The woman on the viewscreen has greyish skin and a sort of shield-shaped protrusion on her forehead. She eyes me with some distaste. "I am Srianka Lasnabola," she says, "and when I say my name, men gasp with desire and women grind their teeth in envy."
Thexemians. Gotta love 'em. Or, in this case at least, gotta talk to 'em. "Can we skip that bit?" I say. "I was wanting to hear about some previous business acquaintances of yours -"
"I talk to no one who does not say their name."
Respect for alien cultures, I remind myself silently. Got to respect their little foibles, like a good Starfleet officer, which I still am, dammit. "I'm Pexlini," I say. "Now, usually, when I say my name, people say 'huh?', but lately they've taken to saying 'hey, aren't you wanted by the Federation for high crimes and misdemeanours?' instead, and I reckon a former associate of your pal Seralok Masgrabolus is responsible for that."
"Seralok Masgrabolus." Her look of distaste deepens. "When that name is spoken, men spit and women turn aside in scorn."
"OK, so maybe he's been demoted since I last saw him. Doesn't matter to me. You used to know him, do you have a line on him? Current whereabouts, that kinda thing?" I don't think she will have. When Starfleet finally traced the warp contrail left by Thrang's super-fast ship, after me and Heizis put a spanner in its works, all they found at the end was a debris field. My guess is that Thrang liquidated the ship and its crew once he'd decided to cut his losses. It's the way the guy works.
"If you knew Masgrabolus," Lasnabola says, "you know who he worked for. That man does not leave loose ends." So I called it right. Never mind.
"OK," I say, "but that business arrangement didn't come out of a vacuum, did it? How'd Masgrabolus meet Thrang in the first place? And can I meet him the same way?"
Lasnabola stares at me, her eyes wide. "You want to deal with Thrang? You must be insane."
"Nah, just eccentric. Thing is, I figure Thrang wants to meet me. And I want to meet him. So all we need is someone who can fix up an appointment. Like, say, an associate of a former business partner of Thrang's." I fold my hands together in my lap and try to fix her with a serious stare. I don't actually know what to do with my hands - the command chair is configured for a Hirogen Alpha, if I tried to put my arms on the armrests, my hands would be level with my ears. Life is full of complications.
"What you suggest... may be possible," says Lasnabola. She sounds grudging.
"I guess we can run to some sort of fee. Like, say, you were a dating agency, and you fixed me and Thrang up on a date? Sound fair to you?"
"A date," she says. "A date with Kalevar Thrang. Very well. I will transmit my requirements, and how much this date will cost you. One hour from now." And she cuts the connection.
"That went well." I twist around in the oversized chair so I can look at Rozilai. The Trill's done most of the donkey work, sifting databases to come up with possible contacts. Thrang's Orion crew weren't accessible - I can't buy or force my way into the Syndicate's data nets - but Thexemian security turned out much easier to crack. "So, what are the chances this won't ring alarm bells with Thrang's network?"
Roz shrugs. "I've tried to be as discreet as I can. But Thrang has a distributed information-gathering network. I don't think we can assume I haven't hit some data tripwire, somewhere along the way."
"Figures," I say. "Well, it doesn't matter. Thrang must have known I'd come looking for him. If he knows where I'm looking, it'll just make it easier to set up a meet." I look pensively at the viewscreen, now displaying the cloudy globe of Thexemia. Miserable looking sort of planet, that.
"You're assuming a lot of things about this Thrang," Nurnos says. "Assuming he's behind your problems, and he's got some use for you, in some master plan -"
"Thrang always has a master plan," I say. "And he has a use for me, somewhere, too. It's the way he works. That genetically-engineered superior intelligence... he's not happy unless he's keeping more plates spinning than anyone else could handle."
"Superior intelligence." Nurnos snorts. "A superior intelligence doesn't go around making extra work for itself." I think I like this guy.
"Well, anyway," I say, "let's work out how we're going to handle the double-cross, then."
"Suppose they don't double-cross us?" says Rozilai.
