"Hey, there," I say. The man behind the bar gives me a weary look - well, one side of his face does; the stubby Borg implant in place of his left eye sorta messes up his expressions. "You filling in for the regular bartender?" I ask.
"Pexlini." Two of Eight doesn't smile. "You're back, then."
"Where else would I go? I think I'm still kinda barred from Shangdu." Still no smile. "Anyway. Glass of warp coil coolant, please, unless you've started stocking real Saurian brandy."
He makes a sort of hmph noise. "Just deciding which to lock up first," he says, "the valuables or the breakables." He dredges out a long curved bottle from beneath the bar and pours me a shot. "Take it this isn't a pleasure trip?"
"Aw, c'mon, pal, you ever know anyone come to Nimbus on a pleasure trip?"
"Point," says Two. "Though they tell me Hakeev enjoyed his work.... So what do you want?"
I swallow some of the drink. "Replacement tooth enamel. Also, looking for a guy. I'm s'posed to go on the comms net and send an empty message to Alpha November three eight niner seven. That mean anything to you?"
"Just a number," says Two.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. I don't have the whole comms net directory memorized. Not even with this." He taps the Borg implant.
"Darn. I got burned last time I tried to talk to these guys. I'd like to go in with a bit more forewarning, this time."
Two glances off at the short corridor that leads to the bar's back door. "You want to use the computer, no one's stopping you. Your access code's still valid."
Well, that's good news. Two's computer may be an antique, but it holds a fair amount of detail about Nimbus III and what goes on there. "I'll do that," I say. "Thanks." And I tip the remainder of the alleged Saurian brandy down my throat, slide off the bar stool, and head for the dimly lit side passage where the computer lives, not that the rest of the bar has much going for it in the way of lights, come to that.
"You might want to watch your back," Two mutters at me. I turn and look at him. He shrugs. "I haven't heard anything specific. Just... you know... you're not, like, universally popular?"
I grunt at him in a non-committal sort of a way. This is the thing about stirring things up on Nimbus III, which I sorta did, a bit. Some people didn't like being stirred.
My access code does, indeed, still work. The computer doesn't tell me anything, though. The message destination is just a placeholder on the network, it's not even linked to a physical address. And there is no information about who owns it, dig as I might. I think hard, for a moment, and then I do the necessary. I'm not going to get anywhere if I don't at least knock on the door.
Then I make my way back into the bar, and sit down between Hal Welti and Umaro Ajbit. "Done the business," I tell them.
Hal looks around, a doleful expression on his dark-skinned, lined face. "You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy," he says morosely. I think it's a quote. Hal does quotes.
"Did you get any more information?" Ajbit is as dark-skinned as Hal, but she is younger, brisker, more practical. She looks down her Bajoran nose ridges at me. I shake my head.
"Cut-outs. I guess we could maybe find out more if we got a tech squad in to do a forensic analysis of the local computer net. But, well, everyone interesting would, like, fold their tents and slink away, right? Probably before the techs even finished materializing."
"I don't like this," Ajbit mutters.
"Well, join the club," I say. "Let's hope Heizis has put a spanner in the works of any Orion goon squads. But the way I see it, we have to go through this stupid rigmarole -"
At that point, my wrist communicator goes beep at me. If this is someone from the ship sending a routine report, I am gonna be so miffed with them - I hit the button. "Pexlini."
"You are to be at the secondary entrance to Paradise City at 2300 hours. You will come alone," says a buzzy mechanical voice.
"Yeah, well," I say, "considering the last meeting I had, I got jumped by two hit squads, I'm kinda not so keen on that bit, right?"
"You are to be at the secondary entrance to Paradise City at 2300 hours. You will come alone," the voice repeats.
I glance at Hal and Ajbit. "I think I'm talking to a computer. And not even a clever one."
"You are to be -"
"All right," I interrupt, "I got it already, right?"
"You will be scanned for Starfleet technology signatures. Contact will not be made if they are detected."
Hal and Ajbit both frown. "They think we're with Starfleet?" Ajbit says.
"You will -" I put my hand over the comm and let the voice ramble on while I think. "They must know we've got some kind of a deal with Starfleet," I say. "After all, the Dechenchholing spent time enough at ESD. But why would they let us know they suspect us...?"
We think about that, while the voice goes through its pre-programmed spiel three more times.
