"Nimbus III," I say to the Gorn prisoners, "presents interesting problems of jurisdiction. Nominally, it is claimed by no one. Its local authorities are, I am told, both ad hoc and de facto, which means that I can safely ignore them. Of course, no matter what your personal feelings, you are citizens of the Empire, and may apply to the Imperial Ambassador to be released into KDF custody." I smile at them. In the half-light of the brig, I imagine the effect is disquieting. "The Ambassador would, of course, release you to the ranking KDF officer in the vicinity - which, thanks to the agreements in place between the Empire and the Romulan Republic, would be me." I let the smile widen. "So, whatever I choose to do to you now, it will even be legal. I find that interesting."
"You cannot intimidate us, mammal," says the largest of the Gorn.
"Can I not? You forget that I can read your mind, reptile." In fact, my telepathy is modest at best, but there is no reason to show weakness before my captives.
"You are working with the Federation," another Gorn says. "They will not permit you -"
"Perhaps your eyes are inadequate," I say. "I, however, can see perfectly clearly in this light, and I assure you there are no Federation personnel lurking in the shadows. You are mine. All mine. Shall we begin?"
"The government of the Hegemony -"
"Finds you an embarrassment. They will not object if I rid them of an embarrassment. I am beginning to grow impatient." I treat them to another display of my fangs.
The prisoners shuffle behind the force-field barrier, muttering amongst themselves, a low rumbling of conversation that the universal translator fails to register. I wait. I have time, they are going nowhere.
"We would require assurances," the large Gorn says, "before any cooperation could be given."
"Assurances of what?" I ask. "I have no urge to kill or mistreat you, unless you make it necessary. That is all the assurance you will get from me, and all you should need." I step forward, my eyes fixed on the Gorn's, despite the ninety-centimetre difference in our heights. "In any case, this is only some mercenary arrangement, surely? A business contract, which has gone badly wrong for you. What will it cost you to name your employers and give me details?"
"No!" another, smaller Gorn shouts, suddenly. "No, the honour of our kind is at stake! And we cannot trust this - this Reman! We must not reveal anything!"
I glance at that one - and I am not alone in that; the other Gorn seem to be looking at their companion in surprise. He jabs a finger at the big spokesman. "We must not be forsworn!" he shouts.
"It is as the Reman says, Ryssarr," says the spokesman. "A business arrangement, not a matter of honour." He turns back to me. "The negotiation was with a commercial concern -" he begins.
"No!" shouts the smaller Gorn, Ryssarr. "We must tell her nothing! Nothing! We must -" He coughs, makes a choking noise. I look more closely at him. There is moisture glistening on his scales... he seems to be sweating....
Cold dread marches down my spine. Since when do the Gorn sweat?
I lunge for the security console, for the force field controls. "Security system. Fields online, partition main holding cell." Grid lines light up on the console, and I quickly draw a box around Ryssarr. It is easy enough to do, for the others are cowering back from him, as he chokes and sputters, and clear fluid trickles over his hide. I touch my wrist communicator. "Medical and bio-warfare teams to security holding, urgent."
Ryssarr convulses, and his scaly hide splits open in a dozen places, liquid gushing out - not clear, now, but a putrid greenish-brown colour. His flailing hand strikes the impenetrable barrier of the force field, and leaves a smear along it, hanging in mid-air, slowly oozing downwards. The edge of his lipless mouth seems to sag and slough away, and his next rasping cough brings with it a scattering of loosened teeth. He falls, and his sagging torso bursts like over-ripe fruit as it hits the deck plating, corrupt fluids frothing out of it. His hide parts like old rags, and for a moment his ribs protrude, like the hoops of a barrel, before they too crumble and fall into the ooze which is all that is left of him. In moments, he is reduced to nothing but a gently seething pool of greenish fluid, which swirls, contained in the force fields. The rest of the Gorn stare at it, aghast.
I find my voice. "What happened?" The Gorn spokesman shakes his head, silent.
