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The Wrong Box (story)

shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
It was hard to say what was so unpleasing about the green-skinned man's appearance. He was tall and athletically built; his head was clean-shaven in the Orion manner; his features were clean-cut and regular. Perhaps the slight slant of his eyes was at just the wrong angle, or his cheekbones stood out a little too prominently, or his high-bridged nose was too straight and narrow, or the lips of his small mouth were a touch too full and plump.... Whatever it was, the overall effect was, somehow, disquieting.

He stood in the small room, facing the table, his hands folded before him. He stood, and he waited.

The table was bare, save for a metal box, perhaps the size of a shoebox. The box, too, was almost featureless; its top was marked only by a small, shallow, square depression.

The man stood, waiting, imperturbably patient.

His eyes flickered a little, but he showed no other reaction, when the door of the room slid open, and she came in.

She was tall, and her skin was dark jade in colour, and her hair was a waterfall of purest black. She wore the silks and jewels of a high-ranking Orion Matron. She stood and posed for a moment, framed in the doorway, one leg showing bare to the hip through the slit in her gown. There was nothing unpleasing about her face.... She stood, and let the small room fill with her presence, and then she stepped forward.

"Kalevar Thrang," she said, and her voice was a purr.

"Matron," said the man.

She strode up to him, looked into his face, into the glossy blackness of his hugely dilated pupils. Apparently satisfied, she stepped back, and turned towards the table. "You have brought me this?"

"I have, Matron." His voice was dull, respectful, obsequious.

"It looks... as I had expected," she said.

"It is as I said... but forgive me, Matron," Kalevar Thrang said. "There is a test... that only you can perform...."

"Of course." The Matron reached into the bosom of her gown, and drew out a small, square crystal. She reached out towards the box. As it came close, the crystal began to glow with a faint yellow light. The Matron smiled a perfect smile. She placed the crystal in the depression on the top of the box. It fitted exactly. The glow changed colour, from yellow to green, and there was a faint clicking sound - as of a lock being opened.

The Matron's smile grew broader. "Yes," she said. "You have done well -"

Then her expression changed. Her eyes widened with shock and surprise, and then emptied of any emotion at all. She made a small grunting noise, and a tiny trace of blood showed in a trickle from the corner of her mouth.

There was a trace of blood, too, on the long narrow knife that Thrang now withdrew from the Matron's back.

The Matron fell forward, collapsing to the floor in an inelegant tangle of limbs. She did not move again.

"I am gratified to hear it, Matron," said Kalevar Thrang. He wiped the knife clean and sheathed it. Then he picked up the box.
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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding USS King Estmere, NCC-92984

    "It even looks like a proper spaceship," I say.

    On the other side of the big viewport, we can see the Dechenchholing floating in her drydock; a narrow, tapering ovoid hull, flaring out just behind the waist into stubby trapezoidal wings tipped with rakish-looking warp nacelles. The weapons pods for her cannons are slung just beneath the wings, and the silvery hull now gleams with the greenish traces of advanced Romulan-designed armour and shielding. She looks fast, elegant and deadly - a thoroughbred among the workhorses of ordinary Starfleet ships passing by outside Earth Spacedock.

    The scruffy-looking young woman beside me makes a vaguely pleased noise. Her name is Pexlini; she looks like a moderately successful Talaxian dilithium miner, in worn civilian clothing with armoured boots and many cargo pouches, her brown skin covered with the reticulated patterns common to her species, her mousy hair drawn up into a simple topknot. That's what she looks like. As for what she is - well, the "Talaxian" bit is true, anyway.

    "Gotta admit, you guys did a great job," she says. "Must've been quite a challenge, yeah?"

    I shrug. "Experimental Engineering is used to these sorts of challenges. The Hazari systems are - interesting, certainly. But we were able to drop the Romulan modular packages in pretty seamlessly, I think. You're going to get much higher efficiency out of that corrosive-plasma armament - well, your engineers can fill you in on the technical specs."

    "Uh-huh," says Pexlini. Somehow, I don't think she'll be listening any too closely. "Well, anyway," she adds, "it'll be something to read on that long trip back to the Delta Quadrant -"

    "Oh, yes," I say. "About that."

    Pexlini's head snaps around to face me, her pale blue eyes glittering with instant suspicion. "What about that?" she demands.

    Two months of crawling around the interior of the Hazari escort, fitting the Romulan systems and a number of other upgrades, testing for compatibility and installing a whole new set of hybrid control software... and now comes the difficult part. "Starfleet Command reviewed your after-action reports," I begin.

    "Aw, cripes," says Pexlini. "We plugged the security leak in Delta Command, we squashed the Hazari's protomatter project, we stopped Tuarak and Nessick blowing up half the quadrant with it, too - now, don't tell me we didn't do it all by the book, because you know darn well there ain't no book for that kind of thing!"

    "Everyone's happy with your overall performance," I assure her. "There's just one or two things -"

    "Like what?"

    "Well," I say, "Starfleet Intelligence is concerned about your role - you're supposed to keep a relatively low profile, right? But that fight with the Kazon-Nirriz, and then the whole business with the Hazari and the Vaadwaur renegade - well, Intelligence is concerned that you've become a little too, umm, visible."

    Pexlini waves her hands in exasperation. "You know what it's like out there! Stuff needed to get done, I was on the spot, there was no one else to do it!"

    "But it did raise your profile," I point out. "And quite a lot. And that -" I point at the sleek shape of the Dechenchholing "- is going to be a lot more obvious than the Kazon heavy raider you used to fly." And which, amazingly, is still in a condition to fly. Just.

    "I got a justification for it," Pexlini snarls at me. "I got a chance to nab myself a Hazari ship, the sort of person I'm supposed to be wouldn't pass up a chance like that -"

    "Then there's the diplomatic problem," I say, raising my voice over hers. Heads turn towards us. "The, what was it, the Mask of Dhalselapur?"

    Pexlini pulls a face, and looks away from me, at the toes of her armoured boots. "That wasn't my fault," she mutters. "We needed leverage on the Hazari -"

    "So you stole an artifact one of them was meant to be guarding, and pressured them that way. Diplomatic Corps isn't best pleased about that, true, but they're realists, they're prepared to excuse it. Only, well, it would have been nice to give the artifact back -"

    "I was gonna." Now she sounds like a sulky teenager. "I had it in secure storage, only -"

    Only the storage wasn't secure enough to stand up to the Vaadwaur polaron barrage that opened up her quarters to vacuum. "We all appreciate it wasn't your fault," I say. "And, of course, the whole business can't be brought home to you, anyway." Not with the evidence scattered across interstellar space, and key witnesses assimilated by the Borg and then killed. "But, still, the diplomats would like time for the dust to settle. And between that, and Intelligence wanting to lower your profile - well, everyone feels it's best if you have an extended break from Delta Quadrant duties. Not permanent - we all appreciate your usefulness out there. Just, well, long enough for things to calm down."

    Pexlini kicks at the base of a nearby console, her armoured boot making a loud clang. "So what's the deal now, then?" she asks.

    "Officially? You're attached to Experimental Engineering on a temporary basis. For extended trials of the new systems on your ship."

    "I'm not an engineer!"

    "You don't have to be. You just have to take the Dechenchholing out and about, see how she handles, and report back." It's the same arrangement I have myself with EE - or used to. Now, my boss Admiral Semok is increasingly needed for other work - there is so much reconstruction that needs to be done - and I'm finding myself doing the admin and theoretical work that used to be his job. Maybe it's increased responsibility, but I don't have to like it.

    "What about my crew? They've got family in the Delta Quadrant, they've got commitments -"

    "Personnel Division has already talked with your Commander Pingood, they've made sure her welfare's been considered -"

    "I've got other officers from the Delta Quadrant!"

    I'm getting tired of this. "Oh yeah?" I say. "Name six."

    Pexlini glowers at me. She doesn't name six.

    "It's not a punishment," I say, as patiently as I can manage. "Just a precaution. Once Intelligence and SDC reckon things have calmed down enough, they'll be sending you back in. Until then, you just get to carry on as normal, only on this side of the galaxy."

    "Where you can keep an eye on me." She's still glowering.

    "Nobody expects you to set off any diplomatic incidents. It's not like you're Ronnie Grau, or Admiral Janna."

    Pexlini kicks the console again. "Goddamn - rusticated," she spits.

    "There is plenty of work to be done in this quadrant," I assure her. "If you really don't like the idea -" I point behind her, to the stairway leading up to the big glass-walled office. "Admiral Quinn's up there now. He's probably already heard you yelling."

    Pexlini looks up the steps. Then she sighs. "You and him already fixed this up, didn't you?"

    "It wasn't just me and Quinn, believe me." I take a brisker tone. "Go grab a drink at Club 47 or something, then come back and see me when you're ready, and we'll rough out a patrol pattern for you. Like I said, there's lots to do around here."

    She shakes her head. "OK, OK. I got the damn message." She slouches away, a picture of dejection.

    Then she turns back. "Hey," she says, "one thing."

    My antennae twitch. "What?"

    "What did Admiral Janna do with the Gorn Ambassador?"

    I shake my head. "You do not want to know."
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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Personal log: Heizis, officer commanding RRW Palatine

    I reach out with my mind, seizing the Tal Shiar guard's nervous system, feeling his life force flow into me. He yelps, a feeble cry, muffled by his breather mask. He falls to his knees, but he is not yet dead - A blow from my rifle butt finishes the job.

    I lope down the narrow passageway. Even through my own breather, the air of the Elachi base tastes foul: bitter and sulphurous. How the Tal Shiar can stand the stench - how they can stand working for the Elachi at all -

    I put such thoughts from my mind. I have a task to accomplish here.

    The intersection with the next corridor is monitored. Video surveillance only, according to our intelligence. I blink and squint at the helmet's optical menu, call up the armour's integrated systems, engage the distortion field. I am nothing but a shimmer in the tainted air as I sprint across the intersection. Omega Force technology - it has its uses, against enemies besides the Borg.

    One such enemy confronts me now, guarding the door at the corridor's end: the tall spindly form of an Elachi soldier. No way to communicate with such a being, to reason with it - not that I have any desire to. In the last instants of the distortion field's life, I raise the rifle to my shoulder and take aim.

    The field's capacitors are drained of energy; I flicker back into visibility. Before the Elachi can react, though, the sniper rifle makes its weird sneezing noise, and a hypersonic tritanium slug travels the length of the corridor in a fraction of a second. The Elachi's bulbous head implodes around the projectile, and fungoid brain matter sprays across the wall behind. More anti-Borg technology, Starfleet in origin. Useful.

    The Elachi was guarding the door to the maintenance node. Of course, the door is locked and secured.... Love, they say, laughs at locksmiths. I finger my specialist tools lovingly as I bypass the security circuits and open the door.

    Inside, it is dark by the standards of most species. I can see perfectly clearly. Fortunate, for time is not on my side, now. Elachi technology, even when purely mechanical, follows organic lines; this maintenance node is something like an organ, a gland or a lymph node, perhaps, in the body of the asteroid base. There is little room to move, among the piping and the wiring. I key commands into my wristband, transfer the sniper rifle back into my transporter buffer, bring out the antiproton carbine instead. The carbine is squat, compact, and murderously efficient. I unsling the padded backpack, open it, take out the canister.

    Carefully.

    There is an access port here, allowing for connections to the central pipe. I have several adaptors in my backpack; the third one fits. I connect the canister. My hands want to shake; I will not let them. I test. The seal is firm. I draw in a breath -

    "Attention." The harsh voice speaks from all around me. "To the Republic sabotage squad aboard this station. Escape is impossible. Capture is certain. Surrender yourselves now and your deaths will be merciful. No further warnings will be given."

    They have found one of the bodies. And, apparently, I am a squad, all by myself. I snarl at the thought. I am an army - Then, I steel myself. I have a task, here.

    I touch the handle at the end of the canister. I give it a quick, sharp twist to the right.

    I do not hear a hiss. That is good. If I heard a hiss, the seal with the adaptor would not be secure, and I would be dead. I make myself wait until the indicator shows the canister to be quite empty.

    Elachi incubation chambers are grown more than made, grown of rare and delicate materials at immense expense of time and labour. Now, the radioactive biotoxin in the canister is diffusing into the central nutrient line that supplies this base's chambers - a biotoxin that is lethal at levels of one part per billion. It will penetrate every chamber, every tube, killing and contaminating, rendering the whole expensive installation utterly useless. The fungus monsters will not be pleased. Perhaps they will take out their unhappiness on the Tal Shiar -

    And if the Tal Shiar find me, they will make their displeasure known to me, in many definite ways. Time to move.

    The capacitors in the Omega Force suit have rebuilt their charge. I engage the distortion field again, become briefly invisible as I leave the maintenance node. Two Tal Shiar troopers are advancing cautiously down the corridor - not cautiously enough -

    There is a dark joy in being aehallh, monster-ghost, sudden death out of the darkness. The carbine spits scarlet fire as I become visible, burning into their bodies. I regret the need, now, for the breather, for the suit's helmet. I would wish my bared fangs to be the last thing they saw.

    Stealth is no longer possible; I need speed. I run down the corridor, boots clanging on hexagonal Elachi deckplates. They must catch sight of me on the video screens, now -

    "Republic saboteurs!" The voice over the speakers is louder and angrier now. "You have been warned! Surrender now and -" Then, it cuts out. Already, Elachi tissues will be withering and dying in the contaminated pods. The scale of the damage will be apparent in only a few more minutes. Whoever is speaking, now, has some explaining to do.

    Shrill screams of disruptor shots - not aimed at me, but close at hand. Someone is shooting at shadows. Well, shadows have always been my people's allies.

    I run. The net must be closing tight about me, now, and there is a timer on the HUD inside my helmet, a timer counting down, and it show precious few seconds remaining. I run. There are shouts nearby, and another shot, green light stabbing suddenly past me -

    I run, and then I am facing a blank wall of rock, and there is nowhere left to run. Behind the breather and the helmet, I smile.

    I turn around. Tal Shiar troops are advancing, weapons in hand. I could kill several of them with the carbine, but the rest would then kill me. Better to wait, for those last few seconds.

    The lead centurion raises his rifle. "Give yourself up -" he begins.

    The timer reaches zero.

    The deckplates shiver, and I duck down to avoid any snap-shots from the Tal Shiar disruptors, and then the rock wall behind me shatters and vanishes in a spray of rubble into space. The shaped charges, placed when I began this mission, have functioned precisely as planned. A roaring wind seizes me and blasts me into darkness -

    Cold and vacuum pull hard at my skin. A silently screaming Tal Shiar soldier spins across my line of vision and vanishes. I reach up and trigger the beacon on my suit. I exhale. If I do not, the pressure differential will rupture my lungs - but now I have no breath left, and the vacuum of space is draining me, draining me of heat and thought and life itself -

    Green light sparkles around me, and there is light, and gravity. I crash down heavily onto the transporter pad.

    "Sir!" A shape, by the transporter console; I blink away tears from my space-chilled eyes. A female Romulan, small, neat, carefully groomed; N'aina, chief engineer. Naturally, she would trust no one else with the transporter for this operation. "Sir!" she repeats. "Are you all right?"

    I lurch to my feet, tear off the helmet and the breather, spit blood across the transporter pad. "Status report!" I rasp at her.

    "Pass complete. We are cloaked and proceeding out of the system. Their forces are on alert but have not detected us - Sir, are you all right?"

    There is blood coming from my nose and my ears. It will pass. "Everything went well," I croak at her. "I need to be on the bridge." And I stumble off the pad and out of the transporter room. N'aina makes as if to offer me her arm, for support - then, she thinks better of it.

    By the time I reach the bridge, my breathing is almost normal again. All heads turn as I stagger out of the turbolift. The command chair is vacant. Naturally. I settle into it with a feeling of relief.

    "The base has sealed the localized breach." E'Maon is reporting; the intelligence officer is sharp-featured, foxy-looking, as Reman as I am myself. "Gun emplacements and satellite defences are engaged and actively targeting. Support vessels are patrolling at maximum alert status." I can see them on the tactical display for myself; swarms of Scorpion fighters, the saw-edged triangles of S'Golth escorts, the nightmare spiny shape of a Llaihr-class destroyer. "I recommend," E'Maon continues dryly, "that we leave the system and warp out before they bring their tachyon detection grids online."

