The Death House 5

Tharval looked at the door. It was a blank stretch of metal, covered in grimy, peeling paint, typical of the First City slums. His black eyes measured and appraised it, noting the edges of the door. When he had left, that morning, there had been little wedges of plastic inserted between the door panel and the frame. They were gone, now.

His leathery demon mask of a face was not equipped for frowning. He stood before the door for a full minute, concentrating intensely. His hand went to the pocket of his worn work tunic, where he kept his disruptor. It was old, military surplus, used and battered - but it still worked. He made very sure of that.

He reached up to the door control and tapped in his personal code. As the door slid open, he moved inside, quickly, drawing the disruptor from his pocket -

The single room within was still in darkness, but Tharval could make out a figure sitting in his one comfortable chair. He covered the man with his disruptor as he closed the door and switched on the light.

"Tharval. Good to see you. Make yourself at home - oh, yes, this is your home, isn't it? How are you getting along, these days?"

Tharval kept the disruptor pointed squarely at the other's head. "I am contemplating my good fortune," he said. "It seems I am about to become an exceptionally wealthy man."

"Oh, yes," the other said casually, "the price on my head - I gather it's still an attention-getter. I think you'll find, though, I can still beat the authorities' best offer." He looked around. "I'd say pull up a chair, but you don't seem to have many to spare."

"I may as well claim the bounty as the first imbecile patroller to spot you," said Tharval. "You are walking around, openly? Still with that face? You must be mad."

"Yes, well," said Kalevar Thrang, "people need to get used to this face, it will be on their currency soon enough. However - well, those facial recognition algorithms for the security cameras, it's amazing how forgetful they can be, sometimes."

"They will find that security hole and plug it. Then you will be dead, Thrang. You are still using the same name, too, of course."

"Of course. Though I'm going back to being human, for a while." Thrang indicated his forehead, where Klingon whorls and ridges had already subsided into smooth skin. "All those grooves, they're dirt traps. And as for being Orion, again... I never really liked myself in green. So, how are you getting along, Tharval?"

The Lethean sighed. He thumbed the safety catch on the disruptor, and put the weapon away. "As you see. I survive. It is unwise for me to do more."

"Imperial Intelligence is still displeased with you?"

"Not even your head would be enough to buy me back into their favour, Thrang."

"But you're still alive. Because they can't kill you without generating some terminal embarrassment." Thrang smiled broadly. "You know where the bodies are buried."

"You might say that."

"Even now? You still have enough dirt on the current members of the High Council, even after all the changes?"

"The High Council? Do not make me laugh, Thrang. I have always concerned myself with people who matter." Tharval found an empty packing crate, dragged it round, sat on it, facing his visitor.

"And that's what makes you useful," said Thrang.

The Lethean's eyes narrowed. "I have seen how you use people, Thrang. I remember J'Negh, for instance."

"Ah, yes," said Thrang. "Fond memories. J'Negh was an idiot - he went around accepting drinks from strangers. I don't think you're that level of idiot, Tharval."

"Then what sort of idiocy do you ascribe to me? You are a wanted fugitive across two quadrants of the galaxy, Thrang. I see no way in which you could be of use to me - except, perhaps, in ameliorating my living conditions."

"I still have resources." Thrang sat up, leaned forward in the chair. "Yes, there's a price on my head. But it's not enough to get you what you want, Tharval. K'men."

"No one can give me K'men."

"But you want him."

"I want that sanctimonious one-eyed dwarf's head for my footstool, yes. But it is a fantasy, Thrang, it will never happen. It is impossible."

Thrang reached into a cargo pocket of his leather trousers and pulled out a datapad. "Talisa Sheardlove," he said.

"Starfleet Intelligence - now ex-Starfleet Intelligence, very much so. What about her?"

"She had insurance policies. All good agents do. She had a little arrangement with you - a carefully planned bolt-hole if she felt a sudden urge to change sides." He flipped the datapad through the air to Tharval. "That is the private comms code you were to use, isn't it?"

Tharval looked at the pad. His eyes widened. His hand shook. "Impossible. Only she and I knew that code - and she is dead, and I have told no one. This is impossible."

"Yes, it is." Thrang sank back in the chair with a satisfied smile. "So let's talk impossibilities."