Oh, boy, Thrang ain't messing around when he talks about security. The cell... One force-field wall, and the floor, ceiling and the other walls are all solid metal. There's a sanitary and waste-reclamation unit, and it must be hooked up to a short range transporter, because there is no piping or anything leading out of the cell. And there's no way of gimmicking a basic transporter setup like that - not in any way that would reassemble me in anything resembling humanoid shape at the other end, anyway. Waste transporters just haven't got the bandwidth for live transport, and there ain't nothing anyone can do about that.
I don't see myself digging through solid hullmetal walls with my bare hands, or a plastic fork, either. There are tricks you can do with a force field, shorting it out or manipulating its frequencies. But you need the right tools and specialist training, both of which I ain't got.
Food and other supplies are delivered through a sort of hatch affair in the field, and I can be quite sure that one side of it is sealed solid whenever the other side opens. If I had a hidden confederate on the outside, I could get them to pass me the tools I need. Like hiding a file in a cake, only, y'know, kinda more technical. But no one on Thrang's crew is on my side.
I get the impression, maybe inaccurately, maybe not, that however fast it might be, the Farah isn't very big. Might be a heavily modified Orion corvette, or an entirely original design. But it's somewhere on a par with a Bird of Prey or a similar heavy raider. I suppose it's good news. If we can ever catch this thing, my ship or Heizis's should be able to beat it in a fight. Should be. Maybe.
I'm not getting much in the way of solid information, of course. Every so often, one of Thrang's crew drops by to shove rations through the forcefield hatch. The Lethean, Mokasso, barely speaks, and I try to keep my mind blank when he turns up. The Orion, Mituz, has the usual Orion techniques for handling prisoners, I don't get anything much from him but insults. I don't see the helmsman or the engineer, I'd guess they're running the ship. Um. And I'd guess that Deonsa has some duties besides the helm, too, if you know what I mean.
The only one who's any use is the Thexemian, Seralok Masgrabolus. And that's stretching the definition of "any use" all out of shape, but, well, it seems Thexemians like to talk.
"So why are you with Thrang, anyway?" I ask him as he shoves a pack of ration bars and a jerrycan full of water through the hatch. He pulls a sour face at me.
"I am a member of Thrang's crew, because he pays well, and will pay better," he says.
"OK, see your point, we all gotta eat, right? But, c'mon, you know there's plenty of people can pay better than Thrang -"
"They will not pay in the coin he promises! When Thrang comes to his power, those who stood by him will be rewarded. I will have power and dominion, and when I say my name, then, men will die of fright and women will hurl themselves at my feet."
"Oh, man, that'll take forever to clean up. How's Thrang gonna manage all that, anyway?"
"When he is king among the ruins, power and dominion will be his to bestow."
"King among the what, now?" Masgrabolus just glares at me. I decide to try a different tack. "So, OK, he gets to be king... somehow... so what make you think you get any goodies out of that? I mean, Thrang's been kinda rough on his associates to date, yeah? Like the guys who melted? Or your pal Mirankar Ostrogolus, who got his brain removed the hard way?"
"Thrang chose weaklings and honourless scum to be subjected to the phage," says Masgrabolus. "And I myself pointed out Ostrogolus as a worthless worm who walked in puffed-up pride, fit only to be used and discarded." I'm not sure worms walk, but hey, he's got the guns and the key to the cell, if he wants to mix his metaphors, there's not much I can do about it. "Those of us who have been true friends to him... he will be a true friend to us. And when his protective association is the only stable power left in the quadrant, we will be in a position to rule!"
Oh, boy. One thing about our man Thrang, then - he thinks big. Masgrabolus shuts the forcefield hatch, and turns around; I guess he thinks he's leaving on a good exit line. I'm inclined to let him go, now.
There's not much to do around here but think. And I need to think, long and hard, about one thing. Kalevar Thrang.
