Ok here's my entry. Vesta might have ended, but Devonshire's adventures continue (note there are some Vesta spoilers here if you haven't read the finale yet) 3001 words, I can always snip one out if it's a problem 
* * * *
The marble staircase that swept up towards the opera house was a hundred metres wide; yet so great were the crowds thronging each side that the pathway through which the guests walked was narrower than ten.
Fireworks burst in the purple sky, their glow so bright, their detonation blooms so expansive, that they almost obscured the three evening moons. The din of the fireworks was nothing compared to the cheering crowds, screaming and whistling like a drowning man attracting rescue.
For a man more used to shadows and anonymity, the environment made Willard Patrick Devonshire more than a little self-conscious, and the lack of a weapon only added to his feeling of nakedness.
Ahead of him in the line of celebrities were an Andorian husband and husband team; owners of a company building luxury yachts and racers for those who could still afford them. After the Ferengi futures crash few could, but they were still famous, and sadly more youngsters probably grew up dreaming of one day flying an Arcturas Ultimax than of joining something as mundane as Starfleet.
Looking behind him Devonshire could see why.
Drew Muldoon was three quarters human, one quarter Klingon, a towering well-muscled young man whose swarthy good looks and record breaking five Solar Grand Prix wins made him the idol of a generation.
The cheering rose slightly as the Andorians walked past, then dropped as Devonshire and escort sidled by, as people wondered who the hell they were (though still many did cheer— they had to be famous, right?) but once Drew walked past the screams became almost ultrasonic.
Devonshire had to admit to being slightly envious the two supermodels Drew was escorting, one on each arm. Then again Devonshire’s own escort was every bit as lovely in his opinion.
Louise Ramplin wore a sheer emerald dress, a slit along one side revealing long, slender legs atop slenderer heels. The dress was backless, showing off the profusion of sensuous brown spots that ran down her back, more spots traced the line of her face, emphasised by her short, choppy hairstyle. Technically Ramplin was more famous—well infamous—than him, certainly more recognisable since he’d traded bodies all those months ago, since the man the universe knew as Devonshire turned up dead. Ramplin still looked the same as when she’d been sent to prison for murder. Hiding in plain sight was the oldest trick in Devonshire’s book though, and with the spots on show nobody would doubt she was a Trill. The red hair was added disguise…as were the ludicrous sunglass that she insisted on wearing despite it being night.
She wasn’t alone, at least a third of the guest list seemed to be wearing them too. Fashion; Devonshire had never understood it. Take his dinner jacket; supposedly the designer was the most famous in the Alpha Quadrant, but as far as Devonshire could tell it was just a DJ, ok the cut was nice, but it was still just a dinner jacket.
He wasn’t sure about the ruffled blue shirt with wingtip collar either but Louise had assured him that this was “Bang on trend.” Whatever that meant.
Though they seemed similar in age, Devonshire never forgot that he was technically two decades older than her, and though he looked like a man in his mid thirties, he was still inclined to dress like one in his fifties. Or “Like someone’s dad,” as she’d put it. He’d tried to point out that he was someone’s dad, three people’s dad in fact, but Louise distracted him by ducking under the bedclothes at that point and…
Well…and…
Their relationship still wasn’t what one would term normal. He was one man occupying the body of another, she was a convicted murderess and fugitive from justice, and both of them were now operatives for the Obsidian Order. He’d once been her mentor, a father figure, now he was her lover. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her, but knew that her feelings were more certain. Despite this, despite the guilt he felt for sleeping with her whilst his wife, Natalia, believed he was dead, he couldn’t break off the affair.
He and Louise shared a bond, always had, and it had only been strengthened by their mutual loss—not only of their careers, but of their friends aboard Vesta, currently missing in a region of space where subspace had been destroyed, trapped for twenty five years with only bloodthirsty vampires from an alternate universe for company. The guilt at having avoided sharing that fate still burned.
Shuttles blazed overhead, trailing multicoloured beams in their wake, their appearance diverting the crowds for a moment; screams and whistles becoming oohs and ahhs.
The flypast, the fireworks, the celebrities, all were here to mark the opening of the Opera House. Rebuilt from the ashes of the original, destroyed when Dominion forces seized the planet Belzoni Apex in the early days of the war. Tonight’s performance was of Pollfleth’s Third Sympharia, not a brilliant work in Devonshire’s opinion, but nobody was here for the culture. They were here merely to be here.
