Surefoot 81: Murderers' Row

She moved to her drinks cabinet, selecting a rather sturdy Spican flame whiskey. "Still very amusing, Mr Kazan. But, assuming that all of what you said is true about me - and I'm certainly not either confirming or denying any of it - but if it was true, then in all likelihood, I would have ceased such criminal activities long ago, and would be enjoying a well-deserved retirement." She raised her glass in mock salute. "My life here would be far preferable to prison."

The man smirked. "Would it? The exploits of Lady Fantomax, and her ill-gotten gains, are legendary: your theft of the Crown of Volterra, the Ice Jewels of Frigia, the Third Imperial Faberge Egg, the Kappalodis Mechanism, the Last Surviving Banksy...

Legendary, and thrilling. To go from flitting about the Galaxy, breaking into the unbreakable, pilfering the unpilferable-" He frowned, and then smiled. "Is that a word? Well, to continue: to go from all that, to ending up here, isolated, unchallenged, sedentary... stagnant. Stagnating further, hour by hour, day by day. Year by year.

You didn't have to worry about going to prison. You made your own here, in this museum."

Kazan downed the contents of his glass and set it aside on a table, while Ben crawled off him and onto the table, dipping his head into the glass to lick the remains. "I can appreciate that, to a degree. A lifetime ago, I worked as a Captain for the criminal Orsini Cabal on Inferna Prime. I managed, I organised, I delegated, I arbitrated... and when necessary, I enforced.

I bought my way out of my contract with the Cabal, tried to settle down for early retirement in an ordinary job and an ordinary life, in the middle of nowhere... and soon hated every moment of it. I got fat and lazy, and counted the days until my heart would finally get bored and stop beating. Until I found a new lease of life with my current employer. And you can do the same.

Lady Fantomax needs to be talked about again. She needs to get out of this museum and start stealing."

She kept preparing to raise the glass to her mouth, but never actually did anything, as much as she wanted to. She kept preparing to object, to deny, to order these bizarre intruders out, but never actually said anything, as much as she wanted to. She kept preparing to run, to hide in her vault, to do something, to do anything.

Instead, she finally drank, letting the hot liquid coat her insides, before inviting, "Tell me more."

*

Unnamed Prison, Planet Gallos:

"Wake up. Time to die."

Bastien Dumont stirred in his narrow metal bunk, his body aching from another night of shivering, the threadbare blanket they had given him when he first arrived here of token use. He twisted around, the rags that were his clothes ripping, just a little bit more.

"Wake up," his guard repeated, more forcefully now. "Time to die."

They told him that, every day. It was their mantra, their reminder of the power they had over their prisoners. And Dumont considered defying orders today. He had done it before, for many reasons: to test the limits of his captors, to show some measure of defiance to the authority under which he had been placed, to taste some punishment from them and have a short break in the prison infirmary... and, once or twice, just out of sheer boredom.

He never expected them to actually carry out their threat to kill him. Five years ago, give or take a few days when he lost track of time in this Purgatory, when the Son'a had tried and convicted him of theft on Space Station Ta'Landra, his sentences promised a Life of Hard Labour.

And they certainly delivered on that here on Gallos, a mining colony. Little practical mining was actually achieved here as far as Dumont could see, certainly nothing worth keeping this facility running. It was all just to punish their prisoners.

And it was all thanks to that Caitian bastard Esek Hrelle, setting him up during that damn Poker Tournament - and also crushing the bones in his hand. And thanks to his so-called comrades in the Bel-Zon, for not coming to his aid, or even communicating with him. Dumont loathed Hrelle, but at least he was doing his duty, and even had some measure of revenge owing to him, for what Dumont had planned against Hrelle and his family earlier with the Vlathi assassins from Skaros.

But the Bel-Zon? They had no reason to abandon him. He had still been a valuable asset to them. And they just forgot him-

He was rudely dragged from his thoughts by Al'gol, the Son'a guard who had watched over him for nearly all Dumont's time here. He grabbed him and made him sit up on the bunk.

Dumont swallowed, his mouth dry, as if he had been eating some of his scraggly beard during the night. Al'gol made particular, personal demands of his prisoners. And if the prisoners wanted to eat or be deloused or avoid some broken ribs, his prisoners complied.

