Star Trek: Supermax
- Thread starter Juzam Djinn
- Start date
Supermax 202: “Fast One”
Three months after I came on board the USS Lilienthal, the Commandant decided it was safe to let me out of protective custody and put me back in the prison hulk’s general population.
I had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I was the only prisoner in protective custody, which made it a lot like solitary confinement. On the other hand, I was pretty sure the Syndicate wasn’t ready to forgive and forget after just three months. Plus, the protective-custody cells on the Lilienthal are converted officer’s cabins: ordinary prisoners had to share crew quarters.
But nobody cared how I felt. One day, after the evening meal, Chief Guzman just showed up at the door of my cell, and said, “Pack up your shit, Jaffar. We’re moving you back to gen-pop.” So I packed up my shit, left my cell, and followed him down the corridor to the turbolift.
My new cell was down on Deck Nine. I stood and waited, with my bundle of bedding and personal items in my arms, while the Chief tapped his combadge. “Guzman here,” he said. “Open Door Nine-Oh-Nine.”
The door slid open. I stepped inside. The door slid shut, and that was that.
My new cellmate, a Markalian, was lying on the top bunk. He’d been reading a padd when the cell door opened, but now he was looking at me.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he said.
I looked around, put my bundle down on the floor by the bottom bunk, and started unpacking. My cellmate went back to reading. “My name’s Jaffar,” I said.
“Pak,” he said.
I had put the fitted bottom sheet on the mattress, and was flipping out the top sheet when it hit me: Pak, the Markalian? “I’ve heard of you,” I said.
“Yeah?” he said, up above.
I started making hospital corners, like they taught us in the Academy. “I heard you knocked over a Ferengi casino ship,” I said.
“Yeah?” he said. Then, when I laid out my blanket, he said: “I heard you’re a snitch.”
I stopped what I was doing, stood up, and looked him in the eye. He looked back, impassively. “You heard wrong,” I said.
Our little stare-down continued for a moment. Then, he broke eye contact and started reading again. “Okay,” he said.
I went back to tucking in my blanket. Truth to tell, I was a little relieved. Hopefully, now that we’d both growled a bit, and sniffed each other’s butts, and marked our territories, we wouldn’t have any more problems.
When my bed was made, I lay down, stared at the bottom of Pak’s bunk, and waited for lights out.
It seemed like a long wait. It always does.
***
22:58…22:59…23:00 hours. The lights went down. I sighed: finally. I sat up, opened my paper sack, and started eating my dinner.
Pak had already washed, gotten undressed, and gotten back into his bunk. Up above me, I heard him say: “Jaffar.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Eating,” I said.
There was a pause. Then: “Are you trying to get us in trouble?”
Damn, I thought. I should have explained earlier. “I have special permission to eat in my cell at this time of year,” I said. “For religious reasons.”
Another pause. “How did you manage that?”
I glanced upward. “Weren’t you here, then?”
“I guess not.”
“Huh,” I said.
So I told him.
***
It all happened about a year ago, I said, when I was down on the planet, in Unit Seven. If I remember correctly, I went to see the Alpha Shift Supervisor on the twenty-eighth day of Sha’ban.
The Alpha Supervisor was a Vulcan—Officer Tomak. Roboguard had been promoted after the Unit Supervisor, Commander Sinclair, committed suicide. He was standing in the Tower, one hand behind his back, the other on the handle of his stun baton, scanning the security monitors. He looked like a statue. They don’t call him 'roboguard' and 'superhack' for nothing.
He didn’t look at me when I approached. He kept scanning the monitors and said: “What do you want, Jaffar?”
I said: “Ramadan starts the day after tomorrow.”
He finally looked at me. “Ramadan,” he said.
“The Muslim holy month,” I said.
“I see,” he said. He waited for a second. “Is that all?”
“Well, no,” I said. I told him how devout Muslims fast during Ramadan, touching neither food nor water from sunrise to sunset.
(Of course, the sun doesn’t rise or set over Supermax: the prison is deep underground, on the dark side of 61 Virginis II, which is tidally locked with 61 Virginis. But I was pretty sure that lights-on to lights-off was an acceptable substitute.)
Anyway, as a devout Muslim, I would be fasting for thirty days, and I wouldn’t be able to eat in the Mess Hall at meal times. I asked to have some food brought to my pod after lights out.
He stared at me without blinking. “You are not a religious person, Jaffar.”
“That’s not true,” I protested. “I’ve always been a good believer.”
Actually, I’m a lousy believer. A devout Muslim prays every day. I only prayed when my wife—my ex-wife, Kalila, came to visit. But I’d recently spoken to Kalila over subspace, and she’d reminded me that Ramadan was coming soon. I’d forgotten.
Tomak continued to stare. “You have never fasted before,” he said.
“My wife has been a good influence on me,” I said.
Tomak’s face was expressionless, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. Finally, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “You will take your meals in the Mess Hall, with the rest of the prisoners, at the appointed times. No exceptions.”
I said: “This is a violation of my religious freedoms. Those freedoms are guaranteed by the Federation Charter.” I couldn’t remember exactly which Guarantee that was. I made a mental note to look it up.
He said: “You must have religious faith to have religious rights. I have made my decision. The answer is no. Go back to the common area.”
I said: “I want to appeal your decision to the Unit Supervisor.”
Tomak nodded. “You have that right.” He tapped his combadge and called Norng, who had also been promoted after Sinclair’s suicide. I was in luck. Norng would see me right away. Officer Stott escorted me to the Unit Supervisor’s office, and I made my appeal.
Norng didn’t even wait for me to finish. “Forget it,” he said. “No way.”
“Why the hell not?” I said. “This is a violation of my Charter rights!”
He said: “The Mess Hall is closed by lights-out. I’m not going to reopen the kitchen just to cater to some so-called Muslim.”
“Use the craplicator in the hack’s mess,” I said.
He sneered. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A correctional officer serving you food from the officer’s mess? Forget it, god-boy. You want to fast, go ahead and fast. But we’re not serving you meals in your pod.”
“I can’t do that,” I said. “I’ll starve!”
“Not my problem,” said Norng. “Appeal denied.”
I said: “I want to see the Commandant.”
I made an appointment to see the Commandant, Captain Manning, the next day. By then, I’d had a chance to re-read the Federation Charter in the Library. I did my best to convince Captain Manning that refusing my request would violate my religious freedoms under the Charter. I even quoted the Thirteenth Guarantee.
The Commandant shook his head. “No. Sorry. You’re forgetting that not all the Guarantees are absolute. The Reasonable Limits clause allows us to place some restrictions on some Charter freedoms. That includes religious practices.”
He leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. “We have almost as many belief systems here as we have prisoners, and I don’t have the resources to accommodate everyone. It’s hard enough just meeting everyone’s dietary requirements. The Federation Supreme Court has ruled that we’re allowed to restrict a prisoner’s religious freedoms, so long as these restrictions are reasonable and apply equally to everyone.”
“So long as we’re all oppressed equally,” I said.
He scowled, leaned forward, and said: “This isn’t a monastery, Jaffar. It’s a prison. Was there anything else?”
I stood up to leave. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” I said. “I’m going on a hunger strike, starting tomorrow.”
Captain Manning picked up a padd off his desk. “Enjoy yourself,” he said. “Guard, take this prisoner back to his unit.”
That afternoon, I used most of my remaining allowance of subspace time to call the Federation News Service on my home world, Minaret. I explained to them that I was going on a hunger strike starting tomorrow, the first day of Ramadan, as a protest against the Sundancer Penal Colony’s refusal to recognize my religious rights and freedoms. Either the Commandant would grant my small request, or I would starve to death, insha’Allah--as God willed. God is greatest.
I started ostentatiously abstaining from food and water the next day. I also started praying regularly, much to the amusement of my Caitian podmate, M’rorr, and many other prisoners. I didn’t care: praying helped take my mind off how hungry and thirsty I was. I would drink some water at night then start all over again the next day, fasting and praying. I wasn’t sure how long I was going to last, but I was going to give it my best shot.
On the morning of the third day, Norng came to see me while I was praying. “Jaffar,” he said.
“Just a minute,” I said: “I’m praying.”
He stood there, fuming, until I finished. “Yes?” I said innocently.
“It’s breakfast time,” he said. “Get your ass down to the Mess Hall.”
I shook my head, and said: “Sorry, Norng. I’m fasting. I’m also on a hunger strike, remember?”
He said: “Get down to the Mess Hall, or I’ll have Dr. Taylor force-feed you.”
I said: “You’re going to force-feed me for fasting in accordance with my religious beliefs?”
He glared down at me. I could tell he was itching to practice his Muay Thai, with me as the practice dummy. I just knelt there, on my prayer rug, and waited.
“Damn you,” he said, finally. “Get down to the Mess Hall, or I’ll put you in Solitary.”
I chuckled. “You can’t put me in Solitary for following Islam,” I said.
He put me in Solitary.
I kept fasting, and praying, but it was getting pretty tough. Then I got word from a friendly hack that my case was causing a stir in the Federation media. Minaret’s representative had even mentioned me in the Federation Council, denouncing this latest example of religious discrimination by the UFP’s secularist majority.
I shrugged. Then he told me that I’d received a message from my wife. I had very little subspace time left, so Kalila kept it short, text-only. It said: I’M PROUD OF YOU. KALILA.
(She didn’t say ‘I love you,’ but I didn’t notice that, then.)
Anyway, I prayed and fasted even harder after that. After another couple of days, the Commandant came to see me in Solitary. “If you don’t start taking nourishment,” he said, “I’m going to put you in Isolation.”
I didn’t laugh, this time. “You can’t put me in the Tank for following my religious beliefs!”
I should have known better. He put me in the Tank. Not for long, but long enough. I was ready to give up. I had mentally composed a press release, begging God and everyone else to forgive me for breaking my fast under torture. But the Commandant gave up first.
Here’s what happened. I was the only Muslim in Supermax. Still am, in fact. But when a couple of Penetecostals in Unit Eleven found out what was going on, they went on a hunger strike too. Pretty soon, followers of other faiths, in other units, were joining in as well. They sat around their Yards all day, fasting and praying their different prayers, demanding justice—for me. Weird.
This mass hunger strike brought a lot of unwelcome attention to the Sundancer Penal Colony. The representatives of every religious world in the Federation were making speeches in the Federation Council. From Ringstone to Zhen-Shan-Ren, from Deseret to New Graceland, believers across the UFP were complaining about systemic discrimination.
Finally, when the ambassador from Bajor inquired about my case, the Federation President decided enough was enough. The President leaned on Starfleet Command. Starfleet Command leaned on Vice-Admiral Golovko, at Starbase Eight. And Vice-Admiral Golovko leaned on Captain Manning.
The Commandant let me out of the Tank, and told me that if I stopped my hunger strike he’d allow me to eat in my pod after lights out, until the end of Ramadan. He was going to review the policy, he said, but this was purely an act of grace. I was a Starfleet veteran, after all—even if I had gone astray and deserted to the Maquis. But if I tried a stunt like this again, he was going to force-feed me, or just let me starve to death. I believed him.
I spent a couple of days in the Hospital, letting Dr. Taylor feed me through tubes—after lights out, of course. When I got back to Unit Seven, there was a lot of back-slapping and congratulating. Way to go, Jaff, they said. Fight the power. Even Death-Head the Cardassian was impressed. He told me so himself.
That night, after lights out, Officer Gleeson brought me my first meal in a week. I could hear the other inmates jeering as he walked across the Yard: “Room service!”; “Waiter!” By the time he got to my pod, his face was red.
“Here’s your goddamn dinner,” he snarled, throwing a paper sack at me.
I said: “Thanks, Gleeson.”
“Asshole,” he said, and walked away. Appearances are important in the Big Time.
I’m not sure what I was expecting: combat rations, maybe. But when I opened the sack, there was real food inside: a sandwich, carrot and celery sticks, some fruit, and a bottle of juice. Good deal, I thought.
Then I checked the sandwich. Ham and cheese. Har har.
“Hey, M’rorr,” I said, to my cellmate. “You want some ham?”
“Why?” he said. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s a religious thing.”
That was the best meal I’ve ever had in my life. When I was done, I slipped the packet of contraband out of the paper sack and under my clothes. Then I crumpled up the empty sack, threw it in the wastebasket, cleaned my teeth, got undressed, and got into bed. Once I was under the covers, I put the packet in a safe place
I wasn’t sure what it was. Drugs, probably. Whatever it was, it was in great demand. Security had been tight since those murders and suicides a little while back, and the flow of contraband had slowed to a trickle.
We’d have to be careful. I couldn’t do this too many times. The other hacks would be watching me. But I figured Gleeson could safely make a few more deliveries before the end of Ramadan.
I felt pretty smug. This would earn me some serious credit with the Fleet. I might even get a promotion. In addition, I’d struck a blow for the rights and freedoms of religious believers across the United Federation of Planets. And on top of all that, I figured I was scoring points with my wife, and with God.
A man can do anything if he’s properly motivated.
***
I was done eating my supper. I crumpled up the empty sack, threw it in the wastebasket, cleaned my teeth, got undressed, and got into bed.
“Nice,” Pak said.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Are you still in the Fleet?” he said.
“No,” I said.
“Then why are you fasting, this time?” he said.
I thought about that. “I don’t know,” I said, finally.
“Well,” he said. “See you in the morning.”
“See you in the morning,” I said. But I didn’t fall asleep.
Not at first. Not for a while.
EPILOGUE
Pak walked into the Deck Nine common room, looked around, then headed over to a table in the far corner, and sat down. There were two other Markalians at the table already—one of them older and heavier than Pak, the other younger and thinner.
“I hear you have a new cellmate,” said the older Markalian.
“Yeah,” said Pak.
“Who is it?” said the younger one.
“Jaffar,” said Pak.
“Jaffar? The snitch?”
“Yeah. Him,” said Pak.
“Shit,” said the younger Markalian. “You know the Syndicate has a contract out on him?
“I know,” said the older one.
“The Fleet wants him dead as well.”
“I know.”
“You think the hacks are on to us?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you want me to do?” said Pak.
The older Markalian considered. “Nothing,” he said, finally.
The younger one looked shocked. “We’re not going to take him out?”
“No,” said the elder.
“I could make it look like self-defence,” Pak said.
The older Markalian shook his head. “No. Too risky. Too much heat. We can’t afford to attract attention at this point. Besides…” he said, then fell silent.
“What?” said Pak.
“Nothing,” said the elder. “Maybe later. Just stick to the plan, for now.”
Pak nodded. “You’re the boss,” he said.
The older Markalian smiled. “Yes, I am,” he said.
THE END
Three months after I came on board the USS Lilienthal, the Commandant decided it was safe to let me out of protective custody and put me back in the prison hulk’s general population.
I had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I was the only prisoner in protective custody, which made it a lot like solitary confinement. On the other hand, I was pretty sure the Syndicate wasn’t ready to forgive and forget after just three months. Plus, the protective-custody cells on the Lilienthal are converted officer’s cabins: ordinary prisoners had to share crew quarters.
But nobody cared how I felt. One day, after the evening meal, Chief Guzman just showed up at the door of my cell, and said, “Pack up your shit, Jaffar. We’re moving you back to gen-pop.” So I packed up my shit, left my cell, and followed him down the corridor to the turbolift.
My new cell was down on Deck Nine. I stood and waited, with my bundle of bedding and personal items in my arms, while the Chief tapped his combadge. “Guzman here,” he said. “Open Door Nine-Oh-Nine.”
The door slid open. I stepped inside. The door slid shut, and that was that.
My new cellmate, a Markalian, was lying on the top bunk. He’d been reading a padd when the cell door opened, but now he was looking at me.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he said.
I looked around, put my bundle down on the floor by the bottom bunk, and started unpacking. My cellmate went back to reading. “My name’s Jaffar,” I said.
“Pak,” he said.
I had put the fitted bottom sheet on the mattress, and was flipping out the top sheet when it hit me: Pak, the Markalian? “I’ve heard of you,” I said.
“Yeah?” he said, up above.
I started making hospital corners, like they taught us in the Academy. “I heard you knocked over a Ferengi casino ship,” I said.
“Yeah?” he said. Then, when I laid out my blanket, he said: “I heard you’re a snitch.”
I stopped what I was doing, stood up, and looked him in the eye. He looked back, impassively. “You heard wrong,” I said.
Our little stare-down continued for a moment. Then, he broke eye contact and started reading again. “Okay,” he said.
I went back to tucking in my blanket. Truth to tell, I was a little relieved. Hopefully, now that we’d both growled a bit, and sniffed each other’s butts, and marked our territories, we wouldn’t have any more problems.
When my bed was made, I lay down, stared at the bottom of Pak’s bunk, and waited for lights out.
It seemed like a long wait. It always does.
***
22:58…22:59…23:00 hours. The lights went down. I sighed: finally. I sat up, opened my paper sack, and started eating my dinner.
Pak had already washed, gotten undressed, and gotten back into his bunk. Up above me, I heard him say: “Jaffar.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Eating,” I said.
There was a pause. Then: “Are you trying to get us in trouble?”
Damn, I thought. I should have explained earlier. “I have special permission to eat in my cell at this time of year,” I said. “For religious reasons.”
Another pause. “How did you manage that?”
I glanced upward. “Weren’t you here, then?”
“I guess not.”
“Huh,” I said.
So I told him.
***
It all happened about a year ago, I said, when I was down on the planet, in Unit Seven. If I remember correctly, I went to see the Alpha Shift Supervisor on the twenty-eighth day of Sha’ban.
The Alpha Supervisor was a Vulcan—Officer Tomak. Roboguard had been promoted after the Unit Supervisor, Commander Sinclair, committed suicide. He was standing in the Tower, one hand behind his back, the other on the handle of his stun baton, scanning the security monitors. He looked like a statue. They don’t call him 'roboguard' and 'superhack' for nothing.