The opera house itself was a huge diamond shaped edifice rising almost half a kilometre into the sky, constructed out of empathy glass, the colour changing to reflect the moods within. It made the colour shifting chameleonic bowtie he wore seem tawdry by comparison.
They’d reached the entrance now; the huge double doors flung open to allow the great and the good access to within.
‘Are you sure this’ll work?’ asked Ramplin. ‘Looks awfully sophisticated.’
‘It’ll work.’
She referred to the security scanners built into the doorway. As guests entered the scanners ran a complete spectral analysis of them. Not only would it show up weapons of any kind, but it also compared the bio-scan with the record on file. As a final flourish, a cultured voice announced the guests.
‘Directors of the Arcturan Space Cruiser Company: Mr and Mr Shen.’
‘Here we go,’ whispered Devonshire as they stepped into the archway. He felt Ramplin’s hand tighten around his.
‘Deceased spy Willard Devonshire and escaped murderess Louise Ramplin,’ was what he heard in his head. What the voice actually said was… ‘From Drax holographics, author Craig Daniels, and his partner Kezi Morill.’
‘Told you,’ he said smiled as they stepped into the opulent foyer. A Ferengi waiter approached with a tray loaded with glasses. They each took one.
There really was a Craig Daniels, and he really was a relatively famous author of holo-novels, he just wasn’t so famous that anyone had actually met him. And he did have a girlfriend named Kezi. The security scanner had access to each individual’s biometric profile…or it thought it did. The evening before Devonshire had used his Double Zero clearance to hack into the system and amend Daniels’ and Morill’s profiles.
‘It’s fantastic in here,’ whispered Ramplin.
Devonshire followed her gaze, eyes sliding across the coloured glass atrium. ‘It is that. Nice champagne as well,’ he added taking a sip. His eyes were scanning the crowd now, trying to spot familiar faces, or anyone who didn’t fit in. He spotted half a dozen intelligence operatives or bodyguards, none of them looking especially comfortable. Their gazes were too fixed, their body language all wrong. By contrast Devonshire was relaxed, and he didn’t let his gaze linger for too long.
‘Here we go,’ said Ramplin, the crowds had started heading towards the inner doors.
They followed. Inside they quickly located their row and moved along towards their places. Ramplin froze before they got there. ‘Oh you’re kidding me…’ she muttered. Sat by their seats, was Admiral Mal Koenig; head of Starfleet Intelligence, avowed nemesis of Devonshire and, most importantly, the man who’d sentenced Ramplin to 25 years on Rezik Prime.
‘You’ll be fine,’ said Devonshire. ‘Now hurry up, the natives are getting restless,’ and he turned to smile politely at the portly lady behind him who was trying to shuffle them along.
As they took their seats, Devonshire noted Mal Koenig casting an appreciative glance at Ramplin before returning to his programme. She looked at Devonshire, terror etched into her eyes, and he knew there was only one way to ease it.
‘Excuse me,’ he asked, leaning across to tap Koenig on the shoulder.
‘Yes?’
‘You’re Mal Koenig, right?’
‘Yes,’ said the other man, none too happy at being recognised it seemed.
‘Well I never, you were right, honey,’ he said glancing at Ramplin who looked like she’d rather be anywhere that here right now…possibly even back in her cell. ‘She’s a big fan,’ Devonshire said now, grinning like an idiot. ‘Always reading your book.’
At this Koenig’s demeanour changed. ‘Really?’ he said smiling at the attractive Trill by his side. ‘I didn’t think many people had read it,’ he added, sounding almost modest.
‘Oh it’s good,’ said Ramplin, cheeks flushing as she stammered the words. ‘And Craig’s right, I do keep reading it.’ She turned and glared at Devonshire before returning her gaze to Koenig, a demure smile on her lips now. ‘You must be the most famous man in Starfleet.’
‘Well…I don’t know about that,’ he replied, arrogance seeping out of every pore.
‘Listen, Admiral,’ said Devonshire. ‘I have to see a business acquaintance before the concert begins. Would you mind keeping my girlfriend company whilst I do that?’
‘I’d be honoured,’ said Koenig. Devonshire almost expected the other man to slip into the accent of a Southern gentleman and kiss Ramplin’s hand…but luckily even he wasn’t that obvious.
Devonshire stood before Louise could protest, bustling his way back down the row of seats, and within moments he was back out in the foyer. A few celebrities were still milling about but he ignored them, instead following the man who had been sitting in the row ahead of them. The man he was here to kill.
