Surefoot 28: Dead Man's Hand

She nodded, allowing herself to be escorted, hoping that they didn't discover the Leech before the others were done.

*

Zad'ik was like a theatrical Master of Ceremonies, all smiles and flashy waves of his arms as he led the six finalists down a corridor, always looking back at them, as if they might be children with limited attention spans. "This is actually my favourite part of the Tournament."

"What," The Romulan woman quipped, "Not counting all the buy-ins you've collected?"

"No," he replied without irony. "This. When all of you see what's on offer to the winner of the Tournament. It's like catching a glimpse of the prey on the horizon, as the Hunt is about to commence." He stopped at an armoured door, where two heavily-armed Tarlac guards stood. They stepped away, allowing Zad'ik to enter a security sequence, before stepping back. "One moment, while the Vault is cleaned."

"Cleaned?" the Ferengi, Hazo, repeated, as if he couldn't believe his oversized ears, chuckling. "That's not how you launder money, Zad'ik."

The Son'a was watching a visual display counting down. "Among other security measures such as pressure-sensitive gravitic floor traps and deadlocks, the Vault interior is filled with Tholian triselenide mist when unoccupied."

"Mist?" Henry Gondroff asked. "What, like a poison gas?"

"Not quite: the mist is actually a cloud of microscopic triselenide, very sharp crystals that Tholians use to scour clean their outer carapaces, a substance similar to that which now lines the interior of the Vault. For most carbon-based lifeforms and other materials, however, contact with the mist would be like falling into a vat filled with a billion tiny blades." Zad'ik grinned. "There literally wouldn't be enough left of you to ship home to your next of kin." The countdown ended, and the door rolled aside.

Zad'ik confidently led them into a windowless interior lined from top to bottom with a pale, salmon-pink ceramic material, interspersed with apertures where the aforementioned mist was pumped out or in. The material was also luminous, providing light to the walls, revealing doors of various sizes.

The Son'a moved to one door a square metre in area at the far end of the Vault, triggering a final lock on it before opening the door, revealing a storage unit filled to capacity an ornately-decorated rectangular box of shimmering gold and various oval jewels of different colours, and covered in ancient-looking script.

Zad'ik indicated the box, as if the finalists might have overlooked it. "Dear friends, allow me to introduce you to an object of ineffable rarity and value: a Bajoran Orb."

Hrelle suppressed his shock, though several of the other finalists who, like Hrelle, recognised the term, were more open in their amazement.

"The Tears of the Prophets," Zad'ik crooned in a mesmerising voice, clearly relishing the chance to show off his latest acquisition to others. "One of only a handful of artefacts sent into this universe by the aliens living in the Bajoran Wormhole, the Orbs were taken by the Cardassians for study. But the objects defied all attempts at this, while their powers proved both undeniable and arcane."

"I see a box," the Ferengi Hazo declared, squinting at it. "Not an Orb."

"This is the original Orb Ark," Zad'ik explained, smiling as he reached out and opened the little doors at the front of the Ark -- as a dazzling, shimmering brilliance emanated from an hourglass-shaped crystal object within, lighting them all up even further.

Hrelle blinked, wanting to stare deeply into the light even as he felt an atavistic desire to turn away. He had read stories about the Orbs, knew that Starfleet and Federation scientists saw them as artefacts of alien sophistication rather than mystical objects of reverence like the Bajorans. But the Bajorans' rights to possess them again was inarguable.

Hrelle didn't believe in anything Divine. But the thought that after all the horrors, the loss, that the Bajorans had suffered over the generations, that one of their Orbs could end up a prize in a poker game, felt... blasphemous.

The Klingon Achatch stared as if hypnotised. "They are supposed to have special abilities... what abilities does this one have?"

"No one knows," Zad'ik beamed. "Not for this one, anyway. Others have been known to manipulate space or even time, or induce visions or prophecies of the past or the future, healing the sick..."

"Maybe it's just a fancy bedside reading light," Gondroff muttered.

"I think I'd rather have gold-pressed latinum," the Ferengi groused.

"You two have no vision," the Romulan declared contemptuously. "The Bajorans would give you one of their moons to get back one of their precious Orbs. They'd pay anything."

"Or you could keep it," Dumont suggested, still staring at it. "Imagine the advantage you could have if it gave you visions of the future."

