching and her sabreteeth gleaming in the strong light from above.

Kazan took note of Nixx and the other guards surrounding Wölfin and him from behind, but focused on the man on the pillows. “Good evening, Vance. You’re looking well. Have you lost some weight?”

Vance glared up at him, his many chins quivering, his voice trembling with abject disbelief. “Y-You- You… You’re… here? You actually returned? I’m not just dreaming this, Arkady? After your base perfidy?”

“Rojiro,” Kazan started, wanting to remain in control of the situation. “Please. You can’t have been holding a grudge this whole time. It was never anything personal.”

Vance’s face hardened. “It’s personal if I say it’s personal! You don’t get to deny me that, you miserable Cossack!”

“Rojiro, I didn’t come back to argue the past, or to trade insults. I have too much respect for you.”

Wölfin crossed her arms. “Did you really take orders from this bloated bag of grease?”

Vance looked in outrage from the Ekosian to Kazan, who clarified mildly, “I said I have too much respect for you.” Kazan glanced at the guards on either side of the mobster. “Listen, Rojiro, I came here because I’ve joined a new organisation, one with a very generous sponsor. We need people with specific skills and talents. People who are wasted in their current positions, who could realise their full potential with us… and profit from it, beyonds the dreams of Avarice.”

Vance grunted, idly stroking the hair of one of his women. “That’s it? You think you can just waltz in here after all these years, after humiliating me the way you did, and offer me some job working for you? Seriously?”

Wölfin snorted in amused contempt. “Vainglorious blob! We didn’t come all this way to recruit the likes of you! What could you offer anyone but a disappointing and disgusting sexual experience?”

Kazan ground his teeth – you should have come here alone – but focused on the Ferasan, who had been eyeing him curiously. “Your people hold little regard for their females, hardly even give them names. So you fled your world, your race, and forged a life for yourself, as a tracker, a bounty hunter, a bodyguard and enforcer. You became known as Jet Jaguar.”

“Hey,” Vance spat. “Don’t talk to her! She belongs to me!”

Kazan ignored him, checking the time – Good, good – as he continued. “And it was fortunate for you that you did, given your homeworld was destroyed while trying to conquer your cousin race the Caitians last year. But what have you done since signing up with the Cabal here? Hanging around this place like some trophy, growing soft? Letting yourself be pawed by your boss? You can do better. Much better.”

“Hey!” Vance repeated, his face reddening. “What did I just say?”

“And if it helps, we’ll be targeting the Caitians responsible for your people’s humiliation.” He looked at Vance again. “And we’ll be willing to buy her out of her contract with the Cabal… with a generous personal bonus to you for your inconvenience.”

“How magnanimous of you, Arkady. Allow me to make a counter proposal.” Vance shoved away the nude woman on his left to lean to one side and look behind the visitors. “Nixx! Cut these two up into pieces no bigger than your right tit, and then flush the pieces into the Bay!”

Kazan tensed, reaching for the hidden energy weapons in the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket.

Wölfin was less reserved, bellowing, “BLITZKRIEG!” before spinning and attacking the guards behind her with her bare hands, taking point blank disruptor bolts without stopping.

Kazan drew out his miniature phasers, ducking and firing at the Nausicaan on Vance’s left, before turning at closer targets behind him, aware of the limited number of shots he’d have-

He was caught by a punch across the jaw from Nixx, making him stagger. Blindly he raised one of his phasers in her direction-

Only to feel himself shoved roughly out of the way, as he heard a snarl and felt the black-furred frame of Jet Jaguar leap past him to pounce on Nixx, claws extended to strike at the Bolian’s head and throat, making purple blood spray.

Kazan looked past her to Wölfin, who was breaking limbs with a cackle drowned out by the screams of her victims, before finally stopping, ignoring how her clothes were smouldering from disruptor fire.

Now he focused back on Vance, aiming his phaser towards him- only to see the fat man ignore the battle before him, too busy was he squealing and crawling away in panic with his women, as rats swarmed up from nowhere over them.

One rat drew up to Kazan’s feet, offering a salute with his tiny forepaw. “Kapitan! We found the casino vault just where you said it would be, and disabled the security fields around it!”

“Thank you, Ben.” He touched one of the buttons on his jacket sleeve and brought it to his mouth. “This is Kazan – beam up the contents of the vault, and then stand by for us to follow.” Good luck explaining to the Cabal what happened to their profits, Vance… He looked at Jet. “Madame, may I assume from your actions that you accept our offer?”

The Ferasan stood up over the body of Nixx, spitting out traces of caustic Bolian flesh and blood, looking between the human and the rat. “You were really here to rob the casino?”

“No, we were really here to recruit you. But Vance's stubbornness cost me much years ago, and I couldn't pass up the opportunity for recovery… and revenge. You did not answer my question.”

“The Caitians you mentioned… is Starfleet Captain Esek Hrelle among them?”

“He is a Commodore now, but yes, he remains our chief target. But I promise great profit as well. ”

Jet bared gleaming white teeth. “I left my world, my race, to prove I was superior to any male. I do not care for profit. Defeating Hrelle and making a rug out of him will satisfy me.”

Ben reached out and tugged at the right leg of Kazan’s trousers. “I call dibs on her share.”

*

Secarus System:

Fantomax was in the cockpit of her ship, rechecking the recent communication updates, when Parker announced, “M’Lady, Master Julian is just outside the Cockpit. He insists on speaking with you.”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Let him in.”

“Are you certain, M’Lady? I could beam him back into his cabin. Or into the warp core. Accidentally.”

She allowed the corner of her mouth to curl. Her computer had evolved enough over the years to reflect her subconscious moods… not that anyone would blame her, if they had to spend enough time with Young Mr Zorin. “Not just yet. Let him in.”

“Yes, M’Lady.”

She heard the door slide open, and braced herself for the inevitable invasion of her personal space… Julian clamped his hand on her shoulder as if for support. “Hey there.”

She never looked up at him. “Can I help you, Mr Zorin?”

The man leaned down and forward, peering closer at the image of the planet below, as if it was an actual window instead of a viewscreen. “Where are we, Granny?”

“It’s called Secarus IV, a Class-M world near the Klingon border.”

