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The USS Capri Takes A Bite Out Of Crime - Part 1/3
aestu
Member Posts: 0 Arc User
"The importance of this mission to the safety and security of the Federation cannot be overstated..."
Commander R'Miarr inwardly grimaced. His mission briefings came in two flavors, "the importance of this mission cannot be overstated" and "I don't need to tell you how important this mission is". This was the flavor he preferred less. Not that it mattered; it always seemed like no matter how much he tried to drive home the importance of a mission, or how much its importance spoke for itself, the officers sat through the briefing, with neutral body language and semi-interested gaze, internalizing what seemed to them the prominent points, disregarding the just as vital details, then they would board their shuttle, the matter would be out of the Caitian's great sleek-furred hands and he could only wait tenuously for the officers' report.
He wasn't sure if Letheans could read Caitian minds or not. Dorred's reptilian gaze, coldly confident red-irised eyes, his still features and leathery complexion gave nothing away. He was more nervous about Fronn "the Eliminator", a "consultant" hired on at Captain Aestu's discretion under the reforms Starfleet passed in 2395 giving captains more discretionary power, in an effort to loosen the organization up, keep it responsive and relevant in a rapidly changing and increasingly unstable galaxy. Fronn sat in his shallow briefing chair with an informal discipline, a sociopath's cool expression written on his face. Fronn was the kind of man who was too smart to be fully trusted, more to be feared as an ally than an enemy. Regardless, these two men had talent, he and Aestu had gone over the roster three times and convinced themselves they were the best choices for the mission.
"I still don't understand why the Federation doesn't just legalize gambling," inquired Fronn laconically. There was a certain jaded honesty to his query.
R'Miarr followed his instincts as a Caitan and a Starfleet officer and responded with reasoned honesty in turn. "Gambling itself is not so much a problem as what it brings with it - fraud, organized crime, money laundering, smuggling. Casinos easily become outposts for all sorts of unlawful activity. Gambling is not a productive industry yet casinos have massive sums coming in and out the door, and their need for security has a way of turning them into private fiefdoms for the unlawful. It's no coincidence these illegal gambling operations you are to investigate are fronts for the Orion Syndicate - the KDF's 'fifth column' within Federation borders." R'Miarr paused. "These are organized criminals. They are armed and dangerous. As their operations are interstellar in scope, only Starfleet has the mandate and capacity to take them on - planetary governments can't do the job."
"So what exactly are we looking for? Just gambling?"
"As I said, gambling is not really the issue. We know they're gambling. Obviously, we'd like more intelligence on the nature of their gambling operations - as much detail as possible will help us further our understanding, track funds, and plan future interdictions. But what we really want to know is what else is going on. As I said, these gambling operations are ultimately fronts. There are other criminal activities underfoot. Some may even be of a subversive nature. Starfleet would prefer you bring back information rather than take direct action. We do not wish to tip our hand."
"And on that note..."
R'Miarr sighed. His sigh wasn't really a sigh so much as a low growl. "Yes...you will be permitted to gamble...for the purpose of infiltration..." Fronn began to open his mouth. The Caitian denied him the satisfaction. "And you will be provided with funds appropriate to the needs of the mission."
"You don't need to worry about us, Commander." Dorred finally spoke. "Although we realize you may not trust us as much as Federation-born officers, please remember we have taken an oath to serve...and serve we will."
R'Miarr wasn't sure whether Dorred was being plainly honest or just tripping off his fears and doubts in typical Lethean manner. Professionally, he played it cool. "Indeed, Lieutenant. You enjoy my full confidence." He picked up a PADD from the briefing table, tapped it with his thumbprint, and handed it to the Lethean. "Here are your operational orders and authorized requisitions. You will be leaving from the main shuttlebay aboard Pod Seven at 2100 hours, to the Drozana system, where you will secure futher passage. Dismissed." Thankful to finish the briefing, R'Miarr had only taken three naps in the last twenty hours.
