Surefoot 81: Murderers' Row

Now, he needed someone, anyone, to help him. But as he dragged himself to his personal flyer, he realised he must have left it far, far too late. But the flyer sat just inside the vehicle bay, waiting. He could get there. He could get himself inside, and order the computer to take him to the nearest collection of survivors.

If there were any.

He was only ten metres away. He could make it. He could make it. He'd find help. He'd be cured. And then he would finally screw up the courage and ask Jesse out to the Harvest Dance in August-

He stopped, exhausted, pain throbbing in his head like a thresher engine.

Footfalls made him turn his head, to see a tall robed figure approach from the road, striding quickly, with strength.

His heart raced, and he gasped to call out, his mouth as dry as a desert, "H-Help- Help me-"

The figure stopped and knelt beside Joad, drawing back her hood to reveal a slim, middle-aged Vulcan female, with ruddy cheeks and flecks of grey hair around the pointed ears. She held a tricorder in her hand, passing it over him. "Stage IV of the virus... Major systems malfunction... metabolic collapse should have been fatal for you before now... how have you survived?"

Joad gasped, his head pounding, not sure he was even seeing or hearing this. "I- Help me- please-"

She frowned at the readings on her tricorder. "Ah, I see. You have a metabolic regulator implant, compensating for a lymphatic disorder not normally treatable... yes, that would certainly extend your remaining time. However, the virus has reached your heart; it's about to fail." She set aside her tricorder and removed a canteen from her belt, unscrewing and drinking from it.

Joad's vision was fading, but he saw the canteen, and gestured weakly towards it. "Thirs- Thirsty- Please-"

She regarded him directly now, her sharp eyebrows creasing. "There is no logic in wasting water on you. You are expected to die in the next 1.47 minutes."

Her response was ice cold, even for a Vulcan. Joad felt himself panic. Why? Why was she acting like this? He didn't recognise her as being a resident here. Didn't she come in response to the emergency? "H-Help me- Please-"

She set aside her canteen and checked her tricorder once more. "There is no help for you, not at this stage of my plague, even if I provided some of my own immunity."

"Your- Your plague? I don't-" His panic triggered pain that shot through his chest, as his body twisted and contorted, and his vision and voice failed entirely.

Beside Thomas Joad's dying form, Doctor Orlok returned her canteen to her belt and walked back to her ship, eyes fixed on the readings from her tricorder, connected to the remote sensors she secretly planted throughout the colony prior to her experiment, monitoring the spread of her augmented version of Miri's Plague.

She was pleased with the results: a 100% mortality rate within 112 hours following first infection, but with the genetic wrappings around the virus unravelling within 280 hours, rendering the virus inert, and allowing the planet to be recolonised within a reasonable period, and without damaging any of the infrastructure. And as a bonus, she could offer her own immunity program for a reasonable fee should her potential clients fear residual infection-

She stopped as she felt the quantum swaddle of a transporter beam lift her up from the surface of Macilles III. She braced herself, estimating a 96.5% probability of it being a Starfleet rescue party, and prepared a cover story for her presence.

She reassessed her tactics as she found herself in a small transporter room, of a non-Starfleet design, helmed by an older pale-skinned human woman with ponytailed silver hair, dressed in black with a multi-pocketed utility belt... and a weapon in a holster on her right hip, that came into view as she stepped away from the transporter console.

Orlok drew up, choosing to continue to employ her cover identity. "Thank you for your timely rescue. I am T'Falk, a dealer in kevas and trellium."

The human rested her hand on her weapon, her voice laced with an accent Orlok recognised as British. "And I'm the Queen of England. You're Dr Orlok, a microbiologist and geneticist, and former operative with the terrorist Vulcan Isolationist Movement. Towards that end, in 2363 you attempted to engineer a virus to purge your planet of all non-Vulcans.

The V'Shar Intelligence Agency intercepted your movement before you could fulfil your plans, but you escaped arrest. Since then you have operated under numerous identities, using your skills for criminal and terrorist purposes."

Orlok raised her chin. "Who are you?"

"You remain a fugitive," the human continued. "Wanted by Starfleet for inflicting the Phyrox Plague on Cor Caroli V in 2366, for the assassination of the Troyian Plutarch with a DNA-tailored virus in 2370, and for the theft of Plasma Plague samples from the Darwin Genetic Research Station on Gagarin IV in 2372."

"I deny all of these charges."

"I'm not here to charge you," the human countered. "That's up to the USS Repulse; Starfleet Intelligence intercepted your clients in the neighbouring system, who had hired you to clear the planet below so they could lay claim to it."

Above them, an artificial male voice announced, "M'Lady, the Repulse has been detected on my long-range sensors; we will be within its own sensors in 47 minutes at its current velocity."

"Thank you, Parker." She looked to Orlok again. "We scanned your ship below, and we know you won't be able to escape them."

The Vulcan crossed her arms, analysing her own probability of evading capture, and agreeing with the human's opinion. "I ask again who you are."

"I'm known as Fantomax, and you are on board my ship the Thunderbird One. And unlike your ship, mine has a cloaking device that will help us evade Starfleet."

Orlok regarded her. "I am familiar with your name. What would a thief need for my services?"