Shun Patel was fifty-seven, but you wouldn’t know it unless you read his file. He was a big man, and it was all muscle. Rumour had it that at his Mongolian retreat Shun spent eight hours a day working, six hours working out, and five making love to a harem of beauties. Presumably he spent the other five sleeping. As he approached the men’s’ room he turned. His skin was a light brown; his eyes narrow behind steel rimmed glasses as they took in his surroundings. It was said he could trace his ancestry back to a 19th Century Maharaja, and almost as far back for the Chinese side of his heritage.
An amateur would have paused when Shun did, stopped dead and consequently given himself away. Devonshire was no amateur; he kept on walking…in fact he walked past Patel and into the men’s room without a second glance at the man.
A Rigelian was having trouble using the urinals, and a famous actor was frantically trying to adjust his toupee in the mirror. Devonshire stepped into a cubical, and waited.
He waited exactly two minutes. The file on Patel was quite thorough; the man never spent less than two minutes in the bathroom. He was also afflicted with Monzuma syndrome, an extreme type of epilepsy that meant flashing lights could prove fatal- hence the spectacles. Shun could see just fine, but the lenses acted as filters. Without them it was doubtful he’d be able to leave the house, let alone do his job so well.
His job was holographic architect, perhaps the greatest holographic architect in the Alpha Quadrant, and rightly feted as such. To the majority of people, one holosuite program was just like another, but most of them had faults, flaws in the programming that ruined the effect if you knew what you were looking for, if you were on guard. Most people weren’t, and so their copy of Vulcan Love Slave felt real enough.
To a highly trained intelligence operative however, such microscopic flaws told them that they weren’t in a real situation; that actually they weren’t on Risa with two Orion hookers, but were in fact probably locked in a secure holo-facility on Romulus. As such it was very difficult to convince a well-trained operative that a holo-program was reality…unless Shun had written it. Patel’s code was perfect, literally flawless. He was an artist in a universe of artisans, and that made him incredibly useful to Starfleet Intelligence. Unfortunately his politics made him just as useful to Section 31.
Starfleet Intelligence knew this, but on balance they figured it was a small price to pay for Shun’s continued work for them. Section 31 was small fry these days; they were more worried about the Romulans. For the Obsidian Order however, Section 31 was the primary threat. Erik Pressman still had at least five Genesis devices, and had shown on many occasions that he wasn’t afraid to use them. Patel had to die, but given his relationship to Starfleet Intelligence it had to at least appear accidental.
Devonshire’s mission was given an added personal twist by the fact that Shun’s holo-finesse had been responsible for a young Obsidian Order agent spilling his guts to who he thought was Devonshire—as a result three other agents have been compromised and tortured to death.
The two minutes were up; Devonshire flushed the toilet and exited the cubicle. Despite all the sound proofing built into the Opera House he could still hear a dull echo from the orchestra—the first movement had begun. Yet Shun was still here, gazing at his reflection in the mirror as he toyed with his hair. That was the other fact the Obsidian Order knew about Patel. For some reason he always missed the first ten minutes of any kind of show. Devonshire had no idea why this was, and didn’t much care. All he knew was that he and Patel were alone, he had a window of opportunity, and he was going to take it.
Even better Shun had removed his glasses to splash water on his face. Devonshire stood beside him; gazing at his own reflection in the mirror—the sensation of newness still hadn’t gone away—he began to fiddle with his bowtie. Then he turned. ‘Excuse me, are you Shun Patel?’
Patel eyed him disinterestedly. ‘I am.’
‘I’m a huge fan,’ said Devonshire. In the periphery of his vision he could see the reflection of his chameleonic bowtie going crazy, flashing myriad colours with alarming frequency, the frequency just right to trigger a fatal epileptic seizure.
Except Shun Patel wasn’t being seized. In fact his demeanour hadn’t altered at all. And then it did, because for all his experience Devonshire let his surprise show on his face, and Shun saw it, and he instantly realised that he was being attacked. With speed that belied his bulk he grabbed Devonshire by the shoulders, swinging him hard against the mirrored wall. Even as Devonshire bounced back Shun was moving, running for the door, for crowds and safety.
As he fell, Devonshire lashed out with a foot and got lucky, the toe of his shoe catching the back of Shun’s ankle with enough force to make the other man stumble. And once he stumbled his own momentum carried him forwards to the floor.