He didn’t look at me when I approached. He kept scanning the monitors and said: “What do you want, Jaffar?”
I said: “Ramadan starts the day after tomorrow.”
He finally looked at me. “Ramadan,” he said.
“The Muslim holy month,” I said.
“I see,” he said. He waited for a second. “Is that all?”
“Well, no,” I said. I told him how devout Muslims fast during Ramadan, touching neither food nor water from sunrise to sunset.
(Of course, the sun doesn’t rise or set over Supermax: the prison is deep underground, on the dark side of 61 Virginis II, which is tidally locked with 61 Virginis. But I was pretty sure that lights-on to lights-off was an acceptable substitute.)
Anyway, as a devout Muslim, I would be fasting for thirty days, and I wouldn’t be able to eat in the Mess Hall at meal times. I asked to have some food brought to my pod after lights out.
He stared at me without blinking. “You are not a religious person, Jaffar.”
“That’s not true,” I protested. “I’ve always been a good believer.”
Actually, I’m a lousy believer. A devout Muslim prays every day. I only prayed when my wife—my ex-wife, Kalila, came to visit. But I’d recently spoken to Kalila over subspace, and she’d reminded me that Ramadan was coming soon. I’d forgotten.
Tomak continued to stare. “You have never fasted before,” he said.
“My wife has been a good influence on me,” I said.
Tomak’s face was expressionless, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. Finally, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “You will take your meals in the Mess Hall, with the rest of the prisoners, at the appointed times. No exceptions.”
I said: “This is a violation of my religious freedoms. Those freedoms are guaranteed by the Federation Charter.” I couldn’t remember exactly which Guarantee that was. I made a mental note to look it up.
He said: “You must have religious faith to have religious rights. I have made my decision. The answer is no. Go back to the common area.”
I said: “I want to appeal your decision to the Unit Supervisor.”
Tomak nodded. “You have that right.” He tapped his combadge and called Norng, who had also been promoted after Sinclair’s suicide. I was in luck. Norng would see me right away. Officer Stott escorted me to the Unit Supervisor’s office, and I made my appeal.
Norng didn’t even wait for me to finish. “Forget it,” he said. “No way.”
“Why the hell not?” I said. “This is a violation of my Charter rights!”
He said: “The Mess Hall is closed by lights-out. I’m not going to reopen the kitchen just to cater to some so-called Muslim.”
“Use the craplicator in the hack’s mess,” I said.
He sneered. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A correctional officer serving you food from the officer’s mess? Forget it, god-boy. You want to fast, go ahead and fast. But we’re not serving you meals in your pod.”
“I can’t do that,” I said. “I’ll starve!”
“Not my problem,” said Norng. “Appeal denied.”
I said: “I want to see the Commandant.”
I made an appointment to see the Commandant, Captain Manning, the next day. By then, I’d had a chance to re-read the Federation Charter in the Library. I did my best to convince Captain Manning that refusing my request would violate my religious freedoms under the Charter. I even quoted the Thirteenth Guarantee.
The Commandant shook his head. “No. Sorry. You’re forgetting that not all the Guarantees are absolute. The Reasonable Limits clause allows us to place some restrictions on some Charter freedoms. That includes religious practices.”
He leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. “We have almost as many belief systems here as we have prisoners, and I don’t have the resources to accommodate everyone. It’s hard enough just meeting everyone’s dietary requirements. The Federation Supreme Court has ruled that we’re allowed to restrict a prisoner’s religious freedoms, so long as these restrictions are reasonable and apply equally to everyone.”
“So long as we’re all oppressed equally,” I said.
He scowled, leaned forward, and said: “This isn’t a monastery, Jaffar. It’s a prison. Was there anything else?”
I stood up to leave. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” I said. “I’m going on a hunger strike, starting tomorrow.”
Captain Manning picked up a padd off his desk. “Enjoy yourself,” he said. “Guard, take this prisoner back to his unit.”
That afternoon, I used most of my remaining allowance of subspace time to call the Federation News Service on my home world, Minaret. I explained to them that I was going on a hunger strike starting tomorrow, the first day of Ramadan, as a protest against the Sundancer Penal Colony’s refusal to recognize my religious rights and freedoms. Either the Commandant would grant my small request, or I would starve to death, insha’Allah--as God willed. God is greatest.
I started ostentatiously abstaining from food and water the next day. I also started praying regularly, much to the amusement of my Caitian podmate, M’rorr, and many other prisoners. I didn’t care: praying helped take my mind off how hungry and thirsty I was. I would drink some water at night then start all over again the next day, fasting and praying. I wasn’t sure how long I was going to last, but I was going to give it my best shot.
On the morning of the third day, Norng came to see me while I was praying. “Jaffar,” he said.
“Just a minute,” I said: “I’m praying.”
He stood there, fuming, until I finished. “Yes?” I said innocently.
“It’s breakfast time,” he said. “Get your ass down to the Mess Hall.”
I shook my head, and said: “Sorry, Norng. I’m fasting. I’m also on a hunger strike, remember?”
He said: “Get down to the Mess Hall, or I’ll have Dr. Taylor force-feed you.”
I said: “You’re going to force-feed me for fasting in accordance with my religious beliefs?”
He glared down at me. I could tell he was itching to practice his Muay Thai, with me as the practice dummy. I just knelt there, on my prayer rug, and waited.
“Damn you,” he said, finally. “Get down to the Mess Hall, or I’ll put you in Solitary.”
I chuckled. “You can’t put me in Solitary for following Islam,” I said.
He put me in Solitary.
I kept fasting, and praying, but it was getting pretty tough. Then I got word from a friendly hack that my case was causing a stir in the Federation media. Minaret’s representative had even mentioned me in the Federation Council, denouncing this latest example of religious discrimination by the UFP’s secularist majority.
I shrugged. Then he told me that I’d received a message from my wife. I had very little subspace time left, so Kalila kept it short, text-only. It said: I’M PROUD OF YOU. KALILA.
(She didn’t say ‘I love you,’ but I didn’t notice that, then.)
Anyway, I prayed and fasted even harder after that. After another couple of days, the Commandant came to see me in Solitary. “If you don’t start taking nourishment,” he said, “I’m going to put you in Isolation.”
I didn’t laugh, this time. “You can’t put me in the Tank for following my religious beliefs!”
I should have known better. He put me in the Tank. Not for long, but long enough. I was ready to give up. I had mentally composed a press release, begging God and everyone else to forgive me for breaking my fast under torture. But the Commandant gave up first.
Here’s what happened. I was the only Muslim in Supermax. Still am, in fact. But when a couple of Penetecostals in Unit Eleven found out what was going on, they went on a hunger strike too. Pretty soon, followers of other faiths, in other units, were joining in as well. They sat around their Yards all day, fasting and praying their different prayers, demanding justice—for me. Weird.
This mass hunger strike brought a lot of unwelcome attention to the Sundancer Penal Colony. The representatives of every religious world in the Federation were making speeches in the Federation Council. From Ringstone to Zhen-Shan-Ren, from Deseret to New Graceland, believers across the UFP were complaining about systemic discrimination.
Finally, when the ambassador from Bajor inquired about my case, the Federation President decided enough was enough. The President leaned on Starfleet Command. Starfleet Command leaned on Vice-Admiral Golovko, at Starbase Eight. And Vice-Admiral Golovko leaned on Captain Manning.
The Commandant let me out of the Tank, and told me that if I stopped my hunger strike he’d allow me to eat in my pod after lights out, until the end of Ramadan. He was going to review the policy, he said, but this was purely an act of grace. I was a Starfleet veteran, after all—even if I had gone astray and deserted to the Maquis. But if I tried a stunt like this again, he was going to force-feed me, or just let me starve to death. I believed him.
I spent a couple of days in the Hospital, letting Dr. Taylor feed me through tubes—after lights out, of course. When I got back to Unit Seven, there was a lot of back-slapping and congratulating. Way to go, Jaff, they said. Fight the power. Even Death-Head the Cardassian was impressed. He told me so himself.
That night, after lights out, Officer Gleeson brought me my first meal in a week. I could hear the other inmates jeering as he walked across the Yard: “Room service!”; “Waiter!” By the time he got to my pod, his face was red.
“Here’s your goddamn dinner,” he snarled, throwing a paper sack at me.
I said: “Thanks, Gleeson.”
“Asshole,” he said, and walked away. Appearances are important in the Big Time.
I’m not sure what I was expecting: combat rations, maybe. But when I opened the sack, there was real food inside: a sandwich, carrot and celery sticks, some fruit, and a bottle of juice. Good deal, I thought.
Then I checked the sandwich. Ham and cheese. Har har.
“Hey, M’rorr,” I said, to my cellmate. “You want some ham?”
“Why?” he said. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s a religious thing.”
That was the best meal I’ve ever had in my life. When I was done, I slipped the packet of contraband out of the paper sack and under my clothes. Then I crumpled up the empty sack, threw it in the wastebasket, cleaned my teeth, got undressed, and got into bed. Once I was under the covers, I put the packet in a safe place
I wasn’t sure what it was. Drugs, probably. Whatever it was, it was in great demand. Security had been tight since those murders and suicides a little while back, and the flow of contraband had slowed to a trickle.
We’d have to be careful. I couldn’t do this too many times. The other hacks would be watching me. But I figured Gleeson could safely make a few more deliveries before the end of Ramadan.
I felt pretty smug. This would earn me some serious credit with the Fleet. I might even get a promotion. In addition, I’d struck a blow for the rights and freedoms of religious believers across the United Federation of Planets. And on top of all that, I figured I was scoring points with my wife, and with God.
A man can do anything if he’s properly motivated.
***
I was done eating my supper. I crumpled up the empty sack, threw it in the wastebasket, cleaned my teeth, got undressed, and got into bed.
“Nice,” Pak said.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Are you still in the Fleet?” he said.
“No,” I said.
“Then why are you fasting, this time?” he said.
I thought about that. “I don’t know,” I said, finally.
“Well,” he said. “See you in the morning.”
“See you in the morning,” I said. But I didn’t fall asleep.
Not at first. Not for a while.
EPILOGUE
Pak walked into the Deck Nine common room, looked around, then headed over to a table in the far corner, and sat down. There were two other Markalians at the table already—one of them older and heavier than Pak, the other younger and thinner.
“I hear you have a new cellmate,” said the older Markalian.
“Yeah,” said Pak.
“Who is it?” said the younger one.
“Jaffar,” said Pak.
“Jaffar? The snitch?”
“Yeah. Him,” said Pak.
“Shit,” said the younger Markalian. “You know the Syndicate has a contract out on him?
“I know,” said the older one.
“The Fleet wants him dead as well.”
“I know.”
“You think the hacks are on to us?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you want me to do?” said Pak.
The older Markalian considered. “Nothing,” he said, finally.
The younger one looked shocked. “We’re not going to take him out?”
“No,” said the elder.
“I could make it look like self-defence,” Pak said.
The older Markalian shook his head. “No. Too risky. Too much heat. We can’t afford to attract attention at this point. Besides…” he said, then fell silent.
“What?” said Pak.
“Nothing,” said the elder. “Maybe later. Just stick to the plan, for now.”
Pak nodded. “You’re the boss,” he said.
The older Markalian smiled. “Yes, I am,” he said.
THE END
Stop sneaking in under the radar Camelopard. I really liked that one, asked a few new questions. Keep it coming.
Sorry!All right, new Supermax! Glad to see the first story I read on these boards is back in business. 
HyperionReborn said:
All right, new Supermax! Glad to see the first story I read on these boards is back in business.
Thanks! And with any luck, you won't have to wait nearly so long for the next episode.
You're not a complete imbecile. I just didn't explain.
The Fleet wants Jaffar dead for three reasons:
1. Jaffar's actions in Episode 106, "Stalking Horse" almost started a gang war between the Fleet and the Orion Syndicate. Captain Henderson likes to keep the peace: he's a strong believer in the Ferengi Thirty-Fifth Rule of Acquisition--"Peace is Good for Business". If he'd known what Jaffar was planning, he never would have authorized it: he would have told Jaffar to suck it up, and forget his dead friends.
2. Jaffar took the Gun without permission, and then lost it, when he shouldn't even have known where it was. (He found out its location way back in Episode 102, "Green-Eyed Monster")
3. Jaffar broke the code of silence by informing on the Green Giant. This is something you just don't do--not even to hurt your enemies. Cooperation with the prison authorities, or reliance on their services, is categorically prohibited.
Jaffar might have been able to get away with one of these indiscretions, but not all three. As a consequence, he was "court-martialled," "dishonourably discharged," and "sentenced to death" by his gang.
Unfortunately, this all took place off-stage, down on the planet, while Jaffar was in protective custody in orbit, on board the Lilienthal, so I haven't had a chance to explain it until now. Sorry!
Always great to see a new Supermax story. It's looking like Jaffar is going to be drawn into whatever the Markalians have cooked up--whether he wants to be or not. Also, Jaffar does seem to have a talent for stirring up the crap, doesn't he?
good one. i look forward to Jaff's pre-prison adventures 
We try our best!
captcalhoun said:
good one. i look forward to Jaff's pre-prison adventures
So do I. Unfortunately, the way I have this season planned, I have two more episodes to write before that tale can be told.
But one of my New Year's Resolutions was to keep a more regular writing schedule--so those two episodes should be a matter of weeks rather than months.
I'm currently in the middle of 3 and , like a good book(which this is) I am actually willing to walk away for a min so I have more time to enjoy-This has surpassed anything I've read-usually there's something I could point a finger at but not here! LOVING IT! Gracias, my brain says. Endorphins exploding all over the place!
Looks like the first-person narrative is enjoying a comeback this year ... very good, I love the format.
You really do excel at the short story format, packing a lot of great story-telling in just a few hundred words or so.
I still find it a bit akward to read about religon (especially contemporary) in a Star Trek setting. But Supermax obviously pursues a slightly different angle of the universe and it definitely works quite well. Also kudos to you for writing about a topic which can cause quite the controversy if misinterpreted.
The story is multi-layered and filled with suprises I didn't see coming. Quite a feat considering the overall length.
And then we even get a fascinating cliffhanger ending. It better not take you as long as last time to write the next installment though ...
You really do excel at the short story format, packing a lot of great story-telling in just a few hundred words or so.
I still find it a bit akward to read about religon (especially contemporary) in a Star Trek setting. But Supermax obviously pursues a slightly different angle of the universe and it definitely works quite well. Also kudos to you for writing about a topic which can cause quite the controversy if misinterpreted.
The story is multi-layered and filled with suprises I didn't see coming. Quite a feat considering the overall length.
And then we even get a fascinating cliffhanger ending. It better not take you as long as last time to write the next installment though ...
Supermax 203: “Drawing Dead”
(Adapted from Stanley Kubrick’s The Killing)
TEASER
It was night on Markal IV, and Pak was walking down a residential street in the south sector of Belkalu City. Every house on the street was the same—a cheap steel-frame prefab module about the size of a tractor-trailer, with an oversailing roof, a timber floor, and a wraparound veranda.
Most of the houses had vehicles parked on the street in front of them. Some of them had light showing through their louvred windows. The house Pak was looking for, near the end of the block, was dark, and the street in front was empty. There was nobody home.
The Markalian walked up the steps onto the veranda. The darkened house had three doors—one in the front, facing the street, and two on the side. He looked off to his left. The house next door was dark as well. No one was watching.
He strolled down the veranda to the side door farthest from the street, slipped on a pair of gloves, and took another look around. Then he took a short pry bar out of his jacket, stuck the business end into the seam between the doorjamb and the lock, and popped the door open.
There was no alarm. Moss always was a little careless.
Pak stepped inside quickly, closed the door behind him, took out a small flashlight, and looked around. He was in a bedroom. The bedroom door opened into a short hallway, with a bathroom on the left, and the second side-door on the right.
Keeping his pry bar ready in his right hand, he walked cautiously down the hallway, past the bathroom, past a kitchenette, into the dining room, then the living room, and arrived at the front door. Satisfied that he was alone, Pak put the pry bar back in his jacket, went back to the bedroom, and opened the closet.
He found what he was looking for up on the shelf: a metal carrying case. He carried the case over to the bed, put it down, and opened it. There were three hand weapons inside. He picked up a Klingon disruptor pistol, checked its charge, then set it for maximum and put it down on the bed. Then he closed up the carrying case and put it back in the closet.
Picking the disruptor up off the bedcover, he left the bedroom and went back down the hall to the living room. There was a couch and a coffee table, an entertainment unit against the front wall of the house, and a chair off to the side. Pak sat down in the chair, and took aim at the door with his disruptor. Then he rested his gun hand on the arm of the chair, and settled in to wait.
After about an hour he heard a ground vehicle pull up outside. Its doors opened and closed. Someone laughed—a female. Footsteps on the stairs outside. The keycard in the lock. Then the front door opened, and two people stumbled in drunkenly, laughing—a male Markalian and a female Tailhead. As Pak sat and watched in the darkened corner of the living room, the two leaned against the far wall and began groping and kissing each other.
Pak stood up and aimed his disruptor at them. “Lights,” he said.
The living-room lights came on. The female Tailhead spotted him, over the shoulder of her companion as he was nuzzling her throat. She gasped, pushed the Markalian away, and shrank back into the far corner of the room. The Markalian turned around. When he saw Pak, his eyes widened.
“Pak,” he said.
“Hello, Moss,” Pak said. Then he fired.
The disruptor blast hit the Markalian in the chest. He staggered backward, his mouth opening in horror. Then he disintegrated, from his wound outward, leaving only a shadow on the wall behind him.