---
It's only a couple more mealtimes - one with the Lethean, one with the Orion - before the man himself shows up. Kalevar Thrang, in person, with a nasty smile on his lips and a sonic AP pistol in his hand.
"Admiral Pexlini," he says.
"Oh, hell, you can knock that off," I say. "It's only on paper, anyway. Sometimes you need flag rank if -"
"If you are to command the resources you need. I know. These old-fashioned military rankings are so inadequate, really, aren't they? To the jobs Starfleet actually does?"
"Guess so. So, are you planning to reform them? Restructure everything, when you're king among the ruins?"
Does the smile maybe slip, just a fraction of an inch or so? "Ah. Thexemians, yes... their culture places too much value upon boasting and display. But we mustn't judge, must we? Or at least you mustn't. Prime Directive and all that." He brings the gun up, covering me. His other hand reaches for a wall panel. The forcefield winks out.
"Walk with me a while, Admiral." The gun makes it an offer I can't refuse. I step out of the cell. They took my EV suit, left me only the basic coveralls I was wearing inside it. I've got... well, no equipment that will help in this situation.
With most people, I'd be looking for a chance to grab the gun. I don't think Thrang will give me one. "Where are we going? Somewhere nice?"
"Just the transporter room." He gestures - with his free hand. Smart thinker. I walk the way he's pointing.
"Kinda cramped in here," I comment, as we make our way down a narrow corridor with bare metal walls.
"Oh, the Farah is designed for use, not ornament. I'm fond of her, nonetheless. I will have something more... kingly... in the fullness of time, but I will probably keep the Farah anyway. I have my sentiments, Admiral."
"Will you lay off the Admiral, please, your majesty?" I say, and Thrang laughs.
The transporter room is small, with only four pads in the chamber. Thrang points me to one of them. I don't see any alternative, so I go stand on it.
"Now, then," Thrang says, and starts tapping on the console. "I've decided to destroy you, Admiral. Let me tell you how I will do it."
"Oh, hell." Now the moment's come, somehow I don't feel anything but a kind of disgust. "Beamed into space on wide dispersion? That's not even original, dammit."
"Nothing so inelegant, or so wasteful. No, no." Thrang is smiling away like anything. "In a few moments, I will beam you down to the landing docks at Nali Caerodi. It's where you were meant to be anyway, so it fits in with my plans. I'm sure you'll cope with being dropped onto a Ferengi station. And, after that, you're free to go, or stay, or do whatever you please."
I frown at him. "What's the catch? It can't be that easy...."
His smile is big and broad and there is nothing good about it at all. "You're an intelligent person. Why don't you tell me what the catch is?"
I think. Furiously. I think as if my life depended on it, which it very well might. "You're just letting me go? I don't believe it. And if I don't believe it, sure as hell nobody else will -"
"Ah!" Thrang positively glows with self-satisfaction. "I thought you'd be clever enough. Yes, Admiral. No one will believe you escaped, or that I set you free for nothing. Everyone must assume, now, that you are my agent. The more you deny it, and the more their checks disprove it... the more they must believe that you are a very adept and plausible agent of mine indeed. They must always doubt you, from now on. As an intelligence agent, you are - ruined. At least until...."
OK, so he expects me to fill in after the "until", but I'm kinda not in the mood. "Until what?"
"Until you realize," Thrang says, "that you need to be my agent. Because I will be the only employer who will have you... and because, when I am - king among the ruins - you will understand that you need to work for me. I intend to be the only game in town, Admiral. And I can find a use for someone of your abilities, when you come to me of your own free will. Not if, Admiral. When."
That's when I jump him.
I leap from the transporter pad and I claw at him. The nails of my right hand rake down his cheek, hard enough to leave furrows. But the transporter console is between his body and mine, and anyway, he reacts fast. He doesn't shoot, just clubs me hard with the gun. He is very strong.
I land on the deck with stars exploding across my vision. There is a brief sickening whirl when I think I'm going to lose consciousness. Then Thrang is hauling me to my feet. I don't resist. I can't.