Footsteps clatter behind me, then stop. I turn to see the medics, to read the shock on their faces. "Scan that," I order. "Screen the rest of the prisoners, maximum bio-warfare precautions. Make sure no one else is at risk. Find out what happened." The cold dread is not leaving me. I could well have been exposed myself.... "Everyone who has been in contact with the prisoners must be immediately tested for biological agents." I cannot tear my eyes away from the fluid that is all that remains of Ryssarr.
"Thrang," the big Gorn says. "It was - Ryssarr, he was the contact with - the advocate for - he arranged the contracts - with Thrang. Kalevar Thrang."
---
"Qo'noS, Ter'jas Mor, Ganalda, now Nimbus III." K'Men's face is stern and implacable on my viewscreen. "Imperial Intelligence has sent queries to Starfleet, the Republic, the Ferengi, to discover if any... similar incidents... have taken place in their territories."
I have been extensively decontaminated, and scanned, and I have bathed, and bathed again. Irrational, perhaps, but the fear of contagion is real. "What is it?" I ask.
"At some point, Thrang has infected key people with a cellular phage," K'Men says. "A gene-tailored virus specific to the individual. So far as we can tell, it is held in check by an anti-serum which must be periodically administered. Once the serum is withheld - well, the results, you have seen."
"How is this phage administered? Or the anti-serum?"
"The phage... that has yet to be determined. Opportunities can always be found. The anti-serum, now, that is interesting. It must be specific to the individual, as is the phage itself - and the indications are that Thrang supplied it to his victims in person."
I raise an eyebrow at that. "Time-consuming."
"Yes. Thrang has a fast ship, we know that... but its warp signature is conspicuous by its absence on our traffic monitoring. We may assume that his normal routine has had to be adjusted... and that his agents, therefore, are being -" K'Men smiles "- liquidated. So to speak."
I frown. "But they represent a resource which he must have spent years in acquiring and maintaining -"
"Quite so. Thrang is evidently moving on to a new phase of his operations, and disposing of his previous network. Since that network includes highly placed sources in II, in the Syndicate, and - we know now - among the Gorn separatists - we must wonder what he has found to replace it."
"Do we have any clear idea how much material has been compromised?"
"No. And it is likely that we never will. We can hardly ask the separatist movement what security clearance this Ryssarr held. We can, of course, ask the Syndicate about its agents. And the Syndicate will tell us what it deems allowable for us to know."
"Then we can only assume the worst," I say.
"Indeed. I will give you the same instructions that I have given to all my agents in this matter; trust no channels of communication, share no data with those not directly known to you. In the circumstances, you may - and should - communicate with your Starfleet colleague. We are developing a test for the phage contamination, and we may even hope to achieve a cure. Screening all our personnel, however, will take immense time and effort. And it may be pointless, if Thrang has abandoned these agents."
I catch myself drumming my fingers on the side of the console, and stop. "There are two possibilities," I say.
A glint comes into the Klingon spymaster's one eye. "Are there?"
"They do not amount to much, but they may prove more useful than simply taking Thrang's next proffered bait. If he has been administering this anti-serum in person, then we have a picture - partial and incomplete - of his past movements. We may gather some clue to his intentions from that."
"My analysts are already assessing that data." K'Men sounds disappointed.
"The second angle of attack lies in this organization of his. The K-T Mercantile Mutual Association. The surviving Gorn have provided me with all the information they had on this agency - which was, nominally, their employer."
"Matters are in hand there, also."
"Can we find some area where their patterns match? Thrang must have some consistent goal in mind. Or some contact, somewhere, with whoever is supporting him. Some place, some person, some communications channel... that he is still using, even now that his former network is being abandoned."
"It is possible," K'Men says, in grudging tones.
"There will be vast gaps in the data, I know. They may be bridged - with assumptions, and with luck."
K'Men nods. "I will pursue this. And I will transmit all our available data to you. Open your secure datacomms channel." He favours me with a wintry smile. "A problem shared... is, most likely, a problem doubled. But it can do no harm, at this stage, for us both to work on this."
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