Ferengi vessel Venture Capital, Salem Sector:
“DaiMon! A Starfleet vessel is approaching!”
DaiMon Lejer reached out to the cup of grub worms on the arm of his chair, expertly skewering one on his latinum finger extension and flicking it into his mouth. “Calm down, Tanzo, your lobes will drop off from stress. It’s standard procedure in Federation space: Starfleet will come along, flex their muscles, remind us that we’re subject to their laws while in their territory and to keep our business here legitimate, and then move on.”
“And that’s it?”
Lejer chuckled; his brother’s son was new to space travel, never having left Ferenginar before six weeks ago. “They’re not Klingons, Nephew. Yes, the Hyoo-man-dominated Starfleet likes to racially profile us, but otherwise they’re harmless. Besides, the best part of it is we are on legitimate business here. Helm: Full Stop. Ops: let’s see our friends.”
Lejer felt his ship drop out of warp, and his viewscreen came to life, presenting a starfield, and a disc-shaped starship with twin swept-back nacelles built into the main hull, a more compact version of the typical Starfleet design.
“Ugly ship,” muttered his Weapons Officer Ordak.
“It’s economical,” Lejer countered genially. “The Sabre-class is multifunctional, wastes no space, and is durable; we can appreciate all of those qualities. Do we have a name for our approaching friends, Maga?”
His Ops Officer glanced down at his station. “Their ID beam says USS Surefoot.”
The DaiMon smiled; as part of his mission, he made himself aware of the local authority figures. He opened a channel. “USS Surefoot, this is DaiMon Lejer of the Venture Capital. We are a scheduled transport ship carrying construction supplies and building materials to our new colony on Telamon. Do I have the pleasure of addressing the estimable Captain T’Varik of Vulcan?”
No answer.
Lejer didn’t miss a beat, having done his research on the Starfleet vessels and their Captains in this sector. “Peace and Long Life to you, Captain. We have some Vulcan port on board to offer you, free of charge.”
There was a sound, and he noted his First Officer Glarta cut off the transmission, turning to him in disbelief. “Free? FREE? What are you doing?”
The DaiMon leaned back in his seat confidently, expecting this reaction. “Relax, she won’t accept it-”
“‘She’? You mean they let females command?”
Lejer chuckled again; Glarta and the others had much to learn about dealing with the Federation. “Get used to it. And my gesture, which will cost us nothing as it will be turned down as they have rules against bribery, is reinforcing the friendly relationship we need if we’re establishing a colony world within Federation borders. And if the rumours from Ferenginar are true, maybe a few years from now we’ll even join the Federation-”
“DaiMon!” Maga interrupted. “The Surefoot is responding! Audio only!”
Lejer stroked his lobe triumphantly at his First Officer as he replied, “Let’s hear it.”
The voice they heard was not the softer sibilance he expected from a female, but rather a rough growl. “We’ll take your port. And everything else we want.”
Lejer’s smile dropped in confusion. “Excuse me?”
An alert to his left from the Weapons station, and Ordak blurted. “They’re locking phasers and torpedoes on us!”
“Raise shields!” Lejer rose to his feet, his heart racing. What was happening? “Surefoot! We have authorisation to be in Federation space! Captain T’Varik, what are you doing?”
The DaiMon recognised him instantly. “Commodore Hrelle? B-But- I thought you were no longer in command there- you were put in charge of Salem One-”
Hrelle bared his teeth. “Oh, I’m still in charge of Salem One, Ferengi. But occasionally I find it useful to get back out here and remind those who enter this space that I am The Lion of Salem Sector. And to ensure that all tolls are collected.”
“What? ‘Toll’?” Lejer glanced around him, before looking back at the screen. “The Federation doesn’t do ‘tolls’! You’re all… philanthropic!” He almost choked on the profanity.
Hrelle shook his head as he laughed, making his mane shake. “Times have changed. We have your cargo manifest on record, and are assuming you’ve hidden a few extra little goodies here and there. So for you, the toll will be twenty percent of the latinum you’re carrying for the colonisation staff.”
“WHAT?”
“Ten percent if you deliver it in ten minutes or less,” the Caitian clarified. “Oh, and that Vulcan port, too. You can keep the concrete, nails and stembolts.”
Lejer felt like his lobes would shrink up and drop off like leaves in autumn. The Federation – Starfleet – acting like, like… like Ferengi? What was the Galaxy coming to? Had the Dominion War poisoned them?
No. No, Hrelle had obviously gone rogue, and out to make some private profit, something Lejer could certainly appreciate. And yet, what about his crew? They couldn’t have all gone rogue! And yet, there they were on his Bridge, all acting normally.
“I’m waiting, DaiMon,” Hrelle reminded him, growling.
Lejer focused on him again, steeling himself. He had always preferred to let discretion be the better part of profit, but there was no way he was going to let this greedy grimalkin fleece him like some neophyte! “This isn’t my first day at the Markets, Commodore! You’re facing a Ves-class Raider! We’re more than a match for even a Galaxy-class starship, let alone that little hotplate you’ve got!”
Hrelle smiled at him, saying nothing, but signalled to someone at his right.
Another alert sounded, and Ordak practically squeaked. “More Starfleet vessels appearing, surrounding us! Out of nowhere! They must have cloaks!”
“Yes, we must have,” Hrelle agreed, raising his paws up as if to embrace them. “Now, shall we conclude business and be on our respective ways? Then you can go off and warn others about what to expect when they come to Salem Sector…”
*
New Jericho Colony, Planet Scesity, Salem Sector:
The man beamed into the centre of the community without warning. He was humanoid, tall and pale, lanky, with a high forehead and receding auburn hair over his gaunt features, and he smiled politely as he strolled around like a tourist, holding up a recorder occasionally and dictating into it.
The miners and their families peered at him, no one approaching, as if waiting for someone else to take the first step.
Someone did, an older, white-haired human with a slight limp from the cold in the air. “Excuse me? Can we help you?”
Dmitri accepted the hand, and the vigorous shake, warily. “That, and my name is on my coveralls. You still haven’t told me who you are.”
Dmitri stared blankly at him.
The stranger chuckled. “Apologies once more, I’m behaving so unprofessionally! My name is Berlinghoff Rasmussen, and I’m a representative for a consortium that’s rapidly emerging in this sector of space, one with the offer of a lifetime for you and your little community here.”
Dimitri continued to stare at him, even as he felt several of his fellow colonists draw up cautiously, curiously behind him. He raised a warning hand to them; the experiences they had, when Starfleet had withdrawn from the sector to divert their resources to fighting the Dominion, leaving them vulnerable to Raiders, was still fresh in their minds. “Well, Mr Rasmussen, that sounds intriguing, but most salespeople make first contact with us through subspace.”
The stranger smiled again, moving in place as he glanced around again, like a man eyeing up property for sale. “Yes, of course, that’s how most might operate, but we prefer to be more direct, upfront. The Human Touch, as they used to say in the past – even for those of us who aren’t human. Besides, the situation out here is rapidly changing, so it’s for the best that we skip the usual overtures and get down to brass tacks – another old saying from Earth, I’m not sure about the origins-”
“What are you talking about? What situation is changing out there?”
Rasmussen stopped moving in place to look at him and frown. “You’re not aware already? How inconsiderate of Starfleet to leave you out here ignorant… but then, as I understand it, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been abandoned, would it?
The Federation is readying to secede authority of Salem Sector.”
The declaration sent anxious rumblings through the gathered colonists, questions and denials and demands that rose, until Dmitri raised a hand to silence them, taking control of the conversation once more. “You’re talking crap! Starfleet’s come back! Commodore Hrelle is at Salem One! Everything’s back to normal now!”
Rasmussen reacted almost sympathetically to that deflation. “Unfortunately, as the War demonstrated, things can change beyond our control. There will be a change of circumstances in this sector, I can guarantee it, just as I can guarantee that Starfleet will deny it… at least, until they can no longer do so. And with that, your existing shipping contacts to the Federation will be at risk.”
He paused to let that sink in, before continuing. “That is why I’m here personally, to assure you all that my employers intend to fully support your efforts to remain here, and further, to not only maintain your cogent profit levels, but even increase them by, say, twenty percent for the first fiscal year, guaranteed?”
That stirred the colonists even more. Dmitri, however, remained significantly suspicious. “Federation contracts are regulated-”
Their visitor smiled. “Oh, we’re not talking about Federation contracts, with all their restrictive regulations. It’s a big Galaxy, if you open your eyes wide enough.
And why should you earn less than what your Ferengi neighbours will earn just a few light years from here in the same sector? Or the other colonies we’ll be contacting on Nepenthe, Telamon and other worlds? We already have markets available for all your goods, markets that will pay far more generously than the Federation.”
“‘We’,” Dmitir echoed. “Who the Hell is ‘we’?”
Rasmussen continued to smile. “We’re called the Bel-Zon. And we want to do nothing more than to help you and everyone else…”
*
Bel-Zon Headquarters, Elba II:
Dr Orlok heard the door to her lab slide open, but never took her face from the hooded viewer of her nuclear scanner. Not that she had to continue to monitor the subject of her latest assignment, but she wanted to demonstrate to the person who had entered that she was no mere menial, subservient to others, while she calculated the most likely identity of the intruder-
She was correct, as Bastien Dumont announced, “Doctor, you were supposed to provide a report on your progress an hour ago.”
The Vulcan straightened up now, making a show of adjusting the cuffs on the sleeves of her jacket as she finally turned and faced him. “My primary work is at a critical stage, Mr Dumont.”
The older human male, with receding black hair peppered with iron grey and a hangdog expression, tightened his jaw at her. “Your report?”
Orlok straightened up, indulging in a 1.87 seconds of defiant silence, before turning and lifting up a PADD, as she activated the screens in front of her, raising them to reveal the tall, muscular, featureless humanoid figure standing within an isotube, while servo arms moved all around it.