He is holding me up with one hand. The other is pressed to his cheek. He is still smiling.
"Oh, my," he says. "We do want our little dramatic gesture, don't we? Do you think it accomplishes anything?" I slur something random by way of an answer.
He pulls his hand away from his cheek. The scratches made by my fingernails are fading already, half healed, new skin firming over them almost as I watch.
"Dramatic gestures," says Thrang, "are good for nothing. I'll speak to you later, Admiral. When you've properly come to your senses." He lets go of me. Somehow, I stay upright. He's put me on the transporter pad. "Have a pleasant trip." He reaches over to the console, presses a button, and I go away.
---
The transporter light fades, and I'm down. Station side on Nali Caerodi. The planet itself is a class L lump of not-much-use, the shipyard and trading facilities are mostly in orbit. So, I'm dumped on a Ferengi space station, possibly with concussion, which kinda ain't gonna help.
I try to marshal my spinning wits. First things first -
My coveralls don't come with much, but they come with a few goodies sewn into the lining, and Thrang and his goons didn't check for anything beyond weapons or other stuff with power supplies. I pop a seam with my left hand, and manage to extract a small glittering thing from the lining. Thalmurian water gem. Not one of the big ones that's worth a fortune, but one that's worth enough. I hope.
The beam-in point is just a metal cubbyhole, off the main thoroughfare of this station - whatever station it is. There's a fair amount of junk about. Ferengi are not always big on recycling. I spot a plastic bag, maybe a discarded wrapper for components or something. I hold the water gem between my lips, while I use my left hand to pull the bag over my right.
OK. One step. Now to find a Ferengi. Any Ferengi.
It doesn't take long. A short, squat, big-eared gnome in shabby overalls comes shambling past the cubbyhole, and he turns when I give a piercing whistle. His mouth comes open, revealing the usual disgusting Ferengi teeth.
"You. Here." I don't give him time to argue, just press the water gem into his hand. "See that? Money. Profit. Call it a down payment. I need to pay my occupancy tax, ration allowance, breathing permit, all the usual stuff." You get gouged on everything if you're on your own, on a Ferengi station. "Set me up with the basics, and anything left over from that jewel, you can keep, all right?" Then I put my fierce face on. "Cross me, and I'm gonna come back and rip your lobes off, OK? We got a deal here?"
"You're crazy," the Ferengi says. He looks at my face, then at the jewel, then at my face again. "OK. You're crazy, but with money, so I guess you're just eccentric. OK, deal."
"Terrific." I feel myself relax, just a tiny bit. Any Ferengi knows the bureaucracy on their station, and any Ferengi will make a deal. If you give them a chance, and don't give them much choice. "Gonna need communications, sometime soon, too." I'm racking my jolted brains, trying to think of names, contacts, useful people. "Gonna want to put in a call to, uhh, one of your DaiMons. DaiMon, DaiMon...."
"Listen," says the Ferengi, "you're in trouble, right? You need to get fixed up, somehow. Come with me, I'll get you food, somewhere to rest, while I get your permits sorted." He holds up the gem. "This'll cover it."
Honest Ferengi. Kind Ferengi, even. And I could do with a rest, at that. "OK. Thanks."
"Your head's bleeding."
"Yeah, I know." Well, I didn't, but it comes as no surprise. "Prago. DaiMon Prago, that's the guy." Prago is a Ferengi businessman, based at the Nali Caerodi shipyards, and he owes the Federation big time. Cooperation, I can get it from him.
"OK. DaiMon Prago, I'll ask around," says the Ferengi. "It's not going to be a problem, you know. Hey. Lean on me."
I lean on him. Ferengi are stronger than they look, they can hold up a concussed Talaxian. Just like Thrang could. "Thanks."
"No problem. I'm Greng, by the way."
"Hi, Greng. I'm Pexlini."
"Pexlini." Greng's eyes narrow for a moment. "Your hand's in a plastic bag," he says.
"I know," I say. "I'm eccentric."
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