    "Make it so," I grind out. My chest hurts. I will not let it show.

    E'Maon's eyes glitter, but he says nothing. It is left for Bi'or, my exec, to ask with typical Klingon tactlessness, "Were you successful? Did it work?"

    I glare at her. I can only imagine how my eyes must look now. "Of course it worked."

    ---

    We escape. I am glad of that. The Palatine is a fine ship, but a single Aelahl-class warbird is no match for the forces now gathered around the dying Elachi base. All that firepower, so useless.... The thought gives me a warm glow of satisfaction.

    Medical officers fuss over me, but the brief exposure to vacuum has left no significant marks. Still, though, I will be glad to return to base, to relax -

    "Sir." Kaxath, the operations officer at the comms station, breaks into my reverie. "I am receiving a priority transmission from New Romulus," he says. "I do not recognize this priority coding -"

    My ears twitch. "Then it must be interesting," I say. "On screen."

    The face that appears is that of a woman, dark-haired, pale-skinned, fine-boned. I snarl at her. "What do you want, Romulan?"

    "Jolan tru." It will take more than I can do, to dent the imperturbability of T'Laihhae. "There is a situation requiring assistance from a KDF liaison."

    Her dark eyes give nothing away. "What situation?" I demand. "You are allied with the Federation, what have you to do with the KDF?"

    "This situation potentially affects all of us," T'Laihhae says. "It appears that the Rehanissen Archive is now live. Both Starfleet and the KDF need to be apprised of this development, as a matter of some urgency."
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  • antonine3258antonine3258 Member Posts: 2,391 Arc User
    Ooh - new story, and the pieces enter the board! Heizis is Reman KDF-aligned, I take it?
    Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker

    Member Access Denied Armada!

    My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
  • themetalstickmanthemetalstickman Member Posts: 1,010 Arc User
    Hey, been waiting for the next story, welcome back!​​
    Og12TbC.jpg

    Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved 800 lives, including your mother's, and yours.

    I dare you to do better.
  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Heizis is, indeed, KDF aligned. She's a perfectly balanced Reman: chips on both shoulders.
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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    - crazy Hazari controls, is it this one? No? It can't be that one, I already turned that on, if it was that one, I'd already be recording - oh. Um. Right. Pexlini recording, CO of the Dechenchholing, um, and all that jazz.

    So, anyway, yeah. Before I got myself shanghai'ed into working for a scar-faced Andorian screwdriver jockey, my boss - nominally - was Admiral Paul Hengest. Paul's a human male with dark skin and white hair - some of the white hair, I'm responsible for, I guess, but most of it's just age.

    Turns out he knows Tylha Shohl, too, from some way back. Probably the two of them helped cook up this little plan to keep me safely out of the Delta Quadrant. And Tylha knows T'Laihhae, too, the Romulan intelligence hotshot - so-called - who's been yelling for a meetup. So it's quite a little family reunion that's taking place, now, in the conference room at Earth Spacedock.

    The only person nobody seems to know already is the gargoyle in the iridescent purple and black uniform. She's sitting next to T'Laihhae and glowering, but the glower might just be built in. Some female Remans look almost like Romulans, except bald.... this one doesn't. Her skin is grey and rough, almost pebbly, in texture; her eyes glare out of blackened sockets, and the membranes over her temples are black, too. Her name is Heizis, and she doesn't look happy to be here.

    "The Rehanissen Archive," Paul Hengest says thoughtfully. "I've heard of it, naturally -"

    "I haven't," says Tylha. Neither have I, but you won't catch me admitting to it.

    T'Laihhae responds with a very brief smile, the sort where you want to freeze-frame it so you can be sure it happened at all. "You will have heard of the Valtothi," she says.

    "Minor neutral power," Tylha says thoughtfully, "invaded by the Klingons in the early days of that war, liberated as part of the reparations for Bercera IV -"

    "Prior to that," says T'Laihhae, "an independent power that maintained its neutrality through careful exercise of a widespread and extremely competent intelligence agency. Gethrek Rehanissen maintained networks of agents across much of Federation, Klingon and Romulan space. Even now, we have no clear idea of just how far his operations extended. It is safe to say, though, that virtually nothing of importance happened in the Klingon Empire without Rehanissen knowing about it. The Klingons, naturally, were the priority target for Valtothi intelligence."

    "It didn't stop them being invaded, though," Tylha says.

    "By that time, Rehanissen himself had been dead three decades," T'Laihhae replies. "His organization had... decayed, significantly. Especially as so many of his secrets died with him, or were recorded only in his sealed personal archive."

    "An intelligence agency boss who became a law unto himself?" Paul asks. "There are parallels, I suppose. Reinhard Gehlen, for instance -"

    "But this archive," says Tylha. "If Rehanissen is long dead, surely it's only of historical importance by now?"

    T'Laihhae and Paul exchange glances. "If what we suspect of the archive is true," T'Laihhae says, "then that... historical data... is still of considerable consequence. There are disputes, territorial and economic, between Federation and Empire, between the Gorn and the Klingons, among the Klingon Great Houses.... These disputes reach back a long way, and the people involved have long memories."

    "She's right," Paul says. "If there's enough deep background in this archive, it could re-ignite border disputes all the way across the former neutral zone. And that's not even considering what it might do to the Empire. The Klingons know how to keep an old grudge going."

    Tylha nods, slowly. Of course, she's Andorian. The Andorians were a warrior species, still are, a lot of the time. Tylha knows about clan-honour and vendettas. She may be all Starfleet and dedicated to the Federation on the outside, but she knows this stuff, deep in her bones. "So why hasn't this archive surfaced before?" she asks.

    Another microsecond smile from T'Laihhae. "Complications arose," she says. "The archive itself was sold, by a venal Valtothi agent, to an Orion Syndicate operative. However, Rehanissen was nothing if not security conscious - the archival unit was secured with a unique quantum-entangled isolinear enciphering crystal. Without that crystal, the contents of the archive would be nothing more than indecipherable data noise -"

    "Let me guess," says Tylha. "Another venal agent sold the key to someone else."

    "Quite," says T'Laihhae. "To another Orion house within the Syndicate, in fact. I gather there were numerous attempts, at first, to bring the archive and the key together. All failed, as each house tried to deceive and double-cross the other. There is very little honour in the Orion Syndicate, I am afraid."

    "So what's changed?" asks Tylha.

    "Fifteen days ago, an Orion operative named Kalevar Thrang began circulating data records with Rehanissen's personal identification codes," T'Laihhae says. "Nothing of any particular interest - personnel records from the now defunct Valtothi intelligence headquarters - but definitely Rehanissen's files, and not material previously available. Thrang has - let it be known - that more substantial information may be purchased. Naturally, when Republic Intelligence learned of this, we set out to verify that the Rehanissen Archive was still in... the two places where it was kept." Another microsecond smile. "Neither of the two houses concerned will admit to any sort of security breach... but theirs is the sort of silence that speaks volumes."

    "Kalevar Thrang. I know that name." Tylha's antennae are positively squirming in thought. T'Laihhae quirks an eyebrow at her. "Got it," Tylha says. "He was one of the possible suspects Klingon Intelligence came up with, back when Ronnie Grau got kidnapped during the Siohonin crisis. Independent operator -"

    "Well," says Paul, "obviously, he's a front. A solo independent who tried to cross the Syndicate would be dead within hours. The question is, who's he fronting for?"

    "He is bait." Miss Nosferatu 2300 speaks up for the first time. Her voice sounds like she's gargling gravel, kinda like what you'd expect. "Our best move, though, is to take him, and see where he leads."

    "Commander Heizis is one of our KDF liaison officers, and ideally placed to cooperate with Klingon Intelligence in this matter." T'Laihhae's voice is completely level, but there is something about the way she says "Commander" that - if I had antennae like Tylha's - would be making them stand up straight. It's sort of like the same way people call me "Captain". My rank, on paper, is quite a bit higher than that - has to be, to command the resources I might need - but "Captain" will do, for anyone who doesn't need to know any better. "Commander" Heizis, now, sounds the same way in my ears. So. Gravel-features over there is a player, is she? Then I reflect that, being Reman, she's also a telepath, so I try to shut my brain down and think happy thoughts for a bit.

    "Thrang approached Republic Intelligence directly with his offer?" Paul asks.

    "He did. We have reason to believe he also contacted several other agencies - the new Valtothi intelligence service among them." Microsecond smile. "Sound business sense - one cannot start a bidding war unless one's customers know there are other bidders. The emphasis seems to be on newer agencies - organizations that lack the deep historical background that comes with continuity of operations -"

    "People who would benefit from gaining a huge dose of deep historical background out of the Rehanissen Archive," says Tylha. It's at this point that I get an idea.

    "Hey," I say, "I've had a thought."

    "That a Delta Quadrant operator would be very interested in acquiring Alpha Quadrant deep background material?" asks Paul. Damn him. He always could think a couple of steps ahead of me. Guess that's why he got to be my boss.

    "Kinda," I mutter.

    "It's a thought," says Tylha. "Pexlini could play that role... and another potential customer could draw Thrang out, maybe to a place where someone could - take the bait."

    "One question," says Paul, and he looks hard at T'Laihhae. "Why us? Why are you coming to us, specifically, with this?"

    "The information is being disseminated along a number of informal channels," T'Laihhae replies. "President Okeg and Chancellor J'mpok are both being privately informed. For the present, Republic Intelligence hopes to act - informally - as a clearing house for the coordination of responses. I recalled the level of cooperation I received during the Hegemony affair, both formally from your department of Starfleet Intelligence, and -" she glances sidelong at Tylha "- informally. I believe both of you to be reliable." Her cool gaze rests on me for a moment. "I am inclined to trust your associate on that basis."

    "So, we tell you what we're doing, and you let us know if we're treading on anyone else's toes?" asks Paul.

    "For the present. Until a more formal coordinated response can be set up. The important thing is to move." T'Laihhae leans forward, sudden motion emphasizing her words. "We cannot afford to wait on the formation of a joint intelligence committee. We need to deal with this problem now. Ideally, track down Thrang's backers and obtain the Archive for ourselves; at a minimum, identify their aims and goals, and neutralize whatever damage they can do. Our response needs to be immediate."

    Tylha is wearing a sour face. Paul nods slowly. "Very well. Let's talk specifics," he says.

    ---

    Tylha still has her sour face on later, as we walk back towards Experimental Engineering's offices. "I don't like any part of this," she says.

    We talked specifics. Specifically, I've got some recognition codes that might work, and that I might plausibly have got hold of, if I were some kind of Delta Quadrant operative. Now, I have to head out to Eta Meridia, an obscure system out near Japori, and try to contact Thrang from there. If I find him - we get to find out just how plausible these codes are, I guess. And Heizis will be shadowing me along the way, which is enough to give me a nice warm itch, right between the shoulder blades. So I'm kinda not feeling too cheerful myself, really. "What's bothering you?" I ask.

    Tylha sighs. "Secrets," she says. "I've never liked secrets."

    "Well, look on the bright side," I say. "At least we're in on these ones."

    It seems to be the wrong thing to say. Tylha glares. Which is kinda not something you want to see, from a forbidding-looking Andorian who's a head taller than you are. "That's part of the problem," she says. "We're in on these ones. Who decides that? Who's to say there isn't some other T'Laihhae, somewhere, making decisions about stuff we don't get to know about?" She shakes her head. "Who gets to decide? Us? The President? Gethrek Rehanissen? What right has anyone got to decide what I do or don't know about?"

    "Well," I say, "yeah... see your point, kinda... but...."

    "But?"

    "Well,OK, secrets are bad, right, information wants to be free, I can see that. But sometimes not keeping 'em's, well, worse."

    Tylha snorts. "Like protomatter research?"

    "Yeah. I mean, OK, we can't sit on it forever, but if some of this stuff gets out in the public domain... well, the business with Ge'Sirn's gizmo got kinda messy, right?"

    "I suppose so." She is not like me, she is too mature to kick moodily at the bottoms of consoles as we walk past. I can tell she wants to, though. "That's another thing that bothers me. This Thrang, and whoever's running him, are in a position to turn over a whole lot of rocks and see what comes creeping out."

    "And that's bad?"

    "It could be." She glances suspiciously from side to side. You can tell she's not in Intelligence. Her voice drops a bit as she says, "You've been around long enough to have heard about a man calling himself Franklin Drake...."

    "Oh," I say. "Yeah. Him."

    Tylha scowls. "He and the - organization - he claims to represent - they've been around a long time. I'm worried about how much of their stuff is part of Rehanissen's deep historical background."

    "Bits of Section 31 scurrying out from under rocks? Yeah, I can see that could be a problem."

    "Yes. And Drake and his organization have no scruples worth thinking about. If they think they're in danger - well." She shrugs. "I think what I'm trying to say is, don't trust anyone, even if they're supposed to be on your side. Watch your back."

    "Hey," I assure her, "I always do. It's the only one I've got."
    8b6YIel.png?1
  • dalolorndalolorn Member Posts: 3,655 Arc User
    What ever happened to Vectors, though? :/

    Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.p3OEBPD6HU3QI.jpg
  • themetalstickmanthemetalstickman Member Posts: 1,010 Arc User
    dalolorn wrote: »
    What ever happened to Vectors, though? :/

    shevet had it closed due to constant heckling from someone whose name I will not post. shevet finished it up and posted the rest of it in a blog here​​
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    Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved 800 lives, including your mother's, and yours.

    I dare you to do better.
  • dalolorndalolorn Member Posts: 3,655 Arc User
    dalolorn wrote: »
    What ever happened to Vectors, though? :/

    shevet had it closed due to constant heckling from someone whose name I will not post. shevet finished it up and posted the rest of it in a blog here​​

    Ah. I got the link, but mistakenly thought it was just for the one chapter. :blush:

    Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.p3OEBPD6HU3QI.jpg
  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    The bar was basic, a single large room with a few tables and chairs, a long counter at one end with synthehol replicators behind it. The Ferengi bartender rarely used those, though, his customers preferring the varied bottles stored beneath the counter.

    It was mid-afternoon by local time, and there were few customers in evidence - a group of Tellarites gathered around one table, two Romulans talking in a shadowed corner... and one small man with blue skin and white hair, nursing a drink, alone at the end of the counter.

    He was the one who looked round and froze, when the doors swung open and the Orions came in.

    There were four of them; two thugs, hands on their holstered disruptor pistols; a young matron-in-training, the kind they called a vixen... and the massive, burly form of a senior enforcer, nearly seven feet tall and with muscles like boulders. He held a tricorder in one hand. It looked like a toy.

    "Troyian," he rumbled. The blue-skinned man twitched. The enforcer took a step forwards. "Your name is Shaltri, yes?" The blue-skinned man made no reply. "Yes. You are one of Kalevar Thrang's crew." Another step, and another. "We are looking for Kalevar Thrang. Where is he?"

    Behind him, a cool tenor voice said, "Right here. Please don't break my engineer, I happen to need him."

    The Orions turned as one. Kalevar Thrang stood in the doorway, a slight smile on his full lips.

    "Thrang," said the enforcer. "You're to be taken alive, if possible -"

    Thrang nodded, stepping into the bar. "Sounds fair to me."

    The two thugs drew their guns and fired in one movement. Green light seared through the space where Thrang had been, just a moment before. He had a weapon in his hand, now. The snap and scarlet flash of sonic antiproton fire slashed across the air, once, twice. The two thugs dropped.

    The vixen advanced with a sinuous, swaying motion, the haze of her control pheromones almost visible around her. Kalevar Thrang spared her one glance, then felled her with a backhand blow that sent her flying back, over a table, to fall in a moaning heap on the floor.

    The enforcer had a gun out, now. Green light flashed at the same instant as red, and both men were illuminated in the electric glare of personal shields.

    "All right," the enforcer growled. "Guess I'll have to stun you the old-fashioned way."

    He moved with astonishing speed, lunging for Thrang with hands outstretched. Thrang sidestepped, caught one arm, twisted it. There was a wet crack of breaking bone. Thrang lashed out with one foot, catching the enforcer on the side of one knee. Bellowing with pain, the man crashed to the floor. Thrang was on him in an instant, his hands striking hard, accurate, scientific blows.

    The enforcer's shouts subsided into strangled gasps. Kalevar Thrang stood.