"Only thing I can figure," I say, "is that they want me in Delta Quadrant tech only for the meet. Which kinda makes sense, if you figure Delta gear is generally way worse quality than Starfleet's." Though not all of it is. Mine isn't, for instance. I uncover the communicator. "Okay, no Starfleet gear, I got it," I tell it.
"You will be monitored. Any violation of these conditions, and the meeting will be cancelled. Message ends." And the channel goes dead.
"Well," I say, "that sounds completely open and above board, right? Especially after Eta Meridia.... I wonder who Thrang's actual buyers are? 'Cause he sure as hell isn't selling anything to us."
"We can monitor this meeting, too," says Ajbit. "And Dechenchholing's sensors are probably better than theirs."
"Don't doubt it. Do me a favour, though? Get some security squads down on the ground before these guys start jamming transporters. I'd like to know I've got backup somewhere nearby."
"Depend on it," says Hal. "We'd better work out some non-jammable distress signal, too."
"Yeah, you do that." I stand up. "I guess I'd better go change my clothes."
---
Night in Paradise City. Beyond the city wall, the desert glimmers fitfully in starlight. Like most deserts, this one goes bitterly cold once darkness falls. A thin wind keens in the dismal streets, cold and mournful. However, this does mean all the giant worms and sand scorpions go torpid, which is good news any way you slice it.
I shiver and stamp my feet. It sets the helmet bobbling where it hangs at my waist. I could put it on, I guess, except a full suit of Hirogen battle armour, even cut down to my size, doesn't look very diplomatic.
Hirogen technology, of course, isn't Starfleet. Neither is the corrosive-plasma pistol at my waist, or the reverse-engineered personal shield that we picked up, umm, on some planet or other. I'm taking a bit of a risk with the fluidic antiproton wrist lance slung on my back, since that was reassembled and converted in a Starfleet lab. It's still basically Undine technology, though, so I think it'll be fine.
I hear movement nearby. Of course, I've been jumping at every sound for the past fifteen minutes or so, but this definitely sounds like feet trudging through desert sand. It could be people going about some completely unrelated nefarious errand after dark, I suppose, but my chronometer is saying 2258 now and that's, yanno, close enough for government work.
The metal gate in the city wall lowers itself into the sand with a dull, sustained grating sound.
Figures step through the gateway, dim and hulking against the desert's gleam. A horrid rasping and snarling begins, and then the universal translator cuts in. "Mammal," a big shadowy shape says to me.
Oh, boy. Orions? No such luck. These guys are quite clearly the Gorn separatists who hang out around the fringes of Paradise City. They have no reason to love mammals in general or me in particular. If Kalevar Thrang has hired these guys as his goons du jour, I am in for a rough time of it.
"Who wants to know?" I ask.
The first Gorn comes closer. I can see starlight glitter on reflective eye shields, feel the warmth from his massive body. He's wearing electrically heated clothing. Well, as a reptile, he'd pretty much have to be. I kinda wish I was.
"You are Pexlini?" he asks. The translator gives him a voice like gravel with bad intentions.
"Nah," I say, "I'm some other Talaxian who just happens to be hanging out here for the fine wines and intellectual conversation."
"You will come with us."
"Where are we going?"
Light gleams on metal. He is holding a disruptor in one taloned fist. "You will come with us," he repeats. It isn't a question.
"Listen," I say, "I'm here to negotiate for some goodies from, well, a certain source. I've got my organization's proposal on a datachip, right here, I'm willing to make a deal in good faith, so what's with all the runarounds and strong-arm tactics, huh? Why don't you come with me, we can sit down over some rocket fuel at Two of Eight's bar and come to an agreement? What's the problem with that?"
"You will come with us." He's been taking lessons from that computer. I slide my hand, unobtrusively I hope, towards the wrist lance.
One of the other Gorn says something. The translator doesn't catch it, but the first one turns his head and snarls something back. The translator remains silent through a hissing, rasping, bad-tempered exchange. I'm feeling left out, here.
The Gorn spokesman turns back to me. "There are animals out there," he snarls. "What do you know about them?"
"Animals?" I'm blank on that. Granted, some of Hal's security teams are a bit on the scruffy side, but calling them animals seems kinda harsh. "It's, umm, kinda a wild world here, right? Are you picking up native fauna, maybe?"
"Not like this," the Gorn hisses. He leans towards me, and the disruptor in his fist looks overly large. "I do not know what you hope to achieve, but -"
Then about seventy-five kilos of something fanged and snarling drops on his back, and that's when I know things have gone seriously pear-shaped.
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