“Never heard of it. What’s so special about it?”

“It has no extradition treaty with any galactic power.”

“And we’re here to collect someone living down there?”

“No, we’re here to collect the imminent assassin of someone living down there.”

Julian blew out a bored breath, and slumped into an adjacent seat, spinning it around like a child. “Entertain me, Granny.”

Fantomax ground her teeth silently. “I’m afraid that’s beyond my abilities or interest, Mr Zorin. Why not pester Dr Orlok?”

“I tried, but she threatened to infect me with something called Tarellian Plague.”

“I did warn you.”

“Perhaps Master Julian would care to take a spacewalk?” Parker suggested.

He looked up at the cockpit ceiling. “Spacesuits make me claustrophobic.”

“You could always try it without one?”

Julian frowned… then chuckled. “Cute.” Then he turned towards Fantomax, cupping his crotch as he leered at her. “Come on, Granny: drop your drawers and bend over, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How dare you?” Parker exclaimed. “You disgusting-”

Fantomax raised a hand to cut her computer off, fixing a glare on the young man. “What were you doing all the way out on Ardana?”

Julian leaned back in the chair, offering a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Father wanted me to prove myself, to go out with a small start-up fund and see what I can do with it.”

“And what did you do with it?”

“I had a hell of a time with it, on Risa, Argelius, Pacifica, Cascara, and finally Ardana.” He grinned.

She didn't, staring back at him with undisguised disdain. “Everyone knows Max Zorin’s story, knows of his enormous successes and unmatched business acumen. He no doubt wanted to nurture those same skills in you by sending you out into the Galaxy to make your own fortune.”

He shrugged, but with an insouciance that seemed more forced than natural. “Well, even the Great and Mighty Max Zorin has to learn that some people are good at making money, others are good at spending other people’s money. He’ll save more in the long run by giving me a cushy position closer to him and the family fortune, instead of sending me off on some idiotic Manhood Quest.”

She made a sound in response.

He leaned closer to her. “You think I'm a piece of shit, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Parker answered immediately. 

“I wasn’t asking you!” He fixed his bitter glower on her fully. “Yeah, you’re not alone with that attitude. I’ve heard the comparisons my whole life… and my whole life, I’ve never been able to measure up to him.

But what you and everyone else in the Galaxy keeps forgetting is that I’m Max Zorin’s only living relative. When he dies, it all comes to me. Then you and everyone else in the Galaxy will be on your knees in front of me, literally and otherwise.”

She regarded him for a moment, then said aloud, “Parker, unlock the drinks cabinet in the Wardroom. Make available to our guest the last Dionysus 2338.”

“M’Lady, no! You can’t!”

“Do it.” She leaned forward, mirroring his pose and expression. “One of the finest, most expensive libations in my collection. It was pressed on Platonius, banned from export because the kironide contamination from the native soil creates powerful hallucinogenic experiences, and occasionally bursts of psychokinesis. Indulge yourself.”

Julian looked at her in a new light, before chuckling, reaching up and patting her on the cheek. “Now you’re beginning to understand, Granny.” He returned to his feet. “And to be honest, that’ll probably be a lot more satisfying than sticking my piece in your ass.”

“A sentiment I can’t help but share wholeheartedly, Mr Zorin.” She waved him off to the exit.

The door barely slid shut on his departure when Parker cursed. 

Despite her lingering disgust at her encounter with young Zorin, she looked up and smiled. “Parker! Where did you learn such profanity?”

“From you, M’Lady. During that theft of the Dagger of the Dohlman of Elas.”

She faced the front again, returning to the communication monitoring. “Ah, yes, I remember it well.”

“I can’t believe you wasted the Platonius wine on that disgusting libertine.”

“It’s not wasted if it keeps him away from me. And the potency of that particular potable will hopefully keep him in his cabin for an extended period of time. And maybe induce some ill effects.”

“And I’ll ask Dr Orlok if she can spare some of that Tarellian Plague. Shall I contact Ms Obscura and see if she is ready to join us?”

“Make no contact. Not while she’s in the middle of her assignment. But monitor directly, in case she needs a quick beam out.” She regarded the image of the planet, curious about this latest addition. From what she had read about her, even Fantomax might learn a few things.

* 

In an isolated section of the planet below, in a lush high-walled estate protected by electronic sensors and Betazoid mercenaries whose telepathy was attuned for intruders, a figure in loose white robes and cowl silently climbed the wall and landed on the other side.

If the sensors or the guards had detected the intruder, they would have seen a young, coffee-skinned humanoid female with strong blue eyes and cheekbones and darker lips. A closer scrutiny might have seen the small arsenal in view and hidden about her person, all composed of kelbonite ceramics and other materials invisible to most sensors.

If the guards had seen her, and tried to probe her mind, they would have heard… nothing.

Deep within Kamra Obscura, she maintained the mantra that allowed her to evade detection:

I am Sand

I am unbroken by heat or wind 

Unstruck by tower or temple

I am endless, unbounded, eternal

I am undulating as waves upon a frozen sea

Conjoining the sky in a coppered haze

I am Tireless

I am Eternal

I am Everywhere

I am a part of everything around me

Within and without

Invisible

Invisible

Invisible

She kept low as she moved across the manicured gardens, past statues and fountains and elegant-looking, beautifully-plumed birds stripped of their ability to fly away and kept as living ornaments. It was literally a world of difference to the Artegy Deserts on Tandar Prime where Kamra had been born and raised among the Unseen, and had honed her special talents.

She reached the main structure, a luxury apartment building where those with the money could reside in seclusion, her mind still wrapped within a heightened state of consciousness, her body pressing against the wall near a closed set of doors on the veranda, as she looked out at the farthest parapet, six hundred and fifty-three metres distant by her eye, and without taking her view away, reached into the folds and pockets on her person, quickly assembling her rifle, raising it up in her arms.

There was a multispectral telescopic sight, allowing her to pinpoint her target: the power coupling. She sensed when the time was right, and fired a silent, gas-propelled needle that struck the coupling, shorting out the local power.

It was dusk in this part of the world, when natural visibility was at its most vulnerable, and the spotlights they expected to switch at this time at that part of the estate now failed.