    "You were going to ask a lot of dull questions about how I broke your security." He reached into a belt pouch and drew out an isolinear chip. "This has a lot of the answers you want. Not all the answers, what would be the sport in that? But enough to be interesting." He dropped the chip on the floor. The enforcer's pain-filled eyes struggled to focus on it.

    "Oh, and you were planning to exact a grisly revenge on me, too," Thrang added. "I'm afraid I don't have time for that, right now - and besides, you wouldn't be first in line." He grinned. "Not by a long way."

    He turned and looked around. The bartender and the other patrons were either dazed by the vixen's pheromones, or simply keeping well out of the situation. Thrang nodded to Shaltri. "See? All according to plan."

    "Right, boss." The Troyian stood. "What now?"

    "Well," said Thrang, "I really do need you - we've got places to go, and soon. Looks like we're going to be busy for some time. Oh, and -" he grinned again "- make sure you dress warm."
    8b6YIel.png?1
  • antonine3258antonine3258 Member Posts: 2,391 Arc User
    Hmm, Thrang is competent, knows his enemies, and has some plan for all this. Rura Penthe maybe for somewhere cold? Good place to bury some old secret.
    Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker

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  • jonsillsjonsills Member Posts: 10,354 Arc User
    Hmm, Thrang is competent, knows his enemies, and has some plan for all this. Rura Penthe maybe for somewhere cold? Good place to bury some old secret.
    Or dig a few up...
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  • themetalstickmanthemetalstickman Member Posts: 1,010 Arc User
    Maybe Andoria?

    I was about to suggest Hoth but then I remembered that that was the wrong franchise. :) ​​
    Og12TbC.jpg

    Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved 800 lives, including your mother's, and yours.

    I dare you to do better.
  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Heizis

    "At least it is a problem we do not have," I muse, as I sit contemplating the astrographic display.

    "Sir?" says Bi'or.

    "Historical background," I say. "All this uncovering of old secrets, old betrayals... it is scarcely relevant to my people." I smile without humour. "What would we learn, from this archive? That we were betrayed, oppressed, abused? We already know these things.... Reman history. It is unpleasant, but it is in no way complicated."

    "You might find out more about those who abused you," says Bi'or, "and seek vengeance?"

    "To what end? There is not enough blood in the galaxy to wash out the memories of my people's oppression.... Where is the Dechenchholing, currently?"

    "Still in formation," Kaxath reports. "Holding course and speed."

    "The Talaxian is a reasonably competent shiphandler, at least," I mutter. Truth be told, I do not know the full capabilities of the Hazari destroyer, and that bothers me a little. At present, the Dechenchholing is at warp, maintaining a constant course towards Eta Meridia, with the Palatine tucked neatly behind her, hopefully obscured by her warp contrail from casual inspection.

    I turn, surveying the bridge. Everything seems normal enough... N'aina, I notice, is absorbed in work at the main engineering console. "Engineering. Is there a problem?"

    N'aina looks up. "Oh. No, sir. Just some work that needs to be done - specs on the combat interface with the Hazari ship, and -"

    "Combat interface?" I ask.

    "Hazari ships are designed to support each other in battle," N'aina says. "With a little work on integrating the combat data transfer protocols, we can take advantage of that, if we have to go into battle with the Dechenchholing."

    "I see." I consider. "I am not sure that I want us to be dependent upon another vessel...."

    "It's not dependency, sir," says N'aina. "Just another potential asset. Like, well, the other project I have on hand."

    "Other project?" She works well on her own initiative; this is good. But I prefer to be kept informed -

    "I took the opportunity to integrate a Starfleet photonic support package into Engineering. If the engineering crew suffer casualties in combat -"

    "A Starfleet engineering hologram? Be very careful with that," I growl. "I heard what happened on Voyager."

    "I'm taking precautions, sir."

    "See that you do. The last thing I want is for my ship's systems to start exploring their feelings in prose and demanding equal rights." There is a snort of suppressed laughter from somewhere on the bridge.

    "I'll be careful, sir," says N'aina.

    Then E'Maon speaks up. "I have a signal," he announces. "Fragmentary - subspace channel in the epsilon range - I am attempting to resolve it."

    This sounds interesting. "Who uses those frequencies?" I ask.

    "Several possibilities," says E'Maon absently, his fingers almost stroking the comms console. "Got it. Ferengi, automated distress signal." He turns towards me. "There are interference patterns suggesting it is being deliberately jammed."

    Intriguing. I think for a moment. "I doubt we can afford to be distracted from our primary mission -" I begin.

    "Incoming message from the Dechenchholing," E'Maon interrupts. "On secure channel."

    I sigh. "On screen."

    The Talaxian's face appears on my viewer. "Palatine," she says. "Change of plan. We're picking up a distress signal from a Ferengi ship -"

    "You are not thinking of investigating? We have a mission in progress."

    "Investigate, hell," says Pexlini. "We're moving to offer assistance. Course change in two minutes, so, yanno, better get ready to shift?"

    I sit bolt upright in my command chair. "Have you lost your mind? Starfleet might have some obligation to assist vessels in distress - might I remind you that you are not currently supposed to be Starfleet?"

    "Dunno how it is where you come from, but my momma always told me everyone's got an obligation to answer distress calls. Course change in one minute forty-five, now, so get ready."

    "I have long-range readings, sir." E'Maon has an earpiece in place, now, and his console is alive with data readouts. "Ferengi Nandi-class warship under attack by an Orion battleship. There's another contact -" He puts his hand to the earpiece. "Starfleet vessel, USS Morden, signalling immediate response."

    I glare at Pexlini. She is looking off the screen. "There. Starfleet has the matter in hand. Now will you see sense?"

    "Nuh-uh," says Pexlini. "I'm getting specs on the Morden now, she's a Miranda-class frigate, no way she can hold off a battleship by herself -"

    "A Nandi-class warship -"

    "Is already in trouble, right, or they wouldn't be asking for help. Anyway, I'm kinda done talking, here. Setting course, three four mark three seven niner, executing in one." The screen blanks out.

    I snarl. "Quixotic halfwit!"

    "Orders, sir?" says Bi'or.

    "Shoot her down ourselves, or abort the mission, or - back her up. I know which I would prefer, but - Follow the Dechenchholing's course change. Stay cloaked until we are well within combat range. Crew to battle stations."

    Alert sirens sound. Palatine swings smoothly around, following the Hazari ship's new course.

    "The situation is - becoming clearer," says E'Maon. "The Ferengi ship is emitting substantial random radiation - consistent with a ruptured plasma manifold. Their main drives must be down. The Orion ship will have their shields down in minutes, at this rate. The Morden is producing a lot of comms chatter -" He pulls a face. "I think the Morden's captain is trying to persuade the Orions that they do not want Starfleet involvement or Federation witnesses to whatever they are doing."

    "Persuasion rather than combat. Sound enough reasoning, since the Morden is so much weaker.... Is it working?"

    "Not as far as I can see, sir." Well, that is often the trouble with persuasion and diplomacy. "Dechenchholing is dropping out of warp."

    "Follow suit. Stand by to decloak."

    The situation is clear, now, on my tactical display. The Ferengi Nandi-class is a fast, powerful light warship - its agility is normally one of its strengths, though. With its drive crippled, this one is now bleeding flames from a dozen or more hull breaches, as the Orion Slavemaster-class battleship attacks with ferocity and without subtlety. Dazzling pinpoints of light streak past the Slavemaster's prow - photon torpedoes. With proper Starfleet punctiliousness, the Morden is firing warning shots.

    Pexlini, at least, has better sense. Dechenchholing crashes out of subspace and arrows straight for the Orion ship, closing hard and fast, and unleashing a barrage of cannon fire. Corrosive plasma weapons, tuned to disrupt structural integrity fields and the crystal structure of hull armour. Typical Hazari armament. The battleship's shields flare and waver under the assault, and fire blooms from its flank as some of the bolts pierce through.

    The Slavemaster turns, presenting its main armament towards this new threat, disruptor beams lashing out at the Dechenchholing. Now, it is Pexlini's turn to have her shields battered - but the Hazari ship has deployed a shield drone, and, for the moment, those shields are heavily reinforced. For the moment - I plot the Orion ship's movements in my head, work out its probable weak points, judge my optimum position -

    "Flank speed, two niner seven mark three eight five. Target forward batteries. Divert all excess power to weapons, ready the singularity projector -" And wait, and wait - Now. "Decloak and fire!"

    Palatine shimmers into visibility amid a blaze of green-hot plasma fire, beam arrays and torpedoes tearing at the Slavemaster's aft shields. The shield glows brightly for a moment, then fails - just in time for the singularity projector to do its work. A collapsing quantum singularity, projected along the line of my ship's spine - now, slamming into the battleship's hull with the force of a falling asteroid, exotic energies surrounding it, tearing at the ship's armour -

    Dechenchholing comes about in a screaming tight turn and swoops over us, unleashing the white-gold fury of another cannon barrage into the Slavemaster at point-blank range.

    The battleship's impulse engines glow brightly as it pulls away at flank speed, trailing air and burning debris from its ravaged flank. Its disruptors flash fire back towards us, but it is weak and uncoordinated, barely enough to irritate my forward shields. We have hurt that ship, hurt it badly.

    "Morden and Dechenchholing are both transmitting demands for surrender to the Orion ship," E'Maon reports.

    I nod. "Add our voice to theirs." The Orions are pragmatists, they will surrender well before they die -

    The screen goes white.

    Palatine rocks and judders; warning lights flash against shields and inertial dampeners. "What was that?" I demand. On the tactical display, there is nothing but a cloud of white-hot vapour where the Slavemaster was. "That was more than just a core breach -"

    "Scanning now," says E'Maon.

    "Whatever it was," says N'aina, "we took it - no structural damage, just stress on the shields -"

    "Signal the other ships. Offer assistance if necessary." The Dechenchholing appears no worse hurt than ourselves - the Morden had the good sense to hang back once the shooting started in earnest - but the Ferengi ship might have suffered more damage in the blast.

    "Getting readings now," says E'Maon. "Not just a core breach - there was a core breach, but it was secondary to a high intensity antimatter detonation. And there were numerous smaller explosions, too... I've heard of things like this," he says, and his expression is grim.

    "Explain," I snap at him.

    "Scuttling charges," says E'Maon. "A single antimatter charge to ensure a core breach... and smaller charges, too, in the ship's shuttles and escape pods. To make sure, in the event of possible capture - there are no survivors."

    I stare at him. "No sane commander would permit such modifications to their ship -"

    "Nobody would choose to, certainly," says E'Maon. "And the Orion Syndicate, if you ask them, will say that this sort of thing is just a rumour. A tall tale. And mostly, that's true." He looks at the cooling vapours on the main viewer. "Except, today, it isn't."

    ---

    The damage to our ships is negligible. The Ferengi warship, however, requires hours of jury-rigging before it can even limp away. There is little I can do, only worry and wonder.

    What were those Orions doing? What was so secret about their mission, that they had to be completely destroyed in case they should reveal it?

    There are no answers from the particulate debris of the Orion ship. And the Ferengi are, at least apparently, an innocent party in this affair - they claim to have no idea why they were attacked, and we cannot press them too closely. If this were Republic territory, I could make them talk, I know -

    As things stand, I can only brood.

    I am still brooding when a hail comes from the Dechenchholing. When she appears on the screen, Pexlini looks tired, harassed and unkempt.

    "Been helping with repairs to the Nandi," she says.

    "What do you want?" I retort. "A commendation for your selflessness?"

    "Just keeping you in the loop," Pexlini replies. "See, I got to chatting with some of the Ferengi, and, well, when my family first arrived in this quadrant, we got sorta caught by the Ferengi Alliance. So I know a bit about how they operate, kinda thing."

    "Is there a point to any of this?"

    "Yeah. One of them let slip they were working for the FCA's External Auditing Division."

    "How utterly fascinating." I glare at her.

    "External Auditing," Pexlini says, with oh-so-obvious patience in her voice, "is one of those euphemism things, kinda-sorta. It does exactly what it says, keeps tracks of assets external to the Ferengi Alliance. Military assets, mostly. That ship was on a mission from, well, basically Ferengi military intelligence. So, you got any guesses as to what they might've been chasing after? 'Cause I keep turning it over in my head, and the only answer I got is, same thing as us."

    8b6YIel.png?1
  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    "Let us understand one another," said J'mpok. "Your people, your organization, you yourself... all valued and trusted allies of the Klingon Empire. Your efforts on the Empire's behalf are known and appreciated." He leaned forwards in his chair. "However. Try your wiles on me, and I will make you eat your own scent glands. Do I make myself clear?"

    "Pellucid, Chancellor." Melani D'ian smiled. The curve of her lips was flawless, but it was belied by the hard glitter in her eyes.

    J'mpok relaxed, studying his visitor through heavy-lidded eyes. The head of the Orion Syndicate - the uncrowned empress of Orion space - was the quintessence of an Orion Matron, coldly and flawlessly beautiful, dressed in silks and jewels and platinum filigree. She looked very out of place in the austere surroundings of the Chancellor's private office.

    "So, then," he said, "how may I assist you?"

    Melani D'ian let the smile fade. "You will have been briefed already concerning the Rehanissen Archive."

    "I have." J'mpok scowled. "A cesspool of antique treacheries. If I held it in my hands, I would clean it out with one blast from my disruptor - though I know Imperial Intelligence would never forgive me."

    "It is causing problems. It is likely to cause more. Firstly, there are... recriminations... between the two Houses who separately held the Archive. Each blames the other for intransigence in failing to reach a compromise before this - and for their failures in security."

    "Only to be expected. How violent are these recriminations?"

    "There have been some incidents. They are being dealt with. However, there are other... incidents... which are not all so easily accountable for. There is friction among the members of the Syndicate -"

    "Various elements," J'mpok broke in, "who fear that past double-dealing will be exposed through the Archive, who anticipate reprisals for that - and who have decided, therefore, to get their own retaliation in first." He shook his head. "It would be more productive, I think, if they were simply to acknowledge their faults, make a clean breast of it, and accept the consequences."

    "In an ideal world," Melani D'ian said frostily, "that might be so. The Chancellor is aware, I hope, that this is not an ideal world."

    "Truth will out. The more one attempts to conceal it, the more painful the final revelation."

    "I hear and respect the Chancellor's opinion. Others may be less easily persuaded."

    J'mpok smiled. "Quite. In any case, it is not my problem, is it? It is a matter of internal discipline in your organization. Unless you are asking for Imperial support? I am sure I can send Imperial police to Ter'jas Mor in whatever quantity you require. They would be appropriately discreet."

    "I thank the Chancellor for his kind offer," said Melani D'ian in glacial tones. "However, it is not a measure that would be appropriate at this juncture."

    J'mpok made no immediate response. After a short while, he laughed. "I have been trying to envisage a situation in which you would feel it appropriate," he said. "I admit, my imagination does not extend so far.... So. What do you need from me?"

    "There are more sources of friction than I can easily account for. There is deliberate disinformation being spread. Messages are sent for which no reliable origin can be determined. Ships are assigned to inappropriate duties. One battleship has already been lost, in circumstances I can only consider suspicious. And I do not - as yet - know who is behind this. Oh -" she waved a hand "- I have one name, but -"

    "Kalevar Thrang."

    "An independent smuggler. A good one, from the accounts I have, but not significant in himself. It is Thrang's backers that I must identify. Of course I am attempting to capture Thrang -"

    "In a quiet way, Kalevar Thrang must now be the most wanted man in the galaxy," said J'mpok.

    "But he cannot be the only key to this situation. He must have backers, and their motives and their actions must be accessible by other means. What I need is intelligence analysis with both wide and deep background. I need to be able to correlate data outside the Syndicate's immediate sphere of operations, to compare and contrast the actions of other agencies -"

    "You need," said J'mpok, "the full cooperation of Imperial Intelligence in this matter."

    "The Chancellor is correct."

    J'mpok studied her closely through narrowed eyes. "But the information interchange would need to move in both directions," he said, eventually. "II would need to know, not only where to look, but why. Are you prepared to offer the requisite... levels of access?"

    "I am. The situation is serious, and it must be addressed seriously. I propose nothing less than a full partnership with II in this matter. Anything less would be futile."

