Tales of the USS Bluefin – 10: “No Honor Among Thieves”
Prologue
Stardate 54331.8 (2 May 2377)
New Kyoto, Molari IV
Residence of Vice-Governor Hiru Takeda
Seventeen year-old Kinjo Takeda slipped out his second story bedroom window and stealthily made his way down a Zhika vine trellis to the lawn below. He paused in a crouch, listening, to make sure that no one in the house was stirring. The purple night sky did not provide a great deal of concealment, even at almost 27 hundred hours - midnight on Molari IV.
When the face of his little brother or the housekeeper did not appear at the open window, Kinjo quickly made his way to the garage and his hover scooter. He double-checked his back-back for the resources he needed for his adventure: Some snacks, a few bottles of his father’s expensive Sake’, several bars of gold-pressed latinum, and most important – two specially programmed isolinear chips. He smiled with a special kind of pride over these chips. Kinjo was an accomplished “slicer” – the popular term for a computer hacker. It had taken him nearly three months to come up with a sub-routine that would over-ride the security features on his father’s new yacht, a Stargalleon Legend – one of the hottest private star-craft of 2377 – and all his for the next three days while his father was traveling off-planet.
A sudden soft noise behind him made his whirl, eyes wide in fear that he may have yet been discovered by Mrs. Shinbaku, their elderly housekeeper. She might be older than the rocks on this miserable planet, but her hearing was razor sharp. He relaxed as he saw the soft brown eyes of his German Shepherd, Ronin. The dog sat, panting, his head cocked in a quizzical expression. Kinjo knelt and ran a hand roughly over the large dog’s head. The Shepherd’s tail began to swish on the garage floor and he licked the teen’s hand with deep affection.
“Keep it quiet, Ronin – I don’t want Maku or Mrs. Shinbaku to hear. Go back to sleep!”
Ronin chuffed, but made no further noise as he padded back to his pallet in the corner of the garage.
Kinjo activated the graviton-field generator on his scooter, causing it to rise into the air several centimeters. The low hum was barely discernable, but Kinjo walked the scooter quickly out of the garage and away from the house. The driveway was long, nearly half a kilometer to the main road, but Kinjo walked the scooter anyway, fearing the whine of the a-gravs powering up would be too loud.
Finally, away from the main compound, Kinjo straddled the hover scooter which bobbed and stabilized under his weight. Giving the throttle a quick twist, the scooter raced away with a muted whine through the darkened streets. The teenager relished the cool night air flowing over his clammy skin as his face pulled back in a self-congratulatory grin.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Kinjo slowed as he approached the small, private space-port where his father’s yacht was berthed. He hid his scooter in a shallow ravine, covering it as best he could with fronds from a Kooba tree. He stayed hidden as a skimmer from the local constabulary glided slowly by on routine patrol. Once its tail lights disappeared, he made his way to the fence surrounding the space port.
In his early preparations for this escapade, Kinjo had discovered an eroded bit of ground that allowed wriggle room underneath the fence. It was well away from the street lights and an ideal rendezvous point for his cohorts on this trip.
In the semi-darkness, he could just make out two other figures crouched near the fence. If he had not been looking for them, they would have gone unnoticed.
A sudden light caught Kinjo full in the face, dazzling him. “Turn out the light, you idiot!” he hissed. The light was quickly extinguished as he blinked, trying to clear his vision of spots. He moved quickly to the fence where he joined two of his friends, Mitsu Katana and a sheepish Bolian by the name of Nork.
“Dammit, Nork! What’s with the flashlight? Are you trying to get us caught?”
“Sorry,” said Nork. “My night vision isn’t very good. I was afraid you might be a constable.”
“If I were, you’d be in the back seat of a patrol skimmer right now – use your head!”
“Sorry,” repeated Nork.
“Forget it.” He turned to Mitsu and smiled. “I’m really glad you decided to come. Where’s Lisa?”
The lovely Japanese girl shrugged as she smiled. “She said she’d be here, but I think she was having second thoughts. . . “
“Here I am!” came a loud whisper just a few meters away. All three of the teens started at the sound of the voice. Their friend and schoolmate, Lisa Standish, moved quietly into view, grinning at the surprised expressions of their faces.
“What are you, some kind of Ninja?” asked Kinjo, trying to cover the nervous quaver in his voice. “Come on – let’s do this,” he checked his chronometer, “we’ve only got thirty-five minutes before security makes their rounds through the hangar.”
