The Wrong Box 15

There was always noise, Thrang noticed. Everywhere, there was noise. There was the hiss and crack of the mining lasers, the dull rumble of the heavy machinery. Take that away, and there was still the constant hubbub of talk, complaints and curses and wailings in a dozen languages, from every sort of vocal tract imaginable. And take that away, and you were left with the endless hollow soughing of the wind in the tunnels, and the keening of it over the snows above.

Rura Penthe. The Aliens' Graveyard. Even in his heated bodysuit, Thrang had to work to repress a shiver.

The Nausicaan had no such luxury as a heated bodysuit. He wore bedraggled, tattered furs, his hair was matted, one tusk was broken. He glared at Thrang with mad red eyes.

"I ruled a world!" he shrilled. "I was its lord and its master! Now look! Look!" He made a sweeping gesture, indicating a low bunk with a stained mattress and another ragged pelt. "This! This is my domain!"

"Distressing," said Thrang. "You have my sympathies."

"Sympathies," the Nausicaan hissed. "What good are sympathies? I am reduced to this, and it was - it was unjust!"

"So you desire vengeance," said Thrang.

"Vengeance, yes. Against the Andorian filth who took my world from me. And against the Klingon scum who sent me here! J'mpok!" The Nausicaan made the name a curse.

"He was seeking to curry favour with the Federation," said Thrang.

"The Federation had already relinquished all claims on me! They left me to the justice of my people, and my people judged me fairly, and let me go free!" Thrang noted, silently, that the Nausicaan made no reference to the monumental bribes he had paid to that tribunal. "And then that fl'icht-worm of a Chancellor steps in to make an example, to ignore Nausicaan justice and send me here!"

And two of the venal judges - the two who survived - with him. But Thrang had no particular need of them. "A grave injustice, as you say," he said. "So, we should talk about rectifying it."

The Nausicaan glared at him. "And how will you manage that? You are nothing. You are an adventurer, a petty criminal with every hand raised against him -"

"And yet," said Thrang, "I can come and go as I wish, on Qo'noS or here on Rura Penthe. I can stroll out of this cavern right now, and no one will stop me. Not even -" his voice dropped a little "- if I bring someone with me. Would you like to come with me?"

The Nausicaan spat. "Words. Just words."

"Walk with me. You'll find my word is good."

"And then what? I want the hide of that Andorian scum. And I want J'mpok's head hanging on my wall. Can you give me those, renegade? Can you give me those?"

"Not yet," said Thrang with a slight smile. "One step at a time, I think. The first thing to do is to get you back your world. Let's walk and talk about that, Governor Gvochkorr."

---

Later, in his cabin aboard the starship Farah, Thrang sat at his communications console, studying the screen, while Deonsa glowered at him from the bed.

"Why don't you stop that?" she asked.

"In a minute," said Thrang. "There are things here that I need to deal with."

"You're trying to do too much. I don't know when you ever sleep, even."

Thrang laughed. "Well, you would know, if anyone would."

"Come to bed," she insisted.

Thrang ignored her. His fingertips drummed on the comms interface, sending messages across space. His face was motionless, but his expression seemed to change, illuminated as it was by the rapidly flickering light from the screen.

Deonsa sighed, and rolled over on her back. "I'm not used to being ignored," she complained.

"I imagine not. But there's a great deal to do." Thrang tapped another message into the console. "Things will start to improve. I must admit, it's a pleasant change to have some intelligent, well-motivated lieutenants at work. I look forward to phasing out our phage-controlled contacts. As it were."

"Your merchants," Deonsa scoffed. "What use are merchants?"

"Some of them are highly placed merchants. And, when my protective association becomes the only game in town, they'll be more highly placed than ever. It's just a question of making sure they realize, when the time comes, that they owe it all to me. Intelligent loyalty, it's so much better than the coerced kind." He turned to look at her, briefly. "You wouldn't agree with that, of course."

"A merchants' protective association. The Syndicate will eat it."

"The Syndicate, my dear, will be too busy eating itself. And when the Federation-Klingon war restarts, merchants will value all the protection they can get."

"You're dreaming. After all that they have gone through, the Feds and the Empire will not turn against each other so soon. They're still rebuilding -"

"Yes. They're weak, and hurting. And neither side will want to show weakness, and people who hurt want to lash out at those who hurt them. Or at someone, if those who hurt them aren't available. The galactic political situation is volatile, my dear. All I need to do is... make sure it bubbles the way I want it to."

"You overreach yourself. There is too much power concentrated against you, there are too many variables to control. You would need to be a genius, a master strategist -"

"Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear. There." Thrang tapped a final series of commands into the console, then shut it down with a decisive gesture. "The Nimbus situation isn't quite how I'd like it, but I'll let it work itself out." He rose, and turned to the bed. "Now, I'm all yours."

She watched him approach, wide-eyed. "No," she whispered. "No, not all mine. There's a core of you that will never be mine, a core no one can reach...."

"Indeed." He stood by the bed and looked down at her, a faint smile on his full lips. "Not even you, I'm afraid. Though your scent is particularly delicious, tonight."

"I don't understand why it doesn't... why I can't...." She pouted. "It's strange. It's not the Orion way."

Thrang laughed. "But it's the way you prefer things, my dear. Admit that." His hands reached for her.