"Some of us have futures that are already more obvious than others," Hrelle pointed out helpfully from the rear.

Dumont turned in alarm, as if rudely shaken out of his thoughts with the reminder of Hrelle's proximity. But Hrelle was distracted himself by this unexpected twist in the plan. They couldn't leave the Orb in the hands of anyone here.

Back outside with the rest, he scanned the crowd of spectators, seeing his wife near the bar. As he stepped apart from the others, signalling a waitress for another whiskey, he waited until he was alone again, before murmuring in Old Caitian, "Nod if you hear me."

Kami sat alone, but nodded.

Inwardly he thanked his luck as he continued. "Change of plan. The Prize is a Bajoran Orb. It's coming with us."

He watched her make a show of bringing her glass to her mouth, covering her reply: "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Tell Violet. Hurry."

"Captain Hrelle?"

He turned; Zad'ik was near the Finalist's Table, looking at him curiously. "Are you okay, Captain?"

He shrugged and approached. "I was praying to the Great Mother for good fortune."

"Have Her throw some my way," Gondroff joked, cracking his knuckles and making the Ferengi nearby wince.

"Let us leave superstititon out of this," Tala suggested. "And proceed to what's important."

"Yes," Athach concurred. "We have wasted enough time."

Hrelle chuckled. "A Klingon and a Romulan in agreement? I guess miracles do happen." Hrelle spared a final glance towards his wife, satisfied with her departure -- and hoping his First Officer can pull a proverbial ace from her sleeve.

*

Kami rushed down the Promenade, touching her Embed. "Gold to Blue: I'm on my way, urgent message from Brown, order an Emergency Pizza from Violet."

She was in the hotel room seconds before there was another chime at the door, and a Vulcan female in the plain white linen outfit of the hotel kitchen staff entered, carrying a large pizza box, handing it to Neraxis and Sasha. "I hope you are offering gratuities to the staff; the wages offered by this establishment are minimal."

The Bolian opened the box, grimacing. "Vegetarian?"

"It is a healthier and more ethical choice." T'Varik turned to Kami. "The rumours in the kitchens are that Captain Hrelle has made it to the Final Round."

"Yes -- but he's told me that the Prize is a stolen Bajoran Orb."

Everyone in the room looked to her, T'Varik nodding in understanding. "This of course changes our priorities. We must retrieve it."

Neraxis had helped herself to a fresh slice, removing the black olives from the cheese. "Why? I thought we said recovering the stolen Prizes wasn't our priority."

"This isn't just some painting or archaeological relic," Kami reminded her soberly. "It's a very important symbol of the Bajoran people, even if we only see them as advanced objects from the Wormhole aliens."

"And even employing merely our own scientific perspective," T'Varik added, "The Orbs possess properties that could prove potentially dangerous in the wrong hands, hence the standing orders from Starfleet Command to use all reasonable means to obtain and return the Orbs to the Bajorans." She nodded to herself. "Our mission has become more than just intelligence gathering, and will require a considerable reconsideration on my part as to the original plan." She paused and continued. "It is done."

"And about time," Sasha quipped. "You took almost 3 seconds."

"3.1416 seconds; endeavour to be more precise in future, Ensign. Our objectives have expanded. We are now engaged not only in intelligence gathering, but also theft."

"Theft?" Neraxis asked, smiling with delight.

"I believe the ancient Terran terminology for this will be a 'caper'. Mr Ostrow, you studied the technical specifications of the Corsaire?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he nodded, "A Corona-class light freighter adapted for high speed private transport and-"

"Is it capable of delivering a duonetic pulse strong enough to disable the station's primary systems?"

Jonas paused to call up some figures, before responding with, "It... should, Commander. But the Station possesses a holistic redundancy network capable of immediately rerouting through available systems."

"Not if a set of Ms Nemm's phaser grenades, detonated immediately prior to the pulse, disrupts that network. Can the Leech planted by Counselor Hrelle access the security specifications of the Casino vault?"

Quickly he checked again. "Yes. Here you go-"

"Please, go help yourself to pizza and prevent Ms Hrelle from developing a waistline comparable to her father's." The Vulcan ignored the obvious cursing in Old Caitian from Sasha as she sat down and access the specifications. "Multiphasic shielding with multiple independent redundancies preventing transporter beams, gravitic floor traps, and triselenide mist employed in the interior. Theft will be... difficult. But not impossible, not with the Special Equipment from Starfleet Intelligence I brought with us. Ms Nemm, set my case on the bed and open it."