He led them under the fence and they followed him through the dark shadows to a dome-shaped hangar. He withdrew the first isolinear chip and deftly opened a panel beside the access door with a multi-tool. Sliding the chip into a slot elicited a tell-tale “click” and the door slid open.
“Move!” he hissed. “If anyone in the security hut is paying attention, they’ll pick up on the open door.” All four quickly entered the hangar and Kinjo re-closed the door.
Responding to their presence, automated lights in the hangar came on, revealing a row of high-performance, luxury star-craft.
Nork uttered a delighted Bolian curse, and a smile broke out on his bifurcated face. “Look at them!” he breathed, caught up in a teenager’s lust for expensive playthings.
“This way,” urged Kinjo, grabbing Nork by the arm as the two girls followed. They passed two ships before coming to a pearlescent red ship with stylish lines, faired-in warp nacelles, and a serious-looking impulse cluster. The Stargalleon looked like it was doing warp nine sitting still.
“That’s your father’s ship?” breathed Mitsu with awe. “It’s amazing!”
“Quiet,” murmured Kinjo, as he took the second chip from his backpack. “I need to concentrate – if I slip up now, we’re all in deep Linuurk crap.” He attached the chip to a lead from a small PADD and inserted the chip into a port near the ship’s hatch. Frowning in concentration, he ran his worm program, which began its work breaking down the security protocols on the ship. After several tense moments, the display on the PADD flashed green and a relieved grin broke out on Kinjo’s face. He tapped the PADD and the hatch slid silently open.
The four stepped into the central lounge of the luxurious star-yacht. The ship smelled of rich leathers and polished wood. The main cabin was adorned with exotic art-work and expensive designer furnishings. Kinjo’s friends gawked and he smiled at their discomfiture.
“Nice, isn’t it?” he said with feigned nonchalance. “And it’s ours for the next three days!”
Lisa made her way to a counter and opened a cabinet. A leer formed on her face and she quickly turned – “Bar’s open!”
Nork looked doubtful. “But won’t your father? . . .”
Kinjo laughed and joined Lisa as they pulled bottles of expensive vintage spirits from their racks. “My father? He wouldn’t know the real thing from replicated if his life depended on it. Help yourselves! I’ll just replicate whatever we use.” He moved forward toward a paneled doorway leading forward.
“Where are you going?” asked Mitsu.
“To the flight deck – we’re not gonna sit in the hangar for three days!”
Mitsu blanched. “But . . . can you fly this thing?” she asked, doubtfully.
Kinjo snorted derisively. “Of course I can. But I really don’t have to – the ship’s computer will take us wherever we want to go.”
“And where might that be?” asked Lisa with a conspiratorial smile.
“I’ve lined up a little business transaction for us to score some . . . party aids.”
Nork looked at the well-stocked bar. “Looks like plenty of party aids right here.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t really partied, ‘til you’ve partied with Brain Blast!”
Mitsu looked doubtful. “Kinjo . . . I don’t know if I . . .”
Kinjo stepped toward the girl and cupped her face in his hands. “Hey! No pressure, Mitsu. If you don’t want to try it, I understand, but you’ll be missing a real mind-expanding opportunity!” He gave her a quick kiss.
Cacophonous music began to blare from within the central cabin. Nork had called up some retro-metal files from the computer.
“Time for lift-off," announced Kinjo over the din. "Everyone get comfortable, we’ll be out of here in five minutes. Next stop – the Molari Badlands.” With that, he turned and entered the flight deck.
Stardate 54331.8 (2 May 2377)
Orion Syndicate Vessel Fle’jurn
Molari Bandlands
Ahmet Krixo Durniv sipped from a goblet of Tranya as he eyed the main viewscreen and the battered pirate ship that was approaching his vessel.
Late . . . as usual, thought the young green Orion prince, third son of Ahmet’sur Wozkan Durniv. He was not particularly troubled by the tardiness of the pirates. The rag-tag bands of marauders kept to no time-table but their own. They were notoriously undependable – yet, they had their uses, particularly when the more “respectable” Syndicate clans such as the Durnivs wanted to avoid getting their hands stained with blood. None of the pirates had any such qualms.
Most of the civilized population within the Federation tends to lump the Orion Syndicate and pirates together. In fact – the two groups operate independently and are poles apart in many ways. The Syndicate clans are close-knit, generally have deep financial resources, and operate by a code of ethics (twisted though it may be.) There are strong family ties within the Syndicate, though some clans choose to employ non-Orions, particularly as they seek to expand their influence within the Federation.
