Surefoot 44: Beach Party

"Oh." He seemed to pale at the notion. "That makes... sense."

Zir heard the unspoken unease behind his carefully-chosen response... and didn't blame him. "I have to admire you for trying to pick up both Tongues of my people's language."

Angstrom smiled. "Thanks. I tried to tackle the Trader's Tongue as well, but there were so many contradictory rules and statements in it, I couldn't begin to grasp it."

She nodded in understanding. "It's designed not to be understood by outsiders. It's more an argot, a code between businesses."

"Oh. Do you know it?"

She smiled slightly. "Yes. My father traded in kivas, and he taught me so I could help out in the store." Thoughts of her father, whom she hadn't seen in years since fleeing Orion space, sobered her present warm feeling, but she pushed it aside.

He nodded in comprehension, and looked to her with genuine regard. "Thank you for helping me, Ma'am."

"Call me Zir. We're not on duty now, are we?"

"No, we're not," he agreed. "And I'm Niles."

She smiled. "A pleasure to meet you, Niles."

*

Something was wrong, Urad decided.

He had been doing his best, going through the qualifying rounds with the other contestants, easily lifting weights at twenty-five-kilo intervals, and winnowing out those unable to keep up. Twenty became sixteen, then twelve, and so on, and so on...

And now there was three, Urad included of course: one was a beefy Klingon, someone who seemed more muscle than anything else, and an obvious rival for the title and the prize.

But the other? A Ferengi? Urad had never met one in the flesh before, but everything he had read and heard about them said that all of their strengths lay in their ability to lift other people's money, not weights. This one, whose name was apparently Tuba, had some muscle on him -- his pink tank top and shorts and those oversized gloves didn't hide much -- and his limbs looked like they had a little bit of muscle on them, but... certainly not enough to keep up with the likes of Urad and the Klingon! Were Ferengi heavyworlders, like his own people? He never read-

"Ready, contestants?" the competition host asked the three of them.

"Yes, let's get going!" Tuba declared exuberantly.

"Suq Qu'maj!" the Klingon bellowed.

"Yes," Urad punctuated curtly, starting to feel the effort he had been putting into this. Now they were on the 375-kilo hurdle; the weights sat before them on the mats, challenging them to do their best.

"Then assume your lifting stance," the host declared. "Ready... and... LIFT!"

Urad crouched, grasped the barbell, rolled his neck, breathed out, and raised it up- oh Gods, he was lifting a mountain!

The barbell rose up in an arc towards his chest, as he lifted with his knees, straightening up with a shudder that ran through his body, before finally lifting the weight up over his head, to the applause of the crowds.

On his left, the Klingon lost his grip, and had to dart backwards as the weights landed back onto his mat, with the sickening sound of the concrete underneath the padding cracking making some in the audience react. The Klingon cursed loudly and stormed off in a huff.

Urad was gasping, as he held up the weight long enough to qualify, before stepping back once and dropping it with more control than the Klingon had. He glanced to his right-

And Tuba was still holding his up, with what looked like hardly any effort on his part. He was grinning with those jagged, crooked teeth of his, his bulbous salmon-pink head glistening in the Sherman sun, as the crowd went mad for the apparent underdog.

Urad massaged his aching biceps. What was going on?

*

Peter decided he hated the ocean. Hated it with a passion one should only reserve for the fiends who wiped out one's family and stole their True Love.

When he fell off the board for the sixth time, and Brad rescued him and dragged him and the board back to the beach, he considered giving up and going back to Alpha Squad. He could always lie and say that he'd done it, and get the likes of Astrid and the others off his back.

But then... he'd look up into Brad's deep blue eyes, feel those hands as they held Peter up effortlessly, and listen as the other man asked, "Are you sure you want to keep doing this, dude? You seem like you might need to get some practice lessons on the Holodeck?"

Then Peter would find some resolve, deep down somewhere... probably below the waistline. "I'm not- I'm not giving up on you- THIS! I mean, I'm not giving up on this!"

*

The wine was rich, and not synthehol-based, something Astrid wasn't accustomed to, and it was starting to get to her head.

As were Salazar's questions. The man had started out in casual, conversational mode, but now was beginning to make her feel more like she was being interrogated, especially about her last few years in Starfleet, and the time before. He was in the midst of trying to get her to talk about Charles Michel's current plans, when she asked, "What did you say was your reason for being on Sherman's?"