Fronn eagerly sprung to his feet and flashed a toothy smile. "Seven and twenty-one...those are lucky numbers in Hu-mon gambling culture, aren't they?" The Lethean joined in with a slight grin. Neither R'Miarr's intense green eyes nor his disciplined leonine form shifted a micrometer. "I wouldn't know." He marched with purpose out the door, his mind firmly set on an image of Human cat food. If the Lethean were watching his thoughts, he'd be watching that. He did not look back to see his expression, not that it would have revealed anything.
The Ferengi and Lethean - odd couple they were - headed down the corridor in the opposite direction. The Lethean strode with merciless purpose; the Ferengi waltzed along, like a hyperactive pre-teen, all frenzy and babble. "So I bet you're looking forward to this mission, Mister Dorred!"
Dorred dimly half-turned to the Ferengi. Truth to tell, Ferengi - especially this one - made him very nervous. Nothing in his experience as a Lethean who had spent most of his life amongst aliens had prepared him to deal with such a fellow, without the sixth sense of telepathy. Dorred might have felt like a social introvert blindfolded and pushed into a crowded clubroom. He paused for effect then settled on a neutral if honest response. "I enjoy a challenge." Pause. "This mission promises to be a challenge."
"You can't wear your Starfleet uniform, you know." Fronn pointed his index finger in the air. "This is undercover!"
"Yes." Pause. "I still have my mercenary garb." Pause. "I still wear it when I go off-duty."
"Well, we're not off-duty you know! But that doesn't mean we can't have fun!"
Was this Ferengi foxtailing him or was he just overeager? "The commander handed the PADD to you, so you will procure our requisitions...see you at the main shuttlebay in three hours..." Dorred quickened his pace and headed down a side corridor.
Fronn's lip curled. Ahh, procurement. Always fun for every Ferengi. Usually. He loved nothing more than haggling a few extra commodities from some vendor or trader whenever he had the chance...but Starfleet didn't stand for that, at least not usually...they took 'five hundred MREs' so, so literally. And the USS Capri seemed to have the most killjoy quartermasters in the fleet. That Vulcan who thought everything always went as it should and was about as generous as a vending machine. That Benzite on the brink of 'going postal' as the Hu-mons said and insisted everyone else fill out as much paperwork as his job demanded. That sexually frustrated Tellarite woman who made everything take twice as long as it should, just so she could have another body with her in the cargo bay. And...
The Daystrom Institute had come up with this idea. Crazy or ingenious, take your pick. In the interest of the 'cultural education' of crews, and to differentiate photonics from organics and thereby reduce tensions about the latter becoming 'obsolete', they experimented with superimposing the personalities of historical figures - often grossly exaggerated - on photonic crewmembers. Upon viewing an "original" performance of Hamlet put on by the Capri, casting Cardassian and Ferengi expatriates, repurposed Orion pornograms and Starfleet photonic officers, a Tholian tactician and two Bolian crewmen, the Daystrom Institute proclaimed the ship the perfect testing ground for their latest innovation: a fully functional photonic quartermaster in the likeness of the greatest Hu-mon "warrior poet".
Fronn turned the corner and the reinforced doors of the cargo bay lumbered open. "Who goes there? Be you friend or foe?"
"Procurement." Fronn slapped the PADD on the photonic quartermaster's desk. What did the other quartermasters do while this...historical fiction...was manning the desk? No sooner were Fronn's musings answered by his highly sensitive hearing pricking up at the distinctive sound of aluminum poker chips being chucked onto a tritanium table in the quartermaster's office and the low murmur of Vulcan and Tellarite voices.
"Let us see...three dozen MREs, half a dozen high-powered phaser rifles, and a whole gross of spatial charges, oh my indeed! Great meals of beef and swords of iron are not enough for the King's men today!"
"Could you toss us an extra bar of latinum? We're worried this mission may drag on a bit."