Pirates on the other hand are an eclectic mix of Orions, Nausicans, and Ferengi with the odd Klingon or Human thrown in the mix. Each pirate band is a loose-knit collection of murderers, thieves, and psychopaths. They revere strength and brutality, but loyalty is scarce commodity. The only real tie that binds them together is the mutual desire to take and to maim. Pirates are anarchists at heart and generally hold equal contempt for all the major powers – Federation, Klingons and Romulans. Thus, they eke out a meager existence by preying on merchant vessels and private craft – stealing cargo, kidnapping for ransom, and providing fodder for the slave trade. The Syndicate sees the pirates as useful tools. Most pirates see the Syndicate as better-dressed, well-equipped versions of themselves. Neither group has any love for the other.
Durniv watched the approaching pirate ship with growing distaste. The vessel was a hodge-podge of technologies fused together into an ungainly, albeit efficient, whole. The primary hull was of Klingon design while the warp nacelle blades were of obvious Federation heritage. The sublight engines were cobbled together from several sources, making their origins difficult to discern. The hull wore a garish paint scheme of black and red slashes that hinted more at insanity than intimidation. Yet, for all its cobbled-together appearance, there was no mistaking the deadly Type III disruptor nodes that bristled from the ship like ridge spikes on a Targ. For all its ugliness, the pirate ship was a force with which to be reckoned.
“We’re being hailed, Ahmet,” announced one of the bridge crew of the Fle’jurn.
“On-screen. Let’s get this over with,” ordered Krixo in a bored tone. He reclined further in his chair, affecting an air of nonchalance.
The screen shimmered and the image of a human woman appeared. Krixo raised a dark, green eyebrow in surprise.
“Where is Poan?” demanded Krixo.
“Dead,” answered the female. She was surprisingly attractive for a pirate, though her features gave little hint to her origins. Her eyes had the almond shape of Asians, but her skin was reddish brown. Brass-colored hair was cut short, but appeared clean – neither matted nor bug-infested. Krixo noted absently that she had all her teeth and that they were straight and white.
The Ahmet let out a frustrated sigh. Power struggles on pirate ships were not unusual, but it often complicated business transactions.
“I take it you are now in charge?” he asked, patiently.
“I killed Poan. I control the crew. I have what you want. Do you wish to waste my time asking questions or are you ready to make the trade?”
A smile formed on Krixo’s face. A feisty one, aren’t you? Perhaps you’re worth adding to my household collection, he thought. Aloud he said, “Ready when you are . . . I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name?”
“No - You didn’t. I will beam over with the goods in five minutes. Have the money ready. Out.” The image of the mysterious pirate woman disappeared, returning to a view of her ungainly ship.
The smile did not falter on Ahmet Durniv’s face. “Charming.” He turned to his second. “Shaidun, go greet our guest in the transporter room. Oh, and make sure you scan that slis’pul and her ‘merchandise’ for weapons before she materializes. She seems the type to enjoy mayhem, given the chance.”
Shaidun, a tall red Orion with a scarred face, nodded. “Yes, Ahmet. Do you wish to pay her or kill her?”
Durniv regarded the pirate ship holding station two thousand kilometers distant. His ship easily outmatched that monstrosity, still . . .
“Let’s be cordial for now. Make sure the Brain Blast is pure. If so, pay her and let her return to her garbage scow. If it’s not . . .”
Shaidun nodded in understanding. “I’ll take care of it.”
* * *
Five minutes later, Shaidun stood in the transporter room, accompanied by two burly guards with Klingon assault rifles. He stepped to the controls and energized the transporter system. Once the pirate and the cargo were caught in the pattern buffer, he ran the weapons scan. He grunted in mild disappointment as the scan showed no weapons on the woman or the cargo.
Seconds later, the pirate materialized alongside a large crate. She gazed at the two guards with barely veiled contempt before focusing on Shaidun.
“Where is the Ahmet?” she demanded.
“He instructed me to carry out the transaction. I am Shaidun, second of the Fle’jurn.” He gestured toward the container. “I will scan the contents. If the merchandise is acceptable, you will receive payment and return to your ship.”
The woman nodded curtly. “Go ahead.”