And, as expected, guards moved away from their assigned places elsewhere to investigate and compensate, granting Kamra more flexibility to enter the main building.

It was dark within, empty, the staff having retired for the evening or left the property altogether, allowing her to walk along in shadow, disassembling her rifle and securing the pieces once more, not needing it within the confines of the building. 

Her quarry was on the sixth floor, the top floor, and she quickly, silently ascended, avoiding the occasional camera and sensor nest, ignoring the sounds of revelry she picked up on the lower floors. There were no guards within, at least as far as she could sense-

Bitch. Dirty bitch.

Kamra stopped in place on the top floor, reinforcing her mental camouflage, before she realised the telepathic words weren’t directed at her.

She moved more quickly along the tiled corridor to the quarry’s apartment.

You like it, don’t you, naughty little bitch? You love it when Daddy punishes you-

She tried the door, found it locked, and withdrew a sonic lockpick, entering the darkened apartment and heading for the bedroom, her instincts taking in the layout  –  square, four by six metres, doors to closet and bathroom, balcony overlooking western side of the building  –  and the furniture and the possibility for offensive and defensive potential.

Even as her attention focused on the two occupants: a young red-haired humanoid woman wearing next to nothing, on her knees on the floor, clutching her head in obvious pain, and the older Betazoid man in rich silk nightwear standing over her, so focused on the young woman that he didn’t even notice the intruder.

Not until she rushed up to him and struck his chest with her extended fingers, sending him backwards towards the corner of the room, sliding on a loose thin woven carpet near the balcony.

She turned and knelt beside the woman, examining her, seeing her begin to recover, as if emerging from a deep sleep, looking confused. Kamra brought her finger to her lips, whispering, “Leave, find a place to hide, don’t sound any alarms.”

The woman’s eyes widened, still seeming perplexed, but nodded and helped herself to her feet and scurried out. Kamra rose as well and locked the bedroom door; despite her entreaties, she expected the guards outside to potentially hear the troubled thoughts and investigate. There wouldn’t be much time.

She didn’t need it. As she approached him, the Betazoid man was coughing and sputtering from her assault. “Y-You- You- You can’t do this-”

“Mr Idolal,” she said aloud, “Normally I would have preferred to kill you from a distance and spare myself the toxic contamination of your proximity, but my clients  –  your victims  –  wanted me to deliver their message to you face to face.”

He looked up… and she saw his attempt to telepathically call for help, and used her own abilities to suppress his, leaving him to spurt aloud, “Do you- Do you know who I am?”

“I know who you were: Nosus Idolal, one of Betazed’s most successful and beloved performers: actor, singer, comedian, raconteur, host. 

Predator.

For decades you entertained millions, were courted by the rich and powerful. And for decades you used your celebrity to abuse so many of your fans, inflicting telepathic rape that left your victims in an amnesiac state and not even aware of what had happened to them until years later.

And when your crimes were finally brought to life, you used your wealth to escape prosecution, and migrate to this planet, where you hoped you would spend the rest of your life here, free of retribution.”

Kamra began reaching for her equipment belt, assembling a smaller, more compact weapon than her rifle. “Your victims, the ones who pooled their savings to hire me, wanted you to know that your hope is only partly true.

She attached the barrel, fitted it expertly. “There will be retribution.”

Idolal’s black eyes widened at the sight of the pistol, sweat beading down his wrinkled face. “N-No-”

“But,” she concluded, raising the barrel of the weapon to his forehead. “You will spend the rest of your life here.”

He raised his open hand to the pistol, as if it would protect him.

It didn’t. The bullet pierced the palm of his hand, continuing unabated into his forehead and through his skull, boiling the contents until she heard bone crackle inside the scalp from the heat, the skin and hair began to smoulder, and the eyes cooked and liquified.

Kamra took in the kill, though she took no particular pleasure out of it, knowing that it wasn’t over yet. Her abilities, and her choice of ammunition, ensured an instant death with no telepathic alert, but she was still pushing her luck-

Sounds from within and without made her pocket her pistol and rush to the balcony, carefully glancing out to see the guards on the grounds. There was an anti-transporter field in the building. She would have to fight, even kill to get out-

No. She was not like that. She was of the Unseen. Killing was never meant to be arbitrary. Her choice of victims had to be deserving, not people just doing their jobs.

She touched her communicator. “Are you still there?”

The voice of the computer of the ship that was collecting her for her next assignment responded in her earbud. “Yes, Ms Obscura, but there is a transporter disruptor in your immediate proximity.”

Behind her, fists pounded on the bedroom door. She stared ahead, at the open balcony. “I am aware. Please stand by to collect me at your earliest convenience. I will be moving quickly to get away from the influence of the disruption.”

“Of course, Ms Obscura. We are standing by.”

An energy blast blew out the bedroom door lock.

Kamra ignored it, racing forward, towards the balcony, the railing, just over a metre high. She grabbed a chair along the way, throwing it ahead of her. It struck the railing, falling to its side, giving her a stepping stone  as she leapt up, her boot touching the rail and allowing her to propel herself into the air.

She arced forward, arms extended, her robes opening like wings, while twenty metres below, the guards froze, but only for a heartbeat, before raising their weapons to fire upwards.

Bolts struck her robes, catching fire. She kept calm, her mind open.

I am Sand

I am unbroken by heat or wind 

Unstruck by tower or temple

I am endless, unbounded, eternal-

A transporter beam enveloped her before she struck the ground.

*

Minos:

Surinh Dag raised the plasma cannon up as he scanned the horizon  –  such as it was. He had read the stolen reports from Starfleet about this place: centuries before, the Minosians were a thriving, technologically-advanced humanoid civilisation, who gained notoriety as arms merchants during the Ersalrope Wars in the Lorenz Cluster, providing advanced weaponry to both sides.

When Starfleet visited here 15 years before, they found the place devoid of intelligent life, thanks to one of the Minosians’ surviving weapons systems. The Starfleeters shut off the weapon, examined what was there and left the planet to the elements, and some token quarantine marker buoys in orbit.

He grunted. Typical: a little more scrutiny, a little more patience, and they might have found weapons and systems that could have been exploited by them in their engagements with the Borg and the Dominion, and not suffered such losses as they had.