"Neither a lender nor a borrower be," the photonic replied in its obnoxiously chipper British accent.
"But a friend in need is a friend indeed, no, my friend?" Fronn knew when to play the game...
"For what advancement may I hope? Let thrift follow fawning, my good friend!"
Fronn thought quickly. Remembered....from last month's production of a Hu-mon drama...
"Oh ye gods! Must I ensure all this? You wrong me every way. Deny me gold and I shall offer my heart nonetheless." With a bit of effort, Fronn forced out a single crocodile tear.
The photonic image of the great Hu-mon warrior-poet was singularly impressed by the Ferengi ex-merc's performance. Nearly moved to tears himself. "I give you my hand...and my heart, noble Fronn..." He slid an extra bar and some slips across the table, one, then the other, with weighty pathos.
Hastily, ingloriously, Fronn said, "Thanks, Shakes," took his remittance, and dashed out the cargo bay, the reinforced pneumatic doors opening and closing just in time. A moment later, the doors opened and closed again; the Eliminator ran back in and out again. He had forgotten the box of spatial charges.
...
Dorred and Fronn didn't have much to talk about on the flight to Drozana. There, they would scuttle the Starfleet shuttlepod and board suitably disreputable transit to the Orion operation two sectors away. Both men stared straight forward, the Lethean stiffly at-attention in his chair, the Ferengi nervously shuffling with barely restrained energy. This annoyed the Lethean both because he was unable to reconcile the Ferengi's movements with thoughts which he was unable to read, and because the agitated movements of the smaller humanoid aroused his crepuscular predator's instinct. He felt an urge to bite the Ferengi's skull open. But his reptilian countenance betrayed nothing.
"Hey, Dorred, I was thinking...oh you wouldn't know, would you? Haha, that must be a change of pace for you!"
His Starfleet uniform never fit so awkwardly as at this moment. Its black-and-red reinforced ultraspandex was as much a restraint upon him on his habit, prior to accepting a commission, of killing those who behaved in such a manner, as it was upon his Captain's generous bust.
Restrained indeed. "Is that a joke, Mr. Fronn?"
"Ya. Well, I was thinking. If you were a Starfleet officer looking to secure...discreet...travel to an Orion gambling operation, how would you go about it?"
The rolling of the eyes was not a Lethean mannerism. "I would travel to a seedy neutral outpost and hire a smuggler to take me there in an unregistered vessel with a stripped transponder, flown by a career criminal."
"Right. And you'd pay them with gold-pressed latinum, right?"
"I am not interested in having my stay in Starfleet cut short by a court-martial for embezzlement."
"Oh come on now, Lieutenant. Where do you think the Captain gets her Romulan ale? ...But no. Embezzlement isn't what I had in mind. At least not right now. I was thinking. Starfleet types don't usually kill people for no reason, right?"
"You really are a sociopath."
"Yes, yes, but listen anyway! I'm thinking we should make a ruckus...make it clear we're not trying to be discreet...and show we're not Starfleet types. Best way to hide is in the open, no?"
Dorred's laconic reptillian brain considered Fronn's advice. "Makes sense. So you want to start a fight at Drozana, as a cover?"
"Right. And it will be fun!" Fronn paused. Confessed. "...Do you ever feel that Starfleet has...taken something from you? Tamed you? Made you into a...hu-mon?"
Dorred now shifted in his chair. "Sometimes...I miss the old life..."
"Being a washed-up merc...phasering recalcitrant former clients in the knees...going where you want...and...wearing something other than this...ultraspandex..."
Dorred finally smiled and offered a confession of his own. "Have you ever seen a Vulcan beg for mercy?"
"Yep. You wouldn't believe it."
"No more than you'd believe me. It was a fine telepathic rapture. How strange; you'd never guess how many Vulcans are terrified of having a random outbreak of pon-farr on deep space assigment with the ship's only holodeck being blown out!"