Even as Shun started to rise, Devonshire staggered towards him, hands clenched together to deliver a blow to the back of his neck, all thoughts of making it look accidental gone now.
Patel was fast though, and perceptive. As Devonshire stuck downwards, Patel struck upwards, his right leg kicking back, the sole of his boot striking Devonshire in the solar plexus. The wind driven from his lungs, Devonshire fell back once more. That’s it, he thought, game over. Patel would be out the door and safe in seconds, and already his mind had turned to a new problem…namely how to get out of here alive.
He frowned. Patel wasn’t running, in fact he was still crouching, scrabbling around on the floor. Devonshire sucked in a huge lungful of air and got to his feet again. ‘Security, don’t move!’ he snapped as he approached, altering the cadence of his voice.
Shun did what Devonshire expected (and wanted) him to do; he looked up, imagining rescue. Devonshire’s plan was that he got a kick in the face, but as it turned out this wasn’t needed. Shun’s face grew pale, and his body began to shake. Within moments he was convulsing madly on the floor, white flecks of foam at his lips. The end didn’t take long, and a few seconds later the shaking stopped.
For a moment Devonshire stood over the body. It was curious but each death he caused seemed to simultaneously harden his heart, whilst chipping another tiny hole in it. Strong but brittle, eventually, he knew, it would shatter.
But not today. Crouching beside the body it was easy to figure out what had happened. Shun had odd coloured eyes, one green one blue. Devonshire found an azure contact lense on the floor, and after removing its mate from Shun’s dead eye, he flushed both away. He spent a few seconds dusting himself down and straightening his hair in the mirror, ready to scream for help if anyone opened the door. No one did though; everyone was busy enjoying the concert. Before he left the restroom he knocked Shun’s glasses from where they sat near the washbasins, the spectacles clattered to the floor. The scene was set. Patel had knocked his glasses to the floor, and the flickering of the lights had triggered a seizure before he could retrieve them.
Devonshire walked out into the foyer like a man with nothing to hide. There was nobody around, and the cameras for this section of the opera house (and three others) would suffer intermittent recording glitches for the rest of the evening. Devonshire headed back inside to rescue Louise from Koenig’s clutches. He was looking forward to the concert, but afterwards he was going to have a word with Garak about the Obsidian Order’s supposedly infallible files…
* * * *
The marble staircase that swept up towards the opera house was a hundred metres wide; yet so great were the crowds thronging each side that the pathway through which the guests walked was narrower than ten.
Fireworks burst in the purple sky, their glow so bright, their detonation blooms so expansive, that they almost obscured the three evening moons. The din of the fireworks was nothing compared to the cheering crowds, screaming and whistling like a drowning man attracting rescue.
For a man more used to shadows and anonymity, the environment made Willard Patrick Devonshire more than a little self-conscious, and the lack of a weapon only added to his feeling of nakedness.
Ahead of him in the line of celebrities were an Andorian husband and husband team; owners of a company building luxury yachts and racers for those who could still afford them. After the Ferengi futures crash few could, but they were still famous, and sadly more youngsters probably grew up dreaming of one day flying an Arcturas Ultimax than of joining something as mundane as Starfleet.
Looking behind him Devonshire could see why.
Drew Muldoon was three quarters human, one quarter Klingon, a towering well-muscled young man whose swarthy good looks and record breaking five Solar Grand Prix wins made him the idol of a generation.
The cheering rose slightly as the Andorians walked past, then dropped as Devonshire and escort sidled by, as people wondered who the hell they were (though still many did cheer— they had to be famous, right?) but once Drew walked past the screams became almost ultrasonic.
Devonshire had to admit to being slightly envious the two supermodels Drew was escorting, one on each arm. Then again Devonshire’s own escort was every bit as lovely in his opinion.
Louise Ramplin wore a sheer emerald dress, a slit along one side revealing long, slender legs atop slenderer heels. The dress was backless, showing off the profusion of sensuous brown spots that ran down her back, more spots traced the line of her face, emphasised by her short, choppy hairstyle. Technically Ramplin was more famous—well infamous—than him, certainly more recognisable since he’d traded bodies all those months ago, since the man the universe knew as Devonshire turned up dead. Ramplin still looked the same as when she’d been sent to prison for murder. Hiding in plain sight was the oldest trick in Devonshire’s book though, and with the spots on show nobody would doubt she was a Trill. The red hair was added disguise…as were the ludicrous sunglass that she insisted on wearing despite it being night.