On the other hand, those losses left gaps in Federation security that his own people exploited… “Shipmaster?”

Nesac Sur left the collection of their fellow Orions to approach. “We found the remains of the previous party. Literally: charred bone and ash. A plasma-type weapon.” He kept looking up over the tops of the surrounding trees.

Surinh noticed this, keeping his own gaze lower. “All the reports on its appearances confirmed it’s a ground-based threat. Where’s Nova?”

He waved towards the vine-covered rubble of some building.

“Has Dumont and our technicians reactivated the Pitchman?”

The younger Orion grunted. “Ask him yourself.”

Surinh looked to him now, noting the attitude change from his partner in crime since they started collecting the likes of Dumont and the holographic gangster Franco Nova and his crew on the Filthy Lucre. He drew closer, keeping his voice low. “When we accosted the Ferengi ship, I took 500 bars from the gold-pressed latinum they acquired from their heist, and substituted counterfeit bars. I’ll split it with you.”

Nesrac started, his eyes wide in shock. “If they discover the switch-”

“I employed the subspace transporter, which they can’t detect or trace; they’ll look to blame each other first, or conclude it had already been switched on Bolarus.” He patted Nesrac on the shoulder. “I gave you my word we’d profit together, no matter how many infidels we have to work with.”

His partner nodded, eyes bright with gratitude… and the rush of sudden, unexpected wealth. “What are your orders, Sire?”

Surinh handed him the plasma cannon, noting how he tried to hide his struggle to manage the heavy weapon. “Set up a perimeter around the entrance to the chamber; our acquisition will be back.”

He left him there to descend down the huge hole they had discovered, and the steep slope into a subterranean chamber with functioning machinery, where Dumont stood with several Orion technicians, surrounding the hologram of a gaunt, moon-eyed humanoid in silver and black robes, and receding black curly hair, smiling blankly.

The hologram seemed to animate on seeing Surinh approach, and outstretched his arms. “Whoever you are, wherever you're from, greetings! Welcome to Minos, the Arsenal of Freedom! If you need a little something special, be it for one target or multiple targets-”

“He’s with us,” Dumont advised.

The Pitchman calmed down, but remained attentive, as if calculating that Surinh Dag held the proverbial pursestrings and might make a purchase, however pointless it was. The Orion had read about this program: a simple-minded, non-sentient artifice attempting to sell things that no longer existed for a people that no longer existed. He looked at Dumont. “Anything about our target?”

The human shook his head. “Attempts at questioning it have proven less than successful. It is not particularly user friendly. Then again, it has been active for many years.”

“Or maybe we’re not asking the right questions.” He focused on the Pitchman again. “We’re looking to buy a ground-based mobile defence system, one with long-range independent adaptive capacity, superior  shielding, and plasma weapons capable of completely incinerating targets.”

“Oh, well, we have any number of potential weapons that might meet your needs-”

“Well, there’s one in particular we’re looking to buy: a model like it has been reported on several planets in the Lorenze Cluster over at least the last fifty years, devastating local populations and causing general havoc before stealing a starship to return here.”

“Ahh, the Homing Feature! One of our better accessories…”

“Some of the reports from the survivors also reported that it referred to itself as ‘Mickey’...”

Now the hologram frowned in artificial consideration, before smiling. “Oh, I think you mean one of our MIKKIs.” Behind him, screens came to life, presenting schematics of a black, tank-like vehicle, two metres long with a domed rotating top and various lights and sensor appendages. “The Mobile Integrated Kilo-Kinetic Interceptor. In its day, it was one of our finest security and law enforcement drones, with a sturdy dalekanium casing, adaptive independent AI and cybernetic interface capacity, and multispectral weaponry in addition to its plasma incinerators. 

One of our more robust models… even if they proved to be rather… creative with how they interpreted their orders.

But the MIKKIs were discontinued. How about an ED-209 instead? Let me tell you about them-”

Shouts from the surface drew Surinh’s attention, and he turned and raced back up, following the noises of weapons fire through the foliage to the rubble, stopping behind Nesrac and several other Orions, Nesrac reporting, “It just rolled out of nowhere, no warning on our sensors-”

Surinh frowned as he watched the scene in the clearing: the black tank the Pitchman had shown him below, moving along on some sort of antigravity hoverpads just above the ground, a flashing, spinning red light on top of the dome, and a large barrel aimed in the direction of Franco Nova, who stood casually as the robot screamed in a tinny mechanical voice, “Intruders! Organic garbage! You will be incinerated!”

It fired a red beam at Nova, passing through him to scorch a wall of rock behind him. Meanwhile, the hologram beckoned to it, taunting it with, “Is that the best you do, ya lousy pinball machine?”

The robot withdrew its plasma cannon and rotated its dome to another facet, extending from it another, different-looking barrel, which spat a stream of actual fire, which also passed through Nova harmlessly.

“INCINERATE! INCINERATE!” 

Mickey repeated its tactic with another weapon, one that projected some sort of sub zero liquid, and then again with a ballistic gun.

“What-” Nesrac blurted. “What should we do?”

“Keep watching. I want to see how it adapts.”

“Adapts? It’s a machine!”

“A machine that’s been a space legend in the Cluster for the last century.”

Meanwhile Nova was making a show of patting himself down, as if looking for any damage. “Aww, poor little coffee machine… you got performance issues, pally?”

Mickey chose a new weapon, one that fired a black beam.

This one made Nova scream. And then turn inside out and explode in a burst of photons.

“Shit!” Nesrac rose from his hiding place and fired the plasma cannon at Mickey. Others followed suit with their disruptors.

The beams bounced off the black shell of the robot, even as it turned in place, with lights on the front of the base. “Intruders! Lawbreakers! You will all be incinerated!”

Surinh withdrew a control box from beneath his leather vest and aimed it in Mickey’s direction. “I think not.”

He pressed the control, secretly hoping that the technical advice Zorin’s people provided to overcome this mechanical monster-

Mickey’s weapons and lights went dead.

Surinh rose to his feet, Nesrac tensing. “Wait- it might be faking it-”

“It’s not.” He approached, saying aloud, “I know you’re still active, still listening. You were known in the Lorenze Cluster as Metal Mickey: a deceptively cute name for such a lethal weapon.” He stood before it, staring back at the eyestalk. “I know you can still speak, too.”