"Or how many Vulcans are terrified of having their ears snipped off."
The two ex-mercs made their respective guffaws, a hyperactive loud snicker and a sort of wheezing staccato.
"Dorred...two washed-up mercs, a bag of gold-pressed latinum, a bag of spatial charges...and it's all paid for by Starfleet. Times are gonna be good."
Dorred could hardly disagree.
...
"A full bar. Not a counterfeit bar, mind you. And not a slip less!"
"Fifteen strips, Dogman. I *suggest* you take it." Fronn mettle as a negotiatior was no less that as an eliminator, but his stamina was waning. He began to suspect this Dopterian was trying to negotiate his way out of a deal. Maybe he was getting suspicious?
"A full bar!"
"Alright, then, maybe..." Fronn deliberately leaned to one side in his chair, his satchel of spatial charges and latinum getting briefly caught on the spurs of a passing Klingon Defense Force sergeant.
"Watch your place, fool!" The Klingon stood his ground, obviously lusting for a fight. Probably cabin-feverish from being on the station too long. He smiled and growled, looking forward to this."
Fronn did the unexpected. "I believe I am looking at the fool...Klingon fool. Keep moving. You don't really want a fight."
The Klingon was surprised and briefly cowed. So surprised he momentarily considered doing just what Fronn suggested. Then he remembered himself. Was humilated. Screamed in rage.
And then - fell to the ground dead.
Dorred stepped out from seemingly nowhere and withdrew his poniard from the Klingon's back. Smiled viciously, circled the table, and took up station behind the Dopterian.
"...maybe I can offer a more...convincing offer. Fifteen strips." Pause. "And one to cover the mess."
The Dopterian blanched. But he was experienced in his own right.
"Seventeen, Ferengi."
Fronn appeared to be about to snarl. Dorred tensed. "Seventeen it is."
...
Mad Jack's Hole was located in the most contested of contested territory.
Contested between the Federation, the Klingons, and formerly the Romulans...and by no less than seven provincial governments between each of those great powers. Currently, the space that the outpost occupied could be considered reasonably secure under the Federation, although squabbles between three plantary governments over just who the space belonged to prevented any effective policing and administration.
And, until now, Starfleet simply had bigger fish to fry.
The trip in a broken-down former freighter, stripped of its cargo holds and refitted with a custom engine kitbashed from Cardassian and Klingon military surplus, was hardly luxurious. Fronn and Dorred never appreciated just how bad Dopterians smelled. But Mad Jack's Hole was something else...
A powerful dampening field prevented any transport in or out of Mad Jack's Hole, necessitating embarkment and disembarkment on foot. The anteroom, where prospective guests waited for screening by the Syndicate operators, offered just a taste of what was in store. Orion slave-girls, all but naked save for golden bikinis, carried about plates of amuse bouche, prepared from Caspian caviar, syrup of squill and light wafers of uncertain origin. A ten-meter-tall Mugalo, 'Nagus Nogg', roared in a corner, restrained by unnecessarily large chains. A full-grown sehlat paced behind the bars of a cage along the north wall. And all about were the trappings of extreme luxury, priceless art adorning the walls, lavish tapestry, a ten-man live music performance...
Waiting had never been so fun. But this decadence (partaken at Starfleet expense!) was nothing compared to what lay in store.
"Good evening, gentlemen," beamed the majordomo, a big, beefy, jovial Orion. He carried himself with confidence and authority, but being male, was clearly not the real power behind the operation. "You wouldn't have any...weapons on you? No contraband? The Syndicate has a monopoly on contraband at this establishment!"
"We're gamers, Domo...and we're lookin' to game."
"Just what I like to hear. Well, while we've been talking, you've been discreetly scanned annnnnnd you're free to enter. You can buy chips at the window, and redeem your chips for prizes down the west corridor. Enjoy your stay, gentlemen." The majordomo beamed one last time and moved along, with his rolling, gregarious gait.