"Hmm? Oh, my family had secured real estate here for development, and-"

"No. No, you said they had secured a shipping deal for quadrotriticale grain."

He paused. "Yes. The real estate involves-"

"You're lying. Who are you? A reporter?"

Salazar stared at her, seemingly pensive, before asking directly, "You were a part of the Michel Dynasty from infancy up until the age of twelve, included in their social calendar, family announcements, you appeared in images and visuals in all the media. Then you simply vanished."

Her heart was racing, and her face felt like it was on fire. "I- I joined Starfleet Academy-"

"That was when you were sixteen, years after. Then there were rumours going around, about your mother being sent to Tharsis Prison on Mars, at the same time that you dropped out of the Michel Family's lives. Why? What did she do? What did you do?"

Astrid felt like she was going to throw up, and she rose to her feet. "Good day-"

Now he bolted up as well, reaching out to her with his hand.

She lifted up her own hand to deflect it, but her coordination was off from the wine, and he pressed... something... onto her neck. She felt it clamp onto her skin there, and tried to reach for it, to cry out for help.

Only she couldn't do either. She froze in place, fully aware, fully terrified, but completely immobile. What- What was going on?

Salazar studied her for a moment, before ordering, "Sit down."

She sat, unable to prevent herself from obeying.

He took his own seat, reaching out and finishing her wine before reaching into the pocket of his jacket, his demeanour all business. "Try to stay calm, and don't try to fight it. Your current immobility is due to the Corvallen synaptic clamp now on the base of your skull, overriding your higher motor functions."

As he set out on the table a small black device and flexible headset visual recorder, he continued. "Don't worry. I've used it enough times to know the effects will wear off once I remove it."

Now he seemed to regard her, with a look of undisguised disdain. "Remarkable... somehow you've managed to become an even more arrogant, stuck-up, privileged little bitch than when I last saw you at that charity function; it took all of my self-control to not just smack you in the face today when you kept going on about the Pacifica Yacht Show and skiing in Aspen with your family.

Of course you never really recognised me; I wasn't a guest at the function like I claimed. I was a waiter, an anonymous functionary. None of you rich bastards see people like me, or care, so long as we stay silent and servile."

He smirked. "Now look who's the silent, servile one?"

Stop it, stop it, whatever you're doing, stop it, please, please-

Then he fitted the recorder headset over his right eye and ear, before leaning in. "Listen very carefully, because we don't have much time, before the Clamp causes you irreversible neurological damage: when I signal you, you will state your name, and tell me what happened between you, your mother, and Charles Michel. You'll remain calm, cool, collected, showing no signs of duress. And you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. If you try to resist, it will cause you pain, and increase the potential for injury."

No. No, you can't do this to me someone has to help someone has to see what you were doing to me help me help me HELP ME-

Salazar leaned back, adjusted the recorder. "Now, Ms Michel: start talking."

And she did.

*

Tori had seen the commotion on the beach, and peering closely over the edge of the Boardwalk, she recognised Urad as one of a handful of contestants lifting massive-looking weights over their heads, to applause. Tori smiled; of course her friend would get involved in something where he gets to flex his muscles. Or eat.

The rumble of engine sounds caught her attention, and she turned around to see Bixmyx and his gang ride up to her, practically surrounding her as she declared loudly, "What did I tell you pack of dipshits about riding on the Boardwalk?"

Bixmyx dismounted from his bike. "The Black Knights live by their own code, Chickie."

"Black Knights? Who the stroke are the Black Knights?"

"Us, Baby Doll!" He turned, to display the name festooned on the backs of all their jackets, as the others nodded and made sounds of solidarity.

Tori frowned. "It says 'Black Knits."

"What?"

"You've spelled it 'Knits', not 'Knights', you Nimrods!"

Bixmyx frowned too now, then made a show of trying to look behind at his own jacket, succeeding only in rotating in place like a dog chasing its own tail.

Tori threw up her hands in defeat. "Get out of here, Biscuitmix, before someone calls for your keepers! I've got places to go, things to do-"

"No, wait!" Bixmyx drew up to her, making a show of slicking back his helmet of hair before announcing, "You have the supreme honour of winning the heart of Buzz Bixmyx! And when you win the heart of Buzz-"

"Wait wait wait wait wait WHAT?" She was certain she was being pranked by one of the other squads. "Stroke off!"