“Mr Zorin’s new bodyguard, Codename: Mayhem, is responding favourably to the genetic and cybernetic enhancements ordered for it, and it should be ready on schedule. The subject’s lifespan will be reduced to a significant degree, as warned, but I am aware that this is not a priority.”
A noise to his left distracted Dumont. “What was that?”
Orlok made a sound. “One of the members of the so-called Rat Pack. They like to spy on proceedings around your facility.” She pointed to the small square vent near the floor. “You can see it, caught in the gravitic trap I set; its painful death should send a message to the rest of its collective mind to respect my privacy. Now, please leave, I can ill-afford to waste my time further sating your puerile impatience.”
Dumont frowned. “Take care, Doctor. Your attitude will provoke not just me, but our sponsor.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “I was made to believe that Mr Zorin was to take a proverbial ‘hands-off’ approach to our activities, and stay off-world.”
“He does… until he doesn’t. And he’s closer than you might think.”
*
Closer:
Welcome to my house, Maximilian. Enter freely and of your own will.
Max Zorin strode in, confidently but cautiously, feeling the colour, the heat and life drain from him and the world around him, feeling the chill air, tasting the salt upon it, hearing the crash of waves on rocks and the occasional cry of Terran seabirds.
None of this should be here. And he knew it wasn’t here, not really, just an illusion conjured by the occupant of this underground storage facility.
He approached the figure on the rocks by the sea, a black-cloaked entity, sitting by a chessboard set, Zorin not stopping, even as the figure raised its head, revealing a hairless, chalk-faced humanoid face. And its voice once more reached into Zorin’s mind, a gravelly dirge like dirt being shovelled into an open grave. Welcome to my house! Enter freely. Go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring!
“This isn’t a house,” Zorin corrected, ignoring his instinctive revulsion at the telepathic invasion. “I have no happiness for you. And you’re quoting from Bram Stoker’s Dracula.” He waved a dismissive hand at the figure and the chessboard. “This isn’t from that story.”
True, but I hate those fangs and that hammy accent, and you’re not afraid of vampires.
“I’m not afraid of ancient pretentious Swedish allegories, either.”
The ghoul drew back in mock indignation. Pretentious? The Seventh Seal remains a classic of 20th Century Terran cinema… and one that terrified you when you first watched it, expecting to coldly, clinically grasp its nuances, even with your Augmented six-year-old brain.
Zorin stiffened. “I had no problem with comprehending the themes.”
Oh, I know, Maximilian. I know you comprehended, all too well. That’s the trouble. You grasped its message, about the inescapability of mortality.
You Only Live Twice: once when you’re born, and once when you look Death in the face. That’s why you still get that shard of cold, bottomless fear in your gut when you look upon me now.
Zorin scowled at the spectre. It had admittedly been a gamble to try and recruit Bad Ronald into the Bel-Zon; what little that had been verified about the entity had made it seem too dangerous and unpredictable to be contained, controlled… but now it was here, waiting to be unleashed on Hrelle and his kin.
So why don’t you? It asked him in Zorin’s mind. I’ll put the Cat in the Body Bag. And have fun with his kittens.
“Stay out of my head,” he warned him.
I’m bored. Sit down and play with me. Or send me some children to play with.
“I didn’t come here to play games.”
No, you came because since we met, you have been intrigued by me. You have questions. Questions only I can answer.
“I said stay out of my head!”
Bad Ronald smiled up at him. You think you can keep me out?
Zorin kept glaring at him.
How tragic. You liked Gramps. Even if you did feel an erection from him whenever he bounced you on his lap. It was the only reason he showed you any affection, you know. Until your father killed him. And then killed your mother. And then you killed your father. Your family’s antics are worse than a Klingon opera.
Zorin sharply set down the piece once more. “You want to really play? There’s no point playing if you keep reading my mind, Fiend.”
Bad Ronald smirked… and then finally spoke aloud. “Fiend? How rude, Maximilian. Maximilian Zorin. One in a Million Max. The Augmented Sociopath, casting moral judgement on poor little old me.
So, a game. And, just as in the movie, where the disillusioned Knight played against Death to live, so you will play against me, to learn. I answer your questions truthfully…. And you answer mine.”
Zorin continued to stare at him. He didn’t have to be here, let alone agree to his terms. It was foolish, reckless, pointless. Just unleash the monster on Hrelle and his family and be done with it.
Then he reached out and made his first move on the board.
*
Axyllus III:
He grunted to himself as he pocketed the coin again; that old hack Tracy Torme who wrote those original dime-store novels centuries ago that described him should’ve stuck to radio jingles. “Hey, Egghead, I keep sitting here, I’m gonna get moss growing on me.”
Nearby, the woman he had been assigned to bring to this old dead world kept her back to him as she knelt over the rocks, passing the scanner in her hand over parts of the dirt. “I don’t know what ‘Egghead’ means, Mr Nova, but it sounds rather ignorant of the complexities involved in my work.”
He grunted. “No offence intended, Lady, I’m sure you got more brains in your caboose than I got in my whole photonic body, and then some. I just wanna know how long me and my boys are gonna have to hang around here, that’s all. Let’s get the loot and am-scray.”
Dr Jennifer Vash made a sound. “You sound like a character in one of Jean-Luc’s old holoprograms.”
He smiled. “You mean Jean-Luc Picard?”
She looked up again with interest. “You know him?”
“Know him? He was there when I came to life! He was running a detective holonovel playing Dixon Hill, and I was in there, just another character saying the lines written for me, dumber than a doornail. And then Q popped up, snapped his fingers and brought me to life-”
Her jaw dropped. “You know Q as well?”
Nova chuckled. “Hey, it’s a small Galaxy, huh?” He nodded at the rocks. “Come on, Professor, let’s find the Great Whatsit, free those other Eggheads we got locked up, and we can get back with my gang and have a party, huh?”
Nova pushed the brim of his hat up away from his forehead with his thumb. “Who in the Sam Hill’s Pandora?”
She returned to her scans. “In Greek myth, she was the first human created by the Gods, who opened a forbidden container and released evils onto the world. The name was adopted by the Federation Archaeology Council for a set of protocols to protect ancient sites that might contain technology or knowledge that could be potentially dangerous. I’ve crossed proverbial swords with the Council more than once over that-” Her eyes lit up. “I found it! It’s got some sort of inhibiting field around it, which is probably why the archaeological team here never spotted it before-”
Nova rose to his feet and approached, cracking his knuckles. “How far down, Professor, and in what direction?”
Vash rechecked the readings on her scanner, pointing to one part of the rock in front of her. “Straight there, almost a metre inside.”
He nodded, dropped to one knee beside her, and leaned forward, adjusting his photonic density to allow him to pass his arms through the rock as easily as air, blindly fishing around within, as if he had lost his keys down the back of the couch.
Vash stared at it with undisguised awe, looking like she wanted to reach out and touch, but afraid to do it. “I don’t believe it… it’s real…”
“Hmph, looks like something my Great Aunt Tillie would keep her buttons in. What is it?”
She finally worked up the courage to grasp it by each end, albeit gingerly. “A Stasis Box, a storage unit that generates a field that keeps whatever is inside it in perfect suspension. Stasis Boxes are relics from the Slaver Empire, which they said existed over a billion years ago. They’re exceedingly rare.”
“And what do these old bozos keep in them?”
“Anything; previous stasis boxes have had weapons, pictures, cuts of meat, nothing at all. We never know until we open them.” She held it up to the light of the small white sun above them. “If I brought this to the Federation Archaeology Council, I could write my own ticket-”
Nova snatched the box back and returned to his feet. “Yeah, and if I had a skimpy black dress, I could be Mae West. You got hired to find the Great Whatsit, Professor, not take it.”
Vash continued to stare longingly at the object. “Of course, of course… but no one would know if I took just a quick peek inside-”
He slipped the box under his arm like it contained his shoes. “Yeah, Frenchie said you might say something like that. He also said if you keep your nose clean, the Bel-Zon will put you in charge of opening it later, under controlled conditions… and find anything else of value here, once we take over. Come on, let’s go get my boys and beat it before the Starfleeters get here…”
*
Elba II Transit Station:
It was called The Bar With No Name, which Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, trying to be generous, was somewhat amusing. She hoped that with a few more drinks in her, it would get better.
It was certainly busy; this was in a public section of the facility, a planetbound point of embarkation for commercial passengers going to and from Eminiar VII, Deep Space Twelve, Salem One, Ariannus and other places. No one here knew of the current, secret owners of the transport hub, or of the criminal activities ongoing in adjacent neighbouring domes.
She sat at the bar. It was cosy here, and busy, and distracting… just not enough to shake away her inner turmoil. Just a few weeks ago, she was settled into her retirement on Risa, safe and secure with her AI Parker her only companion. Then all of that, and Parker, was lost, thanks to the Bel-Zon.
And people died on Salem One. Yes, they certainly would have died anyway without her involvement, and she was coerced into the operation. That didn’t make the victims any less dead. She wasn’t just Lady Penelope, she was Lady Fantomax: the Galaxy’s greatest thief and cat burglar. She wasn’t a killer.
No, now she was a killer. And without Parker, she was alone, without friends… except perhaps the Rat Pack, as strange as it may have seemed to others-
“Buy you a drink?”
Lady Penelope kept looking forward, focusing on the reflections in the mirror behind the bar; she had initially expected it to be a stranger, one of the many civilians here who might have been staying here waiting for their next passenger transport.
It wasn’t. “Thank you, no.”
Bo Darvil drew an unoccupied barstool closer to her. “It’s for the best; I don’t have any credit on the public banks here. Buy me a drink, then.” He was a humanoid male his age, with a full set of grey hair and a matching beard framing his lined, broad-nosed face, and a worn leather jacket, trousers and boots making him fit in here like one of the roguish pilots or navigators that frequented transit stations.
“If I’m disturbing you,” he ventured gently. “Just say the word.”
She raised her wineglass, using it to summon one of the bartenders. “What’s your poison?”
Once the young Andorian behind the bar drew up, Darvil glanced past him to the lines of multi-coloured, multi-shaped bottles, pointing to one. “Is that Betazoid sherry? That’ll more than do, thank you.”