The female Tailhead screamed. Pak took a step forward and aimed his weapon at her. She stretched out her arms and held up her hands, trying to protect herself.
“No,” she whimpered, “no, no…”
ACT ONE
The Tower of Silence was a roofless hollow cylinder of dry stone. Massive and low, it stood up on a mound, like a castle for the dead, in a forested park on what had once been the city’s eastern edge. Sacred Shuk-birds hovered and circled overhead, or stood around the tower’s rim, hissing and grunting.
Pak stood at the foot of the mound, his hands in the pockets of his black-leather coat, looking up at the tower. It was pretty much the way he remembered it—except, this time, he noticed how its outer wall was crusted and streaked with bird droppings. She goes to the sky, he thought, bitterly.
Pak had never known his father. His mother had died when he was a boy. His older sister had led him by the hand, behind the four acolytes who’d carried his mother’s body from the prayer-house to the tower. The procession had been led by a bell-ringing, chanting priest. “The double doors of heaven are open,” the priest had said, in song-speech. “Their bolts are unlocked.”
Her spirit flies away from you, ye living
She is not of the Earth
She is of the Sky
She flaps her wings like a Shuk-bird
She goes to the sky
She goes to the sky
On the wind
On the wind…
Later, the nuns at the orphanage had taught him that the Towers of Silence were the nests of the Earth. The sacred Shuk-birds were the sperm of the Sky, they’d said. The dead were laid within the Towers, like eggs, and their bodies nourished their spirits as they grew, until they hatched, and flew up to heaven.
In reality, the Towers of Silence were garbage-dumps for the dead. Their bodies were laid out on the ground in concentric rings within the Tower, around a deep central well, and exposed to the sun and the sacred Shuk-birds. Once the bones had been picked clean, they were thrown down the well.
Now, somewhere down there, jumbled together with his mother and all the rest, mixed with quicklime, slowly disintegrating, were the bones of Pak’s wife.
He wrinkled his nostrils at the smell of death and decay that surrounded the place. On the wind, he thought, bitterly. At least they got that part right.
He turned his head at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was Gorath, with two companions—a driver and a bodyguard, Pak figured. Vehicles were not allowed in the tower park.
Gorath walked up to the foot of the mound, close to Pak, while his two men kept a respectful distance. He looked up at the tower, then around, and finally shook his hairless head. “Funny place for a meeting,” he said.
“I need an address,” Pak said.
Gorath looked over at Pak and smiled. He said: “Lerzim said you weren’t much for small talk.”
Pak turned to look at Gorath, his face expressionless. After a moment, Gorath shrugged and looked up at the tower. “Have it your way,” he said.
Pak looked back at the tower as well. “I’m looking for Moss,” he said.
“Your old partner,” said Gorath.
“Yeah. Him.”
“What for?”
“What do you care?” said Pak.
Gorath shrugged. After a moment of silence, Pak said: “You know I just got out?”
“Of course,” Gorath said.
“I did five years in Kar Zartkaar,” Pak said.
Gorath nodded. “For manslaughter,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Pak. Then: “Only I didn’t do it. Moss did.”
Gorath looked at Pak again. “Oh?” he said, a little surprised. “How did that happen?”
There was another silence. Finally, Pak said: “Moss and I went way back. We did a lot of jobs together. I thought we were a team. I thought wrong.”
“So?” said Gorath.
“So Moss and I were planning to take down a jewellery store,” said Pak. “It should have been routine, but our driver got arrested just a few days before. We found a guy to replace him, but when the job was over, this guy tried to rip us off. So we deleted him, and dumped his body in the Wetlands.
“That would have been fine,” he continued, “except this guy came highly recommended by someone we trusted.”
“Radwor,” said Gorath.
“Yeah,” said Pak. “Moss was really angry—he thought maybe Radwor was in on it, somehow—like he and this guy were planning to rip us off all along. I told him to let it go, but he wouldn’t listen.
“The next thing I know, Moss is calling me in the middle of the night, telling me that he’s in big trouble. Radwor’s dead, he said. Moss had gone over to find out what happened, and wound up killing him, by accident. Somebody must have heard the noise and called the civil guard, ‘cause Moss barely got out of there in time.
“If Moss got caught, they were going to mindwipe him, for sure. So we made a deal. I had a clean record. If I confessed instead of him, I’d get maybe five to seven years. Moss was going to take care of Quelk until I got out.”
“Quelk,” said Gorath.
“My wife,” said Pak.
“Ah,” said Gorath. Then: “Let me guess. Moss didn’t keep his part of the deal.”
Pak shook his head. “Once I went to prison, Quelk never heard from him again. She was going to wait for me. Then, after about a year, she got sick, with Eera’s Disease. She didn’t have the money for the treatments, but she held on for about six months. Then, when she died, they buried her here.”
There was a moment of silence. Finally, Pak looked at Gorath. “So?” he said.
Gorath shrugged. “So, I might be able to find out where Moss is. What do I get if I help you?”
“What do you want?” said Pak.
“Well, ordinarily, money,” said Gorath, chuckling. “Have you got any?”
“No,” said Pak.
“Well, then,” said Gorath. He paused. “Maybe you could do a little job for me, instead.”
“Like what?” said Pak.
“We’ll talk about that later,” said Gorath. “Where can I reach you, for now?”
“The Nasos. It’s a capsule hotel, on the north side. Ask for Smeel.”
Gorath looked at Pak, surprised. “A capsule hotel? How can you stand to stay in one of those coin-lockers?”
“It’s cheap. And it’s better than prison.”
Gorath shrugged. “All right,” he said. “I’ll talk to some people. Stay by the communicator in the evening. This could take a few days.”
“I can wait,” Pak said.
Gorath nodded. “I’ll bet you can.” Then he turned, and walked away, with his men.
***
Pak stayed in the tower park until the first sun set, then left, went back to his hotel, lay down in his capsule, and waited by the communicator.
Three nights later, the call came.
***
The disruptor blast hit Moss in the chest. He staggered backward, his eyes and mouth opening wide in horror. Then he disintegrated, from his wound outward, leaving only a shadow on the wall behind him.
The female Tailhead screamed. Pak took a step forward and aimed his weapon at her. She stretched out her arms and held up her hands, trying to protect herself.
“No,” she whimpered, “no, no…”
Pak’s finger tightened on the trigger.
She goes to the sky, he thought.
Then…
He didn’t fire.
“Get out,” he snarled.
The female blinked, lowered her arms, moved sideways along the wall to the front door, then turned and ran off into the night.
ACT TWO
Pak walked into the bar at the Nasos and looked around, with his hands in his coat pockets: one of them held a small Type-I phaser. Gorath was in a corner booth, by himself, sipping a drink. One of his bodyguards from last week, at the Tower of Silence, was at the bar nearby.
After another look around, Pak let go of the concealed phaser, took his hands out of his pockets, walked over to the corner booth, and sat down across from Gorath. A waitress came over and asked if she could get him anything. Pak folded his hands on the table in front of him and shook his head.
“Can I get you another tranya?” she said, to Gorath.
He smiled. “No, thank you. We’re fine here.”
The waitress went away. Gorath took another sip. “I haven’t heard anything on the news,” he said. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
Pak nodded.
“Good,” said Gorath. He set down his drink and leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. “I need someone for a job. Someone with your skill set.”
He paused. Pak waited. Finally, Gorath chuckled, leaned back, picked up his drink again, and said: “This is the part where you say, ‘what did you have in mind,’ or something.”
Pak shrugged. “What did you have in mind?” he said.
“Thank you,” said Gorath. He finished his drink, set the glass down on the table, and turned it slowly. “What would you say to knocking over a Ferengi casino ship?” he said.
Pak frowned. “Are you serious?” he said.
“Absolutely,” said Gorath.
“How?” said Pak.
“Are you interested?”
“Depends on how.”
“You and two other guys,” Gorath said. “In deep space.”
He paused, again. Pak waited again. “Now, this,” Gorath said, “is the part where you say that I’m crazy, and ask me how three guys are going to take down a casino ship in deep space.”
Pak leaned back, folded his arms across his chest, and looked hard at Gorath. Finally, he said: “What’s the plan?”
“So, you’re interested?”
Pak shrugged. “Depends on the plan,” he said.
“All right,” said Gorath. “But first, let me ask you: what’s the biggest problem with taking down a starship in deep space?”
“Getting away without being traced.”
Gorath nodded, impressed. “Lerzim was right about you,” he said. “You’re a cautious man.”
Pak shrugged again. “This is the part where you explain how we get away without being traced,” he said.
“Let’s assume that’s not a problem. What else?”
“Getting the take off the ship.”
“Also not a problem,” said Gorath, smiling. “Next?”
“Getting into the strong room.”
Gorath shook his head. “Not a problem.”
Pak frowned. “If that’s not a problem, then why bother with a casino ship? Why not take down a bank?”
“A few reasons,” Gorath said. “First, casino-ship security is designed to protect the ship from hijackers, and pirates, and theft by employees. Robbery-prevention measures are pretty basic, because, like you said, there’s no way to get the take off the ship.
“Second, you try to hit a bank on this planet, and armed-response teams will be transporting on-site within seconds. A casino ship in deep space is on its own. By the time Starfleet shows up, it’ll be too late. And even then, they’ll be following the wrong warp trail.
“Third, a job in deep space is nobody’s child. Starfleet won’t give a damn if some Ferengi gambling ship gets knocked over: they’re too busy trying to keep order in the Federation Occupation Zone. The ship’s owners will collect their insurance, and that’ll be that.”
For a moment, Pak said nothing. Gorath’s smile widened. “So, are you interested?” he asked.
“What’s the take?”
“As much gold-pressed latinum as you can carry. Between 100 and 150 bricks. Divided four ways.”
Pak nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’m interested.”
“Good,” said Gorath. He took out an ink pen, set his glass aside, and wrote something on his cocktail napkin. “Be at this address tomorrow night, after second sunset.”
He slid the napkin across the table to Pak. Pak put the napkin in his jacket pocket without looking at it, slid out of the booth, and stood up.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
***
The address on the napkin was a nondescript apartment building on the city’s west side. Pak walked into the entrance, checked the buzzer board, pressed a button, and waited. Finally, a voice said: “Hello?”
“It’s me,” said Pak.
The door buzzed. Pak walked inside, went over to the lift, and pressed the ‘up’ button.
A few minutes later, he was walking down a hallway on the eighth floor. The place was clean and well-maintained, but old. The hallway carpet was slightly worn. Finally, Pak stopped in front of the door marked 813 and pressed the doorbell.
There was a short pause. Then the door was opened by a light-skinned, middle-aged mammalian humanoid. It was female, and its hair was reddish, with a dark streak, but Pak didn’t recognize her species. “Come in,” she said, standing to the side.
Pak walked in, looking around automatically. Kitchenette on the right, closet on the left. A small open dining room on the other side of the kitchen counter. A living room beyond, with a couch facing a loveseat, and glass doors that opened onto the balcony. A short hallway on the right, with doors leading to a bedroom and a bathroom.
Gorath’s bodyguard was sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee mug in front of him. Gorath was in the living room, sitting in a chair. Two more humanoids were on the living room couch, turned to face the apartment door. One was an alien, the same species as the female at the door, and about the same age—but his hair was a dark, with a white streak. The other was a younger male—human.
“Can I take your coat?” said the female, closing the door.
Pak shook his head. “Can I get you something? Coffee?” she said.
“No,” Pak said. Then: “Thanks.”
“Come on in,” said Gorath. “Have a seat.”
Pak walked into the living room and sat down on the loveseat, with his back to the sliding balcony doors, facing the two unfamiliar males across a coffee table. The two of them looked at him appraisingly. Behind them, the female alien sat down at the dining table, with Gorath’s Markalian bodyguard, who took a sip from his mug.
“Now we can get started,” said Gorath. “As I was saying, we’ll be using aliases on this job. You know me, but there’s no reason for any of you to know anyone else.” He gestured at Pak. “Everyone, this is Mr. M. He’ll be the one doing the heavy lifting, on the ship.”
Pak nodded. The two aliens and the human nodded back. “This is Mr. and Mrs. R,” said Gorath, indicating the two aliens. “And this is Mr. H.”
“You’ve done this kind of thing before?” said the human, Mr. H.
Pak leaned back, frowned, and looked at Gorath. “Let’s avoid any discussion of people’s backgrounds,” Gorath said smoothly.
“Right,” said Mr. H. “Sorry.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Pak said: “You said four ways.”
“Mr. and Mrs. R count as one,” said Gorath. “You, me, Mr. H, and them.”
Pak nodded. “Okay,” he said. “So what’s the plan?”
Gorath smiled, and handed a padd to Mr. R, who handed it to Pak. The display screen showed an image of a Ferengi casino ship.
“That’s the Flame Gem,” said Mr. R. “One week from tonight, it will arrive at Markal IV from Lissepia, spend a day in orbit, and then depart for Vivria.”
“Here’s how it’ll work,” said Gorath. “I’ll provide you with identification, book you a first-class cabin, and stake you some cash to gamble with.” He paused, and looked at Mr. and Mrs. R. “You both understand—I expect to be reimbursed off the top, before we split up the take.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. R. The male nodded.
“Good,” said Gorath. Then to Pak: “Before the ship leaves orbit, we’ll transport everything you’ll need onboard, into your cabin. Duffle bag, hand weapon, disguise—”
“Wait a minute,” said Pak. “Transport, how?”
Gorath looked at Mr. R. “Show him,” he said.
Mr. R picked a small device from the coffee table in front of the couch. “This is called an inverter,” he said. “It’s a folded-space transporter based on the Elway theorem. It can transport matter through shields, and can’t be tracked by sensors.”
He held it out for Pak. Pak took it, and looked at it sceptically. “You expect me to do this job with some kind of experimental transporter?” he said.
“It’s not experimental,” said Mr. R. “It’s a proven piece of technology.”
“It was invented by the Ansata separatists on Rutia IV,” said Mr. H. “Their leader, Kyril Finn used it to kidnap the captain of the federation starship Enterprise, and to plant a bomb in the ship’s engine room.”
The two aliens looked uneasy. “Like I said, let’s focus on the future,” said Gorath.
Mr. H made an apologetic gesture, picked up a coffee mug from the table in front of him, and leaned back on the couch. Pak looked at Gorath. “Why have I never heard of this?” he said.
Gorath looked at Mr. R. The male alien hesitated, briefly. Then: “It has no commercial application. Repeated use leads to fatal cellular degeneration.”
“What?” said Pak, flatly.
“That won’t be a problem in this case,” said Mr. R, hurriedly.
“Why not?” said Pak.
“You’ll only have to use it twice,” said the female, Mrs. R. “That’s not enough to cause any damage. I’ve used it three times, myself.”
“And that,” said Gorath, gesturing at the device in Pak’s hands, “is why I said there’s no problem.”
Pak stared at Gorath for a moment, then took another look at the inverter. “I want to see how this thing works,” he said.
“Of course,” said Gorath. “Does that mean you’re in?”
Pak looked up, at the human, then the aliens, then back to Gorath.
“Yeah,” he said, finally. “I’m in.”
***
The Markalian and the Human—Mr. M and Mr. H—had left. Gorath stood in the doorway while his bodyguard helped him with his coat. “I’ll contact you again tomorrow,” he said.
Mr. R nodded. “Okay,” he said.
Gorath glanced back at the dining table. “Good night, Mrs. R,” he said.
“Good night,” she said.
The two Markalians walked out. Mr. R closed the apartment door behind them. He took a deep breath, let it out, and turned around. Mrs. R had picked up the empty coffee mugs. She scowled at him as she walked into the kitchenette.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
She started washing up. “Nothing,” she said.
Mr. R took a few steps toward her. “Come on, Shiri, what’s the matter?”
She didn’t look up from the sink. “I’m just glad Kyril isn’t alive to see this,” she said.
“What do you mean?” said Mr. R. “We’re doing this for Ansata. This is what Kyril would want.”
She stopped washing and looked at him angrily. “These people are criminals, Yan. They don’t care about the Movement. All they care about is money.”
“Bloor said we could trust them,” said Mr. R.
“Bloor is a criminal too.”
“What do you mean? Bloor is one of us.”
She went back to washing. “Fine,” she said. “Whatever.”
“Shiri, don’t be this way,” said Mr. R, moving closer. He put his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. “What?” he said, frustrated.
“What,” she said, mockingly. Then: “You gave him the inverter, Yan. That—that gangster.”
“He needed it for the plan,” said Mr. R. “For the distraction. He wouldn’t help us without it.”
“Oh? And what makes you think he’ll help us now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Think, Yan!” she said, angrily. “Will you think, for once? He has the inverter. He doesn’t need us anymore.”
“What are you saying?” he said.
“Do you really think he’s going to split the money with us?”
“Bloor said—”
“Bloor isn’t one of us, Yan. Not any more. Did you hear what he said? ‘I’m in the private sector now.’ Gorath could have paid him to say anything.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“No? How much do you think it would cost him to have us killed, Yan? How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“A lot less than our share, I can tell you that. I’ll bet that, that other one, what’s his name—”
“Mr. M?”
“I bet he’d kill us for a handful of stacies. These people kill each other all the time, Yan. There’s a swamp just outside of the city where they dump the bodies. Do you really think the Markalian civil guard is going to care about a couple of dead alien terrorists? Do you think they’ll even investigate?”
For a moment, Mr. R did not reply. Then, finally, he said: “What do you want me to do?”
ACT THREE
The warehouse was abandoned, empty. Bars of sunlight slanted downward to the floor from dirty windows high overhead. Trash was piled in the shadowy corners, but a path from door to door had been swept clean.