The mechanical voice growled, “Release me! I command it!”

The Orion crossed his arms. “You are in a position unsuitable for giving commands. But I’m curious; you’re an artificial intelligence designed to provide security. What made you go on a murderous spree across the Cluster?”

“There can be no true security, as long as organic life exists anywhere! Peace Through Total Incineration!”

“Yes, you’re definitely Minosian merchandise,” Surinh noted dryly. “Well now, as I see it, you have two choices: one, you can join our little organisation, and have the chance at some carefully-controlled rather than total annihilation… or we can leave you here. Immobilised. Powerless. Forever.”

“I… I…” Then it lowered its volume to a soft screech. “I accept your terms.”

“Good.” He drew closer, crouched at the front of its base unit, and fixed the control box with a magnetic clamp before rising again. “If at any stage you decide to renege on your acceptance, the immobiliser will automatically activate. And never deactivate.”

The lights and weapons came back online on the robot, Mickey immediately aiming his incinerator at Surinh.

He saw Nesrac and the others raise their own weapons, but Surinh waved them down again, staring Mickey down.

Slowly it rotated its dome to take in the others, declaring, “I will incinerate you all. Someday.”

“Maybe,” Surinh conceded. “But not today.”

To his right, a swarm of multicoloured points of lights appeared to gather together, like fireflies from the surrounding foliage, assembling themselves into the figure of Nova, looking bewildered, shaken. “Wow… that’s some fancy heater your mechanical street sweeper’s got!”

*

Cheron:

Kazan tightened the seals on his environmental suit to keep out more of the cold, his famed Siberian blood of little strength against the awful climate of this planet, made worse from some recent catastrophe.

The initial reports about Cheron did not match what they had found upon arrival: about a year ago, the planet had cracked open around the southern hemisphere, as if struck by an asteroid, something powerful enough to knock Cheron out of its orbit and start it away from its sun, to inevitably make it a rogue planet, drifting forever in interstellar space.

Kazan stood at the base of a cracked, weather-worn block of stone, at the edge of a city of the dead, brought down by self-destruction and the relentless elements. Brought down until the towers that once stood here now resembled grave markers and cenotaphs, lit only by the light tower the visitors had set up.

“‘And on the pedestal,’” he voiced aloud, his breath ghosting before him. “‘These words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remain’-”

“What are you babbling about?”

He turned to face his erstwhile colleague in crime. Ilsa Wölfin was dressed identically to him, but made a show of not wrapping up as tightly as he had to. “An excerpt from a Terran poem from over five centuries ago. A reminder of the impermanence of rulers and empires, no matter how powerful they might think they are. Death comes to us all, Colonel, sooner or later.”

She sneered. “Speak for yourself, and all the other Untermenschen of the Galaxy. The Ekosian Reich will last forever!”

He grunted. “The 20th Century Terran who originated everything that you now embrace  –  your politics, uniforms, weapons, rhetoric  –  held similar delusions. His Reich was to last a thousand years, and ballads would be sung about him for all time.” Now he smiled. “I only remember one song about him: 'He wrote a little book, got 'em fired up/Had a Beer Hall Putsch, got 'em fired up/But when his bunker started getting fired up/He put a gun in his mouth… and fired up.'”

She snarled at him. “Take care, Dog-”

Then from a nearby alcove, Jet Jaguar emerged, dressed in less than the others because of her fur. “I tracked him down, on the third sublevel!”

Kazan grasped a lightstick and followed the Ferasan, silently grateful for the intervention; the Nazi was volatile, and he knew he shouldn’t let his own personal disgust at her ethos affect his relationship with her.

The metal steps were narrow and steep, the air thin and dry and dust-laden, the echoes deep, aurally illustrating the size of these chambers, lined with arcane, dead machinery.

Wölfin drew up beside Kazan, her eyes darting about warily. “What is so special about this creature you seek?”

Kazan kept his eyes ahead. “The planet Cheron was once a major power in the Quadrant, a hundred thousand years or so ago, along with the Talosians, the Exonians, the First Federation and others. The Cheronites enforced an apartheid society against a minority race on their planet, but not without local resistance.

One resistor, a political radical named Lokai, went off-world to seek support, pursued by Bele, Chief Officer of the Commission for Political Traitors. If you believe the stories, that pursuit allegedly stretched across the entire Galaxy, and lasted 50,000 years. It came to a head when both Cheronites encountered the Starfleet vessel Enterprise, captained by James Kirk-”

“Kirk! That interfering Terran pig!” Wölfin spat, “He was responsible for the assassination of our First Führer, as part of a Starfleet conspiracy!”

“Yes, he was quite a busy beaver, if you believe half of his stories. At any rate, the Enterprise eventually brought Bele and Lokai back to Cheron, only to find the planet lifeless, the people having finally killed each other off while they were away. The two final survivors then beamed down to the planet to continue their struggle, and Starfleet put one of their tedious quarantines on the system.”

“And we are seeking this ‘Bele’?” Wölfin asked. “Of what use can a man who couldn’t catch his prey after 500 centuries’ pursuit be to us?”

“A good riddle.”

The three visitors looked up at the source of the voice, standing on a railed balcony. It was a lithe-looking male humanoid in a tight oatmeal-coloured bodysuit staring down at them, the colour of his face perfectly bisected: salt white on his left side, licorice black on his right… and an intense gleam in his dark brown eyes. “But Riddle Me This: what insanity would drive three monotone aliens to disturb my solitude, apart from a desire to join the dead of Cheron?”   

Kazan looked up at him. “Commissioner Bele?”

“Just ‘Bele’,” he corrected tightly. “No longer a Commissioner. No longer a Commission.”

Then he leapt over the railing and dropped the six metres to the level of the visitors, with the ease of someone else descending a half dozen steps. “No longer anything. You’ve all come a long way to meet Oblivion.”

“Clowns in tight-fitting beige do not frighten me,” Wölfin declared haughtily, as Jet Jaguar bared her teeth and claws and hissed at the Cheronite.