The Syndicate operative removed a scanner from his coat and approached the container. Turning the clasps, he opened the lid. Inside were dozens of vials containing dark blue crystals – an impressive quantity of the psychotropic drug commonly known as “Brain Blast.” Shaidun ran the scanner for several moments, before nodding to himself in satisfaction.
“Very pure,” he conceded, grudgingly. He turned to the nearest guard and nodded. The guard exited the transporter room, returning a moment later with a metal container, which he placed on the deck before the pirate. She knelt down and opened the container, revealing hundreds of bars of gold-pressed latinum. A slight smile formed on her lips as she stood.
“Is payment acceptable?” asked Shaidun.
“Almost,” she replied, cryptically.
The tall Orion frowned at the pirate. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She smiled, “You should be finding out any second.”
Shaidun was about to reply, but found he could not. His throat had suddenly constricted, cutting off his voice and ability to breathe. Eyes bulging with sudden panic, he instinctively clutched at his throat with his hands. The two guards were likewise gasping
for breath, their weapons forgotten.
Shaidun staggered backwards against the bulkhead. The pirate casually reached into Shaidun's coat and withdrew a disruptor pistol. She placed the muzzle squarely against his forehead and squeezed the trigger.
The Syndicate operative’s body tumbled lifelessly to the floor, sans head – his neck a charred and smoldering stump. The woman fired two more rounds, dispatching the guards as well.
* * *
On the bridge of the Fle’jurn, an alarm clamored for attention.
“Weapons discharge in the transporter room,” announced a member of the bridge crew.
“Apparently, our pirate friend must have delivered unacceptable goods,” said Ahmet Durniv, dryly. He raised the crystal goblet to his lips, but paused as a sudden burning sensation flared in his throat. The pain was followed by a sudden spasm, as if a strong arm had suddenly clamped like a vice around his trachea.
Krixo cast the goblet aside, clutching at his throat. He tried to call out in his panic, but no sound would come forth. Even as he struggled, he saw that the rest of the bridge crew were all likewise afflicted – some writhing on the floor, others standing as if they might find air near the ceiling.
As his vision went red and spots of light flashed before his eyes, Krixo’s last conscious thought was, “Betrayed . . .”
* * *
Prologue
Stardate 54331.8 (2 May 2377)
New Kyoto, Molari IV
Residence of Vice-Governor Hiru Takeda
Seventeen year-old Kinjo Takeda slipped out his second story bedroom window and stealthily made his way down a Zhika vine trellis to the lawn below. He paused in a crouch, listening, to make sure that no one in the house was stirring. The purple night sky did not provide a great deal of concealment, even at almost 27 hundred hours - midnight on Molari IV.
When the face of his little brother or the housekeeper did not appear at the open window, Kinjo quickly made his way to the garage and his hover scooter. He double-checked his back-back for the resources he needed for his adventure: Some snacks, a few bottles of his father’s expensive Sake’, several bars of gold-pressed latinum, and most important – two specially programmed isolinear chips. He smiled with a special kind of pride over these chips. Kinjo was an accomplished “slicer” – the popular term for a computer hacker. It had taken him nearly three months to come up with a sub-routine that would over-ride the security features on his father’s new yacht, a Stargalleon Legend – one of the hottest private star-craft of 2377 – and all his for the next three days while his father was traveling off-planet.
A sudden soft noise behind him made his whirl, eyes wide in fear that he may have yet been discovered by Mrs. Shinbaku, their elderly housekeeper. She might be older than the rocks on this miserable planet, but her hearing was razor sharp. He relaxed as he saw the soft brown eyes of his German Shepherd, Ronin. The dog sat, panting, his head cocked in a quizzical expression. Kinjo knelt and ran a hand roughly over the large dog’s head. The Shepherd’s tail began to swish on the garage floor and he licked the teen’s hand with deep affection.
“Keep it quiet, Ronin – I don’t want Maku or Mrs. Shinbaku to hear. Go back to sleep!”
Ronin chuffed, but made no further noise as he padded back to his pallet in the corner of the garage.
Kinjo activated the graviton-field generator on his scooter, causing it to rise into the air several centimeters. The low hum was barely discernable, but Kinjo walked the scooter quickly out of the garage and away from the house. The driveway was long, nearly half a kilometer to the main road, but Kinjo walked the scooter anyway, fearing the whine of the a-gravs powering up would be too loud.