Pak checked over his gear. A Cardassian disruptor rifle—simple and reliable. Black tactical jumpsuit, black gloves, black hood, black goggles, and medical-green shoe-covers—the Ferengi would scan every square centimeter of the ship for trace evidence. Padd with deck plans of the Flame Gem. Heavy-duty military duffle bag. A homing transponder—and an inverter.
“That’s the portable model you’ll be using on the job,” said Gorath. “Ordinarily, these things use broadcast power. That one has a power cell that’s good for three short-range transports.”
Pak picked up the strange device and looked at Gorath. “Let me see it work,” he said.
Gorath nodded. “Take these,” he said, holding out a tricorder and a communicator, “and stand over there, with Zoph.”
Pak handed over the inverter, took the communicator and the tricorder, and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Gorath’s bodyguard, Zoph, was waiting at the far door with a portable force-field generator. When Pak was close enough, Zoph turned on the generator, and the surrounding air crackled briefly.
Pak flipped open the tricorder and scanned around. The shield was up. His communicator chirped, and he activated it. “Yeah.”
“Ready?” It was Gorath’s voice, from across the warehouse.
Pak set the tricorder to scan for transporter beams. “Ready,” he said.
There was a dazzling flash of light. Pak looked, and saw the duffle bag sitting at his feet, inside the shield. He checked the tricorder. There was no trace of a transporter beam. He knelt down, opened the bag, and looked inside: disruptor rifle, coveralls, gloves, hood—
“Impressed?” said Gorath over the communicator.
Pak finished checking the bag. Finally, he said: “You’re sure this thing will penetrate a casino ship’s deflectors?”
“Absolutely. Like Mr. H said—the Ansata used inverters to beam through the shields of a Galaxy-class starship.”
Pak picked up the disruptor rifle and activated it. The weapon powered up immediately. A quick tricorder scan confirmed that it was fully-charged and ready to fire.
“Okay,” Pak said. “I’m impressed.”
***
The Danube-class runabout Miskatonic Flumen accelerated to Warp 5. Behind it, Markal IV quickly shrank until it vanished altogether. The Markalian suns shrank as well, until finally they were just another distant binary.
In the cockpit, sitting at the controls, Mr. H engaged the autopilot, and conducted a systems check. Satisfied, he stood up, walked back to the replicator, and ordered a raktajino. Then he went back to the pilot’s console, sat down, and stared out the porthole as the stars went streaking by.
Six days. That’s how long the mail run lasted from Markal IV to Vivria, and back. In six days, he’d be a rich man.
He sipped his coffee, and let his mind wander. Six days. Six years. His daughter had just turned six when she’d been diagnosed. Mild mental retardation, the doctors had called it. Developmental disability.
His wife had cried for days.
Why is mommy sad? Did I do something wrong?
No, sweetie. Nothing’s wrong. You’re a good girl. Mommy and daddy love you.
Goddamn doctors. No reason why she can’t live a rich, full life, they’d said, with special education and social support.
No, Lieutenant, they’d said, shaking their heads. We’re sorry, but that’s out of the question. It’s illegal. Your daughter’s not sick. Just developmentally-delayed. There’s nothing we can do.
Goddamn doctors. Goddamn Federation.
The doctors on Adigeon Prime were different. Easily-correctible, they’d said. DNA resequencing. Accelerated critical neural pathway formation. Why should a child’s development be held back by prejudice and fear? We can help your daughter achieve her full potential.
For a price.
In six days, he’d be able to pay their price.
***
The building reminded Pak of his childhood home, before his mother died. One of a row of small tenements on the central sector’s crumbling east side, it was long and narrow—just six metres wide, at the front, and six stories tall. He knew each floor would have three apartments: a five-room unit at the back, where the building widened out to eight metres; a four-room unit at the front; and a three-room unit in the middle.
Pak and his mother and sister had lived in a top-floor three-room. Later he found out those were the cheapest apartments available: none of these old tenements had elevators. The manager and his family had lived in the five-room on the ground floor.
Pak walked into the outer court, a narrow passage between the tenement and its neighbour, and rang the bell. After a moment, a voice responded. “Yeah?”
“I’m looking for Neph,” he said.
“Who’re you?”
“Lerzim sent me.”
“Lerzim who?”
“Lerzim Aloro.”
“How do you know Lerzim?”
“We were in residence together, at college, down south. My name is—”
“Don’t tell me your name.” The door buzzed. Pak walked in. The entrance hall was like the one he remembered: dimly lighted, with stairs leading up on the left, and two doors beyond—one on the left, under the stairs, and one on the right marked MANAGER.
The door on the right opened as Pak approached. A short, hard-faced Markalian male stood in the doorway. “Come in,” he said, moving to the side.
Pak went through the door into a kitchen. The manager let Pak pass him in the narrow doorway, then closed the door. A fat female stood up from the kitchen table without a word and left the room, closing the door behind herself.
“So what do you want?” said the manager.
“Just a room,” said Pak. “For a week. I won’t be in much, and I don’t want anyone else going in. I’m not expecting any visitors.”
“I can let you have the middle suite on the top floor,” said the manager.
“That’ll be fine,” said Pak. He took out his wallet. “How much?”
“No charge,” said the manager. “You said Lerzim sent you.”
“Yeah,” said Pak. “He sent me. But he’s kind of a friend of mine, and I’d feel better if I paid.”
“All right,” said the manager. “Ten isiks a week.”
Pak handed over a ten-isik banknote. The manager pocketed the money, picked up a key card from a rack on the wall, and said, “Follow me.”
The two Markalians went up the six flights of stairs to the top floor, where the manager turned left, and opened a door marked 6B. Once again, he stepped aside.
Pak walked into the kitchen. Toilet room on the left. Living room on the right, and a bedroom beyond. The rooms were smaller than he remembered. When he turned on the light, he saw the bedroom was about the size of his capsule at the Nasos.
After his mother died, his sister had tried to take care of him. When the authorities came to take him away, she’d screamed at them and fought them. Pak had cried. The social worker had tried to soothe him, told him not to worry, told him they were going to a wonderful place with lots of other children. Pak had kept crying, all the way to the orphanage, and all that first night.
That was the last time he could remember crying.
He turned to the manager. “This’ll be fine,” he said.
***
There was a knock. Gorath looked up from his desk. His bodyguard, Zoph, opened the door. “Mr. Gorath?” he said.
“Yes?” said Gorath.
“It’s the Xepolite.”
“Oh?” said Gorath, putting down a padd. “Well, send him in.”
Zoph nodded and stepped back smoothly, making room for the alien to enter Gorath’s office, then closed the door behind him. Gorath stood up to greet his visitor, smiling warmly, holding out his hand. “Hetman,” he said, “it’s good to see you again so soon.”
“Gorath,” said the Xepolite. He shook the Markalian’s hand limply. Still smiling, Gorath sat back down, and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please,” he said. “Have a seat.”
Once the alien had seated himself, Gorath folded his hands in his lap, and leaned his chair back. Xepolites disgusted him. Their pale, smooth, spotty faces made them look like amphibian burn victims. But for a hundred bricks of gold-pressed latinum, Gorath was more than willing to tolerate the alien’s presence.
“I have a message from Legate Urlak,” said the Xepolite. “He has accepted your offer. The New Order has dispatched three Hideki-class attack ships to the appointed coordinates. They will be ready and waiting for the Ferengi ship, when it arrives.”
The smile on Gorath’s face widened. “Excellent,” he said.
“The Legate also wanted me to remind you of the terms of your agreement. He particularly wanted me to remind you that payment was not conditional on the success or failure of your own criminal scheme. Once his men complete their mission, he expects to be paid in full.”
Gorath nodded, his face turning serious. “Of course, I understand. I’ll have the device for you by the end of the week.” Then: “Was there anything else?”
The Xepolite shook its head, and stood up. “No,” he said. “That was all.”
Gorath stood as well, smiling once again. “Then I’ll be in touch. Good afternoon, Hetman.”
“Good afternoon,” said the Xepolite. Gorath pressed a virtual button on his desktop display. Zoph opened the door to the office, ushered the alien out, and closed the door behind him.
Gorath sat down again, still smiling. At least a hundred bricks of gold-pressed latinum—and all of it his. All for the lives of two Rutians, a Human, and—
Pak. For a moment, Gorath felt sorry about Pak. The man had his uses. And Lerzim had testified for him.
Ah, well, the Markalian thought. No sea without water.
After all—the creatures in the Wetlands got hungry, the same as any Shuk-bird.
***
Pak arrived at the Belkalu Starport an hour before the boarding time listed on his cruise ticket. A porter helped him load his two suitcases onto the appropriate trolley. Pak thanked him and tipped him two isiks. “Thank you sir,” the porter said.
Once inside the terminal, he checked in, passed through security, and proceeded to the departure lounge. His identification and cruise ticket were checked several times. Finally, he was issued a cruise ship ID card with his name—his fake name—his cabin number, his dining time, and table assignment. Before he boarded the ship, he was asked to insert his card in a kiosk, and stand in a designated spot. When the kiosk returned his card, it was imprinted with his holo-image.
Gorath had paid for a porthole cabin on the Flame Gem’s port side. Pak used his ID to open the door and walked in. The cabin was about the size of his tenement suite in Belkalu City. He hung up his coat, lay down on the bed, turned on the entertainment unit, and waited.
There was a knock on the door. It was another porter, with his luggage. Pak gave him another two-isik tip, unpacked, then lay back down and waited some more.
There was a flash of light. Pak looked over. The duffle bag from the warehouse was sitting on the deck in the middle of the cabin. Without hurrying, he got off the bed, picked up the bag, set it on top of the bed, opened it up and checked its contents. Satisfied, he closed it up, put it down on the deck, and pushed it under the bed, out of sight. Then he lay down again, and let the time pass until the ship departed.
ACT FOUR
In his tiny crew quarters, Lort finished his morning meal of jellied gree-worms and drank the last of his hot millipede juice. Then he put his dirty dishes in the replicator, recycled them, and got dressed. After adjusting his headcloth, he slipped on his paisley-patterned cutaway coat, and checked his appearance in the mirror. Satisfied at last, he went off to work.
As usual, he took a detour through the main gambling deck on his way to the strong room. Even at this early hour, it was half-full.
Lort never gambled. He’d counted enough of the Flame Gem’s profits to know that his cousin Bleet was right: gambling was a tax on stupidity. But he still enjoyed spending time on the main deck, and even took his evening meals there. The flashing lights, the ringing bells, the dabo girls in their sexy outfits—it was all so different from the strong room. The only sound in the strong room was the clink of latinum.
He got onto the turbolift at the end of the main hall, and rode it down to the center of the ship. His three co-workers were already standing outside the strong room. They greeted him, and he greeted them. Then, when it was time, they lined up, inserted their keycards, put their palms on the scanners, and walked inside.
The night-shift workers were waiting for them, under the supervision of a bored-looking Nausicaan guard. There was a large sign on the wall that said SILENCE. Lort went over to the counting table, where he checked his night-shift counterpart’s totals, and initialed his tally sheet. They nodded at each other, the night-shift worker left. Lort knew the other Ferengi’s name—Garn—but only from his tally sheet. They’d never spoken to each other.
Then a buzzer sounded. Lort sat down, at the table, and began hard-counting slips of latinum: One, two, three…
***
The three Hideki-class attack ships lurked inside the Verusia Nebula. On the bridge of the Shirrcha, Gul Dakal waited impatiently, staring at the staticky, distorted image on the viewscreen.
The Ferengi vessel was due to arrive shortly, dropping out of warp and passing close enough to the nebula give its passengers a breathtaking view. At that point, the Cardassians would strike.
His assignment had seemed strange at first—absurd, even. Attack a casino ship? In Federation space? The plan made no military sense. But Legate Urlak’s orders had been explicit. The fate of the New Order was riding on this one small engagement.
This is a new type of war, Dakal, the Legate had said. Our enemy may have crushed us underfoot, but like a serpent, we will bite his heel. You must not fail.
“Sir!”
Dakal looked away from the viewscreen. At last, he thought. “What is it Glinn?”
“Long-range scanners are picking up an approaching vessel.” A pause. Then: “It’s the Ferengi, sir.”
“Excellent,” said Gul Dakal. He pressed a button on the arm of his command chair. “All ships, prepare to engage.”
***
Ninety-seven…ninety-eight…ninety-nine…
Suddenly, there was the sound of an explosion. The deck of the Flame Gem lurched underfoot, throwing Lort against the edge of the counting table. Slips and strips and bars of latinum spilled off the table and jingled on the floor.
Damn it, thought the Ferengi. I lost count…
Then it occurred to him: What was that?
As the casino ship’s inertial stabilizers compensated, Lort regained his balance, and looked around the strong room. Like Lort, the remaining Ferengi money counters were standing around, looking confused.
“Did we hit something?” said Lort.
“No talking,” growled the Nausicaan. He stood up from his chair, by the door, and reached for the intercom.
Then there was another explosion, and the ship lurched again. The strong room’s lighting turned red, and alarm sirens went off.
BATTLE STATIONS. BATTLE STATIONS. ALL HANDS TO BATTLE STATIONS. ALL PASSENGERS TO THEIR CABINS. ALL PASSENGERS TO THEIR CABINS. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
BATTLE STATIONS. BATTLE STATIONS…
The Ferengi money-counters looked around wildly. The Nausicaan drew his sidearm, and leveled it at them. “Clear table,” he bellowed. “Get money in vault. Now!”
***
The Ferengi ship fired off a plasma spread and then shot away at high warp. The Shirrcha lurched when the plasma wave hit their shields. A console exploded on the starboard side of the bridge, and one of the Cardassian bridge crew cried out in pain
“After them!” snapped Gul Dakal.
The Shirrcha went to warp-speed, its two sister ships close behind.
***
ALL PASSENGERS TO THEIR CABINS. ALL PASSENGERS TO THEIR CABINS. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
It was time.
Pak pulled the duffle bag out from under the bed, set it on top, and opened it. Out of habit, the first item he reached for was the pair of black gloves. He smiled to himself as he slipped them on. There wouldn’t be any fingerprints if the plan worked. And if the plan didn’t work, fingerprints wouldn’t matter.
He put on the black hood next, then the goggles, and then the black jumpsuit. Finally, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and slipped the medical shoe covers over his footwear. Now completely covered, from head to toe, he stood up, and reached into the bag once more.
He pulled out the disruptor rifle, activated it, set it on ‘safe’, and checked the power cell. Then he slung it over his shoulder. He removed the homing transponder and the inverter from the bag, and set them aside, on the bed. Then he picked up the empty bag, and slung it over his other shoulder.
He picked up the inverter, activated it, checked the power cell, then the pre-programmed coordinates. Satisfied, he fastened the device around his left wrist. He picked the empty bag up off the bed, folded it up, and tucked it under his left arm.
Pak paused, took a deep breath, let it out, then raised his left wrist, and hit the inverter’s timer button with his right index finger. Then he unslung the disruptor rifle, set it on ‘kill’, held it up with both hands, and waited.
***
Down in the strong room, Lort and the other Ferengi were still carrying latinum to the vault when there was a flash of light. Startled, they looked around. A strange humanoid had appeared in one corner of the room, holding a disruptor rifle.
For a second or two, time seemed to slow down, and Lort saw the intruder with unnatural clarity. The intruder’s face was completely covered by a black hood and dark goggles. It was dressed entirely in black—except for its feet. In his panic-stricken state of heightened awareness, the Ferengi saw that the intruder’s feet were covered with ridiculous-looking green medical booties.
Then—
***
Pak shouted: “Nobody move!”
The four Ferengi froze. The Nausicaan guard snarled and took aim with its pistol. Pak fired. The disruptor blast hit the guard in the chest. There was an explosion of blood and sparks. The Nausicaan staggered backward, and collapsed, its weapon clattering across the deck.
One of the Ferengi screamed. Another dropped a box full of latinum strips. Pak raised his rifle and covered them. “Get your hands up, all of you!” he shouted.
The Ferengi raised their hands. “One move out of any of you,” said Pak, “and I start firing!”
The Ferengi stood still. Satisfied, Pak looked around quickly, then released the disruptor’s rear pistol grip, reached under his left arm for the duffle bag, and tossed it to the nearest Ferengi. “You,” he said, raising his disruptor once again. “Fill that bag up with bricks. The rest of you, get over there and face the wall.”
The frightened little aliens did as they were told. The Ferengi with the bag picked up a handful of bars from the counting table, and tossed them inside.
“I said bricks, you idiot,” Pak said. “Get over to that vault, and fill it up!”
***
Lort cringed at the sound of the alien’s voice, then scampered over to the vault, and started filling the bag with bricks of gold-pressed latinum.
I’m going to lose my job, was all he could think.
***
On the bridge of the Shirrcha, Gul Dakal said: “That’s far enough. All ships, disengage and set course for the Badlands, maximum warp. Helm, hard about.”
***
When Pak saw the bag was almost full, he said: “All right, all right, that’s enough. Leave it.” He gestured with the disruptor. “Get over there. Get out of the way.”
The Ferengi moved away from the vault. “You three,” said Pak, turning to the others. “Get down on the floor. Down on your faces. Don’t move.”
The trio lay down on the floor. Pak turned back to the first Ferengi. “All right, you,” he said.
***
The intruder stepped into the vault. “Close that door,” he said.
Lort hesitated. “What?” he said, his voice trembling.
The black-clad humanoid raised its weapon. “I said close it! Close the door, and lock it. If any of you try to open it, I’m going to start shooting!”
Slowly, not believing his ears, Lort started to close the vault door. “Now!” the intruder shouted.
With a cry, Lort slammed the heavy door shut, and hit the locking button, activating the containment field. Then he ran to the nearest intercom panel.
“Security!” he squealed. “Security to the strong room! Intruder in the strong room!”