Dumont had grown used to this long before now. He didn't like it, but he accepted it, as part of his new life here. Numbly he reached for the front of Al'gol's trousers - but the Son'a pulled back. "No time for that this morning. Get up, Prisoner."

He rose, casting aside his blanket and working the aches in his neck and limbs, before following Al'gol out of Dumont's dark, stark, mephitic cell and into the equally insalubrious corridor, seeing no one around. That wasn't unusual; it was time for the morning meal, before being sent down into the quarry to break rocks and dig up miniscule shards of kelbonite and pergium.

He turned left, to the cafeteria, before Al'gol grabbed him by the shoulder, needlessly turning and shoving him in the opposite direction. "No. The Courtyard."

Dumont mentally shrugged and shuffled along. It was probably some announcement from the Prison Commandant-

Wait- what if it wasn't an announcement? What if it was a transfer, a parole of some kind? Maybe even a reprieve?

He had always considered himself a man of good fortune. He had studied probability when he was younger, was curious to learn why some people seemed to be blessed with endless good luck, while others lived their lives like their four leaf clovers had been toxic to them.

One school of thought, more philosophical than physical, opined that every lifeline actually had an equal balance of good and bad luck to them, but spread out unevenly, so it was impossible to see the bigger picture, or possibly if one's luck went particularly bad, their lifeline ended before it could swing back towards the fortunate.

In Dumont's case, he knew he had been blessed for a long time, allowing his legitimate and illegitimate business ventures to thrive, and for his wins at poker and other games of chance to be memorable. So, a part of him remained philosophical when he ended up here — albeit not enough to hold back the bitterness over the endless, mindless slave labour, the deprivation and sexual exploitation from scum like Al'gol. All he had to do was endure, until the cosmic pendulum swung back in his favour?

Maybe, just maybe, that time was now?

At the door to the courtyard, he turned to the guard. "Has something happened?"

Al'gol's tight, slate-grey, mask-like face creased a little. "Yes, as a matter of fact. The So'na have entered a new phase in our existence; we are reunifying with our mother race, the Ba'ku. As part of the Accords we have signed, we are repatriating conquered races like the Tarlac and Ellora, and ending operations within Federation space they have declared illegal under their laws. Now, we're shutting down this prison, cleaning up and going home." He reached out to the control panel beside the door and keyed in a code.

The door slid open. Dumont, his hope raised, stepped outside into the cold, thin, dry air of Gallos, and the muddy courtyard, expecting to see shuttles and Federation personnel, gathered to collect the now-liberated prisoners back to their systems of origin.

He didn't expect to see the bodies of prisoners, gaunt corpses in tattered rags, stacked haphazardly, disruptor burns in chests, backs and heads, disruptor burns matched in numerous places on an adjacent wall of the prison courtyard. In fact, they had emerged in time to see another prisoner being marched up against the wall by guards and left there, stepping back and giving him only a moment to plead with the other guards raising disruptor rifles at him and unceremoniously firing, sending him falling to the ground, to eventually join the pile of bodies.

Dumont was shoved forward by Al'gol. "Wake up. Time to die."

His heart raced. No. No, he couldn't die, not here, not now, not like this. He had so much life left within him, so many things to do. His luck couldn't have run out now! He turned to face his tormentor. "Wait- Al'gol, I still have many contacts out in the Galaxy- money- the Bel-Zon-"

The Son'a made an amused sound. "The Bel-Zon Command was blown to shit on Skaros four years ago. And I hear Starfleet took all your assets. You're alone in the Universe. Forgotten." Now he sneered. "But if it helps, Sweetheart, I'll always remember that talented little mouth of yours." Then he shoved Dumont forward again-

Just as the western wall to the prison, nearest the gate to the work quarry, blew inwards, sending dust and rubble inward in a huge cloud. Dumont instinctively dropped to the courtyard ground, using the cloud as cover to crawl away from Al'gol, as he heard the guard shout to his comrades, before the whine of disruptor fire joined the cloud in the surrounding air- Son'a disruptor weapons, and another type, one Dumont thought he recognised- but it had been so long, so very long-

Someone rushed out of the cloud directly at Dumont, never seeing him, and thus tripping over him and hitting the courtyard ground hard. Dumont had enough time to see that it was a Son'a, wounded from weapons fire, before whomever was pursuing him appeared.