Finally, away from the main compound, Kinjo straddled the hover scooter which bobbed and stabilized under his weight. Giving the throttle a quick twist, the scooter raced away with a muted whine through the darkened streets. The teenager relished the cool night air flowing over his clammy skin as his face pulled back in a self-congratulatory grin.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Kinjo slowed as he approached the small, private space-port where his father’s yacht was berthed. He hid his scooter in a shallow ravine, covering it as best he could with fronds from a Kooba tree. He stayed hidden as a skimmer from the local constabulary glided slowly by on routine patrol. Once its tail lights disappeared, he made his way to the fence surrounding the space port.
In his early preparations for this escapade, Kinjo had discovered an eroded bit of ground that allowed wriggle room underneath the fence. It was well away from the street lights and an ideal rendezvous point for his cohorts on this trip.
In the semi-darkness, he could just make out two other figures crouched near the fence. If he had not been looking for them, they would have gone unnoticed.
A sudden light caught Kinjo full in the face, dazzling him. “Turn out the light, you idiot!” he hissed. The light was quickly extinguished as he blinked, trying to clear his vision of spots. He moved quickly to the fence where he joined two of his friends, Mitsu Katana and a sheepish Bolian by the name of Nork.
“Dammit, Nork! What’s with the flashlight? Are you trying to get us caught?”
“Sorry,” said Nork. “My night vision isn’t very good. I was afraid you might be a constable.”
“If I were, you’d be in the back seat of a patrol skimmer right now – use your head!”
“Sorry,” repeated Nork.
“Forget it.” He turned to Mitsu and smiled. “I’m really glad you decided to come. Where’s Lisa?”
The lovely Japanese girl shrugged as she smiled. “She said she’d be here, but I think she was having second thoughts. . . “
“Here I am!” came a loud whisper just a few meters away. All three of the teens started at the sound of the voice. Their friend and schoolmate, Lisa Standish, moved quietly into view, grinning at the surprised expressions of their faces.
“What are you, some kind of Ninja?” asked Kinjo, trying to cover the nervous quaver in his voice. “Come on – let’s do this,” he checked his chronometer, “we’ve only got thirty-five minutes before security makes their rounds through the hangar.”
He led them under the fence and they followed him through the dark shadows to a dome-shaped hangar. He withdrew the first isolinear chip and deftly opened a panel beside the access door with a multi-tool. Sliding the chip into a slot elicited a tell-tale “click” and the door slid open.
“Move!” he hissed. “If anyone in the security hut is paying attention, they’ll pick up on the open door.” All four quickly entered the hangar and Kinjo re-closed the door.
Responding to their presence, automated lights in the hangar came on, revealing a row of high-performance, luxury star-craft.
Nork uttered a delighted Bolian curse, and a smile broke out on his bifurcated face. “Look at them!” he breathed, caught up in a teenager’s lust for expensive playthings.
“This way,” urged Kinjo, grabbing Nork by the arm as the two girls followed. They passed two ships before coming to a pearlescent red ship with stylish lines, faired-in warp nacelles, and a serious-looking impulse cluster. The Stargalleon looked like it was doing warp nine sitting still.
“That’s your father’s ship?” breathed Mitsu with awe. “It’s amazing!”
“Quiet,” murmured Kinjo, as he took the second chip from his backpack. “I need to concentrate – if I slip up now, we’re all in deep Linuurk crap.” He attached the chip to a lead from a small PADD and inserted the chip into a port near the ship’s hatch. Frowning in concentration, he ran his worm program, which began its work breaking down the security protocols on the ship. After several tense moments, the display on the PADD flashed green and a relieved grin broke out on Kinjo’s face. He tapped the PADD and the hatch slid silently open.
The four stepped into the central lounge of the luxurious star-yacht. The ship smelled of rich leathers and polished wood. The main cabin was adorned with exotic art-work and expensive designer furnishings. Kinjo’s friends gawked and he smiled at their discomfiture.
“Nice, isn’t it?” he said with feigned nonchalance. “And it’s ours for the next three days!”
Lisa made her way to a counter and opened a cabinet. A leer formed on her face and she quickly turned – “Bar’s open!”
Nork looked doubtful. “But won’t your father? . . .”
Kinjo laughed and joined Lisa as they pulled bottles of expensive vintage spirits from their racks. “My father? He wouldn’t know the real thing from replicated if his life depended on it. Help yourselves! I’ll just replicate whatever we use.” He moved forward toward a paneled doorway leading forward.