    J'mpok nodded slowly. "Your organization is, as I said, a valued ally of the Empire. It is only justice, as well as self-interest, if we make available all the aid you need. I will so order the head of Imperial Intelligence. Its assets will be at your disposal."

    "You have my gratitude, Chancellor." Melani D'ian rose. "And that of the Syndicate."

    ---

    "And what is that worth?" J'mpok asked, some hours later.

    Another Orion woman was seated across from him in the private office. This one was shorter and stockier than Melani D'ian, and she wore a uniform of white leather and furs, a cold-weather version of standard KDF dress. "Normally," Shalo said, "it means the minimum the Syndicate thinks it can get away with. In this instance... it could mean a great deal."

    "D'ian is that desperate?"

    "Melani D'ian is not desperate," said Shalo. "At least, I do not believe she is. Of course, I am not privy to the internal workings of the Syndicate -"

    J'mpok grunted. "That," he said, "is why you are here. I need an Orion perspective, but from outside the Syndicate. How much trouble are they in? There are anti-Syndicate groups among your people, no?"

    "There are a great many. If there were only one, I might consider joining it - as things stand, they are small and fractious, therefore ineffectual. If there is a threat to the Syndicate, it does not come from them. The possibilities are, then, two. An internal power struggle within the Syndicate, or a threat from some completely external third party. Melani D'ian seems to believe it is the latter."

    "Is she right?"

    "I have no love for D'ian. But she is capable. An internal enemy, she would put down, without requiring outside assistance. Most probably. For an external threat, though, she needs external help."

    "Unless her grip is slipping. Old age comes upon us all...."

    "Such information as I have," said Shalo, "suggests that D'ian's grip on the Syndicate remains strong."

    J'mpok nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. "What of the Rehanissen Archive itself? Could its contents damage her, directly, in some way?"

    "Without knowing the contents, it is hard to be certain. But the data in that archive must pre-date her rise to power - it is doubtful that it includes anything of importance. At most, she might need to pass something off as a youthful indiscretion."

    J'mpok sighed. "I am a warrior. This business of information and disinformation is not my sphere. I look at it, and I see nothing but shifting shadows. I cannot strike at shadows."

    "Find who casts them," said Shalo, "and your blade can drink its fill."

    "Quite.... I cannot afford not to accede to D'ian's request. For good or ill, the Syndicate is our ally. And, besides... whatever happens, we will gain an unprecedented level of access to its operations and its planning. K'men would rip out my bowels merely for passing up that opportunity."

    "Then your course of action is clear. What do you need from me, Chancellor?"

    "Insight into the Orion mind. In your own way, General, I believe you to be as devious as D'ian. Do not think I failed to note the coincidental death of your family's enemy."

    "A great loss to the Empire," said Shalo. "I grieve."

    "Quite," said J'mpok. "A live general is worth more to me than a dead accountant. And do not think, too, that I do not understand revenge."

    Shalo was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I will serve you faithfully, Chancellor. In whatever capacity you require."

    "Then report to Imperial Intelligence, and make your insights known to them." J'mpok shook his head. "But, first, you may listen while I speak of my misgivings.... I am troubled by a shadow which I do not see."

    "Chancellor?"

    "I see threats and in-fighting and betrayals within the Syndicate. I see a situation developing which may topple D'ian from her place of power. The shadow I do not see... is that of whoever plans to replace her. The Orion Syndicate is a potent engine of power - political, military, economic. Someone must want that power. But, whoever they are, they are hidden deep in the shadows indeed, so deep that I cannot see even a trace of them." He sat suddenly straight. "Go, now. Assist II. Shed some light for me."
    8b6YIel.png?1
  • antonine3258antonine3258 Member Posts: 2,391 Arc User
    Nice chapter - I always like your take on J'mpok.
    Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker

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  • hfmuddhfmudd Member Posts: 881 Arc User
    Seconded - and I am, of course, very glad to see you back on this subforum and posting a new story of the same high quality I've come to expect.
    Join Date: January 2011
  • marcusdkanemarcusdkane Member Posts: 7,439 Arc User
    edited August 2015
    Thirded... The last story didn't really grab me, but I'm thoroughly enjoying this outing B)
  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Pexlini

    Everything around here seems to be made of wood. It looks kinda weird, well, it does if you grew up on a spaceship and then went to Starfleet Academy, neither of which is up to much in the wood stakes. But Eta Meridia V is big on wood. Most of the planet's northern continent is still virgin forest, it's a whole lot of trees. The shuttle landing strip is just a long cleared patch of ground with forest all the way around. And the buildings are all made of wood. Big logs, mostly.

    The forest surrounds us, but the trees don't seem to do much of a job blocking the wind. The wind feels like it comes straight from the planet's north pole, and then halfway across the landing strip it meets up with another wind that comes from the south pole, and they kinda frolic about together for a while. I'm feeling a distinct urge to get indoors, and I hope these big log cabins aren't as draughty as they look.

    Beside me, Pingood makes a snuffly sort of noise. She isn't really much on the cold; her ancestors came from warm, swampy sorts of conditions, and right now the corners of her wide batrachian mouth are turned down, and her big moist eyes are blinking repeatedly. The frolicking wind stirs up her green hair, and I decide it's really time to get out of it, and to hell with the contact procedure.

    "Which one's the bar, again?" I ask, and Pingood points at a big loggy thing. "Right. Stuff making ourselves known to the local contact at the field, we're going to wait in the warm."

    And we amble off along the grass, which is just this side of frozen, so it goes squelch beneath our boots and not crunch. It ain't far off crunch, I'm pretty sure of that.

    It's one thing I am sure of. I don't have nearly as much information as I'd like on the contact we're supposed to meet. I don't even have a decent recognition signal for them, all I know is that they'll "make themselves known" when I've stood around long enough. OK, I reckon I've stood around long enough. Besides, I know stuff my contact doesn't. I hope.

    We push open the double doors to the bar. Inside, it is full of noise and people, my sort of place, in fact. There is a big fireplace on one wall that is made of stone, not wood, and there is a brightly blazing fire in it. Logs, again. Logs have lots of uses. I check out the bar as I move towards that fireplace. There are lots of bottles racked behind it, most of them things that look like they'd repay investigation. I could spend a few happy hours or days here, if I didn't have a job to do.

    "Talaxian. You are here," says a deep voice behind me and a bit above. I turn around. The speaker is about seven feet tall, with the general physique of a dump truck. I don't recognize the species. He has greyish skin and jet-black eyes, and there's a sort of scaly shield on his forehead that makes him look like he's constantly frowning. "You were supposed to wait at the field," he says.

    "Yeah, well, it's kinda not the weather for hanging about," I say. "And you are?"

    He grins at me, revealing an unlikely number of sharp pointy teeth. Flossing must take him forever. "I am Mirankar Ostrogolus," he says, "and when I speak my name, men faint and women gather up their offspring and flee."

    "Pleased ta meetcha," I say. "I'm Pexlini, and when I speak my name, uh, people say 'hi Pex', kinda thing."

    "Ha!" he says. He sounds like he relishes the opportunity to say things like "Ha!" He waves a shovel-sized hand at Pingood. "And you?"

    "I am Pingood." The warmth of the bar seems to have done her some good already, the green is coming back into her cheeks.

    "A native of Sveyalsa VII," Ostrogolus says. So, he's done his homework, even on obscure Delta Quadrant species. "I know nothing to your kind's discredit. I am less certain about the Talaxian - but, at least, you are not the rabble of the Alpha Quadrant. See them!" He waves that big hand in a gesture that encompasses half the bar. "Tellarites, venal and argumentative. Ferengi, venal and cowardly. Humans, the omnipresent scum of the quadrant. Bajorans, loud and insubordinate. Pakleds, morons and nothing more. Vulcans, arid pacifists. I do not even recognize that species -"

    Ah, right, a test. He has been working steadily along a line of the nearest groups in the bar, and he's pointing to one I do know, but shouldn't if I've just blown in from the Delta Quadrant. He's indicating a Rigelian. In fact, a female Rigelian. To be more specific yet, he's indicating my science officer Voesyy, and he's been working through my crew for a bit now, loud enough for them to hear him. Vebanillo doesn't look like she likes being called a moron, and Umaro Ajbit definitely doesn't like being called loud and insubordinate, even though I kinda agree with him on that one. Hal Welti is the philosophical type, he can cope with being omnipresent scum. As for Unity, she isn't Vulcan anyway, though she can pass for one with cosmetic covers over her metal eyes, and with the circuitry in her head covered up.

    "OK, so," I say, "leaving all that aside for a minute, I'm supposed to be meeting someone here, and I'm guessing it's you, right?"

    "Follow me," Ostrogolus says, and strides off towards a booth in the corner of the bar. So I follow, and Pingood follows with me. The rest of the guys at least have the sense not to pay us any more attention. Since I'm supposed to be fresh in from the Delta Quadrant, I figured it'd make sense to have a bunch of my not-Deltan peeps down here in advance, just in case things kick off a bit nasty. I only hope they're all still reasonably sober.

    "So," says Ostrogolus, in tones a few decibels softer, when we're all sat down, "you represent the Hazari government, yes?"

    "Nuh-uh," I say. Another test. "First off, Hazari government is kinda a contradiction in terms, the big guys are freewheeling anarcho-capitalist types. Second off, I'm not anything that formal. We do represent a consortium of Hazari operatives, though, and they're the guys you want to do business with."

    "So you say. Give me a name."

    "Senior Hazari captain in the group is a guy called Y'Nadan."

    He grunts. "Another."

    "N'Larl."

    "And why are they not here?"

    "Hazari and Starfleet, they don't get along so well. Oh, sure, they were both in the anti-Vaadwaur alliance, but that was then and this is now, and Hazari are not flavour of the month with the Feds, and vice-versa, kinda thing. Us Talaxians, now, we can go anywhere. Omnipresent scum of the Delta Quadrant." I'm embroidering the truth, but not by enough to set any alarm bells ringing. But we got on okay with Y'Nadan, and N'Larl owes us big time, so if Ostrogolus can cross-check with Delta Quadrant sources, they'll back up the story. Probably. If my messages got through.

    "So," says Ostrogolus. "What are you offering?"

    "Good question." I decide not to ask what he's selling, right now. "I guess we've got Delta Quadrant commodities on offer, we can rough out a deal based on those, if that's what you want. Or, well, Hazari take contracts all over the quadrant, and they network together. We can pay you information for information."

    "What information do we need in the Delta Quadrant?"

    "I give up. What information do you need? It's a quarter of the galaxy, the Iconian gates have put it practically on your doorstep, it ain't going away any time soon. You want to go into it blind, fine by me. You want information about it, we got it."

    Ostrogolus pulls a sour face. "I believe," he says, "we may have the basis for a deal." He pulls a PADD out from under his thick jacket - he's dressed for the cold, probably better than me and Pingood. "Here. Instructions for a second meeting. This time, no need for your aide." He shoves the PADD at me, stands up, and swaggers out. Didn't even buy us a drink. Cheapskate.

    "I am no longer needed?" says Pingood.

    "Doesn't look like it." I study the PADD. "A strange man's just given me instructions to meet him in a secluded spot after midnight. No way this is any sort of a set-up. Oh, well." I gaze wistfully at the interesting bottles behind the bar. Something tells me I really shouldn't, though.

    ---

    By the time I'm supposed to meet Ostrogolus, the grass is definitely going crunch. I'm behind a row of warehouses at the side of the landing strip, and freezing wisps of mist are flickering through the harsh arc lighting over the field, but over here it's black as pitch and hellishly cold, and the forest is at my back. The silent trees are a brooding presence. Trackless forest. It rouses primordial fears in many species, mine included. Who knows what's lurking in between those trees? There could be any sort of horror in there -

    Actually, right now, I know what's lurking in there, and I wish I felt happier about it.

    "Ostrogolus is moving," Ajbit's voice says in my earpiece. The guys got a good solid read on him at the bar, and Unity calibrated the biometric sensors herself, with her usual mechanical precision. We're not a hundred per cent sure what he's been doing, but at least we know exactly where he is.

    "On his way here?" I subvocalise into my throat mike. I think bits of me are going to start dropping off if I get any colder.

    "Moving in your direction. We still have a solid lock on him."

    "Hope you've got a solid lock on me," I grumble.

    "You must be kidding, Pex. They'll have transporter scramblers ready."

    "Yeah, yeah, great. What about ghoul-girl? She good to go?"

    "Palatine confirms backup is ready."

    I feel clumsy in the thick fur coat. Not least because I've got full battle armour on, underneath it. It's still not enough to keep the cold out, though.

    "Energy surges. Movement," says Ajbit's voice. "Near you." There's a click and a pop in the earpiece. "Transporter inhibitors and comms scramblers just kicked in." Her voice sounds a little tinny. The opposition must have fairly decent comms scramblers, though not nearly as good as our comms.

    Crunch goes the grass beneath booted feet - not my booted feet.

    The squad comes marching around the corner of the warehouse, straight at me. It is too dark to make out colours - but I see the bald heads, the style of the clothing, the disruptor pistols in their hands, and my imagination fills in the green skins. "Well, what have we here?" the lead Orion says with a staggering lack of originality.

    "Hey, there," I say, with no great originality myself. It's too cold to be getting original.

    He raises his disruptor. "You're going to tell us what you want from the Rehanissen Archive," he says, "and then -"

    At this point, the lurking horrors come out of the forest.

    Heizis and her Reman commandos don't seem to be bothered by the cold, and they positively like the dark. They fall on the Orions, hard and fast. The looks on their faces are enough to give me nightmares, and they're supposed to be on my side. Heizis herself is wearing jet-black Omega Force armour, and has an antiproton carbine in her hand. Her first burst takes out the Orion goon's disruptor and the hand holding it. He screams and falls over. Shock, I guess.

    I duck to one side and shed the fur coat, pulling out my own AP carbine as I do. One of the Orions gets a disruptor bolt off. It goes wild, out into the darkness. I blast him with a volley of heavy stun. It makes me feel better, anyway.

    "Can we get some of them a bit alive?" I ask.

    "No problem." The Reman who's spoken is tall, female, quite tanned for a Reman - her skin tone approaches that of a very pale normal humanoid. She has disarmed one Orion, and now drops him with what looks like a Vulcan nerve pinch, but probably isn't. There are some more miscellaneous thumps and zaps, and the Orions are all down on the deck, not moving. Heizis is grinning. I really, really wish she wasn't.

    "Ostrogolus is still moving," Ajbit's voice says. "In company. Two hundred metres from your current position, north by north east."

    I get my bearings. "My contact's over there." I point. "We need him, too. I don't know if these guys are Syndicate enforcers or Thrang's men -"

    "They will talk," Heizis assures me. "And your contact."

    Suits me. I'm not going to worry about her methods. I gauge my directions, pick north by north east, and start jogging. Heizis and four of her Remans lope along beside me.

    "Still interference on local comms," one of the Remans says. "I cannot get clear tricorder readings."

    Makes sense. Ostrogolus, and-or the Syndicate, will want to keep local law enforcement off balance, and stop us using our comms and sensors. Local law, they can deal with, but top-line Starfleet and Republic equipment, well, that's another matter. We have comms, but hand-held sensors are iffy. Not bad going, I suppose. "Ajbit. Who's with him?"

    "Reading six lifesigns total. Possibly all the same species," Ajbit reports. I relay this to Heizis. "What species is he, anyway?" I ask.

    "Thexemian," Ajbit tells me.

    "Never heard of them. Never mind." I can hear movement up ahead. Which I guess means Ostrogolus can hear movement too. Drat this crunchy grass.

    "Talaxian! Show yourself!" Ostrogolus's voice bellows in the night.

    "And that's Mirankar Ostrogolus," I say to Heizis. "Better gather up your offspring and flee."

    "I have other plans," Heizis says, and she touches her wrist controls, engages the suit's distortion field, and fades away into the night.

    I carry on jogging forwards. Shapes loom up beside another warehouse, big shapes. Thexemian shapes, I guess. Never met a Thexemian before today, don't much care if I never meet another one. "Hey!" I yell at them. "The whole set-up thing, I just want you to know, it's not appreciated!"

    "Talaxian vermin! You think you deserve to know our secrets?" Hoo boy, I think to myself. Tact is not the guy's strong suit. Behind me, the rest of the Remans are unobtrusively going to ground. They can do that easy, this is like broad daylight to them.