TBC...tomorrow, same time.
Commander R'Miarr inwardly grimaced. His mission briefings came in two flavors, "the importance of this mission cannot be overstated" and "I don't need to tell you how important this mission is". This was the flavor he preferred less. Not that it mattered; it always seemed like no matter how much he tried to drive home the importance of a mission, or how much its importance spoke for itself, the officers sat through the briefing, with neutral body language and semi-interested gaze, internalizing what seemed to them the prominent points, disregarding the just as vital details, then they would board their shuttle, the matter would be out of the Caitian's great sleek-furred hands and he could only wait tenuously for the officers' report.
He wasn't sure if Letheans could read Caitian minds or not. Dorred's reptilian gaze, coldly confident red-irised eyes, his still features and leathery complexion gave nothing away. He was more nervous about Fronn "the Eliminator", a "consultant" hired on at Captain Aestu's discretion under the reforms Starfleet passed in 2395 giving captains more discretionary power, in an effort to loosen the organization up, keep it responsive and relevant in a rapidly changing and increasingly unstable galaxy. Fronn sat in his shallow briefing chair with an informal discipline, a sociopath's cool expression written on his face. Fronn was the kind of man who was too smart to be fully trusted, more to be feared as an ally than an enemy. Regardless, these two men had talent, he and Aestu had gone over the roster three times and convinced themselves they were the best choices for the mission.
"I still don't understand why the Federation doesn't just legalize gambling," inquired Fronn laconically. There was a certain jaded honesty to his query.
R'Miarr followed his instincts as a Caitan and a Starfleet officer and responded with reasoned honesty in turn. "Gambling itself is not so much a problem as what it brings with it - fraud, organized crime, money laundering, smuggling. Casinos easily become outposts for all sorts of unlawful activity. Gambling is not a productive industry yet casinos have massive sums coming in and out the door, and their need for security has a way of turning them into private fiefdoms for the unlawful. It's no coincidence these illegal gambling operations you are to investigate are fronts for the Orion Syndicate - the KDF's 'fifth column' within Federation borders." R'Miarr paused. "These are organized criminals. They are armed and dangerous. As their operations are interstellar in scope, only Starfleet has the mandate and capacity to take them on - planetary governments can't do the job."
"So what exactly are we looking for? Just gambling?"
"As I said, gambling is not really the issue. We know they're gambling. Obviously, we'd like more intelligence on the nature of their gambling operations - as much detail as possible will help us further our understanding, track funds, and plan future interdictions. But what we really want to know is what else is going on. As I said, these gambling operations are ultimately fronts. There are other criminal activities underfoot. Some may even be of a subversive nature. Starfleet would prefer you bring back information rather than take direct action. We do not wish to tip our hand."
"And on that note..."
R'Miarr sighed. His sigh wasn't really a sigh so much as a low growl. "Yes...you will be permitted to gamble...for the purpose of infiltration..." Fronn began to open his mouth. The Caitian denied him the satisfaction. "And you will be provided with funds appropriate to the needs of the mission."
"You don't need to worry about us, Commander." Dorred finally spoke. "Although we realize you may not trust us as much as Federation-born officers, please remember we have taken an oath to serve...and serve we will."
R'Miarr wasn't sure whether Dorred was being plainly honest or just tripping off his fears and doubts in typical Lethean manner. Professionally, he played it cool. "Indeed, Lieutenant. You enjoy my full confidence." He picked up a PADD from the briefing table, tapped it with his thumbprint, and handed it to the Lethean. "Here are your operational orders and authorized requisitions. You will be leaving from the main shuttlebay aboard Pod Seven at 2100 hours, to the Drozana system, where you will secure futher passage. Dismissed." Thankful to finish the briefing, R'Miarr had only taken three naps in the last twenty hours.