She started to move off, but Bixmyx cut her off. "Hey, I'm being serious, Baby Doll! I even wrote you a poem!"

"Listen, Pigdicks, you call me 'Baby Doll' again, and I'm gonna show you a new way to ride your bike! I'm only here to hear David Meowie sing! You and everyone else here can kiss my ass!"

Tori tried to dodge him, but he cut her off once more, before dropping to one knee, arms outstretched, as he intoned, "My love is built on a thousand black sandcastles made of something that is not sand / It cuts through the torment of my soul like a screaming jackalope / Your beauty is like a Phalanx rising from the ashes / Let me touch your-"

She kicked him in the stomach and sent him hurtling back into the nearest member of his gang, who toppled to one side, knocking into the next one, and then the next one, sending all of them going like dominoes.

Nearby, a child laughed and announced, "I LIKE CLOWNS!"

Then Tori climbed over the Boardwalk rail and leapt down onto the sand, before making her way through the bemused crowds.

On the Boardwalk, Bixmyx helped himself back to his feet, looking out at the crowds on the beach, not seeing the object of his affections, but nodding to himself. "Okay, Baby Doll, you want me to prove myself? I'll do it! Love has made me an unstoppable Juggalo!"

*

In the Castaway, Stalac was tapping one extension of his uneven perimeter to simulate impatience. "Skipper, while I appreciate the opportunity to sample any number of different metals and minerals in your possession, I should repair to my friends, with or without the drinks I came in here for-"

"Hold on, little Buddy, I've go one more here for you."

The human returned from the room behind his bar, carrying a small box Stalac's senses recognised instantly as common lead. "Ah... thank you, Skipper, but I've been eating base metals like that since I was hatched..."

"My final offering is not the case," the human informed him, dropping to one knee and setting the box down. "But what's inside." He carefully removed the lid and set it aside, and for a moment Stalac wondered if he had something radioactive inside, reacting with alarm -- not for his own sake, as his Horta physiology wouldn't be affected, but for the sake of the Skipper and the surrounding Carbs.

Then his alarm melted into curiosity, as the Skipper tilted the box towards Stalac, as Stalac perceived the jagged hunk of black metal... floating within the confines of the box, rising until the Skipper nudged it back down again. "What... is that?"

"A traveller brought it in a year or so back," the Skipper explained, smiling at Stalac's reaction. "She said she found it on Luna, in the wreckage of some early Terran exploration vessel that crashed there, some vessel that used this metal to propel itself instead of rockets or impulse engines. She called it Cavorite, and it apparently has negative gravitational mass. Allegedly." The skipper smirked at the notion.

"Really?" Stalac asked distractedly, mesmerised. He has never encountered or even read anything about something like this. "Why- Why did she give it to you?"

"Oh, it was a trade-off, she needed some mercury for fluid links in this blue box she had. Anyway, I've never had a use for the metal except as a novelty, but now..." He tipped the box completely, letting the piece of Cavorite float towards the Horta.

Stalac remained transfixed. He should take it, take it back with him to the ship for study. It would make a fascinating paper. A fascinating study.

But it smelled irresistible.

Perhaps he could sample a little bit of it, and save the rest of it for study-

He rose and clamped down onto the Cavorite and dissolved it whole.

Oh dear.

The new, unfamiliar material coursed through what passes for his arteries and veins.

The Skipper rose and chuckled. "Well, Little Buddy? How does that make you feel?"

Stalac tried to process the sensations. Hortas had more or less the same range of emotions and feelings as the Carbs he lived and worked with. He knew happiness, contentment, anger, fear, hope, joy, anger, despair, frustration, envy, curiosity (lots of that), depression, contemplation...

But this?

"I feel... pretty.... Oh so pretty... I feel pretty, and witty, and gay. And I pity, any Horta who isn't me today..."

His voder unit took on an uncharacteristic musical tone as he rumbled and rocked in place. "I feel charming, oh so charming! / It's alarming how charming I feel! / And so pretty / That I can hardly believe that I'm real!"

*

At the restaurant, Salazar was putting away his recording equipment. "I can't thank you enough for this, Ms Michel..." He glanced up at her, smirking. "Or whatever you should be called now. Frankly I'm amazed Charlie Boy even let you keep the name."