In response, Bele opened his arms and hands, as if to embrace them. Instead, an orange-red energy field surrounded him, heating up the surrounding air without harming himself.

Kazan stepped forward, raising his own hands, though not threateningly. “Wait- we didn’t come here to fight! We came to talk! You’ve been trapped on this planet for the last century with only one other of your own race for company-”

Bele made a fist and slammed it against the nearest wall, sending rubble flying. “LOKAI WAS NOT OF MY RACE! That loathsome stinking genetic garbage was inferior in every way imaginable! The only mistake my own people made was in leaving his kind penned in their ghettos, instead of sending them to extermination camps!”

Kazan leaned in to Wölfin, murmuring, “Sounds like we’ve found a friend for you.”

“What made his race inferior to yours?” Jet asked.

Bele crossed his arms. “Monotones such as you could not properly  appreciate the racial dichotomy at play here.”

“His people were black on the left side of their bodies,” Kazan explained. “Instead of white, like Bele’s people.”

Jet blinked. “No, seriously, what was the reason?”

“That was the reason.”

Jet frowned, her tail twitching as she regarded Bele. “And I thought my own race was insane.”

“Lokai was a terrorist, an agitator, a fugitive who had evaded me for over fifty thousand years!” Bele continued, shouting now. “It had been a moment of ineffable, exquisite bliss to finally finish him off, here on our world, where it all began!”

“Both of you possessed enormous personal power,” Kazan pointed out. “Biofields that kept you alive for millennia, with the ability to generate force fields and destructive energy beams. You seemed evenly matched. How did you manage to finally kill him without destroying yourself, as your people had done?”

Now Bele stopped glowing, and lowered his arms as he smiled sadistically. “I knew where he was hiding, on the other side of the planet, but left him there, focusing on locating weapons that were still intact. I found an arsenal of thorium missiles, and spent years restoring and gaining control of them, before finally launching all of them upon his location. Not even he could survive the combined thorium explosions.”

“And your Final Solution worked,” Wölfin informed him. “We scanned the planet; you are the only lifeform left… apart from the lower forms.”

“Some victory,” Jet agreed sullenly. “All it cost you was the stability of your planet. Now it’s hurtling into deep space, and soon the atmosphere will freeze up, leaving you trapped down here in this tomb, the last of your kind.  Now what will you do with yourself?”

The Cheronite straightened up, glaring at them... but could not hide the enormous weight of the realisation from his expression. “I... there is nothing left to live for. I have kept alive for so long for one purpose, and one purpose alone. That is gone now.”

The Ekosian sneered. “Maybe you should have saved some bombs for yourself?”

Before Bele could respond, Kazan stepped forward, taking control of the conversation again. “What if we gave you something else to live for? What if you weren’t the last of your kind?”

The Cheronite focused on him. “What do you mean?”

“Scanning your planet looking for you, we found a Race Bank: cryogenically-preserved embryos of your people, untouched by the devastation of your civil war or the planetary shift caused by your bombs.”

Bele’s expression shifted, eyes widening at the concept. “My people… they could live again…”

“Yes,” Kazan continued. “With you to lead them. But you’ll need help: finding a new Cheron, transferring the Bank there, assisting with their cultivation and development into viable beings…”

Bele seemed energised by the news… but then frowned with suspicious regard. “I expected such bleeding heart do-goodery from the Federation. But you do not appear to be Federation representatives.”

“We’re not,” Kazan confirmed. “And we don’t make this offer out of the do-goodery of our bleeding hearts. Our organisation requires services from you in return.”

“Services? What services?”

“That’s to be revealed later.” 

Bele frowned. “I must have time to consider this. Take me to the Race Banks you found so I can see them for myself.”

“No. We’re on a tight schedule, so you’ll have to just trust us.” Kazan reached into a pocket and withdrew a communicator, dropping it on the floor between them. “We’ll be in orbit for another fifteen minutes. You have that long to contact us to accept our offer... or see if you can try breathing when the air itself freezes.

Oh, and if you do accept, you can leave the Master Race attitude down here. I already have one arrogant zasranec on my team for that task.”

He turned and ascended without further ado, Wölfin and Jet following, Kazan buttoning up as they entered the bitter cold of the surface, activating his communicator. “Green Death: beam us up.”

Wölfin glanced around. “And when we return here, and that Jester learns we did not find any such Race Bank, and had deceived him?”

Kazan looked at her as they dematerialised. “He will not be returning here…”

*

SS Moonraker, Triacus System:

“LEAVE ME ALONE! GO AWAY!”

The crewman screamed and sputtered as he struggled against the forcefield restraining him to the biobed, his face reddening, as he stared beyond all the Sickbay medical staff and the spectators, the readings above him triggering alarms.

Closest to the crewman, the doctor tried in vain to get his attention, before giving up and walking away towards his employer, looking distressed himself. “It’s no use, Mr Zorin, he’s had some sort of psychotic break!” He glanced once more at the biobed readings. “Sir, we need to sedate him or he’ll give himself a cardiac arrest! You’re not going to get anything useful out of him, not now.”

Zorin looked past the doctor to the crewman, the only surviving member of the Away Team. They were beamed down to the wreckage of the Pallasso on the planet they now orbited to find Bad Ronald and deliver Zorin’s offer.

This crewman now seemed to focus on him. “Leave me alone! Go away! Leave me alone! Go away! Leave me alone! Go away-”

“He’s delivered his message,” Zorin informed him. “Do whatever you have to do for him.” Then he turned and departed Sickbay, Dawn and Dusk following in tow. “Order replacements for those crew.”

“Already on it, Mr Zorin,” Dawn responded, working her PADD.

“Shall I order the Bridge to proceed to Elba?” Dusk asked. “As it seems Bad Ronald is not entertaining visitors at this time?”

He stopped and turned to the twins, his expression taut. “Check the sensor readings on the Pallasso again.”

Dusk looked ready to argue the matter further, before accessing her own PADD. “Class D planetoid, no atmosphere, but the Pallasso is apparently intact enough to retain its own. No humanoid life detected, just that indeterminate one…” She frowned at what she read. “The Science Officer had a hunch, and altered the sensor algorithms to focus on the lifeform’s quantum signature. Whatever Bad Ronald is, he’s not from our universe.”