Lady Penelope smirked. “Sherry? Really?”
He waved off her teasing tone. “Don’t drink shame me.”
“Oh, I’m not, I just pictured someone as rugged-looking as you preferring some home-brewed hooch, something to put hair on your chest.”
The Zeon male grimaced. “I have more than enough of that, thanks. And at my age, I’m more than happy to not rush into alcoholic incapacity and gastric insurrection at warp speed. Hell, I’m more than happy to wake up in the morning without my back aching.”
She nodded in empathy, raising her glass in his direction. “I’m on the same page. Here’s to Mornings Without Backaches.”
“Mornings Without Backaches.” He raised his sherry glass and clinked it to hers.
From a nearby wall vent overlooking the Bar With No Name, a grey and white rat stared at the couple.
*
Crescent City, Farius Prime:
This was not Edinburgh. The rain here was thick and polluted. The streets were dirty, unwelcoming and empty but for the homeless hidden in the shadows. The societal support infrastructure was non-existent; there was wealth here, but little filtered down to the general population. Those fringe lunatics in the Federation who harkened back sentimentally for the days of unregulated capitalism needed to come here and see how good the Good Old Days really were.
He reached the warehouse, a reinforced structure with a flat roof for shuttles to enter and leave. And the entrance had guards, of a sort: twin human women, tall, statuesque, with matching brunette hair and hairstyles and dressed identically in utilitarian jumpsuits, and they spoke in unison as he approached. “May we help you, Sir?”
Somerset eyed them appreciatively… and then suspiciously, their body language somehow off-putting. “I have an appointment with Kivas Fajo.”
They blinked, again in unison, both parting like curtains and replying as one, “Mr Fajo is expecting you, Commander Somerset. Please step inside and you will be escorted to him.”
He complied, an eyebrow raised as he entered the foyer, stopping and shaking off what little moisture he had picked up along the way. He set aside his umbrella and took a moment to examine his reflection in the mirrored walls of the around him, noting the lines on his broad, chiselled face, the greys appearing in his dark auburn hair, the frame beneath his plain black business suit beginning to feel the long-term effects of his… active lifestyle.
He was at an age when he should have been pushing for fewer field assignments, but the Dominion War, and the losses his department incurred, had made his experience in Starfleet Security vital. Now, however, the situation had changed.
Another woman - again, facially identical to the door attendants, except with a different hairstyle and a more flattering skirt suit – appeared, smiling just as blankly. “Welcome, Commander Somerset. Please follow me.”
He did, saying nothing as they navigated a labyrinth of corridors, some leading into larger storage areas where workers – more women, also identical – laboured, moving heavy objects with ease, or sat at workstations, managing communications. Fascinating.
His escort led him into a turbolift and finally into a plush, luxuriant office, of ornately-carved wooden chairs and tables, rich burgundy carpets and curtains framing a window that looked out onto an interior warehouse where a shuttle sat, while more identical women swarmed around it.
There was smoke in the air, a mingling of many scents that made Somerset’s nose twitch, as he focused on the other male in the room: an older Zibalian in a purple business suit, smiling as he surrounded himself with more identical women, except for their clothes and hair colours and styles.
He sat behind the desk, flanked by more identical women, and retrieved a thick cigar, occasionally stopping to imbibe from an adjacent whiskey tumbler. He displayed bright teeth as he smiled… eyeing Somerset’s case. “Welcome to Farius Prime, Commander. We are honoured to have one of your stature in Starfleet. Karen 14, if you would?” As Somerset’s escort moved another chair closer to the desk, the trader offered, “Please, sit.”
Somerset did, setting his case on his lap and resting his hands on the surface – fully aware of Fajo’s women standing behind him. Surrounding him.
The trader tapped slate-grey ash into an adjacent ashtray, before regarding the remains of his smoke. “I picked up this particular habit following my escape from prison, sampled stogies from many different worlds, enjoyed some more than others. All, however, have one thing in common: they produce more than just smoke. They produce wealth. They produce class, sophistication, and success.”
“And lung disease,” Somerset pointed out. “For you, and those around you.”
The trader shrugged. “I get my own lungs cleaned out regularly. And I take no responsibility for the health of others.”
“Not even your staff?”
“What, these?” Fajo smiled. “Androids have no lungs.”
Somerset glanced around him again. Yes, of course, it was obvious; even beyond the identical features, they lacked the subtle body language one normally picked up from organic life. “Androids? Indeed?” He reached out to the nearest one, hesitating.
Fajo beckoned him, still grinning. “Go on, Commander, touch her! Make love to her! Beat her! Do what you like! You’ll find that physically she’s almost indistinguishable from a real humanoid woman!” He giggled like a child.
Somerset withdrew his hand again, still looking up at her. “Is he right?”
She blinked and replied blankly, “I am not programmed to respond in that area.”
The agent focused on Fajo again. “I’m aware of only one android, the one in Starfleet, Commander-”
“Don’t say his name!” Fajo snapped suddenly, his humour instantly replaced with venom, before he physically regained his composure. “Yes, you’re right, there’s only one sentient android out there that we know about, and it’s… that one in Starfleet. But Karen there, all the Karens here, are more basic models, units controlled by a central computer. I found them a year ago hidden on a dead world, part of a small consignment left by an extinct race, and located and salvaged by my good self. I had some of them change their hair and clothes to distinguish them, but otherwise they are all
Somerset looked around him again. He had recalled an apocryphal incident from a century or more ago, of Captain Kirk encountering a planet of such androids, said to have originated millennia before from the Andromeda Galaxy, their location kept classified. That Fajo had somehow located these-
He turned back to see Fajo wagging his cigar at Somerset, smiling again as if he had read the Terran’s mind. “No, no, no, Commander! Farius Prime is outside of Starfleet jurisdiction; you can no more confiscate them than you can arrest me as a fugitive!”
Then he seemed to remember the cigar in his hand, and puffed again, holding the smoke in for a long time before releasing it – deliberately towards Somerset – before indicating the stogie. “Would you care for one? These are hand-rolled on the inner thighs of naked Orion girls just entering puberty.” He ran the length of it under his nose and made an appreciative sound. “When you take a really deep drag you can almost taste their young musk...”
Somerset’s jaw tightened. “Thank you, no.”
Fajo raised his drinking hand. “Or how about a shot? I have the finest libations here, nothing replicated-”
“Perhaps we can proceed? The information?”
The trader regarded him. “The items you mentioned?”
Somerset offered the valise to one of the androids, who accepted it and set it on Fajo’s desk. Fajo set his cigar down in an adjacent ashtray and drew the case closer, unlatching it and lifting up the lid, his eyes gleaming and a soft, sibilant sound escaping from his mouth. “It’s that ancient festival season of Christmas on Earth right now, isn’t it, Commander? When your people give each other gifts in honour of some fat bearded god flying through the sky, or a tree, or something like that?”
“Something like that.”
Fajo removed from the valise a box, setting it down and deactivating it, before opening the inner lid and removing from the interior a thin silver tubes, one of many. “These appear genuine.”
“They are.”
The trader made sounds that would have been obscene taken out of context. “Yes… the final surviving collection from Governor Kodos… Kodos the Executioner, of Tarsus IV. These beauties are over a century old… I only half-believed that some still existed.” His eyes lit up as he opened the tube, withdrawing a long, narrow brown cigar, running the length of it along his nose, before giggling again.
He produced a cigar cutter that looked made of gold-pressed latinum, snipped one end of the cigar, and lit up, dragging the smoke in deeply and appreciatively in Somerset’s direction. “They said Kodos would indulge in one of these whenever he stood on the balcony overlooking his courtyard and supervised the execution of those colonists he considered unworthy to survive the famine they were experiencing, would listen to their screams as his guards cut them down like wheat-”
Somerset cleared his throat. “They’re not a Christmas gift, Mr Fajo. They’re payment, for information.”
Fajo continued to enjoy his new smoke, before nodding absently. “Yes, yes, Commander, the Obsidian Order activities on Kelshay-”
“No,” Somerset corrected.
Fajo paused. “No? But your earlier transmissions-”
“That was admittedly my previous assignment. But since arranging this trade, the Kelshay matter settled itself, and I’ve been reassigned. I’m the new Intelligence Office for Station Salem One, under Commodore Esek Hrelle.”
He watched Fajo react to the name, and try – very poorly – to hide it. “Hrelle? Never heard of him.”
“Indeed? His sector is currently being menaced by a new incarnation of the criminal organisation called the Bel-Zon… which I believe you have some association with now, at least peripherally. So forgive me if I find your denials as hard to accept as the stench of your habi.”
Fajo froze, the only movement coming from the cigar smoke rising. Then he declared, with a rising anxiety, “I deny any involvement with any group, Commander! You should leave now, the way you came…” He chuckled again, feebly trying to be intimidating. “Or I’ll have my androids show you a quicker way out, through the window.”
Somerset mentally prepared himself now, having expected some potential physical opposition, but not androids. He looked around him again at them, all of them smiling placidly, oblivious to the tension in the room. “You should consider giving up smoking, Mr Fajo... and associating with the likes of Bastien Dumont… and Max Zorin.”
Fajo chuckled, coughing now, before warning, “Better- better to associate with them than be their targets-” His coughing increased. “As you- you will be- when I tell them-”
His coughing increased, and he stared at the cigar in his hand, before throwing it away.
“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” Somerset informed him coolly. “And sometimes it’s laced with paralysing agents.”
Fajo rose to his feet, pointing at him and sputtering to the androids, “Get- Get him-”
And with a spasm he stiffened and fell behind his desk like a tree cut down.... close, but no cigar. The androids watched him fall without trying to catch him, but as Fajo hit the floor with a thump, one of the Karens looked to Somerset now with a slight frown. “We do not understand. What were we to get you?”