Fronn eagerly sprung to his feet and flashed a toothy smile. "Seven and twenty-one...those are lucky numbers in Hu-mon gambling culture, aren't they?" The Lethean joined in with a slight grin. Neither R'Miarr's intense green eyes nor his disciplined leonine form shifted a micrometer. "I wouldn't know." He marched with purpose out the door, his mind firmly set on an image of Human cat food. If the Lethean were watching his thoughts, he'd be watching that. He did not look back to see his expression, not that it would have revealed anything.
The Ferengi and Lethean - odd couple they were - headed down the corridor in the opposite direction. The Lethean strode with merciless purpose; the Ferengi waltzed along, like a hyperactive pre-teen, all frenzy and babble. "So I bet you're looking forward to this mission, Mister Dorred!"
Dorred dimly half-turned to the Ferengi. Truth to tell, Ferengi - especially this one - made him very nervous. Nothing in his experience as a Lethean who had spent most of his life amongst aliens had prepared him to deal with such a fellow, without the sixth sense of telepathy. Dorred might have felt like a social introvert blindfolded and pushed into a crowded clubroom. He paused for effect then settled on a neutral if honest response. "I enjoy a challenge." Pause. "This mission promises to be a challenge."
"You can't wear your Starfleet uniform, you know." Fronn pointed his index finger in the air. "This is undercover!"
"Yes." Pause. "I still have my mercenary garb." Pause. "I still wear it when I go off-duty."
"Well, we're not off-duty you know! But that doesn't mean we can't have fun!"
Was this Ferengi foxtailing him or was he just overeager? "The commander handed the PADD to you, so you will procure our requisitions...see you at the main shuttlebay in three hours..." Dorred quickened his pace and headed down a side corridor.
Fronn's lip curled. Ahh, procurement. Always fun for every Ferengi. Usually. He loved nothing more than haggling a few extra commodities from some vendor or trader whenever he had the chance...but Starfleet didn't stand for that, at least not usually...they took 'five hundred MREs' so, so literally. And the USS Capri seemed to have the most killjoy quartermasters in the fleet. That Vulcan who thought everything always went as it should and was about as generous as a vending machine. That Benzite on the brink of 'going postal' as the Hu-mons said and insisted everyone else fill out as much paperwork as his job demanded. That sexually frustrated Tellarite woman who made everything take twice as long as it should, just so she could have another body with her in the cargo bay. And...
The Daystrom Institute had come up with this idea. Crazy or ingenious, take your pick. In the interest of the 'cultural education' of crews, and to differentiate photonics from organics and thereby reduce tensions about the latter becoming 'obsolete', they experimented with superimposing the personalities of historical figures - often grossly exaggerated - on photonic crewmembers. Upon viewing an "original" performance of Hamlet put on by the Capri, casting Cardassian and Ferengi expatriates, repurposed Orion pornograms and Starfleet photonic officers, a Tholian tactician and two Bolian crewmen, the Daystrom Institute proclaimed the ship the perfect testing ground for their latest innovation: a fully functional photonic quartermaster in the likeness of the greatest Hu-mon "warrior poet".
Fronn turned the corner and the reinforced doors of the cargo bay lumbered open. "Who goes there? Be you friend or foe?"
"Procurement." Fronn slapped the PADD on the photonic quartermaster's desk. What did the other quartermasters do while this...historical fiction...was manning the desk? No sooner were Fronn's musings answered by his highly sensitive hearing pricking up at the distinctive sound of aluminum poker chips being chucked onto a tritanium table in the quartermaster's office and the low murmur of Vulcan and Tellarite voices.
"Let us see...three dozen MREs, half a dozen high-powered phaser rifles, and a whole gross of spatial charges, oh my indeed! Great meals of beef and swords of iron are not enough for the King's men today!"
"Could you toss us an extra bar of latinum? We're worried this mission may drag on a bit."
"Neither a lender nor a borrower be," the photonic replied in its obnoxiously chipper British accent.