She wasn’t alone, at least a third of the guest list seemed to be wearing them too. Fashion; Devonshire had never understood it. Take his dinner jacket; supposedly the designer was the most famous in the Alpha Quadrant, but as far as Devonshire could tell it was just a DJ, ok the cut was nice, but it was still just a dinner jacket.
He wasn’t sure about the ruffled blue shirt with wingtip collar either but Louise had assured him that this was “Bang on trend.” Whatever that meant.
Though they seemed similar in age, Devonshire never forgot that he was technically two decades older than her, and though he looked like a man in his mid thirties, he was still inclined to dress like one in his fifties. Or “Like someone’s dad,” as she’d put it. He’d tried to point out that he was someone’s dad, three people’s dad in fact, but Louise distracted him by ducking under the bedclothes at that point and…
Well…and…
Their relationship still wasn’t what one would term normal. He was one man occupying the body of another, she was a convicted murderess and fugitive from justice, and both of them were now operatives for the Obsidian Order. He’d once been her mentor, a father figure, now he was her lover. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her, but knew that her feelings were more certain. Despite this, despite the guilt he felt for sleeping with her whilst his wife, Natalia, believed he was dead, he couldn’t break off the affair.
He and Louise shared a bond, always had, and it had only been strengthened by their mutual loss—not only of their careers, but of their friends aboard Vesta, currently missing in a region of space where subspace had been destroyed, trapped for twenty five years with only bloodthirsty vampires from an alternate universe for company. The guilt at having avoided sharing that fate still burned.
Shuttles blazed overhead, trailing multicoloured beams in their wake, their appearance diverting the crowds for a moment; screams and whistles becoming oohs and ahhs.
The flypast, the fireworks, the celebrities, all were here to mark the opening of the Opera House. Rebuilt from the ashes of the original, destroyed when Dominion forces seized the planet Belzoni Apex in the early days of the war. Tonight’s performance was of Pollfleth’s Third Sympharia, not a brilliant work in Devonshire’s opinion, but nobody was here for the culture. They were here merely to be here.
The opera house itself was a huge diamond shaped edifice rising almost half a kilometre into the sky, constructed out of empathy glass, the colour changing to reflect the moods within. It made the colour shifting chameleonic bowtie he wore seem tawdry by comparison.
They’d reached the entrance now; the huge double doors flung open to allow the great and the good access to within.
‘Are you sure this’ll work?’ asked Ramplin. ‘Looks awfully sophisticated.’
‘It’ll work.’
She referred to the security scanners built into the doorway. As guests entered the scanners ran a complete spectral analysis of them. Not only would it show up weapons of any kind, but it also compared the bio-scan with the record on file. As a final flourish, a cultured voice announced the guests.
‘Directors of the Arcturan Space Cruiser Company: Mr and Mr Shen.’
‘Here we go,’ whispered Devonshire as they stepped into the archway. He felt Ramplin’s hand tighten around his.
‘Deceased spy Willard Devonshire and escaped murderess Louise Ramplin,’ was what he heard in his head. What the voice actually said was… ‘From Drax holographics, author Craig Daniels, and his partner Kezi Morill.’
‘Told you,’ he said smiled as they stepped into the opulent foyer. A Ferengi waiter approached with a tray loaded with glasses. They each took one.
There really was a Craig Daniels, and he really was a relatively famous author of holo-novels, he just wasn’t so famous that anyone had actually met him. And he did have a girlfriend named Kezi. The security scanner had access to each individual’s biometric profile…or it thought it did. The evening before Devonshire had used his Double Zero clearance to hack into the system and amend Daniels’ and Morill’s profiles.
‘It’s fantastic in here,’ whispered Ramplin.
Devonshire followed her gaze, eyes sliding across the coloured glass atrium. ‘It is that. Nice champagne as well,’ he added taking a sip. His eyes were scanning the crowd now, trying to spot familiar faces, or anyone who didn’t fit in. He spotted half a dozen intelligence operatives or bodyguards, none of them looking especially comfortable. Their gazes were too fixed, their body language all wrong. By contrast Devonshire was relaxed, and he didn’t let his gaze linger for too long.
‘Here we go,’ said Ramplin, the crowds had started heading towards the inner doors.