"Maybe we'll get lucky," Sasha suggested. "And Dad will just win it legitimately?"

"When your father agreed to participate in the Tournament to observe and distract Dumont, it was with the caveat that victory is not guaranteed, for him or for anyone -- especially if the game turns out to be 'rigged'. Should theft become necessary, we will have only a limited window of opportunity in which the accomplish it."

"So who'll do the actual thieving?"

"Lt C'Rash. She has proved to be a most limber individual." She looked to the cadets. "And that is not a cue for sexual innuendo. From any of you."

Jonas and Neraxis flushed and looked elsewhere. Sasha almost looked like she would reply anyway -- but settled for another defiant slice of pizza.

*

Captain DaSilva matched the description given to C'Rash by Jonas: Terran, pink-skinned, middle-aged, overweight, bald. He didn't mention the wandering hands, but then she supposed she couldn't have guessed that those were a standard feature for someone who would visit an establishment like this.

Still, she danced and gyrated in front of him, letting herself move to the booming music from the speakers around them, her tail swishing behind her as she met with his obvious, enthusiastic approval.

He leaned back in his chair as she finally straddled him, his interest obvious now to her, her hands moving over his clothes, her muzzle at his throat, purring against him while she searched for his- there!

She slid the ID out of his pocket while distracting him with a long, luscious lick of his throat, forcing down her disgust at his taste. Vulcans were far more appetising...

She drew back and smiled at him.

Then she extended her claws and dug them into his neck and shoulders.

His eyes widened and his interest wilted instantly as pain ran through him. He screeched in a soprano voice as she drew blood, and he struggled to force her off him as she held on, making sure she got a lot of his blood under her claws. The nightclub's security staff, the manageress and Weynik drew up, the Roylan sounding suitably aghast as he scolded, "Bad Kitty! Bad! Stop that this instant!" He looked to the Manageress as C'Rash rose from the man's lap and stepped back. "I'm so sorry about this, she's in Season right now and sometimes forgets to take her suppressants-"

The Son'a was horrified at the man's injuries, before looking to C'Rash and Weynik. "You barbarians! I'll have you arrested! Call Station Security!"

Weynik tensed, looking to C'Rash, silently signally her to get ready to fight their way out of there-

Until Rrori stepped up, nursing his champagne glass. "Excuse me? Do we have to have Security involved in this? I'd rather not have my evening spoiled."

Nearby, DaSilva had a cloth wrapped around his neck and shoulders, pressing down tightly as the material soaked in his blood. "Spoiled? That filthy Cat tried to kill me!"

The Son'a manageress looked to Rrori. "Excuse me, Sir, please stay out of this-"

But Rrori held up several strips of gold-pressed latinum. "Would this cover the damages?" He looked to DaSilva. "There's some here for you too, Sir, for your trouble. I'm sure the Medical Bay on the Station can get those scratches seen to in no time, and get you back here to continue your shore leave."

The human looked to him suspiciously, wincing at the pain. "Why would you do that? Do you know her?"

"No." He gave C'Rash a wink. "I wouldn't mind getting to know her, though. A Caitian male knows how to handle a female in Season, but not if she's locked away somewhere."

The Son'a looked to DaSilva, exchanging a silent negotiation before she decided, "Fine. But do your handling elsewhere. And don't come back!"

"Of course, of course." Rrori looked to Weynik and motioned to the exit. "Shall we head back to my ship and settle on terms?"

The Roylan grinned. "Yes, let's." He snapped his fingers at C'Rash. "Let's go, Kitty."

Rrori chuckled -- until C'Rash hissed at him.

*

Dumont tried to stay calm, to focus on the initial hands between the finalists. This was the time when they took the measure of each other, gauged their strengths and weaknesses and identify their tells.

The Terran Henry Gondroff was a living legend, a veteran -- but only in his own sector, never having played the Tournament before now, and so far his tactics leaned towards the cautious.

The Klingon Achatch played like his people fought: with reckless abandon, cursing his gods of luck whenever he lost, when to Dumont's trained eye the man seemed to have been lucky to get as far as he had.

The Romulan Tala, meanwhile, was the polar opposite, registering only just enough presence to stay in the game, adopting her people's tactics to isolationism, possibly to become more aggressive as the players were whittled down.