***
Light flashed, and Pak reappeared in his cabin. He staggered against the bulkhead and just stood there, for a moment, swaying, shaking his head, trying to clear it. Mr. R had warned him that a second transport so soon after the first might cause momentary disorientation.
Once the room stopped spinning, he started working quickly. He set the duffle bag down on the deck, unslung his disruptor rifle, and deactivated it. Then he opened the bag and stuffed the weapon inside.
He stepped over to the bed, took off the inverter, and set it down on the cover. He picked up the homing transponder, and set its timer. That went into the bag too.
Before long, he had stripped off his disguise: hood, goggles, shoe covers, jumpsuit, gloves—all of them went into the duffle bag, on top of the gold-pressed latinum. Finally, he retrieved the inverter, checked the coordinates, and activated its timer once again. He dropped the device into the duffle bag, closed the bag quickly, and stepped back.
In a flash, the bag was gone.
***
Down in the strong room, the squad of heavily-armed Nausicaans clustered around the vault, pointing their energy weapons at the door.
“Now!” said their leader.
One of them reached out and pressed the button to deactivate the containment field and open the vault. The door swung open slowly.
But there was no one inside.
ACT FIVE
Mr. H flushed the vomit down the toilet, rinsed his mouth out, splashed water on his face, and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
My God, he thought. What have I done?
The Miskatonic Flumen had left Vivria for Markal IV three days ago.
Two days ago, he’d picked up a general distress call: Ferengi cruise liner Flame Gem under attack by pirates. Mr. H had logged and relayed the call. Other, closer Federation starships had responded.
Reports came in. There were casualties on the Flame Gem—four passengers dead, along with two crew. That was bad enough. Then the Starfleet ships in pursuit of the ‘pirates’ broke the news: the ‘pirates’ were actually insurgents. Cardassian attack ships—Hideki class.
Nobody told me, thought Mr. H, as he stared at himself in the mirror. They said the plan was foolproof. They said nobody would get hurt. Nobody said anything about Cardassians.
Mr. H had stuck to the plan. Yesterday, passing close to the Verusia Nebula, he had picked up the duffle bag’s transponder signal, and beamed it aboard. He didn’t even bother to hide it. Who would suspect a Federation runabout?
Then, later, an Archer-class border cutter, the Nunki, had intercepted the Cardassians near the Badlands. Mr. H had followed the chatter over subspace. The Nunki was engaging. One insurgent ship destroyed. Two destroyed. Then—
Nothing. Nearby ships had called and called—Nunki, come in. Nunki, please respond. Still nothing.
Finally, when the Miskatonic Flumen was just an hour away from Markal IV, the report came in from USS Surveyor. The Nunki was gone. No escape pods. No survivors. Thirty-one people—dead.
A distraction, Gorath had said.
The face in the mirror stared back, accusingly.
Accomplice.
He’d followed the plan. He’d beamed the bag down to the coordinates that Mr. M had given him. He’d landed the runabout, and delivered the mail, as if nothing had happened.
Accessory.
Now it was time to collect his cut. His gold-pressed latinum. His pieces of silver.
Murderer.
Before he left his quarters on the planetside starbase, dressed in civilian clothes, he picked up a hand phaser, and stuffed it into his coat pocket.
What are you planning to do with that, Lieutenant?
I didn’t know! I swear to God—I didn’t know!
He still didn’t.
***
Shawm sat in his rented ground car, watching Yan and Shiri’s building from across the street. He’d been surprised when they called, and even more surprised when they told him what they wanted. He’d thought his Ansata days were long behind him.
Shawm was in prison when the Rutians had murdered Kyril Finn, with Federation help. When he finally got out, the Movement had collapsed. Their leaders had called it a peace agreement. Shawm called it surrender.
Like many former prisoners, Shawm had tried to soldier on. But there just weren’t enough of them. The leader of his resistance cell had turned out to be an undercover cop. Shawm was the only one who got away when the Rutian tactical squad kicked in the door of their hideout.
Now, years later, the call had finally come. He remembered Yan and Shiri, from the old days. They’d been scientists—part of the team that had developed the inverter. They’d been trying to raise funds to get the Movement on its feet again, but they were sure their Markalian ‘business partner’ was going to double-cross them. Could Shawm help?
Yeah. He could help. The people of the Eastern Continent were starting to see that their leaders had sold them out. The Ansata was rising again—but they needed weapons and explosives.
A hundred bricks of latinum would buy plenty of both.
It was time. Yan and Shiri had told him to wait outside until second sunset. That’s when the gang would be meeting in their apartment, for the last time, to split up the loot.
The second sun had set. Shawm reached down behind the driver’s seat and picked up his phaser carbine. He powered it up and checked it over. Then he tucked it under his coat, got out of the ground car, and looked up and down the street as he closed the car door. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he started across the street, heading for Yan and Shiri’s apartment building.
***
Mr. H got off the lift on the eighth floor, walked down the hallway to Apartment 813, and pressed the doorbell. Mrs. R. opened the door, nodded, and stepped aside to let him enter.
Standing in the entrance hall, Mr. H looked around the apartment. Like before, Gorath was sitting in the chair, in the living room. Mr. R was on the couch, nearby. Gorath’s bodyguard was at the dining table, with a mug of coffee sitting in front of him. There was no sign of the other Markalian—Mr. M.
Mrs. R closed the door behind him. From his chair, Gorath said: “Come on in, Mr. H.”
Mr. H took a couple of steps toward the living room, and then stopped. “Where’s Mr. M?” he said.
“He’s on his way,” said Gorath. “His transport is running a little late.” The Markalian took out a fancy pocket timepiece and checked it. “He should be landing right now, in fact.” Putting the timepiece away, he looked at Mr. H again. “How did things go on your end?”
Mr. H opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Then, after a pause, he said: “You told me nobody would get hurt.”
Gorath shrugged. “Jobs like these are always risky. We did the best we could.”
“The Cardassians destroyed a border cutter,” said Mr. H. “They killed thirty people.”
Gorath shrugged. “No sea without water, Mr. H. Like I said—we did the best we could. Did you make the delivery, or not?”
There was another pause. Then, finally, Mr. H said: “Yes. I made the delivery.” He turned to Mrs. R. “I need to use the bathroom,” he said.
“Down the hall,” she said.
***
The human walked down the hall to the bathroom, stepped inside, and closed the door. Zoph looked at Gorath. “What’s his problem?”
“First-time shakes,” Gorath said. “Our Mr. H has never done this before. He’ll get over it when he sees all that latinum. What do you think, Mr. R?”
“I guess so,” said Mr. R.
Then the doorbell rang, again.
***
Inside the washroom, Mr. H took out his hand phaser, leaned against the washstand, and closed his eyes.
I’m sorry, he thought. I’m so sorry, sweetie.
Daddy loves you.
Outside the washroom, he heard someone shout: “Nobody move!”
***
The Rutian male advanced into the apartment, his phaser carbine at the ready, switching his aim from Zoph, to Gorath, and back again. “Stay right where you are,” he said.
Gorath scowled. “What is this?” he said.
“Shut up,” said the intruder. Then, to Mrs. R: “Check them for weapons.”
Mrs. R moved over to Zoph, at the dining table, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out a phaser pistol.
In the living room, Mr. R stood up. “It’s too early,” he said.
Then, from the doorway to the washroom, Mr. H opened fire.
***
The phaser shot hit Shawm in the side, under the arm. The Ansata gunman cried out, bent sideways, and fell, firing his phaser carbine wildly.
The beam from Shawm’s carbine slashed across Mr. R’s face. Mr. R collapsed, like a puppet with its strings cut.
Mrs. R screamed, her attention torn away from Zoph, at the table. Behind her, the Markalian leapt up, pulled out a knife, and stabbed her in the kidney.
She gasped, and stiffened up straight. Then Zoph grabbed her by the hair, pulled her head back, and cut her throat.
Gorath scrambled for Shawm’s phaser carbine. Mr. H fired again, and hit Gorath in the chest. The Markalian was flung back against the wall, where he lay motionless, dead eyes open.
Mrs. R slumped to the floor, choking, clutching her throat with both hands. Blood gushed out from between her fingers.
Zoph snatched up his phaser, pointing it at Mr. H.
In the bathroom doorway, Mr. H pointed his weapon at Zoph.
The Human and the Markalian fired at the same time.
***
At the Belkalu starport, Pak was hurrying through the arrivals area, his irritation showing plainly on his face. He couldn’t believe it. He was late. His transport had arrived late, at Markal IV. Of all the things that could have gone wrong—
Suddenly, two green-uniformed civil guards blocked his path. He stopped and glanced behind him. More green uniforms, closing in, hands on their holsters.
Now what? he thought.
One of the guards—an officer—looked him in the eye and said: “Pak Yalpol?”
Pak looked back, steadily. “My name is Smeel,” he said.
“Whatever,” the officer said.
“ Pak Yalpol, you are under arrest—”
“—for the murder of Moss Mortas.”
***
I looked up in surprise.
“Oh, man,” I said. “The girl gave you up? The female Tailhead? For killing Moss?”
“Yeah,” Pak said.
It was after lights-out. Pak was lying on the top bunk, and I was sitting on the bottom. Tomorrow was Eid-ul-Fitr. On my homeworld, Minaret, people would be celebrating the end of Ramadan. To the best of my knowledge, there were no celebrations planned on board the prison hulk Lilienthal, but somebody’d thrown a couple of cookies in with my evening meal, to mark the occasion. Knock yourself out, God-boy.
I bit into one of those cookies, chewed a bit, and washed it down with some juice. “And they never convicted you? For the casino ship?” I said.
“No,” said Pak.
“So what happened?” I said.
“My lawyer cut me a deal,” said Pak. “Plead guilty, no mindwipe. So they sent me back to Kar Zartkaar for twenty-five years.”
I finished my meal and threw my garbage in the can. “How’d you wind up here?” I said.
“I broke out of Kar Zartkaar,” he said.
“Ah,” I said. I got up to clean my teeth. I could see his reflection looking at me, in the washstand mirror
“I heard you broke out of Tantalus V,” he said.
I chuckled, spat, and rinsed. “Yeah,” I said. “You believe that?”
“What happened?” he said.
I got into my bunk, on the bottom. “It’s a lot easier to break out than it is to stay out,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “I hear you.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, I said: “Why didn’t you shoot that female?”
“She didn’t do anything,” he said.
Huh, I thought. “She was a witness,” I said. “If you could do it all over again, would you shoot her?”
“No,” he said.
“Why not?”
“She didn’t do anything.”
“Would you kill her now?”
There was another pause. “Maybe,” he said. Then: “No. That was my own stupid fault. I should have worn a mask, or let Gorath do the job.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to know it was me, before I deleted him. I let it get personal.” Then: “So, you’re done fasting after tonight, right?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You start eating again tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“Then come sit with me in the mess hall, at breakfast,” he said. “I want you to meet someone.”
We were both settling down to sleep, when something occurred to me. “Hey,” I said.
“What?” he said.
“Who got the money?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “The tenement manager, I guess. The Starfleet guy, Mr. H—he beamed everything down to my room on the sixth floor. I was on my way to pick it up when I got caught.”
“Oh, man,” I said.
EPILOGUE
“Talk to me.”
“There’s been a problem. We’re still working on it.”
“What? What the hell happened?”
“Captain Hardcastle red-flagged our hitter. We couldn’t get him transferred up to the Lilienthal.”
“God damn it! I want that rat bastard dead! Dead, do you hear me?”
“Like I said, we’re working on it. We’ve already got someone else lined up. It’s better this way, anyway.”
“Better, how?”
“Slower. More painful.”
“How painful?”
“Very painful.”
THE END
Drawing dead, v. i.
A poker term that means, ‘trying to make a hand that cannot win,’ either because your opponent has a stronger hand, or because the cards you need are not in the deck.
If a player (for example) is trying to make a straight when their opponent has a full house, then they are ‘drawing dead’: even if they make their straight, they lose.
(Special thanks to Gibraltar for permission to use the character of Legate Urlak. For more on this nefarious Cardassian insurgent leader, read Star Trek: Gibraltar, “Embers of the Fire.”)
(Adapted from Stanley Kubrick’s The Killing)
TEASER
It was night on Markal IV, and Pak was walking down a residential street in the south sector of Belkalu City. Every house on the street was the same—a cheap steel-frame prefab module about the size of a tractor-trailer, with an oversailing roof, a timber floor, and a wraparound veranda.
Most of the houses had vehicles parked on the street in front of them. Some of them had light showing through their louvred windows. The house Pak was looking for, near the end of the block, was dark, and the street in front was empty. There was nobody home.
The Markalian walked up the steps onto the veranda. The darkened house had three doors—one in the front, facing the street, and two on the side. He looked off to his left. The house next door was dark as well. No one was watching.
He strolled down the veranda to the side door farthest from the street, slipped on a pair of gloves, and took another look around. Then he took a short pry bar out of his jacket, stuck the business end into the seam between the doorjamb and the lock, and popped the door open.
There was no alarm. Moss always was a little careless.
Pak stepped inside quickly, closed the door behind him, took out a small flashlight, and looked around. He was in a bedroom. The bedroom door opened into a short hallway, with a bathroom on the left, and the second side-door on the right.
Keeping his pry bar ready in his right hand, he walked cautiously down the hallway, past the bathroom, past a kitchenette, into the dining room, then the living room, and arrived at the front door. Satisfied that he was alone, Pak put the pry bar back in his jacket, went back to the bedroom, and opened the closet.
He found what he was looking for up on the shelf: a metal carrying case. He carried the case over to the bed, put it down, and opened it. There were three hand weapons inside. He picked up a Klingon disruptor pistol, checked its charge, then set it for maximum and put it down on the bed. Then he closed up the carrying case and put it back in the closet.
Picking the disruptor up off the bedcover, he left the bedroom and went back down the hall to the living room. There was a couch and a coffee table, an entertainment unit against the front wall of the house, and a chair off to the side. Pak sat down in the chair, and took aim at the door with his disruptor. Then he rested his gun hand on the arm of the chair, and settled in to wait.
After about an hour he heard a ground vehicle pull up outside. Its doors opened and closed. Someone laughed—a female. Footsteps on the stairs outside. The keycard in the lock. Then the front door opened, and two people stumbled in drunkenly, laughing—a male Markalian and a female Tailhead. As Pak sat and watched in the darkened corner of the living room, the two leaned against the far wall and began groping and kissing each other.
Pak stood up and aimed his disruptor at them. “Lights,” he said.
The living-room lights came on. The female Tailhead spotted him, over the shoulder of her companion as he was nuzzling her throat. She gasped, pushed the Markalian away, and shrank back into the far corner of the room. The Markalian turned around. When he saw Pak, his eyes widened.
“Pak,” he said.
“Hello, Moss,” Pak said. Then he fired.
The disruptor blast hit the Markalian in the chest. He staggered backward, his mouth opening in horror. Then he disintegrated, from his wound outward, leaving only a shadow on the wall behind him.
The female Tailhead screamed. Pak took a step forward and aimed his weapon at her. She stretched out her arms and held up her hands, trying to protect herself.
“No,” she whimpered, “no, no…”
ACT ONE
The Tower of Silence was a roofless hollow cylinder of dry stone. Massive and low, it stood up on a mound, like a castle for the dead, in a forested park on what had once been the city’s eastern edge. Sacred Shuk-birds hovered and circled overhead, or stood around the tower’s rim, hissing and grunting.
Pak stood at the foot of the mound, his hands in the pockets of his black-leather coat, looking up at the tower. It was pretty much the way he remembered it—except, this time, he noticed how its outer wall was crusted and streaked with bird droppings. She goes to the sky, he thought, bitterly.
Pak had never known his father. His mother had died when he was a boy. His older sister had led him by the hand, behind the four acolytes who’d carried his mother’s body from the prayer-house to the tower. The procession had been led by a bell-ringing, chanting priest. “The double doors of heaven are open,” the priest had said, in song-speech. “Their bolts are unlocked.”
Her spirit flies away from you, ye living
She is not of the Earth
She is of the Sky
She flaps her wings like a Shuk-bird
She goes to the sky
She goes to the sky
On the wind
On the wind…
Later, the nuns at the orphanage had taught him that the Towers of Silence were the nests of the Earth. The sacred Shuk-birds were the sperm of the Sky, they’d said. The dead were laid within the Towers, like eggs, and their bodies nourished their spirits as they grew, until they hatched, and flew up to heaven.
In reality, the Towers of Silence were garbage-dumps for the dead. Their bodies were laid out on the ground in concentric rings within the Tower, around a deep central well, and exposed to the sun and the sacred Shuk-birds. Once the bones had been picked clean, they were thrown down the well.
Now, somewhere down there, jumbled together with his mother and all the rest, mixed with quicklime, slowly disintegrating, were the bones of Pak’s wife.
He wrinkled his nostrils at the smell of death and decay that surrounded the place. On the wind, he thought, bitterly. At least they got that part right.
He turned his head at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was Gorath, with two companions—a driver and a bodyguard, Pak figured. Vehicles were not allowed in the tower park.
Gorath walked up to the foot of the mound, close to Pak, while his two men kept a respectful distance. He looked up at the tower, then around, and finally shook his hairless head. “Funny place for a meeting,” he said.
“I need an address,” Pak said.
Gorath looked over at Pak and smiled. He said: “Lerzim said you weren’t much for small talk.”
Pak turned to look at Gorath, his face expressionless. After a moment, Gorath shrugged and looked up at the tower. “Have it your way,” he said.
Pak looked back at the tower as well. “I’m looking for Moss,” he said.
“Your old partner,” said Gorath.
“Yeah. Him.”
“What for?”
“What do you care?” said Pak.