They followed. Inside they quickly located their row and moved along towards their places. Ramplin froze before they got there. ‘Oh you’re kidding me…’ she muttered. Sat by their seats, was Admiral Mal Koenig; head of Starfleet Intelligence, avowed nemesis of Devonshire and, most importantly, the man who’d sentenced Ramplin to 25 years on Rezik Prime.
‘You’ll be fine,’ said Devonshire. ‘Now hurry up, the natives are getting restless,’ and he turned to smile politely at the portly lady behind him who was trying to shuffle them along.
As they took their seats, Devonshire noted Mal Koenig casting an appreciative glance at Ramplin before returning to his programme. She looked at Devonshire, terror etched into her eyes, and he knew there was only one way to ease it.
‘Excuse me,’ he asked, leaning across to tap Koenig on the shoulder.
‘Yes?’
‘You’re Mal Koenig, right?’
‘Yes,’ said the other man, none too happy at being recognised it seemed.
‘Well I never, you were right, honey,’ he said glancing at Ramplin who looked like she’d rather be anywhere that here right now…possibly even back in her cell. ‘She’s a big fan,’ Devonshire said now, grinning like an idiot. ‘Always reading your book.’
At this Koenig’s demeanour changed. ‘Really?’ he said smiling at the attractive Trill by his side. ‘I didn’t think many people had read it,’ he added, sounding almost modest.
‘Oh it’s good,’ said Ramplin, cheeks flushing as she stammered the words. ‘And Craig’s right, I do keep reading it.’ She turned and glared at Devonshire before returning her gaze to Koenig, a demure smile on her lips now. ‘You must be the most famous man in Starfleet.’
‘Well…I don’t know about that,’ he replied, arrogance seeping out of every pore.
‘Listen, Admiral,’ said Devonshire. ‘I have to see a business acquaintance before the concert begins. Would you mind keeping my girlfriend company whilst I do that?’
‘I’d be honoured,’ said Koenig. Devonshire almost expected the other man to slip into the accent of a Southern gentleman and kiss Ramplin’s hand…but luckily even he wasn’t that obvious.
Devonshire stood before Louise could protest, bustling his way back down the row of seats, and within moments he was back out in the foyer. A few celebrities were still milling about but he ignored them, instead following the man who had been sitting in the row ahead of them. The man he was here to kill.
Shun Patel was fifty-seven, but you wouldn’t know it unless you read his file. He was a big man, and it was all muscle. Rumour had it that at his Mongolian retreat Shun spent eight hours a day working, six hours working out, and five making love to a harem of beauties. Presumably he spent the other five sleeping. As he approached the men’s’ room he turned. His skin was a light brown; his eyes narrow behind steel rimmed glasses as they took in his surroundings. It was said he could trace his ancestry back to a 19th Century Maharaja, and almost as far back for the Chinese side of his heritage.
An amateur would have paused when Shun did, stopped dead and consequently given himself away. Devonshire was no amateur; he kept on walking…in fact he walked past Patel and into the men’s room without a second glance at the man.
A Rigelian was having trouble using the urinals, and a famous actor was frantically trying to adjust his toupee in the mirror. Devonshire stepped into a cubical, and waited.
He waited exactly two minutes. The file on Patel was quite thorough; the man never spent less than two minutes in the bathroom. He was also afflicted with Monzuma syndrome, an extreme type of epilepsy that meant flashing lights could prove fatal- hence the spectacles. Shun could see just fine, but the lenses acted as filters. Without them it was doubtful he’d be able to leave the house, let alone do his job so well.
His job was holographic architect, perhaps the greatest holographic architect in the Alpha Quadrant, and rightly feted as such. To the majority of people, one holosuite program was just like another, but most of them had faults, flaws in the programming that ruined the effect if you knew what you were looking for, if you were on guard. Most people weren’t, and so their copy of Vulcan Love Slave felt real enough.
To a highly trained intelligence operative however, such microscopic flaws told them that they weren’t in a real situation; that actually they weren’t on Risa with two Orion hookers, but were in fact probably locked in a secure holo-facility on Romulus. As such it was very difficult to convince a well-trained operative that a holo-program was reality…unless Shun had written it. Patel’s code was perfect, literally flawless. He was an artist in a universe of artisans, and that made him incredibly useful to Starfleet Intelligence. Unfortunately his politics made him just as useful to Section 31.