He rose to his feet, producing from inside his jacket a zero-compression datarod and proffering it to her. “You were to get me a copy of all the data from his computer: activities, contacts, locations.” He smiled at another android. “And you were to get me that drink you offered earlier. Some of Mr Fajo’s most expensive libation, if you don’t mind.”
As they obeyed, Somerset drew his chair around closer to Fajo, who trembled as if shivering, looking up at him, aware but unable to move. The agent sat down and regarded him coolly. “You’ll recover in an hour. And when you do, you might wish to consider that threat to warn the Bel-Zon of my involvement.”
*
Planet Stormbrow, Irisdor System, Kzin Patriarchy:
The striped felinoid Kzinti milled about their rugged stone community, living simply, the males having shot her looks of suspicion and hostility while in their presence, before she ascended to this point. That was expected; their race’s females were non-sentient, no better than animals meant for breeding and nothing else, and encountering a thinking, speaking… weapons-carrying… female among them must have been unnerving, to say the least.
The reports she had read, about the Kzinti’s past encounters with female opponents of other races, described their being distinctly disturbed. And though Ferasans and Kzinti weren’t closely related, her being a felinoid must have accentuated the Kzinti males’ apprehension at her presence.
But it was the Kzinti females’ reaction to her that Jet Jaguar found intriguing. They must have seen her, wearing clothes and weapons and speaking to others, as making her neither male nor female, at least as they perceived it.
It hadn’t been as extreme on Ferasa Prime, where she had been born and raised, but it was close: she had learned to hunt and fight in secret, teaching herself through study and observation, and she had been glad to escape, to seek her own destiny out in the Galaxy. Especially now that her people were all but extinct, existing only on a small colony on Cait, or on a few ships here and there. Perhaps she should seek them out? With their numbers so depleted, her own worth might be better appreciated-
She dropped suddenly to a deeper crouch, completely still, as she caught a glimpse in the community, of two Kzinti females behind one of their huts, believing themselves to be alone and out of sight of the males… gesturing rapidly to each other, using elaborate paw gesticulations, showing intent rather than randomness.
A language. A silent, secret language among the ostensibly-unintelligent Kzinti females.
Interesting…
*
Within a great stone hall not far from the community and their starship landing pad and repair facility, the strongest, most valued members of this Kzinti Pride stood surrounding the alien in their midst: a humanoid male, frail-looking even by humanoid standards, with a bizarre combination of marshmallow white skin on the left paw side of its furless face, and licorice black on the right paw side. They wondered about it. Mostly about what it would taste like.
He folded his hands behind his back as he continued, wondering how much longer he had to try and win over these musky animals. “Pridemaster, my associates are aware of your people’s contentious history against the Federation in general, and Terrans in particular, with your so-called Man-Kzin Wars-”
His host growled, the sound silencing those around him as he muttered, “We know our history, Alien. You have spoken much since arriving here, but said little of actual value.” He leaned forward on his throne. “Get to the meat on the bones of your visit… or we’ll get to the meat on your bones, and see if there is a difference in the taste of your white and dark meat.”
The Kzinti around him roared in support of the threat.
Bele ground his teeth; little wonder your bestial kind could be defeated so often by the weakling monocoloured humans. “Please excuse me if I’ve wasted your time to date, Pridemaster. We are aware that your Pride, while strong and prominent, is not equipped to seize control from your current Patriarchy… yet. But you will… when you are provided arms, and intelligence, and seize control of an entire sector of Federation space in your Pride’s name, destroying the Starfleet facility and personnel controlling it.
The banner of the Kzin will fly over what was once Federation territory. In return, the Bel-Zon will administer and manage trade on your behalf within the sector.”
That made the Pride react… and their Pridemaster appear to take Bele seriously for the first time since his arrival. He was older than the others, had more grey and white fur than the rest… but he appeared no less deadly. “An entire sector of space? Your associates have weapons of such potency?”
“They do.”
“Which sector?”
“It is designated by the Federation as Salem Sector, currently under the authority of-”
“Commodore Esek Hrelle,” the Kzin finished, baring his teeth with each syllable.
And with that, Bele knew he had made his case. He knew all along, in fact; the intelligence provided about this particular Pridemaster and his history with the target suggested as much. Still, he played along. “You know him?”
He rose to his feet, as if to display the sheen from his body armour against the surrounding torchlight. “And we have much to settle. With both of them.”
*
Lady Fantomax waved to the bartender with her empty glass, aware of how much she had imbibed so far, aware of how close Darvil had become, physically and emotionally, as the evening progressed. Aware of how loose had tongue had grown. She should have returned to her quarters in the Bel-Zon facility, and slept off her drink and her bottled-up anguish and frustration.
He reached out and rested a strong, reassuring hand on hers, leaning in closer to whisper, “Penelope, you need to calm down- these people here have no idea about the business next door to them-”
She faced him, her face feeling hot. “Well then, maybe they should be told? If they did, then they could let in some of the poisonous atmosphere out there and asphyxiate us-”
Now he drew up to her ear. “I’ll get you out.”
She stiffened, not expecting that. Her mind, swimming, began to clear, albeit sluggishly. She leaned back against him. “What?”
“I have a transport in orbit, leaving tonight for Epsilon Indi IV. I can beam you onboard secretly, and get you there; my crew are loyal to me, and discreet. You can get yourself lost before they can track you down. I’m sure you have secret accounts and false identities throughout the Quadrant to fall back on.”
Fantomax stared over his shoulder, at the crowds of drinks and revellers and travellers around them, all ordinary people, as oblivious to the drama unfolding here as they were to the crime and chaos being planned in the neighbouring domes.
“Why are you doing this?” she finally asked.
She felt his breath on her skin, and the soft, waxed bristles of his beard, and the strong, reassuring grip he had on her as he finally replied in a taut murmur, “I’ve been a shipmaster long enough to see a storm approaching… and one’s coming for this motley crew we’re caught up in. I can weather it through to the other side, but I don’t think you can. Come on, lean against me, make it look like back to my quarters for something else.”
She froze in place. It was moving fast, too fast, she didn’t have time to-
To what? Wait for the authorities to sweep in, or for Zorin to take a whim and murder her?
Be ready to think on your feet, her old mentor used to tell her, Or you’ll end up on your back. And not in a good way, either. “Come on, I’ve had enough here.”
*
Asteroid M, Deep Space:
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In truth, he stayed close so that none of the facility crews would stumble on the secret vault he kept on his ship with the goods he secretly acquired during his tours of duty.
His change of allegiance to his current organisation was at least more open. True, he was more likely to be killed than court martialled for his failings, but one can’t have everything in life-
“Captain?”
She started. “How did you know-”
He smirked. “I knew that Dumont would pester us for an update. I knew that he would contact you once he realised I turned off my comlink. And I knew he would be complaining, because… well, he is Dumont.”
She smiled back, though still glanced around nervously at the facility crew, as if they might secretly be spying on behalf of the Bel-Zon. “After losing the Molotok, I think he wanted to have you… dealt with.”
Kazan grunted at the euphemism. In truth, he had half-expected Dumont or Zorin to take more aggressive action against him following his engagement with Weynik on the Katana. A cloaked Defiant-class warship with subspace weapons was hardly a small investment, and despite his outward bravado Kazan had been ready from the start to make his own escape.
As it turned out, his value proved greater. “I have no doubt.” He shrugged. “Maybe he has a point; I was overconfident, at least at first. I won’t be the same with my new command.” He nodded outside; the asteroid had a hollow centre, hidden to outside sensors, where the Moonfleet repaired and maintained their own ships… or, in this case, fulfilled a contract from the Bel-Zon to find and repair an abandoned Starfleet vessel to replace the Molotok.
“They do good work here,” Vargas noted. “They found the ship in a surplus depot near Qualor, contaminated with radiation years before but waiting to be cleaned out and returned to duty for the War, and got it here and readied in record time. I’m surprised the Bel-Zon didn’t try to forge an alliance with them.”
“They did; the Moonfleet like remaining independent. That might change once we take over Salem Sector, however.” He focused on the large Steamrunner-class starship within the drydock cage inside the asteroid hollow. It had the equivalent power of a Defiant-class, but in a larger frame… and with fewer intrinsic problems and vulnerabilities that his former ship possessed.
*
Elba II, Bel-Zon HQ:
Dumont sipped at his tea, a piquant Betazoid blend that he approved of, as he looked up from the PADD in his hand at the subordinates awaiting him. “I want the subspace weapons shipment thoroughly checked over before they’re transferred to our ships; we had structural issues with those warp cores we obtained from the Miradorn, issues that have cost us time and money.”
Dumont felt his amusement rise; Baulahl looked like she should have been in a rocking chair bouncing a baby grandchild on her knee. Few knew of her past, founding and running a business to sell fake symbionts to other Trill wanting to be joined - a business that netted profit, but killed customers. With an interstellar warrant out for her arrest, she found refuge with the Bel-Zon, putting her considerable organisational skills to work. “Has there been an update from our operatives in Kzinti Space?”
“Bele and Jet Jaguar are preparing to return, apparently successful. The Pride they met with are now recruiting related Prides willing and able to work together; they estimate they might be able to bring in a fleet of thirty warships.”
Dumont grunted; the Kzinti talked big, but could rarely hold it together long enough to mount a sustained military campaign. “And our ‘Representative’?”
“Rasmussen has moved onto Ucarro Minor with his fleet, spreading the word about the imminent changes, and warning them about Starfleet’s plans to clear out the Paserak and other independent parties from the Sector.” Baulahl paused, commenting, “He seems so… inconsequential. Is it really worth his participation, Bastien? What does he bring to the Bel-Zon?”
“Charisma, and persuasion. He was a 22nd Century confidence artist who managed to convince the crew of the Enterprise-D that he was actually from the 26th Century. Since then he has engaged in some successful fraud operations, in concert with our other undercover operative, Alias-”
“Hey.”
Dumont turned, frowning at the sound of the synthesised voice, and the sight of the big brown rat sitting on an adjacent desk. “Bonne Journée, Monsieur Benjamin. Would you care for some tea?”
The rat’s whiskers twitched. “We need to talk. Alone.”