"But a friend in need is a friend indeed, no, my friend?" Fronn knew when to play the game...
"For what advancement may I hope? Let thrift follow fawning, my good friend!"
Fronn thought quickly. Remembered....from last month's production of a Hu-mon drama...
"Oh ye gods! Must I ensure all this? You wrong me every way. Deny me gold and I shall offer my heart nonetheless." With a bit of effort, Fronn forced out a single crocodile tear.
The photonic image of the great Hu-mon warrior-poet was singularly impressed by the Ferengi ex-merc's performance. Nearly moved to tears himself. "I give you my hand...and my heart, noble Fronn..." He slid an extra bar and some slips across the table, one, then the other, with weighty pathos.
Hastily, ingloriously, Fronn said, "Thanks, Shakes," took his remittance, and dashed out the cargo bay, the reinforced pneumatic doors opening and closing just in time. A moment later, the doors opened and closed again; the Eliminator ran back in and out again. He had forgotten the box of spatial charges.
...
Dorred and Fronn didn't have much to talk about on the flight to Drozana. There, they would scuttle the Starfleet shuttlepod and board suitably disreputable transit to the Orion operation two sectors away. Both men stared straight forward, the Lethean stiffly at-attention in his chair, the Ferengi nervously shuffling with barely restrained energy. This annoyed the Lethean both because he was unable to reconcile the Ferengi's movements with thoughts which he was unable to read, and because the agitated movements of the smaller humanoid aroused his crepuscular predator's instinct. He felt an urge to bite the Ferengi's skull open. But his reptilian countenance betrayed nothing.
"Hey, Dorred, I was thinking...oh you wouldn't know, would you? Haha, that must be a change of pace for you!"
His Starfleet uniform never fit so awkwardly as at this moment. Its black-and-red reinforced ultraspandex was as much a restraint upon him on his habit, prior to accepting a commission, of killing those who behaved in such a manner, as it was upon his Captain's generous bust.
Restrained indeed. "Is that a joke, Mr. Fronn?"
"Ya. Well, I was thinking. If you were a Starfleet officer looking to secure...discreet...travel to an Orion gambling operation, how would you go about it?"
The rolling of the eyes was not a Lethean mannerism. "I would travel to a seedy neutral outpost and hire a smuggler to take me there in an unregistered vessel with a stripped transponder, flown by a career criminal."
"Right. And you'd pay them with gold-pressed latinum, right?"
"I am not interested in having my stay in Starfleet cut short by a court-martial for embezzlement."
"Oh come on now, Lieutenant. Where do you think the Captain gets her Romulan ale? ...But no. Embezzlement isn't what I had in mind. At least not right now. I was thinking. Starfleet types don't usually kill people for no reason, right?"
"You really are a sociopath."
"Yes, yes, but listen anyway! I'm thinking we should make a ruckus...make it clear we're not trying to be discreet...and show we're not Starfleet types. Best way to hide is in the open, no?"
Dorred's laconic reptillian brain considered Fronn's advice. "Makes sense. So you want to start a fight at Drozana, as a cover?"
"Right. And it will be fun!" Fronn paused. Confessed. "...Do you ever feel that Starfleet has...taken something from you? Tamed you? Made you into a...hu-mon?"
Dorred now shifted in his chair. "Sometimes...I miss the old life..."
"Being a washed-up merc...phasering recalcitrant former clients in the knees...going where you want...and...wearing something other than this...ultraspandex..."
Dorred finally smiled and offered a confession of his own. "Have you ever seen a Vulcan beg for mercy?"
"Yep. You wouldn't believe it."
"No more than you'd believe me. It was a fine telepathic rapture. How strange; you'd never guess how many Vulcans are terrified of having a random outbreak of pon-farr on deep space assigment with the ship's only holodeck being blown out!"
"Or how many Vulcans are terrified of having their ears snipped off."