Starfleet Intelligence knew this, but on balance they figured it was a small price to pay for Shun’s continued work for them. Section 31 was small fry these days; they were more worried about the Romulans. For the Obsidian Order however, Section 31 was the primary threat. Erik Pressman still had at least five Genesis devices, and had shown on many occasions that he wasn’t afraid to use them. Patel had to die, but given his relationship to Starfleet Intelligence it had to at least appear accidental.
Devonshire’s mission was given an added personal twist by the fact that Shun’s holo-finesse had been responsible for a young Obsidian Order agent spilling his guts to who he thought was Devonshire—as a result three other agents have been compromised and tortured to death.
The two minutes were up; Devonshire flushed the toilet and exited the cubicle. Despite all the sound proofing built into the Opera House he could still hear a dull echo from the orchestra—the first movement had begun. Yet Shun was still here, gazing at his reflection in the mirror as he toyed with his hair. That was the other fact the Obsidian Order knew about Patel. For some reason he always missed the first ten minutes of any kind of show. Devonshire had no idea why this was, and didn’t much care. All he knew was that he and Patel were alone, he had a window of opportunity, and he was going to take it.
Even better Shun had removed his glasses to splash water on his face. Devonshire stood beside him; gazing at his own reflection in the mirror—the sensation of newness still hadn’t gone away—he began to fiddle with his bowtie. Then he turned. ‘Excuse me, are you Shun Patel?’
Patel eyed him disinterestedly. ‘I am.’
‘I’m a huge fan,’ said Devonshire. In the periphery of his vision he could see the reflection of his chameleonic bowtie going crazy, flashing myriad colours with alarming frequency, the frequency just right to trigger a fatal epileptic seizure.
Except Shun Patel wasn’t being seized. In fact his demeanour hadn’t altered at all. And then it did, because for all his experience Devonshire let his surprise show on his face, and Shun saw it, and he instantly realised that he was being attacked. With speed that belied his bulk he grabbed Devonshire by the shoulders, swinging him hard against the mirrored wall. Even as Devonshire bounced back Shun was moving, running for the door, for crowds and safety.
As he fell, Devonshire lashed out with a foot and got lucky, the toe of his shoe catching the back of Shun’s ankle with enough force to make the other man stumble. And once he stumbled his own momentum carried him forwards to the floor.
Even as Shun started to rise, Devonshire staggered towards him, hands clenched together to deliver a blow to the back of his neck, all thoughts of making it look accidental gone now.
Patel was fast though, and perceptive. As Devonshire stuck downwards, Patel struck upwards, his right leg kicking back, the sole of his boot striking Devonshire in the solar plexus. The wind driven from his lungs, Devonshire fell back once more. That’s it, he thought, game over. Patel would be out the door and safe in seconds, and already his mind had turned to a new problem…namely how to get out of here alive.
He frowned. Patel wasn’t running, in fact he was still crouching, scrabbling around on the floor. Devonshire sucked in a huge lungful of air and got to his feet again. ‘Security, don’t move!’ he snapped as he approached, altering the cadence of his voice.
Shun did what Devonshire expected (and wanted) him to do; he looked up, imagining rescue. Devonshire’s plan was that he got a kick in the face, but as it turned out this wasn’t needed. Shun’s face grew pale, and his body began to shake. Within moments he was convulsing madly on the floor, white flecks of foam at his lips. The end didn’t take long, and a few seconds later the shaking stopped.
For a moment Devonshire stood over the body. It was curious but each death he caused seemed to simultaneously harden his heart, whilst chipping another tiny hole in it. Strong but brittle, eventually, he knew, it would shatter.
But not today. Crouching beside the body it was easy to figure out what had happened. Shun had odd coloured eyes, one green one blue. Devonshire found an azure contact lense on the floor, and after removing its mate from Shun’s dead eye, he flushed both away. He spent a few seconds dusting himself down and straightening his hair in the mirror, ready to scream for help if anyone opened the door. No one did though; everyone was busy enjoying the concert. Before he left the restroom he knocked Shun’s glasses from where they sat near the washbasins, the spectacles clattered to the floor. The scene was set. Patel had knocked his glasses to the floor, and the flickering of the lights had triggered a seizure before he could retrieve them.
Devonshire walked out into the foyer like a man with nothing to hide. There was nobody around, and the cameras for this section of the opera house (and three others) would suffer intermittent recording glitches for the rest of the evening. Devonshire headed back inside to rescue Louise from Koenig’s clutches. He was looking forward to the concert, but afterwards he was going to have a word with Garak about the Obsidian Order’s supposedly infallible files…
)