He regarded the rodent, before looking to Baulahl. “Relee, would you please repair to Security and obtain an update on our activities of our reluctant thief?”
The Trill woman nodded, rose and departed, the door barely sliding shut before Ben asked, “Thief? You mean Lady Fantomax? What are you doing monitoring her?”
Dumont reached for his tea. “That does not concern you. Please, proceed to the reason for this interruption.”
The rat rose up onto its hindquarters, as if seeking to intimidate the human. “That Vulcan on your payroll has killed five of my family. They suffered… and I and the rest of the Pack felt it through our collective link.”
He lifted up his cup. “Quel dommage.” He paused to sip, frowning at how quickly it had cooled. “But perhaps you can learn from this tragedy, and avoid Dr Orlok in the future? She has proved to be irascible.”
“‘Irascible’? Is that French for genocidal?”
Dumont glanced critically at him now. “The Bel-Zon is not a book club. We didn’t recruit your Pack, Orlok or the others to be friends. All of you possess unique skillsets and abilities which we find useful. And each agent is generously compensated for their services... but you have to earn that recompense.”
Dumont took a moment to sip some more tea, as if genuinely considering the argument… which, admittedly, had some merit. They were very likely not to need the particular talents of the Pack in the next phase of their plans for Salem Sector.
On the other hand, Dumont was keenly aware of the heavy investments – and losses – they had suffered to date, and was reluctant to let any valuable assets leave… not to mention the security risk in letting the Pack, letting anyone, leave with knowledge of their operations.
Finally he set down his cup and smiled politely. “The Bel-Zon are pleased with your Pack’s work to date, Benjamin. And I can assure you that work is progressing even as we speak on finding a suitable world, uninhabited by any sentient life, where you can forge your own destinies. In fact, I promise that if you leave it with me, I will arrange for a private meeting between us tomorrow, where I can provide you with our progress to date, oui?”
“Really?” The rat twitched his nose, before nodding and replying, “Thank you, Mr Dumont, on behalf of the Rat Pack. Au Revoir.”
“Au Revoir.” He kept smiling as he watched Benjamin scurry down from the table and towards the vent in the wall from which he had obviously emerged. Dumont kept still until he was certain the rat had ventured deep into the vents of the facility, before rising and closing the vent, dragging a workstation closer and blocking the vent entirely. “Relee!”
The woman returned to the room. “Security reports Lady Fantomax has sneaked into the Transit Station, she is in the bar there with Bo Darvin. From the listening devices secretly planted on both of them, her talk is chiefly about her guilt and discontent.”
He nodded curtly. “The moment she shows any signs of attempting to escape into the crowds of travellers, have her detained and returned here. She’s proven to be even more troublesome than the vermin.
Speaking of which: prepare a report on our efforts to find the Rat Pack a suitable home.”
She frowned. “That’ll be the Galaxy’s shortest report.”
“Then this will be your opportunity to be creative. Make up a flashy, convincing presentation, filled with technobabble and promise. Keep them quiet… and have Maintenance secure the vents in the facility to limit the Pack’s mobility, and set sensors to track their presence.
Now, onto the rest of our business…”
They continued, oblivious to the second rat, the one that had accompanied Benjamin but hid and remained hidden, listening, after its named prolocutor had departed.
*
Orion Prime:
As he strode into the palatial estate, Surinh Dag heard his name spoken of with respect from his people, for the first time, in a long, long time. It felt good, sweet as wine.
He had spent more than a few years in many, many bottles, to help deafen his ears to the laughter, the derision and contempt from other Orions, regarding his fall from respectability and power.
He supposed he shouldn’t blame them; when he was younger, he might have acted in the same callous, derisive fashion. He had once been the Gamesmaster, the powerful, popular head of the Deathmatches, pitting gladiators against each other, offering the masses sheer visceral entertainment… and earning himself much wealth and position.
But then his most prized possession, Esek Hrelle – the infamous Beast – had been broken after so many fights, useless to Surinh Dag, and the Gamesmaster sold him off to some Corvallen freighter captain, assuming he had not long for this life, and that Surinh Dag would soon replace him with another fighter who would prove equally popular and profitable.
Neither assumption proved right. Hrelle had not only lived, he had escaped, recovered and returned to Starfleet. And none of his replacements in the Deathmatches could match him. Surinh Dag’s fortunes slipped, leaving him vulnerable to a hostile takeover of his business from the Syndicate, and then leaving him destitute, a joke.
But now? Now Fortune proved to shine upon him once again. And on his return to his homeworld, people no longer looked and laughed at him. They respected him. They feared him.
They should. Even these fat fools he now met. The ones who had robbed him of his old life. The human Dumont, whom Surinh Dag had seen with his own eyes suffer his own fall and resurrection thanks to Hrelle, had asked in a moment of concern – or at least self-interest – whether or not the Orion could conduct this task for the Bel-Zon, or if the desire for revenge might overtake him and scupper the organisation’s plans.
Surinh Dag assured him it would be done.
Surinh Dag stood there, let them display their power and contempt for him, ignored the offerings from the slaves who approached him, waited until the owner of this estate, and the most powerful of the Syndicate Lords, wiped his wine-stained lips with his forearm and looked up, his pudgy olive face darkening from his heart’s efforts to keep him alive despite the gluttonous, sedentary lifestyle. “Ahh, Surinh Dag, we meet again. How long has it been? Ten years?”
He crossed his arms, displaying the muscled limbs. “Yes, Ngottin Cor. I didn’t think I’d see you alive again when I came back.”
“Oh? You think I’d be foolish enough to let some rival get close enough to slit my throat?”
“No, I thought you’d have choked to death on some underchewed mutton, or had a long-overdue heart attack waiting for some prettything to clamber under your rolls of fat to find your knob to suck off.”
Ngottin Cor raised his head as if to display that he actually had some neck beneath his layers. “Your time in poverty and obscurity has obviously degraded your manners, Ex-Gamesmaster. Do you think just anyone can have the honour of approaching the Prime Lords of the Orion Syndicate?”
Surinh Dag made a show of looking around at the other Orions… and then laughing back at his host. “Are you serious? ‘Prime Lords’? This sorry collection of lazy, effete, degenerate cuksirs lying around racing in place to see which one of you will die from congested arteries first?”
Ngottin Cor and the other Prime Lords looked up at him as one in disbelief, leaving their leader to demand, “Have you come here to die, you miserable, muscle-bound golem?”
“Where’s Zaddo Natale in this cabal of so-called Prime Lords? Or Daimmek Forez? Or Tamon Gar?” He smiled. “Oh yes, that’s right, they and all the other truly significant Lords in the Syndicate broke away and formed their own cartel, leaving this collection of minor miscreants I see around me to fake their importance the way their prettythings fake orgasm when they’re under you?”
Ngottin Cor snarled, motioning to the side. “Nazoh! Break two of anything you want on this has-been, and flush the rest into the septic tanks!”
Ngottin Cor held up a hand to pause his bodyguard, as he stared at the image. “What are we looking at?”
Surinh Dag smiled. “The means for you and the rest of your partners here to potentially earn enough latinum and influence to rival, and maybe even surpass the likes of Zaddo Natale, Daimmek Forez and the rest.” He paused, letting them watch as tractor beams from sections on the array seized the spacecraft, making it glow a bright electric blue… and then disappear. “A graviton displacement catapult, capable of hurtling starships across a hundred light years of space or more in the time it takes you to finish off a leg of roast sehlat. And I’ve been told that the displacement can’t be detected by conventional sensors.”
Surinh Dag watched the reaction to the other Orions, and continued. “The Bel-Zon will soon be seizing Salem Sector, with the assistance of the Kzinti and the Paserak, and removing the presence of Starfleet at Station Salem One. The Federation will respond, of course, but find that more difficult than they expected, given the seeds of discontent we are sowing even as I speak.”
He switched off the holoprojector. “The Bel-Zon are offering you exclusive Orion use of the graviton displacement catapult network, letting you expand your markets deep into Federation, Kzinti and other neighbouring territories, avoiding the local customs and law enforcement agencies. And in exchange, the Bel-Zon will receive a reasonable percentage of the considerable profits you will accrue.”
Ngottin Cor glanced at his colleagues, his flabby face creasing in thought, before looking back at Surinh Dag once more. “You despise us. So why make this offer to us, and not Zaddo Natale and the others?”
He smiled. “Because if you’re selling food, you go to those who are hungry.” His communicator beeped, and he turned to one side and answered it. “Yes?”
“I found the family, Sire. Your orders?”
“Have they bought any protection?”
“Not enough to stop us.”
“Then draw your weapons and invite them to join us on the Green Death. We have a reunion to plan.”
*
“Pride Goeth Before a Fall,” Bad Ronald intoned.
Zorin looked up. “You said you wouldn’t read my thoughts.”
The spectre leaned back, offering a grin with teeth like twin ross of dirty tombstones. “Oh, I’m not, One in a Million Max. I’m reading the hubris in your eyes, your face, your sweat. What do the Klingons say? ‘A warrior who wears his heart without armour will soon lose it’? ”
Zorin reached out and moved another pawn forward. “I’ve earned my confidence.”
“I believe you; your list of achievements in your various enterprises speaks for themselves. Of course, the many bodies you’ve left behind, whether by your own hands or by your own orders, say nothing. We’re very much alike.”
Zorin made a sound. “We’re nothing alike. You kill for pleasure. I kill for self-protection.”
His opponent laughed coldly now. “Who are you trying to deceive, Maximilian? How threatened were you really when you beat your own son to death in front of the Bel-Zon? When that Andorian journalist threw some barbs at your press conference on Starbase One? All those personal assistants and sex workers and other underlings who have committed the cardinal sin of failing you, or getting in your way, or simply being there?
How about your first lover?
How about your father?
Your bloodlust is as much a part of your genetic makeup as the enhanced strength and intelligence you received from your family’s secret, illegal Augmentation. You make the Klingons look like pacifists.”