Dumont looked up to see the pursuer: a huge olive-skinned Orion male in black leathers and armour plates and curved blades hanging from a wide belt, brandishing a wicked-looking rifle in both hands. For a second he aimed it at Dumont, before lowering it again and calling out over his shoulder, "I found him!" Then he looked at Dumont again and frowned. "Maybe. All humans look alike to me. What's your name?"

He coughed, for a moment not certain if he should tell him the truth. On the other hand, considering what had been awaiting him moments ago, what did he really have to fear? "Dumont. Bastien Dumont."

The Orion smiled. "For you, that is the best answer you could have given. I am Surinh Dag, and my ship the Green Death is in orbit. I came to collect you." As the cloud cleared, he nodded towards the bodies of the prisoners. "And just in time, it seems." He shouldered the rifle and reached out with a big beefy hand towards him.

Dumont accepted it, rising back to his feet and seeing half a dozen other armed Orions in the courtyard, some entering the main prison building, others approaching fallen guards and shooting them.

The Orion who had questioned Dumont saw this as well, calling out sharply, "Save your power, fools! Use your blades or your boots at this stage, they're cheaper! And get someone to find the anti-transporter shields inside and shut them down, so we don't have to walk all the way back to the beam-down point!" He shook his head. "Sprouts. They'd lose their balls if they weren't attached."

"Who sent you?" Dumont asked, grateful but confused. "They told me my colleagues in the Bel-Zon were all dead."

"They are, as far as I know; you're the last surviving one. But my sponsor is looking to start a new version, and thinks your knowledge of contacts, bases and resources not confiscated by Starfleet would be useful." Surinh Dag looked around him again. "Unless you want to stay on this rock with the corpses?"

That was easier to answer. "Non, Merci."

A moan drew their attention, and both turned to see the Son'a guard who had tripped over Dumont still alive, but trying in vain to crawl away. Surinh Dag drew up and kicked the guard onto his back, letting Dumont identify him as Al'gol, clutching an open wound on his right side, coughing up blood and falling in and out of a semi-consciousness state.

The Orion grunted and was raising his boot to smash down on the guard's head, when Dumont stepped up. "Wait, Monsieur- may I do the honours with this one, please?"

Surinh Dag shrugged and stepped back, offering the human one of his knives. Dumont took it, dropping down to one knee beside Al'gol, bringing it to the guard's throat and slapping him on the face.

The Son'a opened his eyes to look up at Dumont as he announced, with a smile of grim anticipation, relishing the return of his good fortune. "Wake up. Time to die."

*

Stratos City, Ardana:

Even with her respirator, Lady Penelope had difficulty catching her breath, though she put it down to being horribly out of practice crawling through narrow, filthy claustrophobic maintenance vents. The filtered, artificial vision provided by the exographic sensors over her eyes guided her along, but her progress felt as slow as molasses in the dead of an Andorian winter.

In her Embed, Parker's voice asked, "M'Lady, your pulse is accelerating to unhealthy levels. I can beam you out-"

"Thank you, no. I'll be fine." She stopped, mentally reciting a calming mantra. "What did the Hitchhiker's Guide write about Stratos City again?"

"'Stratos, the tranquil capital city of Ardana, is the Galaxy's finest example of sustained anti-gravity engineering. Permanently suspended three thousand metres over the surface of Ardana, it is a serene metropolis of the most exquisite and sublime art and architecture. And this philosophy is suffused in every part of the city. No part of Stratos is not beautiful.'"

She smiled to herself. "I'll have to send an editorial update to the publishers." The exographic sensor let her peer through the vents and the walls beyond. "Still no luck breaching their security?"

"I'm afraid not, M'Lady. Given the enormous safety requirements of the city's antigravity support systems, and terrorist acts committed over the last century by Troglyte Disruptor Sects still seeking equality with the Stratos city dwellers, their computer security is most formidable."

Lady Penelope - no, she corrected herself; she could no longer think of herself like that, it had to be Fantomax crawling through here, even if she ended up being killed - continued onward. Upon accepting the deal with Captain Kazan, he had sent her to Ardana for her first assignment. It was good to get her private vessel, the Thunderbird One, out of proverbial mothballs and head out into space once more, with her house computer's program uploaded into the ship. The assignment should have been relatively simple - but her target proved elusive, and information on it was buried deeper than the zennite mines below.