"Thexemians? Working for Thrang? I wouldn't worry about that," I say. "If they don't double-cross us, the shock'll probably kill me."
---
Prime City, capital of the independent world of Thexemia. I don't know what happens when you say its name. It's a grim sort of place, lots of tall rectangular concrete buildings in a brutalist style - plenty of exposed vertical ribbing, not much in the way of windows.
Not that I'm getting much chance to take in the sights. The beam-down coordinates are on an exposed concrete plaza, empty apart from three goons, who just happen to be pointing two guns and a scanner at me when I sparkle into view.
"Hi, there," I say. The two goons with guns watch me warily.
The third one squints at his scanner, and finally says, "Checks out. No weapons signatures. The bag -" he indicates the kitbag that dangles from my right hand "- has crystals and refined metals." He folds the scanner away and takes out a gun of his own. Elderly-looking Orion commercial disruptors, but adequate.
"You will come with us." Another goon speaks up. He steps forward and grabs the kitbag out of my hand. "This way." He points with the gun. And he's standing in his colleagues' line of fire - I'm tempted to thump him, just on general principles, but there's no point, really. "Your transporters and communications are blocked. There is no help for you."
"He's right about the transporter inhibitors." Rozilai's voice sounds a bit scratchy and distorted over the bone-conduction speaker taped behind my ear. "Assault shuttles are inbound, with you in five."
"Terrific," I say. "OK. Let's get moving, then." And I stroll off in the direction indicated. Technically, I should probably make a fuss, get the attention of local law enforcement, and demand to see the Federation Consul. Technically. There doesn't seem any point to that, either. These guys probably are local law enforcement.
It's a short walk to a narrow door in a big blank concrete wall. We go down a staircase, so narrow we have to go single file. At the bottom is a room with two more goons, a desk, and Lasnabola sitting behind it. She sneers at me.
The goon with the kitbag dumps it on her desk. "Payment," he says.
"Uh-huh," I say. "We agreed an up-front sum, yeah? The warm welcome wasn't included, though."
"If you think that we are here to cater to the whims of a Federation renegade," says Lasnabola, "think again."
I have to stall these idiots long enough for the assault shuttles to land. I sigh. "You know what happens when Thexemians say their names?" I ask. "Like, any Thexemians?"
"It varies," says Lasnabola, "according to the skill and prestige of the person concerned."
"Nah," I say, "not really. See, the first thing that happens whenever one of you guys even opens your traps is, I think to myself, I can't trust this guy. You people have managed to get yourselves a really bad rep, y'know?"
"You can trust us," says Lasnabola. "We will hold you for Thrang, if he is interested in talking to you. If he is not, you will die. If he is... you will live for as long as he finds you interesting."
"See, this is why you have a bad rep," I say. "I know you're gonna try and pull some stupid stroke, every time. It's annoying, as well as predictable."
"Predictable," says Lasnabola. "You expected betrayal. And yet, you came."
"Yeah." I fold my arms across my chest, feeling a reassuring bulky presence inside my miner's vest. "So what does that tell you, huh?"
Lasnabola is fumbling with the catches of the kitbag. "That you are foolish," she says.
"Foolish? Nah," I say. I shut my eyes. "Just prepared."
The kitbag pops open. I can see the flash even through my closed eyelids. I wait a heartbeat for everything to go dark. Lasnabola screams, and I move. The flash grenade will only dazzle her for a few minutes, but the tetryon capacitance charge will take out every power source around for a couple of minutes... except for the ones covered by the shielding in my vest.
My right hand goes to my waist, and the staticky feeling of my personal shield envelops me. Then I pull the shotgun out from under my armpit, rack the action, and fire a round into the ceiling. It gets attention. Even Lasnabola stops wailing.
"Yeah," I say, pumping another shell into the breech. "Prepared. Now, what's gonna happen is, we'll wait for the lights to come back on, and then we'll talk about getting in touch with Thrang, OK?"