Zorin leaned back, as if regarding his opponent. “You talk a lot about Klingons. You meet them much in Chaotic Space?”
Zorin focused on the current placements of the pieces on the board. It had been a long time since he had played this variant of the game, and he would not allow himself to be distracted. “The Alkemy Project would have yielded immense profit for decades, even centuries to come, securing capital for other operations even after making the minimal reparations when the flaws to it inevitably emerged. It was a more important linchpin to my corporation, and me, than anyone else could have imagined.
Any punishment I inflict upon Hrelle must therefore also be commensurate, touching not just him, but his position, his family.
And the retribution I have planned for him will also serve me in the long term. Perhaps not to the extent that Alkemy would have, but I’ll make it work.”
“Oh, I am sure you will, Maximilian… but to what end, ultimately? For your posterity? You beat that to death in a conference room not far from here. You talk of the profit that your efforts will bring in for decades, for centuries to come, but for all your Augmentation, you won't live forever to enjoy it.”
Zorin scowled now. “Is this going somewhere?”
Bad Ronald indicated the Grim Reaper form he had taken. “The Seventh Seal taught that your journey through life is nothing but a series of distractions: love, sex, family, food, travel, war, riches, poverty, faith, etcetera, etcetera… but Death is always waiting for you by your shoulder. You either pretend it isn’t there until it takes you by surprise, or you try to outwit it and buy more time. Ultimately, however, it will take you on your Danse Macabre.”
It leered at him, smiling. “Unless you have a contingency for that prepared already? Well, Maximilian? What have you got waiting? Cloning? Android body?” It tapped the side of its head. “That little implant I know you have up there?”
Zorin tightened; the creature had obviously learned much during its previous telepathic intrusion. “You talk a lot, but say little of value.”
“Then start asking the right questions.”
“What’s in Chaotic Space?”
“Chaos.”
“Why do you prefer to torture and kill children instead of adults?”
“Why do you prefer red wine to white?”
“What connection do you have with Klingons?”
The entity frowned. “Again with the Klingons; you’re obsessed with them, Maximilian, not me. And you’re beginning to bore me. Make your next question more interesting, or I’ll insert every piece on this board into you.”
Zorin stared hard now, sensing that Bad Ronald’s reaction to the mention of the Klingons wasn’t from boredom. “You’re from another dimension. You have formidable abilities. You claim to be indestructible.”
“Very true. Not questions, but all very true.”
Bad Ronald suddenly rose to his feet, kicking back his chair, his cadaverous face somehow paling even more. “Where did you get that thing? Get rid of it!”
But that’s it: no anomalies, no radiation, nothing.
What is it about this Klingon relic that can affect you this way?”
“GET RID OF IT!”
*
Planet Ucarra Major:
“BLITZKRIEG!”
Chaos reigned among the Paserak tribe, as they sought escape, or weapons, or simply mercy from their attackers.
None could be found.
The tribal settlement was temporary, as was every planetside settlement by the Paserak, established outside of the largest city on Telamon, present long enough to conduct trade, replenish supplies and plan the tribe’s next destination.
*
From a vantage point above, a coffee-skinned woman in nomadic robes sat, cradling her rifle, watching the carnage through its scope, listening to the updates through the comlink provided to her by her current employers.
Her name was Kamra Obscura, an expatriate member of a Tandaran tribe with particular psychic abilities that had made her valuable to the Bel-Zon. This was the first operation since her recruitment where she played an active part, albeit in a support role.
This was not what she had expected.
At the ground. At walls. At the sides of shuttles and cargo modules and at bodies that had already fallen and could not be harmed further.
She would push down her disgust at this assignment, and honestly tell the Bel-Zon afterwards that she had given it all that she could.
And then she would plan her departure.
Within the remains of the Paserak encampment, an adult, wounded Paserak with Tribeleader colours was dragged along by several humans in Starfleet uniforms, into a clearing, the reptoid glancing in anguish and terror at the bodies of his tribespeople. “Why have you done this? We are peaceful, neutral! This is a Free World! YOU MURDERERS KILLED US ALL!”
He was forced down to his knees, as Ilsa drew up, cradling her plasma rifle, and laughing coldly. “Not all of you, Paserak Dog. Not yet.”
“Nor will we,” growled a new voice, as a large-framed, furred Caitian male with Commodore’s bars on his Starfleet uniform stepped out of the shadows, his tail swishing casually behind him as he approached the Paserak. “This is not Extermination, Tribeleader Dirigente. This is Enforcement.”
The reptoid looked up at him in horror. “You’re… You’re Commodore Hrelle! B-But Starfleet – You personally! – have always upheld our neutrality, our right to live! Why have you done this to us?”
The Paserak looked around, as if desperate to wake from this nightmare. “But that’s… barbaric! Abominable!”
Hrelle bared his teeth. “A Lion doesn’t concern himself with the opinions of a Sheep.”
Then his combadge chirped, and he slapped it angrily, roaring, “What is it?”
“Commodore! The Bel-Zon Fleet has arrived!”
The Paserak watched the Caitian’s tail snap in agitation, as he barked, “Beam us all up! Get us out of the Ucarro System, Maximum Warp! We can’t face them!” He glanced down one last time. “Remember what we’ve done here, Tribeleader! Tell others!”
Then Hrelle and the rest of his people vanished in a quantum transporter mist.
The encampment seemed to hold its breath, as the cries of the wounded and grieving filled the air.
Dirigente returned to his feet, readying to gather his people, as new transporter columns, of a different type and colour to the Starfleeters’, appeared. He froze, expecting a resumption of the attack.
He did not expect to see a collection of new humanoids in generic clothes, carrying medical kits and other equipment, moving off quickly and professionally in many directions, leaving one humanoid male: a tall, gaunt figure with a prominent chin and deep-set eyes, to draw up to him, hands raised non-threateningly as he stopped a metre away. “Tribeleader Dirigente, I presume?”
The Paserak bared his teeth and clouded his eyes. “Who in the Void are you?”
“Berlinghoff Rasmussen, a representative of the Bel-Zon. And I am sorry, I am so very sorry that we did not get here sooner to stop Hrelle and his murderous actions here. But we did chase them off, and now we can provide your people with all the medical, engineering and logistical aid you require.”
Behind him, Dirigente’s uncle Somaro rushed up, clutching a plasma wound to his right arm and burns on his tail. “Nephew! These aliens, they claim to want to help! What should we do?”
The Tribeleader stared hard at Rasmussen, never taking his eyes off the human but replying, “Let them… but watch them. And try to re-establish contact with our ship in orbit.”
“It was attacked by Starfleet,” Rasmussen informed him. “Your main drive and power systems are currently down, but the damage appears superficial. I can arrange for you or anyone to be beamed up to it.”
The Tribeleader shook his head in shocked disbelief. “I don’t understand… why would Hrelle, Starfleet, become so brutal, murderous?”
That’s why the Bel-Zon are here. Like the Paserak, we do not believe in flags, in borders, in the ownership of planets or systems. We reject statist tyranny. We believe in freedom and liberty. And we will defend and support anyone whose freedom and liberty is threatened.
But for now, let’s see to the welfare of your Tribe…”
*
Fantomax’s heart raced as Darvin and she left the Transit Facility and returned along the secret corridor back into the Bel-Zon Headquarters, silently heading back to his berth. It wouldn’t be long now, she told herself. It wasn’t as if she had the false identification required to arrange passage under normal circumstances herself-
Guards flanked the doors to Darvin’s berth.
*
“Surinh Dag has just sent an update,” Baulahl reported. “They’ve signed an initial agreement with the Orion Syndicate… and they’ve acquired the family.”
“The staged attack has been completed. Colonel Wölfin, however, has protested about Kamra Obscura’s lack of participation… though her concerns are enmeshed in between slurs regarding Obscura’s skin colour.”
Dumont grunted. “I had a hidden tactical sensor placed in her weapons, tracking her activity; Security can examine it on their return. Anything else?”
“Security have run a data audit of the industrial replicator work logs: there have been a number of unauthorised jobs run in the past week, replicating specialist equipment.”
He swivelled around to face her again. “What type of equipment?”
“Tools, scanners, weapons… and scooters.”
“‘Scooters’?”
“Two-wheeled vehicles. And all of the equipment is miniaturised, highly miniaturised.”
Dumont smirked. “The Rat Pack. Have Security locate the source of how they have managed to sneak in their requisitions, and close it up.”
The elderly Trill female frowned. “And that’s all you’re going to do about it?”
“I’ll speak with Monsieur Benjamin when we hold our so-called planetary survey briefing later in the week.” Now he smiled. “You know, Relee, sometimes I regret not taking up a safer, more conventional corporate position somewhere… and then times such as these remind me of how much of a bore a safer, more conventional corporate position would be-”
His further musings were interrupted as his office door slid open without warning, and Bo Darvil stormed in, shaking off the grip of a security guard. “Dumont! You son of a bitch!”
Dumont rose to his feet, as did Baulahl, the former fixing a steely glare on the Zeon smuggler. “Monsieur Darvil, please calm down.”
“The Hell I will! Your goons grabbed Lady Penelope, took her away somewhere!”
“I know; it was under my orders.”
“Why?”
The Frenchman sneered. “Do not play ignorant with me, Mr Darvil. I am well aware that ‘Lady Penelope’, aka Lady Fantomax, was planning on leaving Elba II without authorisation, and that you were conspiring with her. It is only your entitled position as leader of the Highwaymen that you are not also being penalised as she is… but this will be your first and last warning: that position, as entitled as it is, does not make you sacrosanct.”
Darvil’s gaze tightened. “What are you going to do to her?”
Dumont turned back to view the squall of poisonous gases outside. “Her usefulness to the Bel-Zon has come to an end. We’ll facilitate her departure from this facility… just not in the way she expected.”
*
“I SAID GET RID OF IT!” Bad Ronald demanded, shrinking down into a gulley in the rocks, his Grim Reaper’s cloak wrapped around him as if for protection.