    "We could still do a deal here, like, yanno?" I say.

    "You will tell me all your agency's plans, and I may let you live," Ostrogolus shouts back.

    "Chee," I say, "big of you."

    He's standing in the middle of his own five goons, each one at least as big as him, all carrying what look like Orion disruptors, though it's hard to tell in this light -

    Heizis steps out of the distortion field, back into visibility, and drops three of the Thexemians with a sustained burst of AP fire. Blue-green bolts hiss past me; the other Remans pick off the remaining two with plasma-disruptor fire. They have set heavy stun, which is a relief. Ostrogolus looks wildly at me, at his fallen guards, at the snarling Remans holding guns on him. He makes an abortive gesture towards Heizis with his pistol, thinks better of it, and lets the gun drop to the grass.

    "Wait," he says. "As you say - you have proven your ability - we can come to an arrangement -"

    Then there is a distinctive snap, and a line of scarlet light flashes out of the darkness, and Ostrogolus falls with most of his skull blown away.

    Heizis and I both drop to the ground in the same instant, spinning around to face in the direction of the beam. I aim my carbine, or I would, except I can't see anything to aim at. More surprisingly, to judge from the absence of weapons fire, neither can the Remans.

    "Where the hell did that come from?" I yell.

    "I have no visual," Heizis hisses back.

    "No tricorder reading," calls out another Reman.

    "I'm trying to triangulate - sir, it came from somewhere outside our sensor footprint," Ajbit's voice says. "Trying to get a read - there's jamming somewhere along the line. Can't get a fix on anything out there."

    "Hold on," I say. "Sensor footprint has a one-kilometre radius, right?"

    "Centred on you, sir, yes," says Ajbit.

    "Someone out there is one heck of a shot," I say. "OK, gang, I suggest we keep large solid objects between them and us. The rest of the goons ain't going nowhere, let's circle round behind those warehouses, then plant transporter enhancers and get some engineering types down here with cover shields."

    "I must agree," says Heizis, in a slightly muffled voice, possibly not unrelated to the way she's hugging the ground. "But whoever is out there will be gone before we can regroup -"

    "Can't be helped. If they can shoot like that, we'll be gone." I don't trust my personal shield against someone who can headshot like that. I've only got one head, and I want to keep it safe.

    So we wriggle cautiously around the side of the nearest warehouse, an all too literal example of Napoleon's dictum about an army marching on its stomach. Not exactly dignified, but I will take undignified over dead any day of the week.

    "You are more correct than you know," a voice hisses at me. It's the faintly-tanned female Reman. She sounds a bit out of breath, but then wriggling isn't a good situation for talking.

    "Correct about what?" I whisper back.

    "The shot. I got a reading. Not enough to determine the point of origin - but I have data on the beam itself." She waves a tricorder in my general direction. I try to peer at it intelligently, but, honestly, it's all just a lot of blinky lights to me right now.

    "Sonic antiproton," I mutter, shuffling along a bit on my elbows, "I got that much -"

    "Yes," says the Reman. "A sonic AP pistol."
    8b6YIel.png?1
  • themetalstickmanthemetalstickman Member Posts: 1,010 Arc User
    Sonic AP pistol shot from that distance? There's some superhuman aim for ya, even for an energy weapon.​​
    Og12TbC.jpg

    Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved 800 lives, including your mother's, and yours.

    I dare you to do better.
  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Tylha

    The screen in my office shows a fuzzy image, speckled with interference here and there. Considering the subspace transmission is being flipped through two Iconian gateways from the far side of the galaxy, it's not bad. The image is that of a human woman's face, very pale, gaunt, and scarred, with a patch over one eye.

    "They feeding you OK, kiddo?" says Ronnie Grau. "You're looking kind of peaky."

    "Just paperwork getting me down," I say. "How's life in the Delta Quadrant?"

    "It has its moments," says Ronnie. "In between a hell of a lot of boring stuff, I have to admit. Still, it's good to be back in harness again, anyway." Her one brown eye narrows a bit at me. "Though you didn't call me up from this distance just to chat, right? What's up, kiddo? Tell Auntie Ronnie."

    "The current crisis is all about a missing data archive, made by a spymaster for the Valtothi," I say. "I seem to remember you telling me something, once, about the Valtothi -"

    "Name rings a bell," says Ronnie, "Like Quasimodo. Valtothi - oh, yeah." She pulls a face. "Two of Twelve could've reminded me there, but, well, she's gone." Two of Twelve - the voice in Ronnie's head, the relic of her Borg assimilation. Now gone, she claims, since more of her implants were wrecked - "Valtothi, yeah. They have a crazy low species number, they were species 191."

    "Hmm." I think about that. "Does that suggest anything to you?"

    "Only that they got about a bit. I never did get an answer from Two of Twelve over that one. Ferengi are 180, maybe a Ferengi exploring ship brought some other species with it, a long way out, into Borg space - I'm just speculating. Don't know for sure, and I've no idea how you'd go about finding out."

    "I can't think what any of it might mean. I suppose it suggests Valtothi spacefaring history goes back a long way - and maybe they're used to sneaking around other major powers." I sigh. "Maybe. It's not much."

    "Doesn't sound like it's what you want to hear."

    "If it means anything, it means we've got more reason to take the Valtothi and their damned archive seriously. And life's complicated enough already."

    "Tell me about it," says Ronnie, with some feeling.

    I look at her. "How about you? How are you holding up?"

    "Oh, doing OK. Memory's still good, even without the Borg circuitry prompting me." She taps the eyepatch. "Dunno about this, though. Still get pains and headaches whenever I try to use the new eye. I think the damn thing's a lemon." Ronnie's Borg visual prosthesis was one of the things she lost; the cloned replacement eye should be an improvement - "Didn't even get a drink out of Mimir's well for it. Oh, well, them's the breaks." Well, she wouldn't be Ronnie if she didn't throw some obscure Earth literary allusion at me.

    At that point, the comms console beeps at me, flashing a priority signal. "Oh, hell," I say. "I'm needed."

    Ronnie is looking off-screen. "Looks like I am too. God, they keep us busy, don't they? See ya, kiddo." The screen goes blank. I key the console.

    "Sir." Cordul's voice, the ops officer on King Estmere. I still think of him as the new ops officer. "We've got a potential situation. Receiving a distress signal and a claim for diplomatic asylum."

    "How's that our problem? - Never mind." I stand up. "Beam me over to King Estmere, and give me the details there."

    ---

    "Tight-beamed ESD on subspace from way out towards Galactic North," Cordul says. The Trill commander is huge and muscular, with body-builder muscles and a big, beefy face. "Squawking Nausicaan ident, NFV Yasan T'o, claiming urgent danger and demanding asylum under the current provisional treaty."

    "He's off Starfleet's normal patrol routes." Anthi Vihl, my exec, is crisp and efficient as ever, her antennae twisting a little as she considers the situation. "That far out, ESD is as close as any asset we have - but we'd need the fastest ship available, if their situation is that urgent -"

    "And if the situation's dangerous," I finish the thought for her, "then sending some light courier with subtranswarp drive would be useless."

    There are plenty of starships at Earth Spacedock. There are a lot fewer with the advanced drive systems that would get them out to the Nausicaan ship fast. And, as for ships that can get there fast, and have the resources and the firepower to cope with any eventuality -

    "Mr. Cordul. Signal traffic control, get priority clearance for King Estmere, departing on vector -" I study the astrographic display "- three four mark niner two." I stalk to the command chair, in the centre of the Tholian bridge. Consoles unfold from the deck as I sit down. "Engineering. Ready the ship for maximum asynchronous warp, immediately. Thrusters live, move us clear of drydock." King Estmere is inside one of the free-floating docking cradles that surround Earth Spacedock - at least I won't have to worry about getting through the station's massive doors.

    "A thousand regrets, admirable Admiral!" a familiar voice says over the commlink to Main Engineering. "The lamentably dilatory behaviour of the warp core necessitates a delay before criticality can be attained. I shall strive with utmost endeavour to make this interlude as fleeting as practicable!"

    I can't help but grin. "Don't worry, Mr. Thirethequ. I'm sure you'll be ready before traffic control gets its act together. OK, people," I say to the bridge and the world in general, "let's go."

    ---

    It feels good to be back in the centre seat. Apart from that one emergency call-out to the Delta Quadrant, I haven't been back aboard King Estmere in... far too long. And at least, I reflect, I know the converted Recluse carrier can handle practically anything. Because, one way or another, she has.

    "Any more word from the Nausicaans?" I ask.

    Cordul shakes his head. "Sorry, sir. I think they must have blown out their transmission rig, just getting that distress signal through. It was way over normal intensity for a standard Nausicaan subspace transmitter."

    "We got a solid ID from them, though?"

    "Yes, sir. We'll be able to identify their ship's transponder codes as soon as we're within range."

    "Fine." I turn towards the science station, to the hulking grey-faced nightmare manning it. "Three. Anything on sensors yet?"

    The former Borg drone, Three of Eight, remains intent on his instruments. "Space is clear. No ships in range, no subspace disturbances...." He glances at another readout. "Space is becoming very clear."

    King Estmere is moving at a steep angle, normal to the ecliptic plane of the galaxy... up and out, towards intergalactic space. The stars are thinning out before us, as we plunge towards the biggest black of all. "Maintaining speed?" I ask.

    "Current equivalent of warp 20.4," Anthi reports.

    With the quantum slipstream engaged, we can push King Estmere up to a shade over warp 31 - for short periods. Warp 20, though, is a good enough cruising speed, for a ship the size of a small city. At this rate, it looks like we could be visiting intergalactic space pretty soon.

    "What made them choose such a weird flight path?" Anthi asks.

    "Possibly," Three says, "they wanted to avoid standard Starfleet border patrols, arrive directly at the centre of the Federation, and plead their case for asylum on the spot." I don't know how much Three remembers of his former life as a Section 31 operative, but he still knows how to think deviously, that's for sure. "Also, they may well be trying to avoid their pursuers - whoever they are." His head jerks up, suddenly. "Sensor contact. Extreme range."

    Well, who else might be out here, except our target? "Take us in, and get a confirmation scan," I order.

    "Checking now," says Three. "Subspace transponder... coming through. Positive match."

    "Mr. Cordul. Hail them, all available frequencies. Let's see what condition they're in."

    "I have a second contact," says Three. "Approaching at high warp speed from two niner seven mark one seven four. Contact imminent."

    "Engage slipstream. Get us to the Nausicaans first. Yellow alert." The sirens don't drown out the deep rumbling sounds as King Estmere surges forward at her absolute maximum. The sparse stars slip past us at terrifying speed. "Get me an ID on that ship!"

    "Transponder code coming through," says Three. "Gorn vessel, GHV Trakazan... Zilant class. Interesting. The power utilization curves and radiation profiles look... substantially different from a standard Zilant."

    "Intercept with Nausicaan ship in two minutes," says Anthi. "Gorn ship will arrive... a minute after that."

    "I have the Nausicaans," says Cordul. "Audio only."

    "Put them through."

    A voice sounds "- those Gorn maniacs off our backs! We don't know anything! We've never had their damned data! Requesting assistance, immediate assistance! Repeat -"

    "NFV Yasan T'o," I say as firmly as I can, "this is the USS King Estmere. We are approaching rendezvous with your vessel. Stay calm. We will get this sorted out." I nod to Cordul. "Hail the Gorn ship. Let's see what they've got to say for themselves."

    "Hailing," says Cordul. "I'm getting a response -"

    "Coming out of warp," Anthi interrupts. On the screen, the stars slow to a halt. Then they vanish, to be replaced by the face of a Gorn. Grey-green scales, no visible fangs, and faceted shields over the eyes. "Federation vessel. This is Commissioner Hrissaak aboard the GHV Trakazan."

    "Admiral Tylha Shohl, USS King Estmere," I reply. "We're responding to a distress call and claim for diplomatic asylum from the NFV Yasan T'o."

    "We are in pursuit of these Nausicaan criminals," Hrissaak says. "In the circumstances, we request that you transfer them immediately to our custody."

    "What have they done?" I ask.

    "That is not your concern. The interests of the Hegemony are at issue, here. I am not authorized to give specifics."

    My antennae twitch. "The Yasan T'o is here, now, in Federation territory." For possibly the first time, I'm inclined to thank the people who draw two-dimensional boundaries on three-dimensional space.

    "Notionally Federation territory," says Hrissaak.

    "There's nothing notional about our presence, sir," I say firmly. My antennae twitch. I'm getting a bad vibe from this situation. I sneak a look at the tac console. Three is right about the readings from the Gorn ship - I've seen Zilant battleships aplenty in my time, and the radiation profile of this one is very, very odd. And what's a civilian Commissioner doing in the centre seat of a battleship, anyway?

    "It would be an error, on your part, to take too officious an interest in this Nausicaan vessel, Admiral," says Hrissaak.

    "If it's an error, sir, then the lawyers and the diplomats can fix it. I'd suggest you make representations through the Gorn High Commission to the Federation. I'm sure they'll help you make your case for custody."

    "There are factors that make that inadvisable. H-r-r-r-r. Admiral, I must appeal to your practicality, here. It will be - simpler - if we take charge of this situation."

    "I'm sorry, Commissioner, but from where I'm sitting, things seem simple enough. My duty is to escort the Yasan T'o to an appropriate Federation port, and arrange for the asylum hearings as soon as possible. The best I can offer is to keep the Gorn High Commission informed as to their deliberations."

    He says nothing, for a moment. I wish I could see his eyes move, behind those faceted shields - but that, of course, is why he's wearing them. And I am damned glad to be out here in King Estmere, because I have a feeling that a light courier with subtranswarp drive... wouldn't be coming home again.

    "I have notes, here, on your ship's record, Admiral. And yours. You have no love for the Nausicaans -"

    "My personal preferences, sir, aren't at issue."

    "H-r-r-r-r. You will find it especially difficult to love these Nausicaans." Hrissaak shifts uneasily in his seat. "I see there is no changing your mind, Admiral. A pity. We will make - appropriate representations. Trakazan out." The screen goes blank.

    "Gorn ship is changing heading," Three says.

    My finger hovers over the red alert switch. "Towards us?"

    "No, sir. He is reversing course. Heading out at maximum warp."

    I repress a sigh of relief. "All right. Let's see what the Nausicaans need from us."

    ---

    "They've been chasing us across half the quadrant," the Nausicaan captain says. "Our own government - no help - we reckon they must have bribed someone -"

    "Do you have any idea what they want?" We're in the conference room on King Estmere. Anthi Vihl is going through the Yasan T'o's records and cargo manifest, chief engineer Dyssa D'jheph and Dr. Beresford are assessing the Nausicaans' material and medical requirements - and I am talking to their captain, trying to get some idea of what's going on here.

    Trying, and - I strongly suspect - failing.

    "They say they want detailed verification of our ship's datacores. I'd have let them have that, for a reasonable sum - but then they wanted guarantees, they were talking about forced relocation. Internal exile for me and my crew, somewhere in Gorn space." He shakes his shaggy head. "Yasan T'o is just a superannuated destroyer escort, what could she have that requires that level of security?"

    "Did you look?" I ask.

    "We did a complete data trawl of the ship's records. The computer core is as old as the ship itself, the records go back forty, fifty years - the ship's been in any number of military and paramilitary actions, but nothing sensitive, nothing secret - certainly not while I've owned her, almost certainly not before that."

    Anthi has a PADD in her hand; she starts, now, and for an instant goes completely still. Even her antennae stop moving. Then she shoots a troubled look - not at the Nausicaan - at me.

    "Will you let Federation investigators examine your datacores?" I ask. "I have to be honest, Captain, I have no idea what is going on, here. Perhaps an in-depth investigation will help -"

    "I'd want guarantees. Public guarantees," the Nausicaan says. "I'm not having my crew vanish into Federation prison cells, any more than Gorn ones."

    "You'll have your guarantees." I'd like to add we don't work like that - but I've met Franklin Drake, and I'm not sure it's true. "We'll escort you to Earth Spacedock, and we'll transmit messages to the Federation Council, to the Nausicaan, Klingon and Gorn embassies, and to Federation media outlets. Everything that happens to you, from now on, will be in public." As far as I can manage it, at least.