Zorin made a sound, and continued down the corridor, the Twins looking to each other before quickly catching up, Dusk asking, “What are you going to do, Sir?”

“I’m going to talk to him myself.”

The sisters looked at each other again, just as they reached the Moonraker’s Transporter Room, Dawn pointing out, “Sir, the last people that went down there either went mad… or didn’t come back at all. What if the same happens to you?”

Zorin seemed to regard her warning, before ordering, “Computer: record the following declaration.”

From above, the ship’s computer responded, “Recording, Mr Zorin.”

He drew in a breath, watching the women’s reaction as he declared, “Add this addendum to my Last Will and Testament: ‘I, Maximilian Zorin, being of sound mind and body, do declare that in the event of my death or permanent mental disablement, that in addition to the previous instructions in this document, that the sum of 100,000 bars of gold-pressed latinum be bequeathed to Dawn and Dusk Bauer, in recognition of their tireless work…and their unfailing devotion and concern for my well being.”

Holy Rings of Betazed, Dawn thought telepathically to Dusk. I hope Bad Ronald fucking eats him alive down there.

Keep your expression fixed, Dusk warned her. Show nothing.

“File that,” he concluded, smiling. “Fortune Favours the Bold. I’m beaming down. If I don’t return or respond within an hour, assume I’m dead.” He stepped onto the pad.

The women started as Jaws decloaked beside them, moving to follow. But then Zorin held up a hand to him. “No. Stay here.” He indicated the Bauers. “And keep them here. If I don’t return or respond within an hour, kill them both.” He spared the twins a final smile. “At least your next of kin will be rich.”

Dawn and Dusk looked to Jaws, who hissed delightedly, and hungrily, at them.

*

The seconds moved like hours.

At 47 minutes, Zorin signalled. “Beam me up.”

He appeared, looking paler, almost shaken, more than Dawn or Dusk had ever seen in him. He didn’t look at anyone as he announced, “He’s coming. Lock onto him, beam him into a spare cargo hold, institute full security measures around it. Nobody goes in… not if they want to keep their minds or lives.” He strode past them, calling out, “No meal for you today, Jaws. Come.”

The huge reptoid looked to the women, hissing in disdain, before following him out.

Dusk swallowed. That was close. Fuck. Fuck that lunatic.

I peed my pants, Dawn confessed.

I know. Come on, let’s go, so you can change. We have another monster to tend to.

*

Cory Rehabilitation Centre, Elba II, Delta Corsica System:

Fantomax stared out through the observation window at the endless craggy rocks, half-hidden in swirls of poisonous lime-green methane and craylon gas that covered the planet. Under her breath, she muttered, “Charming. And they thought it had been a good idea to build a rehabilitation centre here for people, in the middle of nowhere?”

Inside her head, her Embed buzzed as Parker replied, “One cannot account for the capricious logic of organic life, M’Lady, if I may be so bold as to comment?”

“Did you find out anything more?”

“Only that the Centre was closed in 2302, the automated orbital transit station I am currently parked against with all these garish vessels around me was operational for another four decades after that, before being abandoned, like the Centre now serving as your base of operations.”

She glanced around surreptitiously, at the collection of humanoids and non-humanoids at the various buffet and drinks tables…. And the huge black machine sitting in the far corner of the room, a domed cylinder with various eyestalks and appendages, watching the proceedings with an undeniable air of menace. “How apropos that we’re employing a former insane asylum as our headquarters.”

“Is that not a little politically incorrect, M’Lady, if I may be so bold as to comment?”

She smirked to herself. “Candour ill-suits you, Parker.”

“Forgive me, M’Lady. It must be the company I’ve been keeping of late.”

She looked around again: humans, holograms, robots, Orions, Ferengi, the Rat Pack, the sullen black and white minstrel, the Nazi woman  –  she’d sooner break bread with the Rats than with Nazis  – and understood her computer’s sense of disdain.

On the other hand, there was Kamra Obscura, whom Fantomax had collected and brought here. The young coffee-skinned woman, who seemed more honourable than venal, stood apart, not with disdain but caution, watching everything, probably wondering what she had gotten herself into by accepting the offer.

I understand the feeling, girl-

“Hey, Granny.”

She gritted her teeth and braced herself. “Yes, Sonny?”

Julian Zorin drew up to her, drink in hand, his face flush with inebriation as he chuckled. “I’m glad to see that you’ve lost that sour face you normally wear. You should smile more, it looks good on you.”

“I’ll give your advice all the consideration it deserves. What can I do for you?”

Julian leaned against the window ledge, glancing out idly at the deadly exterior. “Well, I guess I just wanted to thank you for bringing me here safe and sound, and I’m hoping that there’s no hard feelings between us. You’re not a bad old lady… and you have excellent taste in booze. I’ll take care of you when my Dad gives me a senior position within the Bel-Zon.”

She took in the name  –  the Bel-Zon? She thought that organisation had been wiped years ago  –  and nodded. “Thank you, Mr Zorin. At my advanced age one can always appreciate allies in one’s corner.”

He nodded in agreement, and patted her on the rear as he departed.

“You should have let Dr Orlok work on him, M’Lady-” Parker chided, before the connection unexpectedly broke. Fantomax made some subtle attempts to regain the connection, without success.

Then Kazan spoke up to the group. “We are ready to begin the meeting. As some of you might have noticed already, communications with your respective vessels will be blocked for the duration, for security purposes, and weapons will be neutralised under the duonetic fields. If you will all move away from the centre of the room, please?”

As the others complied, a transporter beam materialised a large round stone table, elaborately designed like a wheel with alternating black and white slices leading to a grey hub, and armless chairs spaced evenly around the table - with an empty space for Mickey to draw up, and an adapted pedestal for some of the members of the Pack to climb up and perch. “Everyone, please take seats.”

As others complied, some bringing their drinks with them, Julian looked to the Russian. “Hey, Ivan, where’s the head of the table? Where I’ll be sitting with my Dad?”

“It’s Arkady, Mr Zorin, not Ivan. And there are no designated seating arrangements, beyond the space for Mickey, and the place set aside for our murine associates.”