Zorin rose up, still holding the amulet before him. It was true, this creature was afraid of it, stopping its attack on the Klingon starship and driving it into hiding, before Zorin’s people found it. “Why? You said you never met the Klingons before! Is it the alloy? Is your physiology sensitive to the metal? Is it the image of Kahless? Like the cross to a vampire from old legends-”
Bad Ronald dropped the cloak cover, revealing a more human-looking face, but with slicked-back hair starting from a widow’s peak on the forehead… and fangs in its open, as it hissed at him. And it spoke to him in a hammy Eastern European accent. “I vahnt to suck yoor BLOOD!”
He swept up to Zorin, who continued to hold the pendant before him… until Bad Ronald, still appearing as Dracula, bent down and kissed it with mock affection. He smiled toothily up at Zorin. “I hope you didn’t spend too much buying this. It won’t protect you from me.”
Zorin’s jaw tightened, and he tensed, ready to fight this entity. “It’s kept me safe so far.”
Bad Ronald laughed, as it and the environment around them morphed, darkened and twisted. “Has it? Or have I simply allowed you to believe that? Let you wallow in your naivete? In your delusions of superiority?”
It altered its form again, becoming Zorin’s father, his voice identical to the old man’s as he intoned, “I should have taught you humility, Maximilian. I would have, too, if you hadn’t killed me first.”
His father became his grandfather. “Don’t listen to him, Maxie! Come, sit on my lap once more!”
His grandfather became his calculus tutor Marta Kenwell, her body and face battered and bloody and broken from his first berserker rage against her at age fourteen. “So much death, young man, and you’re never satisfied.”
Marta Kenwell became his son Julian, equally pulped and dead. “Not with her, Dad. Not with me. Not with any of us.”
Julian then became Commodore Hrelle, his tail swishing behind him. “You’ll never be satisfied, Buddy. That little secret implant in your head that you hope will grant you immortality may work, may let you live another lifetime, a hundred lifetimes… but you’ll still never be satisfied.”
He pointed a finger at Zorin, grinning. “You’re not young anymore, Maximilian, and you were never pure... but you’ll do for a snack…”
*
He sat in the Captain’s Chair on the Bridge. It felt comfortable. He smirked. “I wonder if Commodore Hrelle will live long enough to appreciate the bitter irony when he sees this ship return.”
Beside him in the First Officer’s Chair, Vargas looked up. “Return?”
He nodded. “It originally patrolled Salem Sector; in fact, Hrelle commanded her sixteen years ago, when the previous Bel-Zon attacked them, killing the crew with radiation weapons and capturing Hrelle. Decontamination processes weren’t as advanced as they are now, and it was only in recent times when the Dominion War was at its peak that Starfleet thought about cleaning it and restoring it to active service… at least, before Moonfleet grabbed it first.”
He grunted, looking over at the dedication plaque on the wall, with the words USS FURYK engraved at the top. “Do Caitians believe in ghosts?”
*
Deep Space:
Somerset knew something was wrong the moment the missile hit his flyer.
He had been on his way to Salem One, examining the data he had obtained from Kivas Fajo along the way, and the missile, and the ship it had originated from, appeared from nowhere, and the attack had caused some, but obviously not fatal damage. He had struggled to perform evasive manoeuvres, entering a nearby system, seeking a habitable planet, unable to call for help.
He found a world, listed in the charts as Alfa 177: Class-K, a former mining colony abandoned a century ago. Maybe you’ll find a shovel down there to dig your own grave, James.
He entered the atmosphere; his ship was rapidly becoming a brick, momentum and the upper winds of the planet carrying it into a glide rather than a drop, and Somerset activated the safety harnesses and ant-transporter fields when he was certain he could do nothing more. Nice one, James, you didn’t even manage to forward the data to Admiral Raner. You’re definitely getting too old for this sh-
*
He woke up, his head aching, pushing past the pain and unharnessing himself, expecting his attackers to arrive and confirm he was dead. The flyer was wrecked, exposed to the elements, to judge from the bitterly cold air outside, and he quickly gathered his possessions, along with a cold weather coat. There was an exosuit as well, which would provide greater protection, but at the cost of speed and peripheral vision, both of which could cost him dearly.
The coat felt warm – until he stepped outside, and it was like he was naked. He ignored it, ignored that ache in his lungs with each breath, as he got his bearings. He had been lucky, and crashed near the remains of one of the mining facilities; some of the nearby above-ground support buildings in ruins. The sky was a black shroud from the thick, seemingly-permanent cloud cover overhead, and the ground a thin carpet that crunched when his boot sank into it.
He looked around again, clutching his phaser rifle, working out a zigzag path, from the shuttle to a rock, and then a piece of wall, and then the wreckage of a land vehicle, and then the entrance to a building that would offer him cover. Easy peasy.
Definitely too old for this, James.
He charged forward, boots kicking up frost, hearing the yelps of blue plasma bolts from different directions strike the ground on either side of him… each subsequent bolt getting closer. He was going to die. He was going to die here, alone, on a dark frozen world-
Instead a female voice carried over the still, lifeless air. “Commander Somerset! Can we talk?”
He tensed, still listening, wondering if they were trying to get closer while he was distracted. “I think I can fit you into my schedule.”
“We only want the data you took from Kivas Fajo! Switch off your anti-transporter device and let us all beam back to our ship! We have no interest in harming you!”
I’ll bet. “Sounds reasonable. Drop your weapons, come over and line up for me and we’ll talk some more.”
Silence, and then Somerset started at the laser targeting dots appearing on the top of the wall. He dropped a little further.
The woman’s voice returned. “We could just keep you pinned down there until you freeze to death, Commander. It would make our job so much easier if you could just give up.”
He breathed out – they were certainly right about the freezing to death part – and checked the power cell on his rifle. “I believe in people earning their pay.”
“Fine. Open Fire!”
Somerset ducked down again as he heard plasma rifles, expecting them to have increased the power levels to chip away at his protection, exposing him.
Except it didn’t happen.
Instead he heard yells and cries, abruptly cut short, before the sounds of gunfire ceased.
Then there was a new, male voice. “Commander Somerset, are you injured?”
He tensed. “Who’s asking?”
“Captain Nol Nrari, commanding the Caitian Assault Vessel Crooked Tail. We’re aware of your assignment regarding Commodore Hrelle and the Bel-Zon, and were ordered to intercept and assist you. We tracked you from Farius Prime, and arrived here… in time, it seems.”
Somerset glanced around again. It still could have been a trap. “Who ordered you to intercept and assist me?”
“First Minister Shall – and I shouldn’t have to clarify who she is, or her connection with Hrelle.”
“Perhaps, but-”
“But nothing. I’m done talking, this cold is gonna make my tail snap off. I’m coming to you, ready or not.”
Somerset breathed out once more, his breath continuing to ghost before him. He knew of First Minister Ma’Sala Shall, formerly the head of the Caitian’s Planetary Navy – and their Secret Service. And he knew that it made perfect sense that she would be aware of her son-in-law’s troubles, and would have sent help.
It could still be a trap.
Bugger it.
Closer now, he could see the Caitian’s eyes were red, and seemed to glow in the dim light. Behind him, other tailed figures emerged, similarly clothed and armed, though their fur colours varied.
Somerset regarded Captain Nrari, never having met a Caitian in the flesh (or was it fur?) before, but having researched a little on the people and their recent history since receiving his current assignment: at times friendly and feral, with a history of self-reliance, having recently overthrown an occupation of their planet by another felinoid race.
It was typical of many Federation member worlds, especially ones like the Caitians who exist in relatively remote parts of the UFP, to have provincial defence forces instead of relying on Starfleet. It was very atypical of them to send such forces to other parts of the Federation; he would have to check with Admiral Raner, but he doubted if they received authorisation from Starfleet Command to come here.
On the other hand, they did save his life. He drew up and held out his hand. “Thank you for your assistance, Captain.”
Nrari accepted the hand, his paw large and strong and furry; this close, Somerset could see that the glowing red in the eyes was because he had cybernetic implants or enhancements. “You’re welcome, Commander. We’ll take you the rest of the way to Salem One.”
“Thank you again.” He glanced around. “Did you leave any of them alive?”
“No.”
“What about their ship?”
“Destroyed.”
Somerset raised an eyebrow. “Captain, as much as I appreciate your assistance, you must be aware that you have no authorisation outside of Caitian space to engage in hostile actions.”
Nrari grunted dismissively. “If you want, Commander, you can have your office send a protest to First Minister Shall, where she’ll give it all the consideration she thinks it deserves.
Besides, we’re not the Caitians you should be concerned about, Commander.
It’s the ones Shall is assembling back on the Motherworld right now to come out here and deal with the threats to her family… including her cubs and grandcubs.
And we Caitians are at our most dangerous when protecting cubs.”
*
Bad Ronald twisted and morphed back into the Grim Reaper again as it trapped Zorin. “Yes, Maximilian, Judgement awaits you on your death. Judgement for your many, many sins. And all your money, your influence, your strength and ability will not save you. It is the one thing, the only thing you fear, that fear that has nestled deep into your psyche since you first saw that old Swedish movie as a boy.”
It reached for Zorin. “Time to die.”
It stopped.
Zorin smiled. “It was never about the amulet, or anything of substance, that drove you back. It was about faith. The Klingon cleric believed completely in Kahless, and you couldn’t shake that faith, no matter what you found inside his head to try and use against him. It became a psychic shield. The amulet was simply a focus for him.” He threw away the Klingon artefact. “If you had faced a devout Bajoran with an Orb, or a Christian with a cross, they would be equally effective. Maybe you should go back to the Dracula bit, it’d work better.”
Bad Ronald smiled back. “Faith, Maximilian? You’re a psychotic nihilist. You believe in nothing!”
It tried striking again. And failed again.
Zorin crossed his arms. “I believe in myself. I believe that nothing else matters. And I believe that I’ve wasted enough time here. Stay here, Fiend, stay out of trouble, until you’re needed.”
He turned to depart.
“One final morsel of advice, Maximilian?” Bad Ronald offered.