    "It will - have to be enough." The Nausicaan rakes one hand through his hair. "Thank you, Admiral."

    "All right." Anthi is looking increasingly restive. Time to bring this to a close - and find out what's bothering her. "Perhaps you could go with Commander D'jheph and Dr. Beresford and attend to your ship's immediate needs. We'll talk again, Captain."

    Dyssa and Samantha are good enough to catch their cue, and escort the Nausicaan politely but firmly away. Anthi stands there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, the PADD still in her hand. "What's the problem?" I ask her.

    She bites her lip. Then she takes a deep breath. "It's the records of the Yasan T'o, sir. One of the - historical actions - it was part of.... Sir, it was one of the ships that attacked Gimel Vessaris."

    And it is my turn to be perfectly still - remembering. Remembering a dark shape streaking across the night sky, and green fire from the heavens, blasting the colony buildings into ruin... leaving nothing of my fathers to bury.

    My hand goes to the old scar on my right cheek.

    "The ship has probably changed hands half a dozen times since then," I say.

    "Yes, sir," says Anthi.

    Scar tissue is rough beneath my fingers. I keep picturing the face of the Nausicaan marine, now, glimpsed for a moment in a hell of disruptor light and pain. Might it be the same face as the Nausicaan captain's? Almost certainly not... and yet....

    "None of the current crew will have been involved in that particular action," I say.

    "I can't confirm that yet, sir, but it seems most likely."

    "It doesn't matter," I say, loudly. "Our legal obligations are clear, whoever these people are. Our duty is clear. That's all."

    "Yes, sir." Talk of duty always pushes Anthi's buttons; the Imperial Guard traditionalist in her rises up at the word. But her eyes are still troubled. I'm not sure she believes me.

    I wish I believed myself.
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  • dalolorndalolorn Member Posts: 3,655 Arc User
    I have to say, Ronnie just won't be as funny as she used to be now that Two of Twelve's gone. Well, okay, she probably will whenever the story's not being told from her point of view - but the interactions between the two always made her PoV quite fun to read.

    On the other hand, I'd be lying if I said I didn't like those stories better with or without Two. It's just that the older stories had a different sort of 'mysterious dealings' that just worked better for me. Personal preference and all that. :tongue:

    Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.p3OEBPD6HU3QI.jpg
  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Heizis

    I stalk into the ready room, sit down, and activate the comms console. Pexlini's face appears on the screen in a matter of seconds. "Any results?" she asks.

    "I am excessively well informed as to what happens when the Thexemians say their names," I snarl. "As for information of value, they have none. Ostrogolus appears to have been their only contact with their overall employers."

    "Makes sense, considering he was the only one to get an emergency brain-ectomy from Headshot Harry," says Pexlini. "And, let me guess, the Orions didn't know anything either?"

    "Muscle. An enforcement team, hired through an anonymous cut-out. A dead end."

    "Disposable muscle," says Pexlini. "Like the battleship that attacked those Ferengi, too. Now listen. I've been thinking -"

    "I thought I saw signs of unaccustomed effort," I mutter.

    "Love you too, sweetheart," says Pexlini. "Also, I have had an offer. Message came in along the same encrypted subspace channel we used to set up the meet at Eta Meridia. Congratulated me on 'passing the first test', so it said, and telling me the prize is another meeting with one of Thrang's agents, this time on Nimbus III."

    "I see," I say.

    "Right. So that's what I've been thinking about."

    "It does not seem to require much thought. We need to make contact with Kalevar Thrang, and this is the only route available to us."

    "Well, now," says Pexlini, "that's why I'm thinking. Why should Thrang be setting tests for potential customers, huh? The only test he should worry about is how much we're prepared to pay him, right? If he wants to weed out people who aren't serious about getting the Archive, all he has to do is ask for sealed bids and then throw out all the low-ball offers, yeah?"

    I look more closely at her. "That... would seem to make sense."

    "'nother thing. Where did the Orions come from? Somebody leaked enough information so that Orion hit squads could intercept us and the Ferengi. The Ferengi ain't nearly as dumb as they look, and I'm guessing you didn't spill the details of our mission in some seedy Reman bar somewhere, and I know damn well I didn't. So, where did they get their information from? The only other person we know has details on the meets is - Kalevar Thrang."

    "Thrang is sabotaging his own efforts to sell the Archive? That makes no sense."

    "Misdirection, maybe. He gets a bunch of us chasing around, from Eta Meridia to Nimbus to God knows where next, and in the meantime he sneaks the Archive out to some buyer he's already got lined up. That's one possibility, anyway. Makes more sense than figuring he's setting up some quest for the Holy Archive that only the pure in heart may attain, though, doesn't it?"

    "I... see," I say slowly. "So. How do you intend to proceed?"

    "Well, we kinda need to get ahead of them, don't we? I reckon there's no reason to think this meeting on Nimbus will work any better than the last one. So, among other things, there is gonna be an Orion force heading out to intercept me. So, if we can figure out where that force is starting from -"

    "The Syndicate's operations on Nimbus III itself were curtailed, severely, after Hassan the Undying's... misadventures."

    "Yeah. So, my guess is they will bring in teams via some staging post reasonably near Nimbus. So, if we start putting out feelers there -"

    "I can consult with Imperial Intelligence, and give you the names of suspected Syndicate bases in the vicinity," I say.

    Pexlini pulls a face. "Problem is, well, there's two problems, kinda thing. Firstly, Thrang will smell a rat if I don't high-tail it off to Nimbus to take his bait. Secondly, here in this quadrant I'm sorta conspicuous, dammit. Hazari destroyer shows up in Syndicate space, they're gonna have a shrewd idea who it is, and maybe even why it's there. So this one - well." Her pale blue eyes are quite intense as she looks at me. "Aelahl warbirds ain't ten a penny, I grant you, but they're a lot more common than my ship. And besides, you Remans are all about the inconspicuous, right?"

    ---

    We have little to go on. We can, however, identify the captured Orions - their house affiliations and known previous contracts - and we have transponder and warp signature ID from the destroyed Slavemaster battleship. It is not much, but I am in a position to query both Republic and Imperial Intelligence, and from those queries, the glimmer of a clue emerges.

    So, now, my ship is drifting through the outer reaches of the Tysirrian Beta system, cloaked, invisible against a backdrop of frozen moons and ice giants lit by a wan, distant red sun.

    Tysirrian Beta is one more backwater left behind in the slow, agonizing collapse of the Romulan Star Empire. It has no class M worlds, only a pair of hot rocky planets near the sun, and three ice giants rolling around near the Oort cloud. Once, it was a Romulan base; then, the Star Empire withdrew, and the opportunists moved in. The orbital facilities and the ground bases on the moons are all held by factions of the Orion Syndicate. It is from these factions - Imperial Intelligence believes - that our attackers were hired. And Tysirrian Beta is the closest known Syndicate base to Nimbus III.

    I stir restlessly in the command chair while N'aina and E'Maon meticulously read off the checklist for the stealth intelligence packages' deployment. Once the tiny satellites are ready, and seeded through the system, they should give us a complete picture of ship movements and comms traffic. It helps, of course, that the Orions are using much salvaged Romulan technology -

    "Cloak status?" I ask Kaxath.

    "Stable. Not that there are many sensors out anyway," he replies.

    "Their security seems lax," I mutter to myself. Strange. The Syndicate is usually efficient enough... but it is in a strange state of uncertainty, and has been since the armistice with the Federation. With no need for raids on Federation territory - indeed, with such raids strongly discouraged - the Syndicate, along with several of the more piratical Klingon Great Houses, has suffered severe restrictions to its normal source of income. Its leaders are casting about for replacements - and, in the meantime, a lot of the rank and file soldiers are at loose ends. In such circumstances, it is hardly surprising they become... sloppy.

    I call up the tactical plot on my console and study it. This ice giant is Tysirrian Beta V, a dull bluish globe some thirty thousand kilometres in diameter, its atmosphere churning with sluggish storms of methane and hydrogen. It has four large moons and at least forty more chunks of orbiting asteroidal trash. The two largest moons have old Star Empire bases, and over the years a scattering of listening posts, defence satellites and orbital drydocks has grown up around them. There is not enough there for a full-scale planetary defence grid... but there should be more security than we are seeing. Two of the drydocks have powered-down ships in them - if this were a raid, I could move in and blast them with one volley, now, and escape before any retaliation could even be organized. The Orions are lucky this is not a raid....

    I frown. Something is bothering me. I look more closely at the plot.

    We are moving towards a cluster, a temporary conjuction, of several asteroid moonlets. Some of them are... wrong. Their albedo is higher than I would expect, their temperature, too. These frozen little worldlets should barely have a temperature worth measuring. I select one, pull up the survey records for it. It is brighter than the old Star Empire surveys show - and hotter - and it has gained mass....

    My eyes widen. I switch displays, looking at the sensor readings, the patterns of radiation from star, planet, random fluctuations in subspace... looking for something... and my spine chills when I find it.

    Tachyons.

    "Red alert," I order. All heads turn towards me. "Abort the mission. Decloak and raise shields, steer two hundred mark zero, maximum evasive!" I glare. "They have a tachyon detection grid! And we are in it!"

    I will give my crew due credit; they do not hesitate. Alarm sirens blare, and the light on the bridge changes, indefinably, as the cloaking field drops. But we were in the jaws of the trap already -

    The extra mass on those asteroids is coming alive.

    Orion warships, lying doggo, waiting to take us. Now, they move - but too soon, just too soon - out of position, some of them out of range entirely.

    Some too close. Palatine's plasma beams lash out at a Slavemaster whose shields are only now coming online, punch through the shields and rip lines of fire and broken metal across the hull. That one is hurt, badly hurt. But there are too many others.

    Disruptor light burns green across space, into our shields. We are caught in a vicious crossfire, and there are more ships moving - interceptors, closing fast. We need to be away from here, and soon. My mind is racing -

    "Incoming torps! Brace for impact!"

    Palatine shudders. Warning lights bloom on the status board, and there is the bang and brilliant flare of a transient console overload. "All arrays, independent fire! Take out those interceptors!"

    Space is alive with stabbing lines of light. Palatine twists and weaves, her weapons spitting back hot defiance. "Shields at fifty-eight per cent!" N'aina shouts. There is another searing flash from an overload on the bridge.

    "Singularity status?" The overcharge power from the singularity core is my one hope, now. With each exchange of fire, the power levels in the capacitor banks builds further.

    "Level two. Approaching three," says Kaxath. "Sir, we can divert to shields -"

    "No. Use the auxiliary battery. Evasion pattern Os-4, now!" I have a plan for the singularity charge. However, it depends on us surviving long enough to use it -

    The shields strengthen, then flare and waver again as fresh barrages sweep over us. "Hull breach, deck six!" someone shouts. There are at least two Corsair-class flight deck cruisers out there, hurling interceptors at us. Our plasma beams reach out and burn the little fighters - but there will be more, and yet more.

    "Target the nearest Corsair. Fire torpedo." We have only one forward torpedo tube - it will have to be enough. The particle emission torpedo streaks across space, explodes against the cruiser's hull, surrounds it with a flickering cloud of destructive charged particles. More disruptors flash back at us in retaliation. We have burned down several interceptors, we have hurt a battleship and a cruiser - we have not done enough, not nearly enough, to win this fight. We cannot win, so we must flee.

    The bridge rocks. The whole ship rocks. Damage lights are flaring all over the status board. Too bright. "Shields down!" N'aina yells. "Hull breaches decks eight through twelve!" There is a faint, terrible scream of escaping air.

    The singularity charge reaches level five. Maximum. It must be now.

    "Cloak, and project decoy! Then - singularity jump!"

    Palatine shimmers and fades from view - useless, in the tachyon field, except for one thing. The Aelahl warbird's cloak is integrated with an auxiliary holo-emitter, projecting a short-lived photonic decoy, a copy of the ship, as we cloak. For a brief instant, our attackers will target that decoy instead of us.

    And, in that brief instant, I discharge the singularity core's capacitors into the warp drive. A brief power surge, brief enough to flip us across subspace -

    Outside the range of the tachyon grid.

    I feel the jump, a violent jolt that seems as though it will jar my teeth loose from their sockets. But we are out of the Orions' field of fire. The photonic decoy proves very short-lived indeed, vanishing to nothing in a blaze of disruptors. But space is clear of intrusive tachyons, and it will take the Orion ships precious seconds to find us again - seconds I do not propose to allow them.

    "Evasion pattern Rad-3. Warp drive status?"

    N'aina peers through smoky air at the engineering console. "Warp drive online. Just about."

    "Then get us clear of the planet, and away!"

    The Orion ships are already moving, questing along our last known line of flight. I wince as I look at the status board, translating each warning light to a scar on my ship's hull, to members of my crew hurt or dying in tangles of wreckage. The scream of escaping air has stopped. Either the hull breach was sealed... or that section of the ship has depressurized completely.

    "We're outside the planet's gravity well," says N'aina. "Safe to transition to warp speed."

    "Do it."

    There is a lurch and a rumble as Palatine's wounded engines hurl her across the light barrier. I slump in the command chair. "Set up," I mutter. "Another line of defence, and we walked straight into it. Whoever is backing Kalevar Thrang, they think ahead, and they do not want to be found."

    "Where to, now, sir?" asks E'Maon.

    "We have few options. Nimbus III. We must make repairs, and the orbital dock there is nearest." I shake my head. "And we must support the Talaxian. Or, at least, try to recover her body."
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  • antonine3258antonine3258 Member Posts: 2,391 Arc User
    Nice to see the Orions are not slacking - our heroes are definitely being forced to dance to someone's tune at the moment, bit alarming.

    Also - you write great ambushes.
    Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker

    Member Access Denied Armada!

    My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    The Klingon prowled the little room nervously, pacing from one wall to the other, continually casting glances at the metal door. When the door finally slid open, he started visibly.

    "I - was unsure if you would come," he said.

    Kalevar Thrang smiled. "J'Negh, really. Would I miss this meeting?" He made a gesture to the hard-faced Orion woman in worn spacer's coveralls who accompanied him. She took up a stance, facing the doorway, her hands on her hips - near her weapons.

    "First City," said J'Negh, "is - on alert -"

    "A lot of people seem to want to talk to me," Thrang said. "Well, I'll get round to them. Deonsa, there, has been very nervous, I know."

    "Just looking out for your interests, boss," muttered the Orion woman.

    "And you do it well," said Thrang. "However. Here I am. How are you, J'Negh? No health problems, I trust?"

    The Klingon looked at Thrang with an indescribable expression on his face - part shame, perhaps, part rage, and part fear. "Not - yet," he said in a thick voice.

    "Good, good." Thrang reached into the pocket of his leather coat, and brought out a small, square phial, about the size of his thumb, filled with a honey-coloured liquid. J'Negh's gaze fixed on it instantly. "Well, then. Shall we make sure this happy state of affairs continues? At least for the next six months or so." He held out the phial to J'Negh.

    J'Negh hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he seized the phial, pulled the stopper from it, raised it to his mouth and sucked down the contents greedily. Deosna snorted. Thrang watched with a faint smile on his lips.

    "Excellent," he said, when the phial was empty. "So, friend J'Negh, you're assured of another half year of life. At least, as assured as any of us can be, in this turbulent world. You won't begrudge me a few minutes of that time, surely? For some informative conversation?"

    J'Negh licked his lips, careful not to waste a single drop of the phial's contents. "I do not have access to all of II's case files -"

    "Of course not. I quite understand. But I'd love to know where the various agencies stand, currently."

    "We believe the Tal Shiar has not taken the bait. We do not see their agents in motion. The Ferengi - External Auditing has pulled its ship back for repairs - if they are to try again, it will be with a smaller team and by subtler means. Starfleet Intelligence's agents are at work on Demara V; Federation Security is following the leads at Sherman's Planet. We have no certain knowledge of Section 31, but our agents on Velaxis received an anonymous communication -"

    "And Imperial Intelligence itself?" asked Thrang.

    J'Negh's gaze darted this way and that. "I do not know K'Men's mind on all things. He has dispatched agents both to Demara and Eta Meridia. Republic Intelligence is with Starfleet on Demara -"

    "They will be tripping over each other, on Demara," mused Thrang. "Never mind. But, really, these large agencies must have more than one string to their bows, no?"