“Where are you going?” asked Mitsu.
“To the flight deck – we’re not gonna sit in the hangar for three days!”
Mitsu blanched. “But . . . can you fly this thing?” she asked, doubtfully.
Kinjo snorted derisively. “Of course I can. But I really don’t have to – the ship’s computer will take us wherever we want to go.”
“And where might that be?” asked Lisa with a conspiratorial smile.
“I’ve lined up a little business transaction for us to score some . . . party aids.”
Nork looked at the well-stocked bar. “Looks like plenty of party aids right here.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t really partied, ‘til you’ve partied with Brain Blast!”
Mitsu looked doubtful. “Kinjo . . . I don’t know if I . . .”
Kinjo stepped toward the girl and cupped her face in his hands. “Hey! No pressure, Mitsu. If you don’t want to try it, I understand, but you’ll be missing a real mind-expanding opportunity!” He gave her a quick kiss.
Cacophonous music began to blare from within the central cabin. Nork had called up some retro-metal files from the computer.
“Time for lift-off," announced Kinjo over the din. "Everyone get comfortable, we’ll be out of here in five minutes. Next stop – the Molari Badlands.” With that, he turned and entered the flight deck.
Stardate 54331.8 (2 May 2377)
Orion Syndicate Vessel Fle’jurn
Molari Bandlands
Ahmet Krixo Durniv sipped from a goblet of Tranya as he eyed the main viewscreen and the battered pirate ship that was approaching his vessel.
Late . . . as usual, thought the young green Orion prince, third son of Ahmet’sur Wozkan Durniv. He was not particularly troubled by the tardiness of the pirates. The rag-tag bands of marauders kept to no time-table but their own. They were notoriously undependable – yet, they had their uses, particularly when the more “respectable” Syndicate clans such as the Durnivs wanted to avoid getting their hands stained with blood. None of the pirates had any such qualms.
Most of the civilized population within the Federation tends to lump the Orion Syndicate and pirates together. In fact – the two groups operate independently and are poles apart in many ways. The Syndicate clans are close-knit, generally have deep financial resources, and operate by a code of ethics (twisted though it may be.) There are strong family ties within the Syndicate, though some clans choose to employ non-Orions, particularly as they seek to expand their influence within the Federation.
Pirates on the other hand are an eclectic mix of Orions, Nausicans, and Ferengi with the odd Klingon or Human thrown in the mix. Each pirate band is a loose-knit collection of murderers, thieves, and psychopaths. They revere strength and brutality, but loyalty is scarce commodity. The only real tie that binds them together is the mutual desire to take and to maim. Pirates are anarchists at heart and generally hold equal contempt for all the major powers – Federation, Klingons and Romulans. Thus, they eke out a meager existence by preying on merchant vessels and private craft – stealing cargo, kidnapping for ransom, and providing fodder for the slave trade. The Syndicate sees the pirates as useful tools. Most pirates see the Syndicate as better-dressed, well-equipped versions of themselves. Neither group has any love for the other.
Durniv watched the approaching pirate ship with growing distaste. The vessel was a hodge-podge of technologies fused together into an ungainly, albeit efficient, whole. The primary hull was of Klingon design while the warp nacelle blades were of obvious Federation heritage. The sublight engines were cobbled together from several sources, making their origins difficult to discern. The hull wore a garish paint scheme of black and red slashes that hinted more at insanity than intimidation. Yet, for all its cobbled-together appearance, there was no mistaking the deadly Type III disruptor nodes that bristled from the ship like ridge spikes on a Targ. For all its ugliness, the pirate ship was a force with which to be reckoned.
“We’re being hailed, Ahmet,” announced one of the bridge crew of the Fle’jurn.
“On-screen. Let’s get this over with,” ordered Krixo in a bored tone. He reclined further in his chair, affecting an air of nonchalance.
The screen shimmered and the image of a human woman appeared. Krixo raised a dark, green eyebrow in surprise.
“Where is Poan?” demanded Krixo.
“Dead,” answered the female. She was surprisingly attractive for a pirate, though her features gave little hint to her origins. Her eyes had the almond shape of Asians, but her skin was reddish brown. Brass-colored hair was cut short, but appeared clean – neither matted nor bug-infested. Krixo noted absently that she had all her teeth and that they were straight and white.
The Ahmet let out a frustrated sigh. Power struggles on pirate ships were not unusual, but it often complicated business transactions.