Gorath shrugged. After a moment of silence, Pak said: “You know I just got out?”
“Of course,” Gorath said.
“I did five years in Kar Zartkaar,” Pak said.
Gorath nodded. “For manslaughter,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Pak. Then: “Only I didn’t do it. Moss did.”
Gorath looked at Pak again. “Oh?” he said, a little surprised. “How did that happen?”
There was another silence. Finally, Pak said: “Moss and I went way back. We did a lot of jobs together. I thought we were a team. I thought wrong.”
“So?” said Gorath.
“So Moss and I were planning to take down a jewellery store,” said Pak. “It should have been routine, but our driver got arrested just a few days before. We found a guy to replace him, but when the job was over, this guy tried to rip us off. So we deleted him, and dumped his body in the Wetlands.
“That would have been fine,” he continued, “except this guy came highly recommended by someone we trusted.”
“Radwor,” said Gorath.
“Yeah,” said Pak. “Moss was really angry—he thought maybe Radwor was in on it, somehow—like he and this guy were planning to rip us off all along. I told him to let it go, but he wouldn’t listen.
“The next thing I know, Moss is calling me in the middle of the night, telling me that he’s in big trouble. Radwor’s dead, he said. Moss had gone over to find out what happened, and wound up killing him, by accident. Somebody must have heard the noise and called the civil guard, ‘cause Moss barely got out of there in time.
“If Moss got caught, they were going to mindwipe him, for sure. So we made a deal. I had a clean record. If I confessed instead of him, I’d get maybe five to seven years. Moss was going to take care of Quelk until I got out.”
“Quelk,” said Gorath.
“My wife,” said Pak.
“Ah,” said Gorath. Then: “Let me guess. Moss didn’t keep his part of the deal.”
Pak shook his head. “Once I went to prison, Quelk never heard from him again. She was going to wait for me. Then, after about a year, she got sick, with Eera’s Disease. She didn’t have the money for the treatments, but she held on for about six months. Then, when she died, they buried her here.”
There was a moment of silence. Finally, Pak looked at Gorath. “So?” he said.
Gorath shrugged. “So, I might be able to find out where Moss is. What do I get if I help you?”
“What do you want?” said Pak.
“Well, ordinarily, money,” said Gorath, chuckling. “Have you got any?”
“No,” said Pak.
“Well, then,” said Gorath. He paused. “Maybe you could do a little job for me, instead.”
“Like what?” said Pak.
“We’ll talk about that later,” said Gorath. “Where can I reach you, for now?”
“The Nasos. It’s a capsule hotel, on the north side. Ask for Smeel.”
Gorath looked at Pak, surprised. “A capsule hotel? How can you stand to stay in one of those coin-lockers?”
“It’s cheap. And it’s better than prison.”
Gorath shrugged. “All right,” he said. “I’ll talk to some people. Stay by the communicator in the evening. This could take a few days.”
“I can wait,” Pak said.
Gorath nodded. “I’ll bet you can.” Then he turned, and walked away, with his men.
***
Pak stayed in the tower park until the first sun set, then left, went back to his hotel, lay down in his capsule, and waited by the communicator.
Three nights later, the call came.
***
The disruptor blast hit Moss in the chest. He staggered backward, his eyes and mouth opening wide in horror. Then he disintegrated, from his wound outward, leaving only a shadow on the wall behind him.
The female Tailhead screamed. Pak took a step forward and aimed his weapon at her. She stretched out her arms and held up her hands, trying to protect herself.
“No,” she whimpered, “no, no…”
Pak’s finger tightened on the trigger.
She goes to the sky, he thought.
Then…
He didn’t fire.
“Get out,” he snarled.
The female blinked, lowered her arms, moved sideways along the wall to the front door, then turned and ran off into the night.
ACT TWO
Pak walked into the bar at the Nasos and looked around, with his hands in his coat pockets: one of them held a small Type-I phaser. Gorath was in a corner booth, by himself, sipping a drink. One of his bodyguards from last week, at the Tower of Silence, was at the bar nearby.
After another look around, Pak let go of the concealed phaser, took his hands out of his pockets, walked over to the corner booth, and sat down across from Gorath. A waitress came over and asked if she could get him anything. Pak folded his hands on the table in front of him and shook his head.
“Can I get you another tranya?” she said, to Gorath.
He smiled. “No, thank you. We’re fine here.”
The waitress went away. Gorath took another sip. “I haven’t heard anything on the news,” he said. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
Pak nodded.
“Good,” said Gorath. He set down his drink and leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. “I need someone for a job. Someone with your skill set.”
He paused. Pak waited. Finally, Gorath chuckled, leaned back, picked up his drink again, and said: “This is the part where you say, ‘what did you have in mind,’ or something.”
Pak shrugged. “What did you have in mind?” he said.
“Thank you,” said Gorath. He finished his drink, set the glass down on the table, and turned it slowly. “What would you say to knocking over a Ferengi casino ship?” he said.
Pak frowned. “Are you serious?” he said.
“Absolutely,” said Gorath.
“How?” said Pak.
“Are you interested?”
“Depends on how.”
“You and two other guys,” Gorath said. “In deep space.”
He paused, again. Pak waited again. “Now, this,” Gorath said, “is the part where you say that I’m crazy, and ask me how three guys are going to take down a casino ship in deep space.”
Pak leaned back, folded his arms across his chest, and looked hard at Gorath. Finally, he said: “What’s the plan?”
“So, you’re interested?”
Pak shrugged. “Depends on the plan,” he said.
“All right,” said Gorath. “But first, let me ask you: what’s the biggest problem with taking down a starship in deep space?”
“Getting away without being traced.”
Gorath nodded, impressed. “Lerzim was right about you,” he said. “You’re a cautious man.”
Pak shrugged again. “This is the part where you explain how we get away without being traced,” he said.
“Let’s assume that’s not a problem. What else?”
“Getting the take off the ship.”
“Also not a problem,” said Gorath, smiling. “Next?”
“Getting into the strong room.”
Gorath shook his head. “Not a problem.”
Pak frowned. “If that’s not a problem, then why bother with a casino ship? Why not take down a bank?”
“A few reasons,” Gorath said. “First, casino-ship security is designed to protect the ship from hijackers, and pirates, and theft by employees. Robbery-prevention measures are pretty basic, because, like you said, there’s no way to get the take off the ship.
“Second, you try to hit a bank on this planet, and armed-response teams will be transporting on-site within seconds. A casino ship in deep space is on its own. By the time Starfleet shows up, it’ll be too late. And even then, they’ll be following the wrong warp trail.
“Third, a job in deep space is nobody’s child. Starfleet won’t give a damn if some Ferengi gambling ship gets knocked over: they’re too busy trying to keep order in the Federation Occupation Zone. The ship’s owners will collect their insurance, and that’ll be that.”
For a moment, Pak said nothing. Gorath’s smile widened. “So, are you interested?” he asked.
“What’s the take?”
“As much gold-pressed latinum as you can carry. Between 100 and 150 bricks. Divided four ways.”
Pak nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’m interested.”
“Good,” said Gorath. He took out an ink pen, set his glass aside, and wrote something on his cocktail napkin. “Be at this address tomorrow night, after second sunset.”
He slid the napkin across the table to Pak. Pak put the napkin in his jacket pocket without looking at it, slid out of the booth, and stood up.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
***
The address on the napkin was a nondescript apartment building on the city’s west side. Pak walked into the entrance, checked the buzzer board, pressed a button, and waited. Finally, a voice said: “Hello?”
“It’s me,” said Pak.
The door buzzed. Pak walked inside, went over to the lift, and pressed the ‘up’ button.
A few minutes later, he was walking down a hallway on the eighth floor. The place was clean and well-maintained, but old. The hallway carpet was slightly worn. Finally, Pak stopped in front of the door marked 813 and pressed the doorbell.
There was a short pause. Then the door was opened by a light-skinned, middle-aged mammalian humanoid. It was female, and its hair was reddish, with a dark streak, but Pak didn’t recognize her species. “Come in,” she said, standing to the side.
Pak walked in, looking around automatically. Kitchenette on the right, closet on the left. A small open dining room on the other side of the kitchen counter. A living room beyond, with a couch facing a loveseat, and glass doors that opened onto the balcony. A short hallway on the right, with doors leading to a bedroom and a bathroom.
Gorath’s bodyguard was sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee mug in front of him. Gorath was in the living room, sitting in a chair. Two more humanoids were on the living room couch, turned to face the apartment door. One was an alien, the same species as the female at the door, and about the same age—but his hair was a dark, with a white streak. The other was a younger male—human.
“Can I take your coat?” said the female, closing the door.
Pak shook his head. “Can I get you something? Coffee?” she said.
“No,” Pak said. Then: “Thanks.”
“Come on in,” said Gorath. “Have a seat.”
Pak walked into the living room and sat down on the loveseat, with his back to the sliding balcony doors, facing the two unfamiliar males across a coffee table. The two of them looked at him appraisingly. Behind them, the female alien sat down at the dining table, with Gorath’s Markalian bodyguard, who took a sip from his mug.
“Now we can get started,” said Gorath. “As I was saying, we’ll be using aliases on this job. You know me, but there’s no reason for any of you to know anyone else.” He gestured at Pak. “Everyone, this is Mr. M. He’ll be the one doing the heavy lifting, on the ship.”
Pak nodded. The two aliens and the human nodded back. “This is Mr. and Mrs. R,” said Gorath, indicating the two aliens. “And this is Mr. H.”
“You’ve done this kind of thing before?” said the human, Mr. H.
Pak leaned back, frowned, and looked at Gorath. “Let’s avoid any discussion of people’s backgrounds,” Gorath said smoothly.
“Right,” said Mr. H. “Sorry.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Pak said: “You said four ways.”
“Mr. and Mrs. R count as one,” said Gorath. “You, me, Mr. H, and them.”
Pak nodded. “Okay,” he said. “So what’s the plan?”
Gorath smiled, and handed a padd to Mr. R, who handed it to Pak. The display screen showed an image of a Ferengi casino ship.
“That’s the Flame Gem,” said Mr. R. “One week from tonight, it will arrive at Markal IV from Lissepia, spend a day in orbit, and then depart for Vivria.”
“Here’s how it’ll work,” said Gorath. “I’ll provide you with identification, book you a first-class cabin, and stake you some cash to gamble with.” He paused, and looked at Mr. and Mrs. R. “You both understand—I expect to be reimbursed off the top, before we split up the take.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. R. The male nodded.
“Good,” said Gorath. Then to Pak: “Before the ship leaves orbit, we’ll transport everything you’ll need onboard, into your cabin. Duffle bag, hand weapon, disguise—”
“Wait a minute,” said Pak. “Transport, how?”
Gorath looked at Mr. R. “Show him,” he said.
Mr. R picked a small device from the coffee table in front of the couch. “This is called an inverter,” he said. “It’s a folded-space transporter based on the Elway theorem. It can transport matter through shields, and can’t be tracked by sensors.”
He held it out for Pak. Pak took it, and looked at it sceptically. “You expect me to do this job with some kind of experimental transporter?” he said.
“It’s not experimental,” said Mr. R. “It’s a proven piece of technology.”
“It was invented by the Ansata separatists on Rutia IV,” said Mr. H. “Their leader, Kyril Finn used it to kidnap the captain of the federation starship Enterprise, and to plant a bomb in the ship’s engine room.”
The two aliens looked uneasy. “Like I said, let’s focus on the future,” said Gorath.
Mr. H made an apologetic gesture, picked up a coffee mug from the table in front of him, and leaned back on the couch. Pak looked at Gorath. “Why have I never heard of this?” he said.
Gorath looked at Mr. R. The male alien hesitated, briefly. Then: “It has no commercial application. Repeated use leads to fatal cellular degeneration.”
“What?” said Pak, flatly.
“That won’t be a problem in this case,” said Mr. R, hurriedly.
“Why not?” said Pak.
“You’ll only have to use it twice,” said the female, Mrs. R. “That’s not enough to cause any damage. I’ve used it three times, myself.”
“And that,” said Gorath, gesturing at the device in Pak’s hands, “is why I said there’s no problem.”
Pak stared at Gorath for a moment, then took another look at the inverter. “I want to see how this thing works,” he said.
“Of course,” said Gorath. “Does that mean you’re in?”
Pak looked up, at the human, then the aliens, then back to Gorath.
“Yeah,” he said, finally. “I’m in.”
***
The Markalian and the Human—Mr. M and Mr. H—had left. Gorath stood in the doorway while his bodyguard helped him with his coat. “I’ll contact you again tomorrow,” he said.
Mr. R nodded. “Okay,” he said.
Gorath glanced back at the dining table. “Good night, Mrs. R,” he said.
“Good night,” she said.
The two Markalians walked out. Mr. R closed the apartment door behind them. He took a deep breath, let it out, and turned around. Mrs. R had picked up the empty coffee mugs. She scowled at him as she walked into the kitchenette.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
She started washing up. “Nothing,” she said.
Mr. R took a few steps toward her. “Come on, Shiri, what’s the matter?”
She didn’t look up from the sink. “I’m just glad Kyril isn’t alive to see this,” she said.
“What do you mean?” said Mr. R. “We’re doing this for Ansata. This is what Kyril would want.”
She stopped washing and looked at him angrily. “These people are criminals, Yan. They don’t care about the Movement. All they care about is money.”
“Bloor said we could trust them,” said Mr. R.
“Bloor is a criminal too.”
“What do you mean? Bloor is one of us.”
She went back to washing. “Fine,” she said. “Whatever.”
“Shiri, don’t be this way,” said Mr. R, moving closer. He put his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. “What?” he said, frustrated.
“What,” she said, mockingly. Then: “You gave him the inverter, Yan. That—that gangster.”
“He needed it for the plan,” said Mr. R. “For the distraction. He wouldn’t help us without it.”
“Oh? And what makes you think he’ll help us now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Think, Yan!” she said, angrily. “Will you think, for once? He has the inverter. He doesn’t need us anymore.”
“What are you saying?” he said.
“Do you really think he’s going to split the money with us?”
“Bloor said—”
“Bloor isn’t one of us, Yan. Not any more. Did you hear what he said? ‘I’m in the private sector now.’ Gorath could have paid him to say anything.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“No? How much do you think it would cost him to have us killed, Yan? How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“A lot less than our share, I can tell you that. I’ll bet that, that other one, what’s his name—”
“Mr. M?”
“I bet he’d kill us for a handful of stacies. These people kill each other all the time, Yan. There’s a swamp just outside of the city where they dump the bodies. Do you really think the Markalian civil guard is going to care about a couple of dead alien terrorists? Do you think they’ll even investigate?”
For a moment, Mr. R did not reply. Then, finally, he said: “What do you want me to do?”
ACT THREE
The warehouse was abandoned, empty. Bars of sunlight slanted downward to the floor from dirty windows high overhead. Trash was piled in the shadowy corners, but a path from door to door had been swept clean.
Pak checked over his gear. A Cardassian disruptor rifle—simple and reliable. Black tactical jumpsuit, black gloves, black hood, black goggles, and medical-green shoe-covers—the Ferengi would scan every square centimeter of the ship for trace evidence. Padd with deck plans of the Flame Gem. Heavy-duty military duffle bag. A homing transponder—and an inverter.
“That’s the portable model you’ll be using on the job,” said Gorath. “Ordinarily, these things use broadcast power. That one has a power cell that’s good for three short-range transports.”
Pak picked up the strange device and looked at Gorath. “Let me see it work,” he said.
Gorath nodded. “Take these,” he said, holding out a tricorder and a communicator, “and stand over there, with Zoph.”
Pak handed over the inverter, took the communicator and the tricorder, and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Gorath’s bodyguard, Zoph, was waiting at the far door with a portable force-field generator. When Pak was close enough, Zoph turned on the generator, and the surrounding air crackled briefly.
Pak flipped open the tricorder and scanned around. The shield was up. His communicator chirped, and he activated it. “Yeah.”
“Ready?” It was Gorath’s voice, from across the warehouse.
Pak set the tricorder to scan for transporter beams. “Ready,” he said.
There was a dazzling flash of light. Pak looked, and saw the duffle bag sitting at his feet, inside the shield. He checked the tricorder. There was no trace of a transporter beam. He knelt down, opened the bag, and looked inside: disruptor rifle, coveralls, gloves, hood—
“Impressed?” said Gorath over the communicator.
Pak finished checking the bag. Finally, he said: “You’re sure this thing will penetrate a casino ship’s deflectors?”
“Absolutely. Like Mr. H said—the Ansata used inverters to beam through the shields of a Galaxy-class starship.”
Pak picked up the disruptor rifle and activated it. The weapon powered up immediately. A quick tricorder scan confirmed that it was fully-charged and ready to fire.
“Okay,” Pak said. “I’m impressed.”
***
The Danube-class runabout Miskatonic Flumen accelerated to Warp 5. Behind it, Markal IV quickly shrank until it vanished altogether. The Markalian suns shrank as well, until finally they were just another distant binary.
In the cockpit, sitting at the controls, Mr. H engaged the autopilot, and conducted a systems check. Satisfied, he stood up, walked back to the replicator, and ordered a raktajino. Then he went back to the pilot’s console, sat down, and stared out the porthole as the stars went streaking by.
Six days. That’s how long the mail run lasted from Markal IV to Vivria, and back. In six days, he’d be a rich man.
He sipped his coffee, and let his mind wander. Six days. Six years. His daughter had just turned six when she’d been diagnosed. Mild mental retardation, the doctors had called it. Developmental disability.
His wife had cried for days.
Why is mommy sad? Did I do something wrong?
No, sweetie. Nothing’s wrong. You’re a good girl. Mommy and daddy love you.