    "Starfleet has sent investigators to the Valtothi. They may be studying old Valtothi intelligence records, trying to glean some idea of the Archive's contents by induction."

    Thrang laughed. "Well, let them, by all means. I will be amused to learn their findings."

    "K'Men has certainly sent out other agents, working with the Syndicate. I know no more than that. Information regarding the Syndicate is heavily compartmentalized."

    "Not a problem. I have keys to many compartments. What about those interesting wild cards? The Delta Quadrant agent, and the Remans?"

    J'Negh paused for a moment, his eyes gleaming. "We are unsure about the Talaxian. She may be as she claims, a representative of a Hazari consortium. But she has some sort of arrangement with Starfleet, too, we know that."

    "She could hardly be on this side of the galaxy without the cooperation of some other power," said Thrang. "But her alliance with the Remans, now, that surprised me a little."

    "The Reman Underground is still a viable force," said J'Negh. "Your agents have a standing invitation to visit the Vault and discuss terms. Others of Obisek's people are following leads in Orion space - I do not have full details, there. The Talaxian's companion - she has been asking questions, through contacts in II. They led her to Tysirrian Beta, where -" He shook his head. "A trap was attempted. It did not succeed. Our assumption is that she is now following the Talaxian to Nimbus III, but it is only an assumption, nothing more."

    "Ah, the planet of galactic peace," said Thrang. "I should like to see it again, but I wonder if I shall find the time.... Never mind. What is the current price on my head? Do you know?"

    "From Imperial Intelligence, or the Syndicate?" asked J'Negh. "In either case, it is - considerable."

    "I'm sure it is. You could live like a king. For six months or so." Thrang smiled. "I'm so glad we've had this little chat. You are always helpful, J'Negh. It's really in my best interests that you should stay healthy." He turned to Deonsa. "We're done here."

    ---

    Outside, in the corridor beneath the First City slums, Thrang waited patiently while Deonsa checked her security scanner. "All clear, boss," she said, finally.

    "I knew it would be," said Thrang.

    Deonsa glowered at him. "You take too many risks."

    Thrang shook his head. "Not nearly as many as you think I do. Mokasso."

    The shadows in an alcove nearby stirred. A face became visible; a leathery demon mask in which red eyes burned. "Here, boss," said the Lethean.

    "You heard. What didn't he tell us?"

    "Section 31 is on Demara too. Franklin Drake has been in personal contact with K'Men."

    "Demara," said Thrang. "It isn't even very nice, at this time of the year. I think I'll leave them to get in each others' way, on Demara. What else?"

    "He is worried about the Reman. He thinks the information request that he passed on to the Syndicate might be traced back to him. He could well be right," Mokasso added dryly. "The Reman survived, she is going to want to know how she was set up, and the paper trail will point back to J'Negh if II looks hard enough."

    "That's always a risk, when we set up these little exercises," said Thrang.

    "Given that factor... he is seriously thinking of going to K'Men and asking for his help, in return for turning you in at the next meeting. He believes that a complete genetic sequencing and a cellular scan will let them identify the phage elements, enable him to make his own antidote. Now that he has six more months of life, he is growing more convinced that there will be enough time."

    "Oh, how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is, to have an ungrateful agent," said Thrang. "Well, then. It seems I was quite right to give him the flavoured water instead of the antidote."

    Deonsa and Mokasso stared at him. He shrugged. "He's a Klingon without honour... he'll probably welcome death, though I doubt he'll enjoy it very much. Now, let's get moving. I have another transaction to make, here in First City, and after that...." He shook his head. "We'll have to dress warm, again."
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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Pexlini

    "Hey, there," I say. The man behind the bar gives me a weary look - well, one side of his face does; the stubby Borg implant in place of his left eye sorta messes up his expressions. "You filling in for the regular bartender?" I ask.

    "Pexlini." Two of Eight doesn't smile. "You're back, then."

    "Where else would I go? I think I'm still kinda barred from Shangdu." Still no smile. "Anyway. Glass of warp coil coolant, please, unless you've started stocking real Saurian brandy."

    He makes a sort of hmph noise. "Just deciding which to lock up first," he says, "the valuables or the breakables." He dredges out a long curved bottle from beneath the bar and pours me a shot. "Take it this isn't a pleasure trip?"

    "Aw, c'mon, pal, you ever know anyone come to Nimbus on a pleasure trip?"

    "Point," says Two. "Though they tell me Hakeev enjoyed his work.... So what do you want?"

    I swallow some of the drink. "Replacement tooth enamel. Also, looking for a guy. I'm s'posed to go on the comms net and send an empty message to Alpha November three eight niner seven. That mean anything to you?"

    "Just a number," says Two.

    "Seriously?"

    "Seriously. I don't have the whole comms net directory memorized. Not even with this." He taps the Borg implant.

    "Darn. I got burned last time I tried to talk to these guys. I'd like to go in with a bit more forewarning, this time."

    Two glances off at the short corridor that leads to the bar's back door. "You want to use the computer, no one's stopping you. Your access code's still valid."

    Well, that's good news. Two's computer may be an antique, but it holds a fair amount of detail about Nimbus III and what goes on there. "I'll do that," I say. "Thanks." And I tip the remainder of the alleged Saurian brandy down my throat, slide off the bar stool, and head for the dimly lit side passage where the computer lives, not that the rest of the bar has much going for it in the way of lights, come to that.

    "You might want to watch your back," Two mutters at me. I turn and look at him. He shrugs. "I haven't heard anything specific. Just... you know... you're not, like, universally popular?"

    I grunt at him in a non-committal sort of a way. This is the thing about stirring things up on Nimbus III, which I sorta did, a bit. Some people didn't like being stirred.

    My access code does, indeed, still work. The computer doesn't tell me anything, though. The message destination is just a placeholder on the network, it's not even linked to a physical address. And there is no information about who owns it, dig as I might. I think hard, for a moment, and then I do the necessary. I'm not going to get anywhere if I don't at least knock on the door.

    Then I make my way back into the bar, and sit down between Hal Welti and Umaro Ajbit. "Done the business," I tell them.

    Hal looks around, a doleful expression on his dark-skinned, lined face. "You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy," he says morosely. I think it's a quote. Hal does quotes.

    "Did you get any more information?" Ajbit is as dark-skinned as Hal, but she is younger, brisker, more practical. She looks down her Bajoran nose ridges at me. I shake my head.

    "Cut-outs. I guess we could maybe find out more if we got a tech squad in to do a forensic analysis of the local computer net. But, well, everyone interesting would, like, fold their tents and slink away, right? Probably before the techs even finished materializing."

    "I don't like this," Ajbit mutters.

    "Well, join the club," I say. "Let's hope Heizis has put a spanner in the works of any Orion goon squads. But the way I see it, we have to go through this stupid rigmarole -"

    At that point, my wrist communicator goes beep at me. If this is someone from the ship sending a routine report, I am gonna be so miffed with them - I hit the button. "Pexlini."

    "You are to be at the secondary entrance to Paradise City at 2300 hours. You will come alone," says a buzzy mechanical voice.

    "Yeah, well," I say, "considering the last meeting I had, I got jumped by two hit squads, I'm kinda not so keen on that bit, right?"

    "You are to be at the secondary entrance to Paradise City at 2300 hours. You will come alone," the voice repeats.

    I glance at Hal and Ajbit. "I think I'm talking to a computer. And not even a clever one."

    "You are to be -"

    "All right," I interrupt, "I got it already, right?"

    "You will be scanned for Starfleet technology signatures. Contact will not be made if they are detected."

    Hal and Ajbit both frown. "They think we're with Starfleet?" Ajbit says.

    "You will -" I put my hand over the comm and let the voice ramble on while I think. "They must know we've got some kind of a deal with Starfleet," I say. "After all, the Dechenchholing spent time enough at ESD. But why would they let us know they suspect us...?"

    We think about that, while the voice goes through its pre-programmed spiel three more times.

    "Only thing I can figure," I say, "is that they want me in Delta Quadrant tech only for the meet. Which kinda makes sense, if you figure Delta gear is generally way worse quality than Starfleet's." Though not all of it is. Mine isn't, for instance. I uncover the communicator. "Okay, no Starfleet gear, I got it," I tell it.

    "You will be monitored. Any violation of these conditions, and the meeting will be cancelled. Message ends." And the channel goes dead.

    "Well," I say, "that sounds completely open and above board, right? Especially after Eta Meridia.... I wonder who Thrang's actual buyers are? 'Cause he sure as hell isn't selling anything to us."

    "We can monitor this meeting, too," says Ajbit. "And Dechenchholing's sensors are probably better than theirs."

    "Don't doubt it. Do me a favour, though? Get some security squads down on the ground before these guys start jamming transporters. I'd like to know I've got backup somewhere nearby."

    "Depend on it," says Hal. "We'd better work out some non-jammable distress signal, too."

    "Yeah, you do that." I stand up. "I guess I'd better go change my clothes."

    ---

    Night in Paradise City. Beyond the city wall, the desert glimmers fitfully in starlight. Like most deserts, this one goes bitterly cold once darkness falls. A thin wind keens in the dismal streets, cold and mournful. However, this does mean all the giant worms and sand scorpions go torpid, which is good news any way you slice it.

    I shiver and stamp my feet. It sets the helmet bobbling where it hangs at my waist. I could put it on, I guess, except a full suit of Hirogen battle armour, even cut down to my size, doesn't look very diplomatic.

    Hirogen technology, of course, isn't Starfleet. Neither is the corrosive-plasma pistol at my waist, or the reverse-engineered personal shield that we picked up, umm, on some planet or other. I'm taking a bit of a risk with the fluidic antiproton wrist lance slung on my back, since that was reassembled and converted in a Starfleet lab. It's still basically Undine technology, though, so I think it'll be fine.

    I hear movement nearby. Of course, I've been jumping at every sound for the past fifteen minutes or so, but this definitely sounds like feet trudging through desert sand. It could be people going about some completely unrelated nefarious errand after dark, I suppose, but my chronometer is saying 2258 now and that's, yanno, close enough for government work.

    The metal gate in the city wall lowers itself into the sand with a dull, sustained grating sound.

    Figures step through the gateway, dim and hulking against the desert's gleam. A horrid rasping and snarling begins, and then the universal translator cuts in. "Mammal," a big shadowy shape says to me.

    Oh, boy. Orions? No such luck. These guys are quite clearly the Gorn separatists who hang out around the fringes of Paradise City. They have no reason to love mammals in general or me in particular. If Kalevar Thrang has hired these guys as his goons du jour, I am in for a rough time of it.

    "Who wants to know?" I ask.

    The first Gorn comes closer. I can see starlight glitter on reflective eye shields, feel the warmth from his massive body. He's wearing electrically heated clothing. Well, as a reptile, he'd pretty much have to be. I kinda wish I was.

    "You are Pexlini?" he asks. The translator gives him a voice like gravel with bad intentions.

    "Nah," I say, "I'm some other Talaxian who just happens to be hanging out here for the fine wines and intellectual conversation."

    "You will come with us."

    "Where are we going?"

    Light gleams on metal. He is holding a disruptor in one taloned fist. "You will come with us," he repeats. It isn't a question.

    "Listen," I say, "I'm here to negotiate for some goodies from, well, a certain source. I've got my organization's proposal on a datachip, right here, I'm willing to make a deal in good faith, so what's with all the runarounds and strong-arm tactics, huh? Why don't you come with me, we can sit down over some rocket fuel at Two of Eight's bar and come to an agreement? What's the problem with that?"

    "You will come with us." He's been taking lessons from that computer. I slide my hand, unobtrusively I hope, towards the wrist lance.

    One of the other Gorn says something. The translator doesn't catch it, but the first one turns his head and snarls something back. The translator remains silent through a hissing, rasping, bad-tempered exchange. I'm feeling left out, here.

    The Gorn spokesman turns back to me. "There are animals out there," he snarls. "What do you know about them?"

    "Animals?" I'm blank on that. Granted, some of Hal's security teams are a bit on the scruffy side, but calling them animals seems kinda harsh. "It's, umm, kinda a wild world here, right? Are you picking up native fauna, maybe?"

    "Not like this," the Gorn hisses. He leans towards me, and the disruptor in his fist looks overly large. "I do not know what you hope to achieve, but -"

    Then about seventy-five kilos of something fanged and snarling drops on his back, and that's when I know things have gone seriously pear-shaped.
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  • antonine3258antonine3258 Member Posts: 2,391 Arc User
    I am most definitely enjoying the ride - talk about a viper's nest, and they haven't even hit the local sandworms.

    Also cut-outs on cut-outs, things aren't going well for the good guys.
    Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker

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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    "He has done what?" Melani D'ian's voice had progressed past anger, now, into a chilling calm.

    "He has invited a number of merchant fleets and independent operators to join him in a mutual protection society," the Lethean said.

    D'ian closed her eyes, kept them shut for a few seconds, then opened them again. "Mutir," she said, still in that calm voice, "are we talking, here, of the same Kalevar Thrang?"

    "Yes, Matron," said Mutir. "At least, as far as we are able to ascertain."

    Melani D'ian took a deep breath. She strode to the throne-like chair behind her ornate desk, sat down, and steepled her hands in front of her.

    Mutir said nothing. He was dressed in nondescript leathers, and one side of his head was horribly scarred. In the dazzling luxury of D'ian's audience chamber, he looked very out of place.

    "We could indicate to the, ahh, members of this society," he suggested, "that their decision is an ill-judged one. A policy of targeting their ships and cargoes would detract from Thrang's prestige -"

    "No," said D'ian. "No. We will act just as we have done with other... protective associations. Make it plain that, if they pay their dues to the Syndicate, they will enjoy all the security they desire. And, once they feel secure, then it will be time to infiltrate our agents into their ranks. Thrang must make contact with his own organization... and when he does, we will take him."

    "It would take time, Matron."

    "No doubt," said D'ian. "Everything about Thrang seems to be taking longer than we anticipated." Her lustrous eyes seemed unfocused, staring into the distance. "And we are still no nearer to discovering his backers... there must be someone behind him...."

    "Once we have him in our hands, Matron," said Mutir, "we will wring that truth from him, among others."

    "Yes," said D'ian. "Once we have him." She shook her head, sending her dark locks tumbling. "There are other matters to attend to, in the meantime, I gather."

    "Matron Viaya and Matron Delfin have been waiting for some little time," said Mutir.

    "Delfin?"

    "Now established as the successor to the lamented Matron Ch'eina."

    "Another item on Thrang's account. Very well. Send them in."

    Mutir touched his wrist communicator. After a moment, the doors to the chamber opened. They did not slide, but swung inwards, smoothly, ponderously, and with no sound at all.

    Two women entered, side by side, pointedly looking away from each other. Viaya was small and voluptuously curved, her raven hair worn in an elaborate coiffure woven around and supported by many bejewelled ivory rods. Delfin was tall, long-legged and lissome; her skin was pale green, almost white, and her long black hair fell free almost to her waist. Melani D'ian inclined her head, a minimal nod, to each of them.

    "Your feuding must cease," she told them, shortly. Viaya opened her mouth. "I did not give you leave to speak," D'ian snapped. Viaya shut her mouth and glowered, while Delfin glanced sidelong at her, a half-smile showing for a moment on her lips. "Your House's rivalries led to this situation," D'ian continued. "You should have made arrangements for this precious archive long ago. Now it is outside the Syndicate's hands entirely, and that is because of you. Viaya. Have you at least identified the breach in your security? Now, you may speak."

    "Thrang suborned one of our security archivists - one who had access to the House's main vaults," Viaya said. Her voice was low, musical - and sullen. "He seems to have used some biological technology to maintain a hold on this person."

    "Seems?" said D'ian.

    "The person - died. In an unnatural manner. We suspect some poison, held in abeyance by repeated doses of an antidote."

    "You suspect this? I would have hoped that you could do better than suspect."

    "The - remains - are not in a condition which makes analysis easy. But that in itself implies -"

    "Quite." D'ian leaned back. Her gaze turned to Delfin. "We have not met, have we, Matron Delfin? I would congratulate you on your accession, were it not for the ineptitude of your predecessor. I see you are studying my aide?" Delfine's glance kept darting, suspiciously, at Mutir.