“I take it you are now in charge?” he asked, patiently.
“I killed Poan. I control the crew. I have what you want. Do you wish to waste my time asking questions or are you ready to make the trade?”
A smile formed on Krixo’s face. A feisty one, aren’t you? Perhaps you’re worth adding to my household collection, he thought. Aloud he said, “Ready when you are . . . I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name?”
“No - You didn’t. I will beam over with the goods in five minutes. Have the money ready. Out.” The image of the mysterious pirate woman disappeared, returning to a view of her ungainly ship.
The smile did not falter on Ahmet Durniv’s face. “Charming.” He turned to his second. “Shaidun, go greet our guest in the transporter room. Oh, and make sure you scan that slis’pul and her ‘merchandise’ for weapons before she materializes. She seems the type to enjoy mayhem, given the chance.”
Shaidun, a tall red Orion with a scarred face, nodded. “Yes, Ahmet. Do you wish to pay her or kill her?”
Durniv regarded the pirate ship holding station two thousand kilometers distant. His ship easily outmatched that monstrosity, still . . .
“Let’s be cordial for now. Make sure the Brain Blast is pure. If so, pay her and let her return to her garbage scow. If it’s not . . .”
Shaidun nodded in understanding. “I’ll take care of it.”
* * *
Five minutes later, Shaidun stood in the transporter room, accompanied by two burly guards with Klingon assault rifles. He stepped to the controls and energized the transporter system. Once the pirate and the cargo were caught in the pattern buffer, he ran the weapons scan. He grunted in mild disappointment as the scan showed no weapons on the woman or the cargo.
Seconds later, the pirate materialized alongside a large crate. She gazed at the two guards with barely veiled contempt before focusing on Shaidun.
“Where is the Ahmet?” she demanded.
“He instructed me to carry out the transaction. I am Shaidun, second of the Fle’jurn.” He gestured toward the container. “I will scan the contents. If the merchandise is acceptable, you will receive payment and return to your ship.”
The woman nodded curtly. “Go ahead.”
The Syndicate operative removed a scanner from his coat and approached the container. Turning the clasps, he opened the lid. Inside were dozens of vials containing dark blue crystals – an impressive quantity of the psychotropic drug commonly known as “Brain Blast.” Shaidun ran the scanner for several moments, before nodding to himself in satisfaction.
“Very pure,” he conceded, grudgingly. He turned to the nearest guard and nodded. The guard exited the transporter room, returning a moment later with a metal container, which he placed on the deck before the pirate. She knelt down and opened the container, revealing hundreds of bars of gold-pressed latinum. A slight smile formed on her lips as she stood.
“Is payment acceptable?” asked Shaidun.
“Almost,” she replied, cryptically.
The tall Orion frowned at the pirate. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She smiled, “You should be finding out any second.”
Shaidun was about to reply, but found he could not. His throat had suddenly constricted, cutting off his voice and ability to breathe. Eyes bulging with sudden panic, he instinctively clutched at his throat with his hands. The two guards were likewise gasping
for breath, their weapons forgotten.
Shaidun staggered backwards against the bulkhead. The pirate casually reached into Shaidun's coat and withdrew a disruptor pistol. She placed the muzzle squarely against his forehead and squeezed the trigger.
The Syndicate operative’s body tumbled lifelessly to the floor, sans head – his neck a charred and smoldering stump. The woman fired two more rounds, dispatching the guards as well.
* * *
On the bridge of the Fle’jurn, an alarm clamored for attention.
“Weapons discharge in the transporter room,” announced a member of the bridge crew.
“Apparently, our pirate friend must have delivered unacceptable goods,” said Ahmet Durniv, dryly. He raised the crystal goblet to his lips, but paused as a sudden burning sensation flared in his throat. The pain was followed by a sudden spasm, as if a strong arm had suddenly clamped like a vice around his trachea.
Krixo cast the goblet aside, clutching at his throat. He tried to call out in his panic, but no sound would come forth. Even as he struggled, he saw that the rest of the bridge crew were all likewise afflicted – some writhing on the floor, others standing as if they might find air near the ceiling.
As his vision went red and spots of light flashed before his eyes, Krixo’s last conscious thought was, “Betrayed . . .”
* * *
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[Edit: I just realized that T'Ser did the smart thing and transfered out of the BS. Other way around.]
All going to go very bad I can imagine.
teenagers ...