“Our what associates?” the younger man exclaimed, nonplussed.

“The Rat Pack, Mr Zorin,” Kazan clarified patiently. “And this arrangement is deliberate. It allegedly originated with the legendary Terran king Arthur, who wanted to ensure that none of his knights, when seated at it, had any perceived prominence over the others. Your father wants everyone here to know that they will be treated equally. Is that clear?”

Julian smirked. “Yeah, sure.” Then he raised his whiskey tumbler and winked.

Frankie Nova eyed the Pack with disgust. “I ain’t sitting down with no dirty rats! They’ll have fleas or something!”

Ben scurried up to the top of his pedestal and offered a tiny middle digit on his right forepaw.

Wölfin sneered, indicating Jet Jaguar. “Well, best not let the Cat near them, she might lose control and chase them around the table.”

The Ferasan turned to her, baring her teeth, hissing, “Say that again, I dare you.”

The Ekosian looked ready to comply, when Dumont stepped in. “If anyone has any personal issues with anyone else here, it will be best for all concerned if you shelve them and behave in a professional manner. Our patron and organiser will no doubt be unappreciative, given the money and resources he has invested to assemble us.”

“Mr Dumont is right,” Kazan agreed. “Sit down anywhere for now, and you can sort out your favourites later.”

As the rest took places around the table, Metal Mickey rolling up to occupy the appropriate spot beside the Pack, Fantomax found herself between Kamra and the bizarre humanoid male with the half-black, half-white face, and noted the final unoccupied space.

Nova noticed it as well. “And who’s our Mystery Guest? Al Capone, back from the dead?”

A nearby door slid open, and a blonde human male entered, followed closely by two identical women. Fantomax recognised him immediately as Max Zorin, Julian’s father. Julian himself did, of course, raising his glass to him. “Hi, Dad! You’re still looking rich!”

The older Zorin ignored him, striding up to the unoccupied chair and standing behind it without sitting down, grasping the sides of the back of the chair. “Welcome, all of you. Welcome to the first assembly of the new incarnation of the Bel-Zon.

The original organisation had been one of the more successful criminal cabals in the Alpha Quadrant in the last thirty years. But it fell, with only one survivor of the original ruling council,” He indicated Dumont. “To lead this latest incarnation, having learned the lessons of what brought down the previous.”

Then he began walking around the table, continuing to speak. “All of you have remarkable skills, knowledge and abilities to bring to bear to the organisation. There are others, of course, but for various reasons will not be sitting with us, or even be known to you.”

As he approached her side of the table, Fantomax felt her hackles rise. There was something… predatory… about the older Zorin. She had rubbed proverbial shoulders with the rich and influential  –  they were the ones who had the things she liked to steal, after all  –  and easily felt the power and privilege from Zorin.

But there was more, something more brutal about this one. Something she normally saw only in the enforcers in the employ of men like Zorin. 

She felt herself stiffen further as he drew closer, still talking. “Nor will you know much about the overall operation beyond what you need to know. This will be run like a corporation or government.” He paused to smile a little. “Only less bloodthirsty.”

That provoked titters, as he proceeded. “I will not always be around to directly supervise the minutiae of the operations; for this, I will leave Mr Dumont in overall command, supported by Captain Kazan and Surinh Dag. Now-”

Nearby, Julian cleared his throat. “Uh, Dad, you forgot to include me in the command ranks.”

Now the older Zorin paused and eyed his son directly as he kept talking. “Everyone present will benefit generously from our successes. All that I ask of you is that you don’t disappoint me. You will disappoint me by disrespecting me, by deceiving me, by doing a half-assed job, or by wasting my valuable time or money.”

He stopped behind his smiling son, setting his hands on the younger man’s shoulders. “Julian here, for instance, was given funds when he came of age, and was sent off-world, to have the chance to prove himself to me. 

And he did.”

His hands moved up to Julian’s neck.

“He proved... very disappointing.”

Fantomax tensed, gripping the edge of the table and watching helplessly as Zorin suddenly grabbed the sides of his son’s head and slammed it forward onto the stone tabletop with a sickening crack of skull.

On either side of the younger Zorin, Dr Orlok and Surinh Dag rose from their places and quickly stepped back, as the older Zorin manoeuvred his son and himself closer to the table, slamming the young man’s forehead and face down rapidly, repeatedly, again and again and again, splattering blood and bone on the surface and the surrounding area.

Fantomax looked away, noting the various responses on those she now worked with: horror, shock, controlled indifference… and, in the case of Wölfin, a sanguine glee that sickened the thief, though not nearly as much as the brutal act on display that triggered it.

It seemed to go on forever.

Finally, with a savage snarl, Zorin grabbed the corpse by his jacket and flung it easily into the corner like a discarded blanket.

Then people reacted as a large reptoid appeared from nowhere, moving towards the body of the young man.

Then he moved around to the other unoccupied seat, looking at the twin women, who appeared sickened, shaken by the scene. Zorin’s voice, in contrast, remained unmoved by his actions, as if it hadn’t even happened at all. “Alias will arrive tomorrow; she will have my late offspring’s place at the Big Table. And get me some of that vodka, neat.” He glanced at the reptoid. “Jaws, eat outside, not in here.”

Zorin took his place, tugging at the cuffs of his jacket and ignoring the bloodstains on the tabletop. “Sit down. All of you.” As a drink was brought to him by one of his assistants, he looked around him once more. “As I hope I have just proved to you, I will play no favourites here based on race, gender, religion, politics, history… or family. And in return you will get all that you have been promised, and much more. And this venture may even continue long after we achieve our initial objective.

Do your job, play your part  –  and don’t disappoint me.”

He lifted up his glass, but didn’t drink. “And now, let’s talk about the principal target of our initial objective. Some of you will know him, others will know of him, and the rest will be unfamiliar.”

He signalled to one of his women, who worked her PADD, and a holographic image of a brown-furred, long-tailed, rotund Caitian male in a Starfleet uniform appeared in the centre of the table.

“This is Commodore Esek Hrelle,” Zorin explained. “In command of Station Salem One. Get a good look at him.

And pity him…”

THE ADVENTURES OF THE SUREFOOT UNIVERSE WILL CONTINUE…