Goddamn doctors. No reason why she can’t live a rich, full life, they’d said, with special education and social support.
No, Lieutenant, they’d said, shaking their heads. We’re sorry, but that’s out of the question. It’s illegal. Your daughter’s not sick. Just developmentally-delayed. There’s nothing we can do.
Goddamn doctors. Goddamn Federation.
The doctors on Adigeon Prime were different. Easily-correctible, they’d said. DNA resequencing. Accelerated critical neural pathway formation. Why should a child’s development be held back by prejudice and fear? We can help your daughter achieve her full potential.
For a price.
In six days, he’d be able to pay their price.
***
The building reminded Pak of his childhood home, before his mother died. One of a row of small tenements on the central sector’s crumbling east side, it was long and narrow—just six metres wide, at the front, and six stories tall. He knew each floor would have three apartments: a five-room unit at the back, where the building widened out to eight metres; a four-room unit at the front; and a three-room unit in the middle.
Pak and his mother and sister had lived in a top-floor three-room. Later he found out those were the cheapest apartments available: none of these old tenements had elevators. The manager and his family had lived in the five-room on the ground floor.
Pak walked into the outer court, a narrow passage between the tenement and its neighbour, and rang the bell. After a moment, a voice responded. “Yeah?”
“I’m looking for Neph,” he said.
“Who’re you?”
“Lerzim sent me.”
“Lerzim who?”
“Lerzim Aloro.”
“How do you know Lerzim?”
“We were in residence together, at college, down south. My name is—”
“Don’t tell me your name.” The door buzzed. Pak walked in. The entrance hall was like the one he remembered: dimly lighted, with stairs leading up on the left, and two doors beyond—one on the left, under the stairs, and one on the right marked MANAGER.
The door on the right opened as Pak approached. A short, hard-faced Markalian male stood in the doorway. “Come in,” he said, moving to the side.
Pak went through the door into a kitchen. The manager let Pak pass him in the narrow doorway, then closed the door. A fat female stood up from the kitchen table without a word and left the room, closing the door behind herself.
“So what do you want?” said the manager.
“Just a room,” said Pak. “For a week. I won’t be in much, and I don’t want anyone else going in. I’m not expecting any visitors.”
“I can let you have the middle suite on the top floor,” said the manager.
“That’ll be fine,” said Pak. He took out his wallet. “How much?”
“No charge,” said the manager. “You said Lerzim sent you.”
“Yeah,” said Pak. “He sent me. But he’s kind of a friend of mine, and I’d feel better if I paid.”
“All right,” said the manager. “Ten isiks a week.”
Pak handed over a ten-isik banknote. The manager pocketed the money, picked up a key card from a rack on the wall, and said, “Follow me.”
The two Markalians went up the six flights of stairs to the top floor, where the manager turned left, and opened a door marked 6B. Once again, he stepped aside.
Pak walked into the kitchen. Toilet room on the left. Living room on the right, and a bedroom beyond. The rooms were smaller than he remembered. When he turned on the light, he saw the bedroom was about the size of his capsule at the Nasos.
After his mother died, his sister had tried to take care of him. When the authorities came to take him away, she’d screamed at them and fought them. Pak had cried. The social worker had tried to soothe him, told him not to worry, told him they were going to a wonderful place with lots of other children. Pak had kept crying, all the way to the orphanage, and all that first night.
That was the last time he could remember crying.
He turned to the manager. “This’ll be fine,” he said.
***
There was a knock. Gorath looked up from his desk. His bodyguard, Zoph, opened the door. “Mr. Gorath?” he said.
“Yes?” said Gorath.
“It’s the Xepolite.”
“Oh?” said Gorath, putting down a padd. “Well, send him in.”
Zoph nodded and stepped back smoothly, making room for the alien to enter Gorath’s office, then closed the door behind him. Gorath stood up to greet his visitor, smiling warmly, holding out his hand. “Hetman,” he said, “it’s good to see you again so soon.”
“Gorath,” said the Xepolite. He shook the Markalian’s hand limply. Still smiling, Gorath sat back down, and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please,” he said. “Have a seat.”
Once the alien had seated himself, Gorath folded his hands in his lap, and leaned his chair back. Xepolites disgusted him. Their pale, smooth, spotty faces made them look like amphibian burn victims. But for a hundred bricks of gold-pressed latinum, Gorath was more than willing to tolerate the alien’s presence.
“I have a message from Legate Urlak,” said the Xepolite. “He has accepted your offer. The New Order has dispatched three Hideki-class attack ships to the appointed coordinates. They will be ready and waiting for the Ferengi ship, when it arrives.”
The smile on Gorath’s face widened. “Excellent,” he said.
“The Legate also wanted me to remind you of the terms of your agreement. He particularly wanted me to remind you that payment was not conditional on the success or failure of your own criminal scheme. Once his men complete their mission, he expects to be paid in full.”
Gorath nodded, his face turning serious. “Of course, I understand. I’ll have the device for you by the end of the week.” Then: “Was there anything else?”
The Xepolite shook its head, and stood up. “No,” he said. “That was all.”
Gorath stood as well, smiling once again. “Then I’ll be in touch. Good afternoon, Hetman.”
“Good afternoon,” said the Xepolite. Gorath pressed a virtual button on his desktop display. Zoph opened the door to the office, ushered the alien out, and closed the door behind him.
Gorath sat down again, still smiling. At least a hundred bricks of gold-pressed latinum—and all of it his. All for the lives of two Rutians, a Human, and—
Pak. For a moment, Gorath felt sorry about Pak. The man had his uses. And Lerzim had testified for him.
Ah, well, the Markalian thought. No sea without water.
After all—the creatures in the Wetlands got hungry, the same as any Shuk-bird.
***
Pak arrived at the Belkalu Starport an hour before the boarding time listed on his cruise ticket. A porter helped him load his two suitcases onto the appropriate trolley. Pak thanked him and tipped him two isiks. “Thank you sir,” the porter said.
Once inside the terminal, he checked in, passed through security, and proceeded to the departure lounge. His identification and cruise ticket were checked several times. Finally, he was issued a cruise ship ID card with his name—his fake name—his cabin number, his dining time, and table assignment. Before he boarded the ship, he was asked to insert his card in a kiosk, and stand in a designated spot. When the kiosk returned his card, it was imprinted with his holo-image.
Gorath had paid for a porthole cabin on the Flame Gem’s port side. Pak used his ID to open the door and walked in. The cabin was about the size of his tenement suite in Belkalu City. He hung up his coat, lay down on the bed, turned on the entertainment unit, and waited.
There was a knock on the door. It was another porter, with his luggage. Pak gave him another two-isik tip, unpacked, then lay back down and waited some more.
There was a flash of light. Pak looked over. The duffle bag from the warehouse was sitting on the deck in the middle of the cabin. Without hurrying, he got off the bed, picked up the bag, set it on top of the bed, opened it up and checked its contents. Satisfied, he closed it up, put it down on the deck, and pushed it under the bed, out of sight. Then he lay down again, and let the time pass until the ship departed.
ACT FOUR
In his tiny crew quarters, Lort finished his morning meal of jellied gree-worms and drank the last of his hot millipede juice. Then he put his dirty dishes in the replicator, recycled them, and got dressed. After adjusting his headcloth, he slipped on his paisley-patterned cutaway coat, and checked his appearance in the mirror. Satisfied at last, he went off to work.
As usual, he took a detour through the main gambling deck on his way to the strong room. Even at this early hour, it was half-full.
Lort never gambled. He’d counted enough of the Flame Gem’s profits to know that his cousin Bleet was right: gambling was a tax on stupidity. But he still enjoyed spending time on the main deck, and even took his evening meals there. The flashing lights, the ringing bells, the dabo girls in their sexy outfits—it was all so different from the strong room. The only sound in the strong room was the clink of latinum.
He got onto the turbolift at the end of the main hall, and rode it down to the center of the ship. His three co-workers were already standing outside the strong room. They greeted him, and he greeted them. Then, when it was time, they lined up, inserted their keycards, put their palms on the scanners, and walked inside.
The night-shift workers were waiting for them, under the supervision of a bored-looking Nausicaan guard. There was a large sign on the wall that said SILENCE. Lort went over to the counting table, where he checked his night-shift counterpart’s totals, and initialed his tally sheet. They nodded at each other, the night-shift worker left. Lort knew the other Ferengi’s name—Garn—but only from his tally sheet. They’d never spoken to each other.
Then a buzzer sounded. Lort sat down, at the table, and began hard-counting slips of latinum: One, two, three…
***
The three Hideki-class attack ships lurked inside the Verusia Nebula. On the bridge of the Shirrcha, Gul Dakal waited impatiently, staring at the staticky, distorted image on the viewscreen.
The Ferengi vessel was due to arrive shortly, dropping out of warp and passing close enough to the nebula give its passengers a breathtaking view. At that point, the Cardassians would strike.
His assignment had seemed strange at first—absurd, even. Attack a casino ship? In Federation space? The plan made no military sense. But Legate Urlak’s orders had been explicit. The fate of the New Order was riding on this one small engagement.
This is a new type of war, Dakal, the Legate had said. Our enemy may have crushed us underfoot, but like a serpent, we will bite his heel. You must not fail.
“Sir!”
Dakal looked away from the viewscreen. At last, he thought. “What is it Glinn?”
“Long-range scanners are picking up an approaching vessel.” A pause. Then: “It’s the Ferengi, sir.”
“Excellent,” said Gul Dakal. He pressed a button on the arm of his command chair. “All ships, prepare to engage.”
***
Ninety-seven…ninety-eight…ninety-nine…
Suddenly, there was the sound of an explosion. The deck of the Flame Gem lurched underfoot, throwing Lort against the edge of the counting table. Slips and strips and bars of latinum spilled off the table and jingled on the floor.
Damn it, thought the Ferengi. I lost count…
Then it occurred to him: What was that?
As the casino ship’s inertial stabilizers compensated, Lort regained his balance, and looked around the strong room. Like Lort, the remaining Ferengi money counters were standing around, looking confused.
“Did we hit something?” said Lort.
“No talking,” growled the Nausicaan. He stood up from his chair, by the door, and reached for the intercom.
Then there was another explosion, and the ship lurched again. The strong room’s lighting turned red, and alarm sirens went off.
BATTLE STATIONS. BATTLE STATIONS. ALL HANDS TO BATTLE STATIONS. ALL PASSENGERS TO THEIR CABINS. ALL PASSENGERS TO THEIR CABINS. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
BATTLE STATIONS. BATTLE STATIONS…
The Ferengi money-counters looked around wildly. The Nausicaan drew his sidearm, and leveled it at them. “Clear table,” he bellowed. “Get money in vault. Now!”
***
The Ferengi ship fired off a plasma spread and then shot away at high warp. The Shirrcha lurched when the plasma wave hit their shields. A console exploded on the starboard side of the bridge, and one of the Cardassian bridge crew cried out in pain
“After them!” snapped Gul Dakal.
The Shirrcha went to warp-speed, its two sister ships close behind.
***
ALL PASSENGERS TO THEIR CABINS. ALL PASSENGERS TO THEIR CABINS. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
It was time.
Pak pulled the duffle bag out from under the bed, set it on top, and opened it. Out of habit, the first item he reached for was the pair of black gloves. He smiled to himself as he slipped them on. There wouldn’t be any fingerprints if the plan worked. And if the plan didn’t work, fingerprints wouldn’t matter.
He put on the black hood next, then the goggles, and then the black jumpsuit. Finally, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and slipped the medical shoe covers over his footwear. Now completely covered, from head to toe, he stood up, and reached into the bag once more.
He pulled out the disruptor rifle, activated it, set it on ‘safe’, and checked the power cell. Then he slung it over his shoulder. He removed the homing transponder and the inverter from the bag, and set them aside, on the bed. Then he picked up the empty bag, and slung it over his other shoulder.
He picked up the inverter, activated it, checked the power cell, then the pre-programmed coordinates. Satisfied, he fastened the device around his left wrist. He picked the empty bag up off the bed, folded it up, and tucked it under his left arm.
Pak paused, took a deep breath, let it out, then raised his left wrist, and hit the inverter’s timer button with his right index finger. Then he unslung the disruptor rifle, set it on ‘kill’, held it up with both hands, and waited.
***
Down in the strong room, Lort and the other Ferengi were still carrying latinum to the vault when there was a flash of light. Startled, they looked around. A strange humanoid had appeared in one corner of the room, holding a disruptor rifle.
For a second or two, time seemed to slow down, and Lort saw the intruder with unnatural clarity. The intruder’s face was completely covered by a black hood and dark goggles. It was dressed entirely in black—except for its feet. In his panic-stricken state of heightened awareness, the Ferengi saw that the intruder’s feet were covered with ridiculous-looking green medical booties.
Then—
***
Pak shouted: “Nobody move!”
The four Ferengi froze. The Nausicaan guard snarled and took aim with its pistol. Pak fired. The disruptor blast hit the guard in the chest. There was an explosion of blood and sparks. The Nausicaan staggered backward, and collapsed, its weapon clattering across the deck.
One of the Ferengi screamed. Another dropped a box full of latinum strips. Pak raised his rifle and covered them. “Get your hands up, all of you!” he shouted.
The Ferengi raised their hands. “One move out of any of you,” said Pak, “and I start firing!”
The Ferengi stood still. Satisfied, Pak looked around quickly, then released the disruptor’s rear pistol grip, reached under his left arm for the duffle bag, and tossed it to the nearest Ferengi. “You,” he said, raising his disruptor once again. “Fill that bag up with bricks. The rest of you, get over there and face the wall.”
The frightened little aliens did as they were told. The Ferengi with the bag picked up a handful of bars from the counting table, and tossed them inside.
“I said bricks, you idiot,” Pak said. “Get over to that vault, and fill it up!”
***
Lort cringed at the sound of the alien’s voice, then scampered over to the vault, and started filling the bag with bricks of gold-pressed latinum.
I’m going to lose my job, was all he could think.
***
On the bridge of the Shirrcha, Gul Dakal said: “That’s far enough. All ships, disengage and set course for the Badlands, maximum warp. Helm, hard about.”
***
When Pak saw the bag was almost full, he said: “All right, all right, that’s enough. Leave it.” He gestured with the disruptor. “Get over there. Get out of the way.”
The Ferengi moved away from the vault. “You three,” said Pak, turning to the others. “Get down on the floor. Down on your faces. Don’t move.”
The trio lay down on the floor. Pak turned back to the first Ferengi. “All right, you,” he said.
***
The intruder stepped into the vault. “Close that door,” he said.
Lort hesitated. “What?” he said, his voice trembling.
The black-clad humanoid raised its weapon. “I said close it! Close the door, and lock it. If any of you try to open it, I’m going to start shooting!”
Slowly, not believing his ears, Lort started to close the vault door. “Now!” the intruder shouted.
With a cry, Lort slammed the heavy door shut, and hit the locking button, activating the containment field. Then he ran to the nearest intercom panel.
“Security!” he squealed. “Security to the strong room! Intruder in the strong room!”
***
Light flashed, and Pak reappeared in his cabin. He staggered against the bulkhead and just stood there, for a moment, swaying, shaking his head, trying to clear it. Mr. R had warned him that a second transport so soon after the first might cause momentary disorientation.
Once the room stopped spinning, he started working quickly. He set the duffle bag down on the deck, unslung his disruptor rifle, and deactivated it. Then he opened the bag and stuffed the weapon inside.
He stepped over to the bed, took off the inverter, and set it down on the cover. He picked up the homing transponder, and set its timer. That went into the bag too.
Before long, he had stripped off his disguise: hood, goggles, shoe covers, jumpsuit, gloves—all of them went into the duffle bag, on top of the gold-pressed latinum. Finally, he retrieved the inverter, checked the coordinates, and activated its timer once again. He dropped the device into the duffle bag, closed the bag quickly, and stepped back.
In a flash, the bag was gone.
***
Down in the strong room, the squad of heavily-armed Nausicaans clustered around the vault, pointing their energy weapons at the door.
“Now!” said their leader.
One of them reached out and pressed the button to deactivate the containment field and open the vault. The door swung open slowly.
But there was no one inside.
ACT FIVE
Mr. H flushed the vomit down the toilet, rinsed his mouth out, splashed water on his face, and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
My God, he thought. What have I done?
The Miskatonic Flumen had left Vivria for Markal IV three days ago.
Two days ago, he’d picked up a general distress call: Ferengi cruise liner Flame Gem under attack by pirates. Mr. H had logged and relayed the call. Other, closer Federation starships had responded.
Reports came in. There were casualties on the Flame Gem—four passengers dead, along with two crew. That was bad enough. Then the Starfleet ships in pursuit of the ‘pirates’ broke the news: the ‘pirates’ were actually insurgents. Cardassian attack ships—Hideki class.
Nobody told me, thought Mr. H, as he stared at himself in the mirror. They said the plan was foolproof. They said nobody would get hurt. Nobody said anything about Cardassians.
Mr. H had stuck to the plan. Yesterday, passing close to the Verusia Nebula, he had picked up the duffle bag’s transponder signal, and beamed it aboard. He didn’t even bother to hide it. Who would suspect a Federation runabout?
Then, later, an Archer-class border cutter, the Nunki, had intercepted the Cardassians near the Badlands. Mr. H had followed the chatter over subspace. The Nunki was engaging. One insurgent ship destroyed. Two destroyed. Then—
Nothing. Nearby ships had called and called—Nunki, come in. Nunki, please respond. Still nothing.
Finally, when the Miskatonic Flumen was just an hour away from Markal IV, the report came in from USS Surveyor. The Nunki was gone. No escape pods. No survivors. Thirty-one people—dead.
A distraction, Gorath had said.