He reached out and took her wineglass, quickly finishing off the remains. "You know, you were the talk of High Society the summer he banished you; there were all sorts of nasty rumours about you -- even that you were a shapeshifter planted in the Michel household to obtain corporate secrets.

But the truth has turned out to be... rather sad, actually. Charles Michel really did a number on you. So did your mother, and the authorities he bought. I almost feel sorry for you... especially knowing what will happen if this information is made public."

He shrugged. "I suppose I could try to make a deal with Charles Michel to keep his dirty little secret out of the news, but knowing how that man operates, I think it'd be safer for me just to offer it to the news agencies. Nothing personal, sweetie, I hope you understand."

He rose, looking her over, before leaning in and murmuring in her ear, "When you recover, you'll want to report me to the local police. Don't bother: most people won't even have heard of a synaptic clamp, and when used properly, it leaves no neurological trace in its victim, I have witnesses downstairs that will swear we were having a nice, pleasant conversation up here... and I even have a recording of your opening up to me about your tragic past." He patted her cheek. "You're not the first person I've used this on. And I'm still around."

He drew in closer, licking her ear as he added, "Be thankful we're not in my hotel room. I'd have taken more from you than just your secrets." He removed the clamp and pocketed it. "Adios, puta."

Astrid sat there after he left, seemingly staring out into the Marina, desperate to try to move her arms, her legs, a finger, to make a sound, to do something, anything of her own free will. Damn it, work work work WORK WORK WORK-

Finally she felt herself trembling, shuddering almost violently. At first, she feared that Salazar had been mistaken, that she was undergoing a bad side effect of his device and she was having a seizure. Then she realised she was sobbing.

Her first attempt to rise to her feet resulted in her making the table shake, and her wine glass tip over, roll and land with a crash to the balcony floor. She straightened herself up, wiping her face quickly as she heard someone coming up the steps, as the barman appeared. "Ms Michel, are you okay? Do you require assistance-"

He was reaching for her, but she drew away, holding up a hand to stop, forcing her voice to serve her again. "N-No- No thank you- have to- have to go-" She caught her breath, her thoughts racing ahead. "My- my friend left without- without telling me where he was staying. I was supposed to meet him there. Can you- can you be a dear and look it up through his credit record at the bar?"

*

"Aren't our final two contestants AMAZING?" the competition host cried out, eliciting cheering. "Let's give them a hand!"

Urad barely heard them. He was fatigued beyond belief, and felt ready to collapse into a huge grey pile. Meanwhile, Tuba was triumphantly raising his gloved hands in the air like a pugilist, dancing around, feeding on the cheers.

How was he doing it?

"Hey, Dickhead!"

Urad turned his head, looking down from the dais to Tori, who had pushed her way to the front. "Little Comrade! You- You shouldn't be here, to witness my humiliation-"

"Why are you letting him cheat?"

The Hroch blinked. "Cheat? How?"

She pointed to the Ferengi. "He obviously has antigrav mechanisms in his gloves!"

Urad looked over at Tuba, who was now flirting with some of the more attractive, scantily-clad humanoid females on the other side of the dais, beneath the flickering holoscoreboard. "How is it obvious?"

Tori pointed to the board. "Graviton generators interfere with forcefields; there's a shitload of Starfleet Safety Regs against using antigrav units near holodisplays, Security cells, atmospheric and quarantine fields-"

Urad had heard enough. He saw Tuba had taken off his gloves to powder his hands, and rushed over to pick them up, feeling the weight of them in his grip.

The Ferengi reacted with fury. "Hey, Fatso! What are you doing? Give those back!"

Urad made a show of holding them up, just out of reach of Tuba. "They are lovely, Comrade Competitor!"

Tuba tried to jump up to get them back, unsuccessfully. "They should be! They're expensive! Genuine Thanos recreations from the Marvel Collection! Those are real jewels in the knuckles!"

"Yes," Urad agreed -- crushing the gloves, watching them spark with electrical discharges.

Tuba's jaw dropped.

Urad handed them back. "Shall we finish this off now?"

He returned to his barbell, as the host urged Tuba to do the same. The Ferengi slowly, reluctantly followed suit, tried to put on his gloves, and threw them away in frustration when he failed. He was sweating now as he flexed his fingers.