"Oh, hey," I say, "Goyar, I dropped my stylus on the floor over there, be a good guy and get it for me, willya?"
The handsome young Trill shoots me a funny look, but he steps over to where I'm pointing, and bends down to retrieve the stylus. I study the tight seat of his leather pants, and let a dreamy look come over my face.
"Pex," Umaro Ajbit hisses at me, "behave."
"Huh?" I try to look hurt and innocent. My Bajoran exec obviously isn't having any of it, though. Maybe I should get her to bend down and pick something up. In that skirt of hers, all the guys would appreciate it.
Goyar hands me the stylus. "Here you are, sir."
"Thanks." I take it from him, and put my booted feet up on the command console. "And, like, less of the 'sir' stuff, OK? Informal. That's the key word. Informal."
"Sorry, s- Pex." He grins. He's got a nice grin, too. I'm starting to wonder just how informal I could get with this guy. I'm just glad Ajbit isn't a telepath - if she read my thoughts, now, she would really be telling me to behave.
I pick up a PADD and scrawl my name over it with the stylus. Heck, Ajbit brought it to me, I reckon it must be something I should sign. She deals with the details. Me, I'm all about the big picture -
"Um, guys," I say, "maybe we should sorta clean the main viewscreen a bit, like, sometime. No rush, but... sometime." There are all kinds of reasons why I like the Ostankino's bridge - the whole ship, in fact - to look a little, well, lived-in. Just now, though, it's starting to look not so much lived-in as rioted-in.
"Sir." Vebanillo, the doleful-looking Pakled tac officer, speaks up from the ops console. "There is a thing on the thing that shows things."
Pakleds aren't necessarily stupid - though some are, box-of-rocks dumb, but that's true of any species - but Veb, though she's pretty sharp, tends to use language the way the rest of her people do, which is not the way I might use it, although maybe, given the way I ramble, that's not such a bad thing. "Sensor contact?" I ask.
"Yes. It is far away but getting not far away. Soon it will be close by. I ready the things for making holes in things, yes?"
"Find out what it is, first," I say. "Might be something we don't want any holes in." Though this quadrant isn't short of hostiles... well, if push comes to shove, we can make holes pretty effectively in a pinch.
"Getting a transponder ID now," says Voesyy, the Rigelian science officer who seems to be on comms at the moment. Her mask-like face gives nothing away. "Benthan Protectorate vessel. They're hailing us."
"Benthans? Aw, yibbly squeeps, I thought I felt all the fun draining out of the sector. Better say hi, then. On screen."
The face that appears on the viewer, which really does need a wipe down, is typically Benthan; big, butch and beefy, with a short sensible haircut and glinty suspicious eyes each side of those extraordinary elongated nostrils. "Kazon vessel. You are traversing a region of space under the authority of the Benthan Protectorate. Stand down and prepare to account for yourselves." Then the face he's looking at registers, and he does a classic double-take.
"Hey there, John Law," I say brightly. "Pexlini here, skipper of the good old Ostankino. What's the beef?"
His glinty eyes get even more suspicious. "What's a Talaxian doing aboard a Kazon vessel?" he demands.
"Oh, y'know, this and that," I say. "Ducking and diving, wheeling and dealing... trying to turn an honest credit in a hard universe. Get the picture?"
He looks like he's getting something, anyway. Constipation, from his expression. "Cut your drives and prepare for boarding and inspection."
"'Scuse me?" I say. "Don't you need, like, probable cause, or a warrant, or something like that? You know, one of those little legal technicalities you guys are so big on? Or do the laws only apply to you if you want them to?"
"Cut your drives and prepare for boarding and inspection. I want to be sure you're not a hostile vessel."
"We're a legitimate independent trader with Alpha Quadrant registry, approved by the provisional treaty with your government," I say. "Starfleet picked this ship up after some of the, y'know, recent unpleasantness, it got legally condemned and sold on. To us. Well, me, mainly. It's all legal -"
"I'm going to inspect your paperwork and make sure of that," the Benthan says grimly. "Cut your drives and prepare -"
"OK, OK, I get the picture. Helm, tactical, power us down and let the big butch policeman come look us over, all right?" The Benthan's look gets even less friendly. Sometimes I just ought to watch my big mouth.