The face in the mirror stared back, accusingly.
Accomplice.
He’d followed the plan. He’d beamed the bag down to the coordinates that Mr. M had given him. He’d landed the runabout, and delivered the mail, as if nothing had happened.
Accessory.
Now it was time to collect his cut. His gold-pressed latinum. His pieces of silver.
Murderer.
Before he left his quarters on the planetside starbase, dressed in civilian clothes, he picked up a hand phaser, and stuffed it into his coat pocket.
What are you planning to do with that, Lieutenant?
I didn’t know! I swear to God—I didn’t know!
He still didn’t.
***
Shawm sat in his rented ground car, watching Yan and Shiri’s building from across the street. He’d been surprised when they called, and even more surprised when they told him what they wanted. He’d thought his Ansata days were long behind him.
Shawm was in prison when the Rutians had murdered Kyril Finn, with Federation help. When he finally got out, the Movement had collapsed. Their leaders had called it a peace agreement. Shawm called it surrender.
Like many former prisoners, Shawm had tried to soldier on. But there just weren’t enough of them. The leader of his resistance cell had turned out to be an undercover cop. Shawm was the only one who got away when the Rutian tactical squad kicked in the door of their hideout.
Now, years later, the call had finally come. He remembered Yan and Shiri, from the old days. They’d been scientists—part of the team that had developed the inverter. They’d been trying to raise funds to get the Movement on its feet again, but they were sure their Markalian ‘business partner’ was going to double-cross them. Could Shawm help?
Yeah. He could help. The people of the Eastern Continent were starting to see that their leaders had sold them out. The Ansata was rising again—but they needed weapons and explosives.
A hundred bricks of latinum would buy plenty of both.
It was time. Yan and Shiri had told him to wait outside until second sunset. That’s when the gang would be meeting in their apartment, for the last time, to split up the loot.
The second sun had set. Shawm reached down behind the driver’s seat and picked up his phaser carbine. He powered it up and checked it over. Then he tucked it under his coat, got out of the ground car, and looked up and down the street as he closed the car door. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he started across the street, heading for Yan and Shiri’s apartment building.
***
Mr. H got off the lift on the eighth floor, walked down the hallway to Apartment 813, and pressed the doorbell. Mrs. R. opened the door, nodded, and stepped aside to let him enter.
Standing in the entrance hall, Mr. H looked around the apartment. Like before, Gorath was sitting in the chair, in the living room. Mr. R was on the couch, nearby. Gorath’s bodyguard was at the dining table, with a mug of coffee sitting in front of him. There was no sign of the other Markalian—Mr. M.
Mrs. R closed the door behind him. From his chair, Gorath said: “Come on in, Mr. H.”
Mr. H took a couple of steps toward the living room, and then stopped. “Where’s Mr. M?” he said.
“He’s on his way,” said Gorath. “His transport is running a little late.” The Markalian took out a fancy pocket timepiece and checked it. “He should be landing right now, in fact.” Putting the timepiece away, he looked at Mr. H again. “How did things go on your end?”
Mr. H opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Then, after a pause, he said: “You told me nobody would get hurt.”
Gorath shrugged. “Jobs like these are always risky. We did the best we could.”
“The Cardassians destroyed a border cutter,” said Mr. H. “They killed thirty people.”
Gorath shrugged. “No sea without water, Mr. H. Like I said—we did the best we could. Did you make the delivery, or not?”
There was another pause. Then, finally, Mr. H said: “Yes. I made the delivery.” He turned to Mrs. R. “I need to use the bathroom,” he said.
“Down the hall,” she said.
***
The human walked down the hall to the bathroom, stepped inside, and closed the door. Zoph looked at Gorath. “What’s his problem?”
“First-time shakes,” Gorath said. “Our Mr. H has never done this before. He’ll get over it when he sees all that latinum. What do you think, Mr. R?”
“I guess so,” said Mr. R.
Then the doorbell rang, again.
***
Inside the washroom, Mr. H took out his hand phaser, leaned against the washstand, and closed his eyes.
I’m sorry, he thought. I’m so sorry, sweetie.
Daddy loves you.
Outside the washroom, he heard someone shout: “Nobody move!”
***
The Rutian male advanced into the apartment, his phaser carbine at the ready, switching his aim from Zoph, to Gorath, and back again. “Stay right where you are,” he said.
Gorath scowled. “What is this?” he said.
“Shut up,” said the intruder. Then, to Mrs. R: “Check them for weapons.”
Mrs. R moved over to Zoph, at the dining table, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out a phaser pistol.
In the living room, Mr. R stood up. “It’s too early,” he said.
Then, from the doorway to the washroom, Mr. H opened fire.
***
The phaser shot hit Shawm in the side, under the arm. The Ansata gunman cried out, bent sideways, and fell, firing his phaser carbine wildly.
The beam from Shawm’s carbine slashed across Mr. R’s face. Mr. R collapsed, like a puppet with its strings cut.
Mrs. R screamed, her attention torn away from Zoph, at the table. Behind her, the Markalian leapt up, pulled out a knife, and stabbed her in the kidney.
She gasped, and stiffened up straight. Then Zoph grabbed her by the hair, pulled her head back, and cut her throat.
Gorath scrambled for Shawm’s phaser carbine. Mr. H fired again, and hit Gorath in the chest. The Markalian was flung back against the wall, where he lay motionless, dead eyes open.
Mrs. R slumped to the floor, choking, clutching her throat with both hands. Blood gushed out from between her fingers.
Zoph snatched up his phaser, pointing it at Mr. H.
In the bathroom doorway, Mr. H pointed his weapon at Zoph.
The Human and the Markalian fired at the same time.
***
At the Belkalu starport, Pak was hurrying through the arrivals area, his irritation showing plainly on his face. He couldn’t believe it. He was late. His transport had arrived late, at Markal IV. Of all the things that could have gone wrong—
Suddenly, two green-uniformed civil guards blocked his path. He stopped and glanced behind him. More green uniforms, closing in, hands on their holsters.
Now what? he thought.
One of the guards—an officer—looked him in the eye and said: “Pak Yalpol?”
Pak looked back, steadily. “My name is Smeel,” he said.
“Whatever,” the officer said.
“ Pak Yalpol, you are under arrest—”
“—for the murder of Moss Mortas.”
***
I looked up in surprise.
“Oh, man,” I said. “The girl gave you up? The female Tailhead? For killing Moss?”
“Yeah,” Pak said.
It was after lights-out. Pak was lying on the top bunk, and I was sitting on the bottom. Tomorrow was Eid-ul-Fitr. On my homeworld, Minaret, people would be celebrating the end of Ramadan. To the best of my knowledge, there were no celebrations planned on board the prison hulk Lilienthal, but somebody’d thrown a couple of cookies in with my evening meal, to mark the occasion. Knock yourself out, God-boy.
I bit into one of those cookies, chewed a bit, and washed it down with some juice. “And they never convicted you? For the casino ship?” I said.
“No,” said Pak.
“So what happened?” I said.
“My lawyer cut me a deal,” said Pak. “Plead guilty, no mindwipe. So they sent me back to Kar Zartkaar for twenty-five years.”
I finished my meal and threw my garbage in the can. “How’d you wind up here?” I said.
“I broke out of Kar Zartkaar,” he said.
“Ah,” I said. I got up to clean my teeth. I could see his reflection looking at me, in the washstand mirror
“I heard you broke out of Tantalus V,” he said.
I chuckled, spat, and rinsed. “Yeah,” I said. “You believe that?”
“What happened?” he said.
I got into my bunk, on the bottom. “It’s a lot easier to break out than it is to stay out,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “I hear you.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, I said: “Why didn’t you shoot that female?”
“She didn’t do anything,” he said.
Huh, I thought. “She was a witness,” I said. “If you could do it all over again, would you shoot her?”
“No,” he said.
“Why not?”
“She didn’t do anything.”
“Would you kill her now?”
There was another pause. “Maybe,” he said. Then: “No. That was my own stupid fault. I should have worn a mask, or let Gorath do the job.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to know it was me, before I deleted him. I let it get personal.” Then: “So, you’re done fasting after tonight, right?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You start eating again tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“Then come sit with me in the mess hall, at breakfast,” he said. “I want you to meet someone.”
We were both settling down to sleep, when something occurred to me. “Hey,” I said.
“What?” he said.
“Who got the money?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “The tenement manager, I guess. The Starfleet guy, Mr. H—he beamed everything down to my room on the sixth floor. I was on my way to pick it up when I got caught.”
“Oh, man,” I said.
EPILOGUE
“Talk to me.”
“There’s been a problem. We’re still working on it.”
“What? What the hell happened?”
“Captain Hardcastle red-flagged our hitter. We couldn’t get him transferred up to the Lilienthal.”
“God damn it! I want that rat bastard dead! Dead, do you hear me?”
“Like I said, we’re working on it. We’ve already got someone else lined up. It’s better this way, anyway.”
“Better, how?”
“Slower. More painful.”
“How painful?”
“Very painful.”
THE END
Drawing dead, v. i.
A poker term that means, ‘trying to make a hand that cannot win,’ either because your opponent has a stronger hand, or because the cards you need are not in the deck.
If a player (for example) is trying to make a straight when their opponent has a full house, then they are ‘drawing dead’: even if they make their straight, they lose.
(Special thanks to Gibraltar for permission to use the character of Legate Urlak. For more on this nefarious Cardassian insurgent leader, read Star Trek: Gibraltar, “Embers of the Fire.”)
Holy crap, that was good! 
Plans within plans, with every man and woman ultimately out for themselves. No honor among thieves indeed! The details, the little backstories, the locales, all the extra flourishes that brought characters to life and gave everything that ragged, worn patina that evokes such realism.
That was absolutely riveting, and you tied all the loose strings together so well you made it look seamless.
Damn fine job.
Plans within plans, with every man and woman ultimately out for themselves. No honor among thieves indeed! The details, the little backstories, the locales, all the extra flourishes that brought characters to life and gave everything that ragged, worn patina that evokes such realism.
That was absolutely riveting, and you tied all the loose strings together so well you made it look seamless.
Damn fine job.
Gibraltar said:
Holy crap, that was good!
Thanks, man.
As you no doubt noticed, I wound up not using that long quotation from "Embers of the Fire." I thought Act Five was going to be shorter than it was--but once it was written, I realized that including that quotation would overly-prolong the falling action. Thanks anyway!
Have you seen The Killing? If you haven't, you should.
NEXT TIME, ON STAR TREK: SUPERMAX
They picked me up off the floor and put me in a chair without arms, its metal surface cold against my skin of my naked back and buttocks. Two pairs of hands grabbed my wrists, twisted them behind me, and shackled them to the chair back. Then they pulled my legs apart and shackled my ankles to the chair’s legs, high enough so that my feet were off the floor. The seat of the chair had a wide hole in the centre, so that my genitals hung down, between my legs. I couldn’t see, but from experience, I knew there was probably a bucket under the seat, for urine and feces.
Someone pulled the hood off my head. After so many hours in darkness, the light was painfully bright. I squeezed my eyes shut, and hung my head. The whiskers on my chin scraped the skin of my chest.
“Look at me,” said a voice.
One of the hands grabbed me by the hair, from behind, and yanked my head up. I opened my eyes, squinting in the harsh white light. I was in an interrogation cell. There was a metal table in front of me. A male Vorta sat on the other side, his hands folded on the table top, with a faint look of disgust on his face. The door to the cell was behind him. A Jem’Hadar stood behind him as well, in the corner, standing at attention, staring straight ahead, with his polaron rifle at the port.
“This has gone on long enough,” said the Vorta. Then he looked to my left. “Release him,” he said.
The hand let go of my hair and gave my head a shove. I glanced down. The bucket was there, just as I thought. I looked up again. My eyes were adjusting to the light.
“Where is Kalila bint Ibrahim?” said the Vorta.
I looked left. A Cardassian soldier was standing behind the chair. I turned back to face the Vorta. “Who?” I said.
The Cardassian hit me in the back of the head, open-handed. The Vorta’s expression didn’t change, but he sighed softly, then leaned forward a bit. “Where,” he said, “is Kalila bint Ibrahim?”
“I don’t know who that is,” I said.
“Where is she, Jaffar?” said the Vorta.
“My name is Gamal,” I said.
The alien lifted its hands off the table, steepled its fingers, lowered its lips to the tips of its forefingers, and stared at me for a moment. Then it glanced to my left, nodded, and then turned its attention back to me.
The Cardassian moved around to face me, drew his disruptor pistol, and held it down by his thigh, shaking his wrist as if to loosen it. I looked up at him, from my chair, and he looked down at me, with a smirk on his face. He was going to enjoy this.
Across the table, the Vorta raised his head a bit, and said: “Where is Kalila bint Ibrahim?”
“I told you—I don’t know who that—”
The Cardassian whipped me across the face with his pistol. When I recovered, and looked up, he whipped me again, back-handed.
“Look at me,” said the Vorta.
I looked up at the Vorta, blinking away tears. He said, “Where is she, Jaffar?”
I glanced at the Cardassian, and saw that he’d shifted his grip on his weapon. Instead of holding it by the pistol grip, with his finger on the trigger, he was holding it by the frame, like it was a brick, or something. I looked back at the Vorta.
“My name is Gamal,” I said.
The Cardassian smashed me in the left eye with his weapon, once, twice. I shut my eyes tightly and sobbed from the pain.
“Look at me,” said the Vorta.
I opened my eyes, saw double, closed them and opened them again, trying to focus, and failing.
“No more games, human,” said the Vorta—both of them. I still couldn’t focus. The pain was agonizing. The Cardassian had fractured my eye socket.
“Your name is Dawud ibn Jaffar al-Manari,” he said. “You are a terrorist, and an enemy of the Dominion. You have been sentenced to death. Your only chance to save yourself is to tell me what I want to know.”
“Now,” he said. “I will ask you just one more time.”
I felt the muzzle of the Cardassian’s disruptor pistol press against the side of my head.
“Where,” said the Vorta, “is Kalila bint Ibrahim?”
Supermax 204: "Hard Site," coming soon to a Fan Fiction forum near you.
They picked me up off the floor and put me in a chair without arms, its metal surface cold against my skin of my naked back and buttocks. Two pairs of hands grabbed my wrists, twisted them behind me, and shackled them to the chair back. Then they pulled my legs apart and shackled my ankles to the chair’s legs, high enough so that my feet were off the floor. The seat of the chair had a wide hole in the centre, so that my genitals hung down, between my legs. I couldn’t see, but from experience, I knew there was probably a bucket under the seat, for urine and feces.
Someone pulled the hood off my head. After so many hours in darkness, the light was painfully bright. I squeezed my eyes shut, and hung my head. The whiskers on my chin scraped the skin of my chest.
“Look at me,” said a voice.
One of the hands grabbed me by the hair, from behind, and yanked my head up. I opened my eyes, squinting in the harsh white light. I was in an interrogation cell. There was a metal table in front of me. A male Vorta sat on the other side, his hands folded on the table top, with a faint look of disgust on his face. The door to the cell was behind him. A Jem’Hadar stood behind him as well, in the corner, standing at attention, staring straight ahead, with his polaron rifle at the port.
“This has gone on long enough,” said the Vorta. Then he looked to my left. “Release him,” he said.
The hand let go of my hair and gave my head a shove. I glanced down. The bucket was there, just as I thought. I looked up again. My eyes were adjusting to the light.
“Where is Kalila bint Ibrahim?” said the Vorta.
I looked left. A Cardassian soldier was standing behind the chair. I turned back to face the Vorta. “Who?” I said.
The Cardassian hit me in the back of the head, open-handed. The Vorta’s expression didn’t change, but he sighed softly, then leaned forward a bit. “Where,” he said, “is Kalila bint Ibrahim?”
“I don’t know who that is,” I said.
“Where is she, Jaffar?” said the Vorta.
“My name is Gamal,” I said.
The alien lifted its hands off the table, steepled its fingers, lowered its lips to the tips of its forefingers, and stared at me for a moment. Then it glanced to my left, nodded, and then turned its attention back to me.
The Cardassian moved around to face me, drew his disruptor pistol, and held it down by his thigh, shaking his wrist as if to loosen it. I looked up at him, from my chair, and he looked down at me, with a smirk on his face. He was going to enjoy this.
Across the table, the Vorta raised his head a bit, and said: “Where is Kalila bint Ibrahim?”
“I told you—I don’t know who that—”
The Cardassian whipped me across the face with his pistol. When I recovered, and looked up, he whipped me again, back-handed.
“Look at me,” said the Vorta.
I looked up at the Vorta, blinking away tears. He said, “Where is she, Jaffar?”
I glanced at the Cardassian, and saw that he’d shifted his grip on his weapon. Instead of holding it by the pistol grip, with his finger on the trigger, he was holding it by the frame, like it was a brick, or something. I looked back at the Vorta.
“My name is Gamal,” I said.
The Cardassian smashed me in the left eye with his weapon, once, twice. I shut my eyes tightly and sobbed from the pain.
“Look at me,” said the Vorta.
I opened my eyes, saw double, closed them and opened them again, trying to focus, and failing.
“No more games, human,” said the Vorta—both of them. I still couldn’t focus. The pain was agonizing. The Cardassian had fractured my eye socket.
“Your name is Dawud ibn Jaffar al-Manari,” he said. “You are a terrorist, and an enemy of the Dominion. You have been sentenced to death. Your only chance to save yourself is to tell me what I want to know.”
“Now,” he said. “I will ask you just one more time.”
I felt the muzzle of the Cardassian’s disruptor pistol press against the side of my head.
“Where,” said the Vorta, “is Kalila bint Ibrahim?”
Supermax 204: "Hard Site," coming soon to a Fan Fiction forum near you.
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