The wall is just over three metres high. Every ten metres, a pylon protrudes, another metre above the top of the wall. The security force field is generated from the tips of the pylons. There is, therefore, a one metre gap. The wall itself is monitored, of course - it will respond to close contact.
There are no visual monitors, which is lucky. T'Khrem does not want accidental visual records of the things that happen in his private estate.
I weigh the pole in my hands again. Well. Nothing to be gained from further delay -
I start the run-up, my limbs moving with smooth precision and regularity. This will take skill, and strength, and precise calculation. Fortunately, I have all of these.
I ground the pole at exactly the right point, and I leap, my body tensing, the pole flexing as I use its leverage, and I straighten out and release my grip at just the right moment, and I am through the gap. Vegetation flails at me as I crash to the ground and roll, but the slick impact-gel bodysuit cushions the impacts. The pole will collide with the wall, of course - but it is the sort of random impact that might draw no notice, that might be accounted as a random bird strike or some such. And if it is not, no matter. When I let go, I exposed the oxidizer patch to the outside air - and that triggered the cascade reaction from the catalysts embedded in the pole's graphene structure, and by now the pole is nothing but a breath of carbon dioxide, burned away in an instant. A forensic team might eventually, detect a trace of platinum ash from the catalysts....
Nothing to worry about now. I look around. It is twilight, this section of the grounds is not frequented - but a patrolling guard will find me eventually, unless I move now. I lope through the undergrowth, taking a zig-zag course, not towards the main house itself, but to the outbuilding that houses the distributor for the local EPS grid.
It will be guarded, of course. This is good. I need a guard.
The outbuilding is long, low, concealed from view behind an ornamental hedge. There is one guard, a bored-looking Nausicaan, at least seven feet tall and armed with a wicked-looking disruptor rifle. This is good. I watch him from the bushes for a few seconds. He does not spot me, until I move.
It feels good. I am past the stage of identity confusion, of wondering if I am Carayl, the Trill athlete, drawing on the library of Quon's knowledge, or Quon, the symbiote, using the limbs and muscles of Carayl's magnificent young body. I am, now, Carayl Quon, a very strong, very limber young woman who happened, in another lifetime, to study the Earth martial art of taekwondo. As I demonstrate, now, by breaking the Nausicaan's neck with one terrific kick, before he has time even to twitch the muzzle of his gun in my direction.
It will not be long before he is discovered. I grin, behind the blank glass faceplate of my helmet. It will not be long before everything I am doing becomes... noticeable.
I finish the preparations at the outbuilding, and move off, zig-zagging this time towards the main house.
The house is tall and stately, built to the standards of the Klingons of three or four centuries ago - I remember, or one side of me remembers, when it would have been new and daring. It is not so stately that it is not a fortress, though - the ground floor walls are high and sheer, the windows narrow lancets through which light can pass, but not a body. A walkway runs around the upper storeys, though, and guards patrol along it. I smile again, and draw the weighted line from around my waist.
A solitary guard paces his way along the parapet - and I swing the line. Coordination of effort, that is the key. Quon provides the calculations, the precise planning; Carayl supplies the physicality, the grace and dexterity, that turn the plan into action. The weighted line loops around the guard's neck, goes taut as I throw my weight on it - and the guard is down, and I am swarming up the line, clambering over the parapet, in a matter of seconds. I search the guard's corpse, take his security keycard. I do not take his weapon. I need no weapons but myself.
I let myself into the building. Now, I must be ready to improvise - I need to bring my two targets together, and I do not know where one of them is, and I have scant minutes remaining, at best. I make my way along a corridor, past hangings of silk that recount the past honours of T'Khrem's house. I pause at a doorway, peek through -
And I smile once more, because fortune has favoured me.
The room holds T'Khrem's trophies, among them the one I seek, and T'Khrem himself is there, his thick hands caressing a sculpture in Dissulian marble that is worth a not inconsiderable fortune in itself. That, though, is not what I am here for.
I slip into the room and am behind T'Khrem before he can react to the intrusion. He was a mighty warrior in his day, but his day is past. Now, he can only whimper in pain as I strike with scientifically exact blows, breaking jaw, elbows, knees. My instructions are that he should live - and suffer.
I let momentum carry me forward, dragging T'Khrem's bulk with me, to the display case. My hand forces his down on the biometric panel. With my other hand, I trigger the wrist comm which is the only powered item I dared carry. A voice says "Override. Open casing." It is not quite T'Khrem's voice - it is a composite, based on many hours of recordings - but it, and the handprint, are good enough.
The display case is made of transparent aluminium and graphene mesh, with a force-field backup. It would not yield quickly to anything short of high explosives. Now, though, it folds open, and the light of the security field dies away. I drop T'Khrem and pick up the sword. The ceremonial bat'leth of Astigas - I can admire its sparkling tines, its elaborate platinum inlay, without even considering the weight of history, of Klingon tradition, it represents. It is all that remains of a noble line, a whole Klingon nation - its value is near incalculable.
There is a distant commotion outside - sounds, as of someone finding a body. T'Khrem's thick lips are twisted. Despite his pain, he is trying to smile. He thinks I am trapped.
He is still smiling when the lights go out. A fraction of a second later, the sound of an explosion rumbles through the building. I could bring no explosives, no spatial charges - but a Nausicaan guard's disruptor rifle, short-circuited for a force chamber explosion, was quite enough to take out the EPS substation. I hit the wrist comm.
Transporter interdiction failed when the power did. In the red glow of my departure, I can see the smile fade from T'Khrem's face, as I fade away myself.
And I am back in the Beauregard's transporter room, and Rissmo smiles at me from the console, where she has been keeping constant watch, waiting for the power failure. I pull the helmet off my head, shake out my long chestnut-coloured hair. "All done?" the Orion asks.
"As you see." I lift the blade. "And T'Khrem got to watch me take it."
Rissmo's smile grows broader, and she gives me a smouldering look through half-closed eyelids. "Celebrating tonight?" she asks in a sultry voice. She is tall, wide-hipped, bosomy - a notable contrast to Carayl's lithe, athletic frame - but our two bodies have fitted together before in... interesting... ways.
"Maybe. Let's contact our principal, first. And then I'll need a shower." Perspiration is literally pooling inside the impermeable bodysuit. "I stink."
"I'll scrub your back," Rissmo offers. She follows me to the bridge, where Morak is already at work on the comms console. Morak is Klingon, with a powerful build, a craggy, good-humoured face, and unusual light-coloured hair. He, too, offers... interesting possibilities. Some, I have explored; others, I look forward to.
"I have the encrypted channel," he says, as I enter.
I nod. "On screen, then." And I settle myself, and lounge insolently in the command chair. Insolent lounging is one more of the pleasures this body was built for....
The round green face of Suldus appears on the screen. The Syndicate enforcer's eyes glitter in their fleshy setting. I raise the bat'leth. "Mission accomplished."
"And T'Khrem?"
"Alive. And in pain, and humiliated. As you requested."
Suldus purses his lips. "I should ask for details... but I do not think I need to. You have proven reliable to date. A courier pod will arrive to take the artifact. I am transmitting rendezvous coordinates on your data subchannel now." His lips twitch. "The pod will carry the agreed payment."
"Naturally." There is a datapad by the command chair; I pick it up and activate it.
"We should discuss your official entrance into the Syndicate. You have performed well. A sponsorship from Matron Delfin -"
"Perhaps later." I smile at him. The datapad intrigues me. "There are advantages to remaining a free agent, too. I can continue to be useful to the Syndicate... while also picking up some interesting external commissions."
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