---
My ship looks like a toy next to the Benthan cruiser, and when their commander comes aboard, the top of my head barely comes up to his collarbone. He looks down at me, in every sense, when I greet him in the transporter room with a PADD in each of my hands.
"Ship's papers, articles of incorporation, registration, and cargo manifest," I say, handing him one PADD. He takes it and glances at it, before his attention is drawn to the one I'm keeping in my other hand.
"What's that?" he asks.
"That?" I hold it up. "That is where I'm making my records of an unjustified stop and search. Which is my right under Benthan law, am I right?"
"We don't know if this is unjustified, yet," the Benthan grunts. "If you have grounds to make a protest, the proper procedures will be followed."
"Oh, I'm gonna make sure of that, officer...?"
"Patrol Commander Dumat." He says it like he means it. He is looking over my ship's records, now, and his brow is furrowed, and not just with those Benthan nostrils. Either he is really checking hard for discrepancies, or I used too many long words.
"Alpha Quadrant registration?" he asks.
"Told you. This ship's a legitimate prize of war taken by the Federation, condemned in their naval courts and put up for auction. I scored the winning bid. Weren't that many takers, actually, because the Feds are well ahead of most of the Delta Quadrant when it comes to shipbuilding. A Kazon raider ain't no great prize to them."
"And you have full Federation registration for all your ship's equipment? Some of this is military spec."
"Dangerous quadrant, this one. Oh, the bits outside the protection of the Benthan Guard, I mean, mister policeman, sir. Sure, we have mil-spec gear - did a deal with the Feds for it. We report to Starfleet's Exp-engy mob. The Experimental Engineering group. Run by a guy called Semok. Gets data on system performance direct from the end-users, in situations you wouldn't think to mock up in a simulator. Works for them, means I get quality equipment."
"I see. Fully registered with an appropriate authority." His big fleshy face gets all grumpy-looking. "Well. We'll proceed, then, with the search of your ship -"
"Nuh-uh, big fella. Hold on a moment. Who said anything about searching the ship?" I tap the PADD in his hand with my finger. "Cargo manifest is there, and if you want to check it out, be my guest. But as for searching the ship, I wanna see your warrant."
He starts to swell up, probably with indignation. "Technically -" he begins.
"Technically nothin'. I got rights, under Benthan law and Federation. Did you look at those articles of incorporation? And read who was on them, in what legal capacity?" I jam my thumb into my own chest. "I'm not just some little lost Talaxian chick you can push around, John Law. I'm a Federation citizen, under their dual citizenship programme. And that means the Feds will back my rights to privacy and freedom from unwarranted investigation. So, if you wanna push this from 'unjustified traffic stop' all the way to 'interstellar diplomatic incident' -" I lean closer and stare up into his face. "Be. My. Guest."
He stares down at me, evidently undecided.
"It's not like there's even any point," I add. "That manifest is accurate, there's nothing in my cargo bays you're allergic to, literally or metaphorically. Do you really want to start an inter-quadrant row over nothing? Come on, John Law, show some good judgment already."
His lips compress into an ugly tight line. Looks like he's reaching a decision, and it's not one he particularly likes. But, when it comes down to it, the Benthans really do believe in their legalities....
"Very well," he says. "We've satisfied ourselves that you are not a Kazon vessel travelling under Federation merchant cover... I suppose that's all we can do. You are free to proceed." Then his temper bursts out. "But I've made a note of your attitude... and believe me, if I see you again -"
"Yeah, well," I say, "everyone's got an attitude, and you know what I think of yours. See you around, John Law. Now, I got a schedule to keep."
---
"That went well," Ajbit comments as I flop back down in the command chair.
"The Benthan ship is going away now," Vebanillo confirms.
"Good." I slot the PADD back into the armrest of the command chair, and start transferring data back into the computer core. If he'd been really acting up, Dumat might have checked the core... but he wouldn't think to check the PADD I was waving around right under his nose. At least, that trick's always worked in the past.
"You ever think of just telling them?" Ajbit asks.
"That we're a Starfleet Q-ship? Absolutely not. Hassle from the Benthans is the best cover we've got."
"Maybe," says Ajbit, "but it's still hassle. And what's with checking their allergies, anyway? Does it matter if we've got cargo they might react to, just a bit?"
"Oh, hell yes, it matters," I say. "Think about those nostrils for a minute. Do you seriously want to see one of those guys sneeze?"
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