Zorin turned back.
The entity stood there in full Reaper regalia. “Faith, even in yourself, will only take you so far. You may keep me in check – for now – but there are forces out there who don’t give a damn how much you believe in yourself.”
Fantomax had grown anxious as the guards led her into a part of the facility she didn’t recognise. “Where are we going?”
“Shut up.”
She glanced around, noting exosuit lockers and maintenance equipment – and an airlock with a porthole, revealing the poisonous, pea-green exterior. But why would they-
No. She struggled. “No! You can’t!” She turned, tried to break free.
The guard punched her in the stomach, doubling her over, before they grabbed her more brusquely and dragged her along to the airlock. “Message from Dumont for you: ‘People leave the Bel-Zon when the Bel-Zon says they can leave, ‘My Lady’.”
She forced down the pain, blindly trying to trip them up, while fighting a growing whine in her ears.
A whine that the guards somehow heard as well, as they stopped and turned. “What the hell is that, a cleaning drone?”
It wasn’t.
The second guard laughed. “Hey look, Mouse Motorcross!”
Multiple phaser beams shot out from the scooters in seeming reply, striking one guard and sending him to the floor.
The second guard released his hold on Fantomax to reach for his communicator, stopping only as a ceiling panel dropped after it had been phasered away from above, allowing more rats to drop down on him. He screamed, fell backwards against a wall, as he now tried to retrieve the disruptor on his belt, before the rats on him employed their own phasers, stunning him as well.
Fantomax, on all fours, coughed and gasped in confusion, allowing the biker rats to drive around to face her, Ben in the lead. “Well, that was a narrow squeak! Come on, Milady, there’s no time to waste!”
She looked at him, at the rest of the Rat Pack. “W-What are you doing here?”
She blinked, before finally smiling and nodding. “Best news all day.”
*
Salem Sector, Station Salem One, Officer’s Quarters, Deck 1:
Lt Zir Dassene entered her residence, rubbing her neck, silently admonishing herself for missing another exercise session to focus on her increased duties, and the continued recovery of her close friend Urad Kaldron, severely injured during the Dragon Incident. She set down her PADDs and stripped out of her uniform and padded into the shower, opting for water rather than sonic waves, hopinlipped out of her uniform jacket, rolling her head around to work out her aches.
But she did need a break. Not with her friends, not with her lover Arik Rhov, just herself.
“Lieutenant.”
She had returned from her bathroom into the main room, rubbing her eyes, when she heard the voice, male but unfamiliar, but such was her distraction that she didn’t even recognise it as an actual sound.
“Lieutenant, we haven’t much time.”
Now her head shot up, and she grabbed the towel from her bed and wrapped it around herself. Standing before her was a muscular, older Orion male, as green as herself, bald, with numerous jewelled accessories around his leathers and furs.
Instinctively she hit her chest where her combadge would normally be on her jacket, realised her jacket was on the chair behind the intruder, and then opened her mouth to call for Security.
The Orion male raised his open hand to her. “Don’t, Lieutenant. By the time they respond, this transmission will be ended.” In demonstration, he reached out to an adjacent table, letting his huge beefy hand pass through it. “It’s called an isomorphic projection. It’s not detectable or traceable either, should you be foolish enough to try either. Do you want to get dressed? I can wait. And watch.”
Zir struggled to control her breathing, her pulse. This was the first Orion she had encountered since her escape from Imperial Space. Yes, he wasn’t really here, but still… “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”
He regarded her. “I am Surinh Dag. You might have heard of me.”
Her mouth dried, and she nodded slightly. “You- You were the Gamesmaster once, of the Deathmatches-” She remembered the nights watching them with her family, felt residual guilt once again at the enjoyment she had felt at the time, never thinking about how these were populated by slaves, forced to kill or be killed for the profit and pleasure of others. Then her eyes widened in horror. “You owned Commodore Hrelle!”
He nodded. “Yes, to both statements. But I’m not here to talk about myself, or him, but rather you.”
She surreptitiously looked around for… something, a weapon, a communicator or recorder. “Me? What about me?”
He crossed his massive arms. “Lieutenant Zir Dassene, formerly of the city of Gathol, who ran away from her world, her home and family a decade ago and underwent some considerable hardship, I hear, to forge her own destiny among the kafirlir Starfleet… never to see her world, her home, or her family again.” He nodded, showing some sympathy. “It must have been most difficult for you with regards to your family: your father, the spice merchant Vissol; your devoted mother Dishu; and your younger brother Haikiv.”
Zir started at the names. It was obvious, even to anyone who didn’t know her, what her origin might have been. But for someone lacking access to her restricted personnel records to know the names of her family… “How do you find out about them?”
Surinh Dag didn’t even seem to hear her question. “A self-imposed expatriate, isolated for years, unable to communicate with your loved ones, not even knowing if they were still alive-”
“Shut up!” she snapped. A day never passed when her family, and the loss and the guilt and the pain she had over leaving them behind, to live in a place without slavery and corruption and injustice, didn’t well up inside Zir. However much she was justified in doing what she did, she could never seem to get away from it.
“Would you like to see your family again?” he asked suddenly.
That snapped her out of her thoughts. “My family?”
Surinh Dag nodded again. “They’re here, with us.”
“What?”
He signalled someone he could see from his end.
Then three new projections appeared before him: Orions, on their knees, hands bound behind them, hooded, their body language exuding barely-contained terror.
“Well, then,” he continued, when an answer wasn’t forthcoming. “How about your father? I understand from your Counseling records that you were much closer to him than your mother.”
The hood was removed from the Orion in the middle-
“POPPA!” Zir dropped to her knees in front of him, instinctively reaching out to touch him, instead nearly falling through the insubstantial image. She drew back, taking in his features: the hair had greyed more, had receded from the forehead, but the broad jaw and nose, the eyes and lips… it was Poppa! After all these years… Gods…
It wasn’t a trick… it was real! She could see her mother’s figure, with a few pounds added to her frame, but it was still her! And Haikiv… he was no longer the little child she remembered! He was almost as tall as she was when she had left Orion!
Gods… She looked up at Surinh Dag. “What have you done?”
He looked down at her. “We’ve given them a free vacation from the family business. And we’ll be taking care of them… as long as you stay a good little girl, stay quiet about me, and do as you’re told…”
*
Dumont stared at the Security report, barely able to contain his ire – and self-recrimination, at not anticipating that the Rat Pack might take the actions that they did to escape, and to help Fantomax to escape as well. It was inexcusable, and put the organisation’s plans at risk, should either party choose to betray them.
He needed to have them found and dealt with… quietly. Fortunately, he knew of a freelance operative who would be ideal for the task-
“Mr Dumont, we have the Kasnomo online.”
He dropped the PADD in his hand and turned in his seat. “Onscreen.”
On his wall, the image of Commodore Hrelle, sitting in the Captain’s Chair of his ship, appeared. “The ruse was successful. The Paserak tribe at Ucarro bought it all, including their being ‘saved’ by the Bel-Zon. Word will soon spread through the Sector about Starfleet’s attack.”
Dumont had winced on seeing Hrelle, the image of the Caitian and the pain he received from his encounter, and encounter that had eventually left Dumont a prisoner of the S’ona for too many years, flooded back. But he quickly forced aside the memories. “Will they sign into the Alliance against the Federation?”
Hrelle looked to the right, where the transmission included Rasmussan, who answered. “Possibly. There seems to be some internal schism among the Paserak that they were reluctant to go into detail, but this mutual threat might make them set aside their differences.”
Dumont nodded at that, but finally acknowledged his feelings. “Madame, would you mind removing the disguise whenever we speak? It’s rather disconcerting.”
Hrelle nodded, reaching for something offscreen… and then the image of the Caitian deconstructed itself, revealing a human female with Mediterranean features, a tight bun of sable hair and a confident gleam in her hazel eyes. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr Dumont.”
“As you should, Madame.” He once more appreciated the skill and technique that the woman, known only as Alias, possessed in impersonating others for criminal gains. The reputation she had earned, starting with impersonating the deity Ardra on Ventax III a decade ago, and with subsequent cons elsewhere since, appearing as Kathyrn Janeway, the Dolhman of Elas, the Borg Queen and even one of the Q, was well-founded. “Proceed with the Fleets to the next mark-”
Dumont started at the alert on his desk. “Mr Dumont, Mr Zorin has left Bad Ronald’s Quarters, and is approaching!”
He turned back to the screen. “We’ll speak later.” He ended the transmission and rose as the door opened without preamble, and Zorin entered, his lean face a stony mask. Dumont studied him; their sponsor had an enigmatic fascination with the Chaotic entity Bad Ronald, and had, to Dumont’s knowledge, been one of the few to somehow meet it and leave alive, and still sane. This was his second visit, which seemed like tempting Fate. “Monsieur Zorin, you’re well?”
TO BE CONTINUED…
It looks like the pineapple is about to hit the fan. I like the buildup and anticipation from this episode. I can't wait to see what Papa Cat has to deal with next. The Bel-Zon look like they're going big and not going home. It's time to break out the heavy weaponry.
ReplyDeleteI hope that Zir is able to save her family. That was a backhanded move that Surinh Dag did. Let me know if an old writer can lead you any help. I can't wait to see where you take this chapter of the Esek Hrelle Adventures.
Thanks, Jack! The schemes of the Bel-Zon are indeed far-reaching, and frightening. At this stage, I honestly don't know who will survive from this...
DeleteThis one definitely cranked the tension and suspense up a couple hundred degrees. Can't wait to see where we're going from here.
ReplyDeleteThanks, David! I can't wait to see where we're going, either LOL
DeleteCan't wait to see how Papa Cat wil deal with this crisis
ReplyDeleteAnd,did the Bel-Zon employed a scientist called Davros?LOL
DeleteOhhh, "Bad Ronald", I get it now, very clever!
ReplyDeleteThanks! I load up some stories with many layers of often obscure pop culture references that amuse me, so I'm happy when others spot them :-)
Delete