The ceiling lights are already flickering weakly back to life as the tetryon charge disperses. I back up. I'm still outnumbered six to one, and at times like this I like to have a nice solid wall behind me.
"She was unarmed," one of the goons says, in aggrieved tones. Probably the one with the scanner. Weapons scans are all very well, they'd have picked up the power packs and focus crystals of a phaser or a disruptor. But the only power source for the reproduction shotgun is in the micro-replicator inside its magazine - and that's too low-intensity to register as a weapon. It churns out buckshot shells just fine, though.
"You will suffer for this!" I don't know if Lasnabola is talking to me or the goon. She is blinking through tear-filled eyes. One of the goons is aiming his disruptor at me; I swing the shotgun towards him, and quirk my eyebrow in my best Vulcan manner.
The barrel of the disruptor wavers for a moment... then steadies. "You cannot kill all of us with that thing," he says.
"Probably not," I answer as cheerily as I can, "but I can sure kill some of you, so who's first?"
The disruptor wavers again. Then there is a loud crash from the doorway, as of the door being kicked in. Nyesenia is first through, smoky orange eyes glaring at the Thexemians over the business end of one of those Kobali polaron rifles. I don't know if the Thexemians are familiar with Kobali firearms, but it doesn't matter, because Nurnos is next through the door, and that Nausicaan gizmo of his is actually designed to say to them, you are on the wrong end of this weapon.
I walk forward, taking care to keep my gun pointed at the enemy and stay out of my peeps' line of fire. I take the kitbag off the desk. "The cool thing is," I say to Lasnabola, "besides the little surprises, this thing actually does have the money in it. Jewels and gold-pressed latinum, which you are not, now, going to get."
And then I jump, because there is a sound of clapping hands, and an odiously familiar voice says, "And quite right too."
---
I whirl around. Thrang is grinning at me. I resist the urge to fire the shotgun, because he's obviously a projection, on the blank back wall. Around him, I can see - familiar shapes, the outline of a Hirogen bridge -
"Aw, yibbly squeeps," I moan, "don't say you've gone and stolen my ship while I'm down here."
A brief shadow of puzzlement passes over Thrang's face, and then clears. "Ah, you've acquired a Hirogen ship yourself, then? Good choice. They're very useful. Probably the best you can get, given your current embarrassment with Starfleet."
"For which you're to blame." I glance around. Nurnos and Nyesenia are watching the projection, too, but only out of one eye, as they and the rest of the assault teams carry on disarming and restraining the Thexemians. Professionalism, gotta love it.
"I hope you appreciate all the trouble and expense I went to," says Thrang smugly. He's looking human now - last time I saw him, he was green and bald. But he still has, basically, the same face. Why does he have the same face? He can change his appearance, and that face is known.
"Half a billion energy credits? That's just chump change to you, I'll bet."
"Locating the Mask of Dhalselapur, though, took noticeable effort. You should be flattered that I think you're worth it."
"Is this leading up to another job offer?" I ask. "'Cause, yanno, I'm gonna be hard pushed to get proper references from my last employer."
"So sad, to be so unappreciated," says Thrang. "I appreciate you, you know. You actually upset some of my plans." He's still smiling, but there is something very ugly in his eyes. "Not many people can do that. I'd far rather have you working for me than against me."
"Yeah, well," I say, "that's not gonna happen, is it? For a start, there's the question of retirement benefits."
"Retirement benefits?" Thrang raises an eyebrow.
He's on a Hirogen bridge. I can't see anyone else in the projection, but it's just possible he hasn't bothered to clear his crew out. In which case, it's always worth sowing a little fear, doubt and uncertainty. "I know how you retire people, Thrang. Dissolved into goo. Or blown to vapour by antimatter scuttling charges. Working for you would be bad for my health, Thrang."
He seems unfazed. "It might beat the alternative, though. I have plans in hand."
"Don't you always?"
"Oh, most assuredly." Thrang's smile is horrible. "Soon enough, Admiral Pexlini, everyone is going to be working for me." And the projection winks out.
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