Still, it was a good way to unearth her equally-buried skills.

She reached her goal: a Security junction with appropriate network interfaces, unoccupied, at least for the moment. "I'm here."

"Yes, M'Lady, scanning the interior now. There are multiphasic anti-transporter shields throughout, and gravitic sensors on the floor."

She began tapping on the control panel unit on her forearm. "Is that it?"

"Well, M'Lady, the room is also airless."

She stopped and looked up at nothing. "Next time, perhaps lead with something like that?"

"Of course, M'Lady."

She resumed her work. Her duonetic pulse should disable the shielding if not the gravitic trap, and her personal transporter unit should provide sufficient power to allow her to beam in and out. The airless state of the room will necessitate the use of her Life Support Belt, and the tractor clamps on her gloves and boots will keep her off the floor.

Then she paused. She could still change her mind. She could return to Risa, or anywhere else, really-

Enough hesitation. She triggered the pulse, and then her Life Support Field, and finally her transporter-

-Her hands and feet shooting out to the nearest wall, the tractors in the clamps allowing her to cling to the wall... barely.

She looked around, found the access unit, and crawled along the wall, gasping.

"M'Lady, your pulse rate-"

"Shut up, Parker, I'm busy." She reached the unit, then carefully reached down to her harness and removed the Leech, placing it onto the unit. "There."

Then she waited. And waited.

In her Embed, a new subcutaneous voice announced LIFE SUPPORT FIELD AT 82%... 73%... 60%... 50%

"Parker?" she prompted, her muscles aching from just hanging there.

"Access to Scalosian Network obtained, M'Lady."

She breathed out. "Good. Have you found him? Is he still on Ardana?"

"Yes, to both questions, M'Lady."

She retrieved the Leech and began crawling back to the ceiling, to beam back into the shaft. "Please tell me I don't have to break in somewhere else."

*

She didn't, she just had to beam down to the surface; the Ardanans were certainly not going to waste precious space in their floating capital for prisons.

The individual she found in the cell where they led her matched the description she'd been given: human, male, mid-twenties, pale-skinned, blonde-haired, lean, sitting in threadbare mauve workclothes, and looking exhausted after another day's forced labour in the nearby zennite mines. Still, she felt obliged to confirm verbally. "Julian Zorin?"

He had been sitting on the floor, head bowed, but now bolted his head upright, making a rueful sound. "Well, you're a little old for my tastes, but beggars can't be choosers. You'll have to do most of the work, though, I'm too tired to raise a smile let alone anything else."

Fantomax eyed him disdainfully. I could always pretend I never found him here... "Mr Zorin, I'm not here for recreational purposes. I was sent by your father's associates to collect you from Ardana to reunite you with him... but the impression I received was that you were a resident here, not a prisoner. May one ask what happened?"

Julian shrugged. "Apparently, being the son of one of the Quadrant's richest men isn't enough to grant one unlimited credit for accommodations, food, wine..." He grinned lasciviously. "And entertainment. They actually wanted to be paid."

"Such audacity."

"I know. And when I found my accounts emptied and the Ardanans refused to allow me to send a long-distance communique to Father's Flunkies, they sent me down here, with the Proles." He raised his hands to display his cuts and calluses. "I hope you'll be inflicting an appropriate punishment for their treating Max Zorin's son in this fashion."

She leaned against the doorway and crossed her arms. "My instructions were to collect you and bring you along. Nothing more."

Something crossed his features. Something nasty. "And what if I made it an order rather than a question?"

"Then I'd remind you that I'm not your employee. Now, are you coming along, or did you wish to stay with the Proles?"

Julian regarded her for a moment, before helping himself up to his feet, dusting off his hands. "I'll need a bath, fresh clothes, some decent wine, food, and definitely some shots of Vraxoin." He looked her up and down. "Oh, and some younger company to help me put this nightmarish episode behind me."

"My starship can provide most of those things, except the narcotics and the company, but I'm certain you'll survive... and along the way to your reunion with your father perhaps even locate some manners to go with the pedigree?"

He looked at her again, before smiling. "I'll see what I can manage, Granny."

*

Capitol City, Ekos:

"HAIL KAOS!"

The battle cry of the black-uniformed men and women with swastika armbands storming the Capitol Building was drowned out by the roar of their machine gun fire, spreading death and destruction to everyone and everything they targeted.