The two ex-mercs made their respective guffaws, a hyperactive loud snicker and a sort of wheezing staccato.
"Dorred...two washed-up mercs, a bag of gold-pressed latinum, a bag of spatial charges...and it's all paid for by Starfleet. Times are gonna be good."
Dorred could hardly disagree.
...
"A full bar. Not a counterfeit bar, mind you. And not a slip less!"
"Fifteen strips, Dogman. I *suggest* you take it." Fronn mettle as a negotiatior was no less that as an eliminator, but his stamina was waning. He began to suspect this Dopterian was trying to negotiate his way out of a deal. Maybe he was getting suspicious?
"A full bar!"
"Alright, then, maybe..." Fronn deliberately leaned to one side in his chair, his satchel of spatial charges and latinum getting briefly caught on the spurs of a passing Klingon Defense Force sergeant.
"Watch your place, fool!" The Klingon stood his ground, obviously lusting for a fight. Probably cabin-feverish from being on the station too long. He smiled and growled, looking forward to this."
Fronn did the unexpected. "I believe I am looking at the fool...Klingon fool. Keep moving. You don't really want a fight."
The Klingon was surprised and briefly cowed. So surprised he momentarily considered doing just what Fronn suggested. Then he remembered himself. Was humilated. Screamed in rage.
And then - fell to the ground dead.
Dorred stepped out from seemingly nowhere and withdrew his poniard from the Klingon's back. Smiled viciously, circled the table, and took up station behind the Dopterian.
"...maybe I can offer a more...convincing offer. Fifteen strips." Pause. "And one to cover the mess."
The Dopterian blanched. But he was experienced in his own right.
"Seventeen, Ferengi."
Fronn appeared to be about to snarl. Dorred tensed. "Seventeen it is."
...
Mad Jack's Hole was located in the most contested of contested territory.
Contested between the Federation, the Klingons, and formerly the Romulans...and by no less than seven provincial governments between each of those great powers. Currently, the space that the outpost occupied could be considered reasonably secure under the Federation, although squabbles between three plantary governments over just who the space belonged to prevented any effective policing and administration.
And, until now, Starfleet simply had bigger fish to fry.
The trip in a broken-down former freighter, stripped of its cargo holds and refitted with a custom engine kitbashed from Cardassian and Klingon military surplus, was hardly luxurious. Fronn and Dorred never appreciated just how bad Dopterians smelled. But Mad Jack's Hole was something else...
A powerful dampening field prevented any transport in or out of Mad Jack's Hole, necessitating embarkment and disembarkment on foot. The anteroom, where prospective guests waited for screening by the Syndicate operators, offered just a taste of what was in store. Orion slave-girls, all but naked save for golden bikinis, carried about plates of amuse bouche, prepared from Caspian caviar, syrup of squill and light wafers of uncertain origin. A ten-meter-tall Mugalo, 'Nagus Nogg', roared in a corner, restrained by unnecessarily large chains. A full-grown sehlat paced behind the bars of a cage along the north wall. And all about were the trappings of extreme luxury, priceless art adorning the walls, lavish tapestry, a ten-man live music performance...
Waiting had never been so fun. But this decadence (partaken at Starfleet expense!) was nothing compared to what lay in store.
"Good evening, gentlemen," beamed the majordomo, a big, beefy, jovial Orion. He carried himself with confidence and authority, but being male, was clearly not the real power behind the operation. "You wouldn't have any...weapons on you? No contraband? The Syndicate has a monopoly on contraband at this establishment!"
"We're gamers, Domo...and we're lookin' to game."
"Just what I like to hear. Well, while we've been talking, you've been discreetly scanned annnnnnd you're free to enter. You can buy chips at the window, and redeem your chips for prizes down the west corridor. Enjoy your stay, gentlemen." The majordomo beamed one last time and moved along, with his rolling, gregarious gait.
TBC...tomorrow, same time.
[SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
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