    "The Matron no doubt has concerns," said Mutir. He moved to face Delfin, turning his head so that the scars showed. "The Matron has no cause to fear that her... mental privacy... is endangered."

    Delfin nodded slowly. "How did Ch'eina die?" D'ian demanded.

    "She went to meet Kalevar Thrang. He killed her and took the key to the archive." Delfin's voice was high-pitched, and wavered slightly.

    "As simple as that," said D'ian. "An experienced Matron of a House, an officer of the Syndicate itself - simply killed, by a lone Orion male."

    "Her records show she took all normal precautions," said Delfin. "She was alone with Thrang, true, when she went to take possession of the archive. But he was scanned, he had no energy weapons, he had no nasal filters or other protections against the Matron's abilities -"

    "He had something, it seems," said D'ian. She rose from her seat. "And now he has the Rehanissen Archive, and he is stirring up dissension and suspicion in every quarter he can reach. We do not need to play his game. I will not tolerate petty bickering and blame-shifting while our organization faces a crisis. The sniping and quarrelling between your Houses is to cease, forthwith. Once Kalevar Thrang and his backers have been dealt with, then you may quibble. If there is any more of it now, I will end it directly - I will unite your two Houses by requiring you two to marry each other. Do I make my requirements clear?"

    Viaya nodded silently. "You do," said Delfin.

    "Excellent. Now, you may leave."

    They did, stalking out with an air of exaggerated hauteur. Melani D'ian waited until the double doors swung shut and locked themselves securely. Then she turned to Mutir. "Well?"

    "Resentful, but chastised," said the Lethean. "They will cooperate, for the present." He snorted, and his leathery face moved in something resembling a smile. "One amusing detail. Your threat to reconcile their Houses? Neither one would find it... personally disagreeable."

    Melani D'ian smiled. "Well, we must snatch such amusements as we may, in these times. What is the next item of business?"

    Mutir reached for a datapad, and then the comms console on the ornate desk chimed, loudly. D'ian raised one elegant eyebrow, and touched the controls. "This had better be important," she said.

    For an instant, the console's screen was blank, and then a face appeared on it; a Klingon face, with an iron-grey beard, and a patch over one eye. "I believe it is," said K'Men.

    "I see." D'ian's face assumed a mask-like composure. "How may we assist Imperial Intelligence?"

    "One of my senior executives has recently melted," said K'Men.

    D'ian's eyebrows rose. "Melted?"

    "Quite. You may gather that this is not a usual procedure. Preliminary analysis of the - residue - shows that he was exposed to some genetically-tailored cellular phage. Further analysis suggests that this was a long-term thing - that the phage was administered some time ago, long enough for it to pervade his completely -"

    "But the actual action was kept in check, by the regular use of some counter-agent," D'ian interrupted. "I have just lately heard of a similar incident in my own organization. The source -"

    "Kalevar Thrang," said K'Men. "I thought as much. We have the same problem, and it dates back longer than we thought. Thrang and his operation have been preparing."

    "How bad is it?" D'ian asked. "How much of your organization is compromised?"

    "It is bad enough. No one knows all the secrets of Imperial Intelligence - there are areas where even I myself cherish a deliberate ignorance. But J'Negh was highly placed, and saw many files relating to joint intelligence efforts. Now, we must presume that Thrang has that information. What of the Syndicate?"

    "We must assume, where there was one, there must be others. Can we identify this cellular phage by medical screening?"

    "Now that we know it exists, we can develop tests. But it will take much time to screen all our personnel - some, too, are deployed where they cannot easily be recalled." The Klingon spymaster shook his head. "This is a serious matter."

    "How is this counter-agent distributed? If we could close down that channel -"

    "Some of our people would die.... That might be preferable, though. But what concerns me is an encrypted note left by J'Negh. It implies, strongly, that he was in contact with Thrang, directly. Not through an intermediary. The man seems to come and go as he pleases, despite all our security."

    "How complete is your security screening?"

    "Complete enough. Every Orion resident on or visiting Qo'noS is subject to monitoring and surveillance. The circumstances require such thoroughness.... Once this is over, you and I must discuss some of the Syndicate's activities in First City." K'Men's single eye glinted unpleasantly.

    "Once this is over. But, despite all this, Thrang still eludes you?"

    "And you. Unless you are not sharing all your information... which would be injudicious of you."

    "Thrang is a threat to my position, as well as yours. I want him ended," said D'ian. She looked hard into K'Men's face. "I think we need to reassess just how much of a threat he is."
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  • antonine3258antonine3258 Member Posts: 2,391 Arc User
    Mmm, Klingon politicking. Thrang's tipping his hand, no matter how much bravado he has. Wonder if a certain officer originating in the Delta quadrant may be useful on the phage angle.
    Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker

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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Pexlini

    "You twit," I spit at the figure lying next to me in the sand. "You complete and utter pea-brained muppet."

    Little mad Ghammarian eyes focus on me for an instant, and a wheezing laugh comes from behind the metal breath mask. "At least I ruined your deal with the Gorn!" Baz'Kervil says in a wild high-pitched voice. "At least I had that satisfaction!"

    Oh, great. I wiggle a little way out of the hollow, trying to get a handle on the situation. The night is full of screams and snarls and the occasional disruptor shot. Some guy on one of the sentry platforms was trying to shine a searchlight around, earlier, but I think the Gorn shot it out.

    "The Gorn were probably gonna kill me anyway," I hiss to the Master of Hounds.

    "It is certain now!" Baz laughs wildly. "And if they do not, my warriguls will! They will tear your flesh and grind your bones!"

    Warriguls. They're a caninoid species, tough, resilient, and adaptable. They've been introduced to any number of worlds, mostly to the detriment of the local ecology. Also, when you drop a whole bunch of them on a whole bunch of Gorn, things get awfully confusing, awfully quickly. I managed to skedaddle away from the Gorn when the first of the pack showed up, but since the pack was coming out of Paradise City's alleys, I figured making a break for the desert was the safest bet. Turns out I was right, kinda. Not very safe, but still safer than anything else.

    I hear feet crunching on the sand, somewhere close. Whoever or whatever that is, I'm guessing they don't wish me well, so I scoot back into the hollow next to Baz. He's losing a lot of blood. At least, I hope it's blood. It's certainly some sort of body fluid, and it's getting all over me, so I figure blood is kinda the least worst option, there.

    "Aw, yeebles," I say to him, "were you really that TRIBBLE off at me smashing up Shangdu?"

    "I had a contract! I was the Master of Hounds! Then you came, and I spent three months in intensive therapy, and when I got out, the arena was closed and I had nothing!" He's gonna draw attention if he keeps this up. I mean, there's a lot of shouting and snarling out there, but someone's gonna hear him sooner or later.

    "You had warriguls left," I mutter.

    "Clone stock for hundreds of them!" Baz shrills. "And trained! I spent years training the first ones, then I spun them down for RNA transfer! I can field an army of obedient warriguls!"

    Yeah, if he has his control device. The control device is lying on the sand about twenty metres away, next to Baz's Ferengi-style energy whip, and the big Gorn who ran into both of us. None of the three is going to be working again any time soon. The Gorn got his claws into Baz, and would've finished the job if I hadn't zapped him hard.

    "How does that controller work?" I ask him.

    "I will not divulge my secrets to you!"

    "I mean," I say, as patiently as I can manage, "can I program any of its functions into a tricorder, or something, maybe get control of the pack back that way?" My tricorder is a pretty basic Talaxian commercial model, and I don't much fancy my chances with it, but anything's worth a shot.

    "No!" says Baz. "My secrets! Mine alone! They die with me!"

    Pretty soon, too, if he keeps this up. I pull the helmet off my belt, and fit it on my head. Baz laughs. "You will never pass like that! You look nothing like a Hirogen!"

    All I want to do is see like a Hirogen. Behind my visor, the desert lights up in ghostly false colour, bright dots weaving about in the middle distance as the suit's motion detectors pick out potential targets. Hirogen hunting sensors are second to none. The detectors are highlighting a shape over to my left - where the footsteps were coming from -

    The image blurs for an instant, then turns crisp and clear. Four legs, leathery hide with scutes over the vital organs, long jaw with excessive number of teeth. Warrigul. Big one. It's pacing back and forth, apparently uncertain. My guess is, it can smell me nearby, but it can also smell Baz, and he's programmed them not to attack his scent. Lucky for me I got his I-hope-it's-blood on me, I guess.

    I could zap it with the wrist lance. Or I could stand up and shout to the Gorn "here I am, please shoot me," it'd have much the same effect.

    The warrigul raises its head, sniffing the air.

    Then the sand beneath it swells, and rises up in a dome, and explodes outwards, revealing the gaping segmented maw opening underneath. The aehallh worm lunges out of the ground, its jaws clamping around the warrigul's hind legs, dragging the creature into the air. The warrigul yelps and shrieks, scrabbling at its attacker with its forepaws, trying vainly to bite, while the sandworm gulps it relentlessly down. The warrigul raises its head and keens at the dim stars, then falls silent forever. One paw waves a brief goodbye, and then the maw closes and the worm slides back down into the sand.

    "Well, that's just great," I say. Baz titters incoherently. I think he's a goner if he doesn't get medical help quick. Of course, now all the disturbance on the surface has roused the sandworms, I'm in even more trouble myself.

    I check my belt. I still have the distress flare. I could fire it off, and hope my backup teams get to me before the Gorn do.

    There is a terrible snarling and baying from somewhere, and it sounds like it's getting closer. I look around. The visor's sensors show a mass of enemy targets approaching. Oh, wonderful. Whole bunch of warriguls heard their pack-mate complaining about being eaten, they are heading in this direction, I am not going to be able to stop them with persuasion -

    I give Baz a shake. "Wake up, damn you!" I snarl at him.

    His little eyes flutter open. "Leave me be! Let me cherish my victory!"

    "Half your damn pack is almost on top of us! How do we stop them? They'll eat you, too!"

    Baz just giggles and closes his eyes again. To be fair, I've been on worse dates, but not often.

    The howling and baying is getting too close for comfort. I think I'm out of options. I fiddle with the Risian gadget, then draw the wrist lance. I take aim at the leader of the approaching pack -

    The fluidic antiproton wrist lance is wrapped round my hand, like a sort of wickerwork basket with glowsticks in the weave. It's salvaged Undine tech, not Starfleet, and its effects are - interesting. The secondary fire builds up a massive pulse that propagates over nearby solid surfaces, spitting out unstable antiprotons randomly at anything nearby. I hope it works on sand. I hope it synchs up properly with the Risian device. I think I'm about to find out.

    The lance whines and shudders and discharges a long, wavering bolt of red-gold light, that explodes against the sand and sends out questing arms of spitting fire. And the air shimmers above it, and the baying turns to howls of pain and terror. Risa isn't noted for weaponry, but the terraforming technology that turned the planet into paradise - has other uses as well. Normally, the localised graviton spike is used as an ecologically sound alternative to explosives, for clearing ground or reshaping rock formations. Right now, though, it's picking up the pack of warriguls and pulling them towards the epicentre of my blast - hurling them onto the blazing sands.

    The howling and screaming stops. The air is heavy with the smell of molten glass and burned doggoid. Something whines, fitfully, once, and falls silent.

    So I'm not, immediately, going to get eaten by warriguls. Now for my next problem, because, really, it seems a safe bet I've drawn attention to myself. Might as well have shot off that distress flare.

    The visor compensates automatically for the changing light as the molten sands cool. It picks out the big lumbering bipedal forms, too, now lumbering fast in my general direction. And the Gorn have personal shields and body armour, too, I'm not going to take them down anything like so easy -

    Disruptor beams flash green through the dark. I hit the dirt, even though they're not aimed at me, yet. No sense making it easy for them.

    "Talaxian!" One of the Gorn is approaching the warriguls' funeral pyre. A couple of others come up to join him. One of them is fiddling with something that must be a portable scanner. "Give yourself up!" the Gorn spokesman continues. Oh, yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

    I could shoot at them... but that's the problem with beam weapons, they kinda give your position away. I hunker down in the sand and try to think invisible thoughts. OK, so it's not gonna work, but I can't think of anything else -

    The lead Gorn is coming forward, over the blasted sand and the remains of the warrigul pack, more of his troops falling into line behind him.

    And then the ground explodes.

    The fused glass left by my weapon shatters into a myriad hot glittering fragments, and the aehallh worm erupts out of the ground. It's a huge one, two metres or more in diameter, towering up into the sky. The nearest Gorn falls as the sands shift beneath him. His companions fire their weapons, but hand-held disruptors don't do much more than irritate that monster.

    The worm writhes, and flattens itself out, and suddenly spins around in a circle. Aehallh worms spend their lives moving through a resistant medium, they are darn near solid muscle, some of the longer ones can crack their bodies like whips. The Gorn, massive though some of them are, are knocked flying. The worm rears up, plunges its front end down to the sand, rears up again. There is a Gorn in its maw. I close my eyes. I don't want to see what happens next.

    Jeepers, this is bad. Monster worms like this don't normally get so close to Paradise City, and when they do, there are heavy-duty disruptor turrets the citizens can use to kill them or drive them off. But with all the comms scrambling that's going on tonight, the city's defences can't possibly be coordinated. The damned worm can ravage at will. Of course, before it starts chowing down on the denizens of the city, it'll most likely finish off the tasty little morsels outside on the sands. Tasty little morsels like me.

    I swallow. Yeah, I'm a morsel, but I'm a morsel with a gun. The wrist lance and the graviton spike are probably the most effective weapons around here right now. Time to get using them, Pex.

    So I trigger the graviton spike again, and I raise the wrist lance, and aim at the worm.

    The monster bellows as the beam burns into it, and the questing tendrils of flame wrap themselves around the beast. The graviton effect pulls another ten metres or so of the creature out of the sand, and it hangs writhing in the air for a moment, ululating and snapping at itself, trying to bite away the antiproton bursts. The fires die away. The worm's hide is scorched, a deep blackened scar showing where the beam hit first, but it's just surface damage, no way I've reached any vital organs.

    The worm's blind head turns this way and that, the vast segmented maw opening and shutting.

    Then another wavery line of fire strikes out across the desert, slamming into the worm and clinging to it in a shower of sparks. It's followed by a brilliant flash and an immense concussive blast. There are more beams too, the red of antiproton fire and the blue-green of heavy plasma guns. The worm roars as killing light burns into it. I fire at it again.

    Cavalry's arrived. I glance at where the energy fire's coming from, and cut in the armour's vision amplifiers. My security teams have made it out of the city, and Heizis has arrived with her people. The Reman is there herself, a happy snarl on her face and a thing in her hands that looks like a killer wastepaper basket from hell. Vaadwaur assault debilitator, nasty thing. It sends out another blast of antiprotons even as I watch.

    The worm roars and spins around, but there's no one close enough for it to hit. Then it plunges back into the sand. For a moment, its tail flicks in the air, and then it is gone, just a moving hump in the desert sand, moving away from the city.

    So we won that one. But there's still Gorn out there, and they're still armed.

    I reach for my belt with my free hand, pull out the distress flare, point it up and fire. A brief hiss, and then light bursts out above me. The visor flickers as it adjusts. People are moving in my direction, some of them on my side, some of them not.

    A big Gorn seems likely to get to me first, and I point the wrist lance at him. Before I fry him, though, Hal Welti pops out from behind a convenient hummock and hits the Gorn with a textbook-perfect aikido kick. It'd take a human's head off, I think; it certainly drops the Gorn poleaxed in his tracks. Man Hal's age shouldn't be doing stuff like that, it'll put his back out.

    He comes towards me, stumbling a little in the sand. "Pex! You OK?"

    "I'm fine!" I bellow back. "Got a badly wounded Ghammarian here though, call sickbay, tell 'em to prep for that! And tell Heizis to use heavy stun, we want some Gorn alive for questioning!"

    "Six impossible things before breakfast," I hear him mutter. But he relays my orders into his combadge anyway. Looks like we've broken through the Gorn comms jamming, at least.

    Heizis comes loping towards me, moving easily over the sand, despite the heavy weapon in her hands. "I have instructed my teams to take prisoners," she says. "What of the worms and the warriguls? Do you want those for interrogation, also?"

    She's in a good mood, I see. "Nah," I say, "just get rid of 'em. Also, we have got to stop meeting like this."
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