Only the Ferengi Hazo showed panache, an unpredictable mix of the two, but Dumont thought he would get the measure of him before long.

It helped that Dumont had made himself familiar beforehand with many of those most likely to end up in the Final Round, and hold information that could get under their skin.

But his attention still returned to Hrelle, sitting opposite, as far away as he could get while still be at the table, silent since the Final Round started, seemingly having a better go at focusing on the game than Dumont. The fear that lingered in the back of Dumont's head was like a globfly, buzzing and unignorable.

"Call," Hrelle said, the growl in his voice a further distraction.

The others met the call; the Ferengi won this hand with a delighted cackle. Dumont called for another drink, against his better judgement. It was too quiet; they had cleared the audience of anyone unwilling to pay the additional spectator fee to watch the Final Round, and had darkened the surrounding area, leaving only the table strongly lit. Hrelle was putting him off-

Putting him off... intentionally? Was it a tactic on the Caitian's part, to throw Dumont off his game, and let Hrelle take advantage? It made sense. If Hrelle had truly been after revenge, he surely would have taken it before now, and give himself a better chance at the Prize?

And the more Dumont considered it likely, the angrier he grew, that he could fall for such an amateurish tactic.

Well, he decided, two can literally play at that game... as they prepared for the next hand, he regarded Hrelle. "Cheer up, Captain. This isn't your first beating. It's happened to you many times, I know."

The Caitian looked up and across the table. "Excuse me, Monsieur Dumont?"

"When you were first captured by the Bel-Zon, almost nine years ago? You surely couldn't have forgotten that?" Dumont looked to the others, who displayed bemused ignorance of the details. "Do you not know the story? We needed the security codes to Station Salem Four, codes locked in Captain Hrelle's brain. So we killed his crew on the Furyk and captured him.

In the subsequent days he spent with us, we broke over a third of his bones. We removed his claws. We raped him. We burned and scarred him. By the end, when we were cutting off his tail, he gave up the information. He was wailing like a baby, begging, pleading for us to stop." He focused on Hrelle's face. "We gave you such a gift, Captain. The Gift of Indescribable Agony."

The others looked dumbfounded at Hrelle, who stared back at Dumont for a moment, before finally replying, "And I never got you anything in return." Now he looked to the dealer. "Is there a gift shop on this station? Do you sell fridge magnets or snowglobes?"

That elicited chuckles from some of the other players and spectators. Dumont glowered -- but then saw the cracks in the Caitian's demeanour.

Dumont was getting to him. Good.

*

Neraxis crawled through the maintenance ducts, thoroughly enjoying herself; as much as she accepted the importance of standing guard in the hotel room over Jonas and the others, she relished being able to take a more active role in the operation.

"Almost there, Blue," Jonas informed her through her Embed. "Just a little bit more. I'll tell you when to stop."

She laughed to herself. "That's what you said last night, White."

"Let's keep it professional, Blue. Stop; plant the grenade on the junction port immediately over your head."

"Acknowledged." She twisted onto her back, removing another phaser grenade from her pouch, activating its tractor clamp and attaching it to the aforementioned port. "Done. How many more?"

"Five. The next one nearest you is twenty metres ahead, and two levels down. Get moving, please, we're on a schedule."

"Yes, Sir." She smiled; Jonas sounded so commanding, it was such an amazing maturity since the early days when he wouldn't say Boo to a tribble. People said the same thing about her, but she didn't see it herself.

*

Dumont forced himself to slow down his drinking. Henry Gondroff proved to be the first one to leave the table; his legendary status was obviously only among the lesser-skilled, and the rest of them had made an unconscious effort to team up and clean him out. He departed, though he left his money behind, divided up evenly among the others.

Dumont had hoped that Hrelle would have been the first to go, but clearly he was made of sterner stuff. He didn't expect a Starfleet officer to be such a good poker player, but then by all accounts, Hrelle was an unusual figure.

So who was next?

Achatch. Yes, the Klingon. And then maybe Hrelle will finally crack, make a fatal mistake and go, too.

And then Dumont would send more assassins for the Caitian bastard. As many as it would take to wipe Hrelle and his misbegotten family from the face of the Galaxy.

Then the next hand started. "Achatch, how is your House doing since that cowardly assassination?"

The Klingon looked at him. "Assassination?"