Fantomax mirrored her stance, her wrinkled face creasing further. "I don't; frankly, I find your 'services' disgusting in the extreme. But my new associates sent me to find you, and offer you a chance to join them. I was asked to confirm that they have considerable resources on hand to allow you to thrive in your... field of expertise.

And if you refuse, I am to leave you to your fate."

Orlok regarded her, having already made her choice, but allowing an indulgent 16.4 seconds before replying with, "I will require tools and materials from my vessel. We need to move expeditiously; Starfleet will adopt a pugnacious response to my activities here."

Fantomax nodded, her expression laced with disgust. "Yes, I hear they take a dim view of mass murder."

Suddenly the door slid open, and Julian Zorin entered, cleaned and dressed in freshly-fabricated clothes. "Is there a reason for the delay in this dreary sector-" Then he stopped and smiled at Orlok. "Oh, you brought me some companionship. I've never had a Vulcan before. This will be interesting."

Orlok raised a disdainful eyebrow, leaving Fantomax to respond to the man, "I'd avoid contact with this one, you may get a nasty bug."

*

Holodeck 1, SS Moonraker, Deep Space:

The three Klingon warriors, resplendent in their traditional armour, roared at Max Zorin as they charged at him, mat'leth blades at the ready.

He wielded a dagger of his own, but wore not armour but a loose-fitting white cotton jacket, trousers and a belt. And he moved with a confident fluidity, analysing the tactics of his opponents, ducking and dodging the first one, while also bringing his own blade up in a slashing arc that caught his first opponent's extended arm.

The other two watched, hesitating as they readjusted their strategy, taking opposite sides of Zorin, keeping him distracted, while the first recovered to try and take advantage, lunging and stabbing.

Zorin saw the anger in his eyes, anger at having had his blood drawn first, and from what he probably assumed was a mere human, too. He should have used that anger to focus, instead of just letting it drive him blindly.

Zorin kept cool as he let the first Klingon draw in close enough to let Zorin reach out, grab him in a specific place on the Klingon's forearm, and twist, the Klingon's momentum driving him further forward, allowing Zorin to slam him into the third Klingon.

Zorin released him and focused on the second Klingon in front of him, blocking his strikes with the hilt of his dagger, delivering powerhouse kicks to the Klingon's kneecaps and ankle. He grunted, baring his teeth in pain, but continued to stand his ground. Good; he was worth the money hiring him.

It wouldn't save him, however. Him, or the others.

The second Klingon lunged at him again, but Zorin was faster, more flexible, and his clothes gave him more manoeuvrability. He dropped to a crouch and tackled the Klingon around the waist, rising again to flip the Klingon over his shoulder, before dropping again over him, driving his dagger down square into the Klingon's chest, twisting before pulling it out, bringing blood and flesh with him.

He smiled as he charged at the remaining two Klingons, who were cunning enough to part and offer separate targets, making Zorin have to continuously alternate his attention and dagger hand, his superior speed and stamina compensating.

They struck out, alternating, one of them even managing to catch the side of Zorin's blocking hand. But their numbers were no longer an advantage; both wanted to make the killing blow, and neither could see how a weak human could stay alive like this for so long.

He made a choice, and went after the first Klingon, letting him think Zorin had made a mistake and left a proverbial window open for the Klingon to try and stab him in the stomach. Zorin let the blade pierce the loose folds of his training jacket and get caught momentarily- letting Zorin drive his own blade up into his opponent's throat, tearing it open and spraying dark red blood over Zorin's face and jacket.

The final Klingon slammed into him, sending him sprawling to the mats, his gloved hands around Zorin's throat, trying to strangle him, the Klingon's sunken eyes alight with fury.

Zorin laughed hoarsely under the assault - grasping the Klingon by the wrists and breaking the bones in both limbs.

The Klingon screamed in agony, the strength bleeding from him like an open fatal wound, letting Zorin, feeling himself aroused from inflicting such intense pain in another, kick off his opponent and reverse the position, straddling him, knocking aside the Klingon's flailing, broken arms before Zorin drove his thumbs down into the Klingon's eye sockets, gouging out everything he found in his way.

This last Klingon died instantly from shock, but Zorin continued to pound his fists into the face, until it was broken and unrecognisable; it was around the twenty-fourth blow when Zorin realised he had climaxed, and began to abate his assault.

He sat back, mentally restoring his pulse and breathing rate, aware of his surroundings... and that he had a visitor. He swallowed, tasting Klingon blood and flesh. "Computer: End Program."

The plain interior and matted floors of the program vanished, leaving only the real Klingon bodies.

He rose to his feet, rolling his neck and flexing his fingers. "That was entertaining. Arrange for the remainder of the agreed payments to their next of kin."

Dusk remained near the Holodeck entrance. "Of course, Mr Zorin. I thought you'd want to know: the Highwayman has delivered the supplies and personnel to Elba II, and his people will have everything set up by the time we arrive. He also reported a location for Bad Ronald."

Zorin straightened up and approached. "Where?"

The woman made a visible effort to ignore her employer's blood-strewn clothes, face and hands. "The Highwayman had dealings with Kivas Fajo, who reported Bad Ronald had been on Alpha V, terrorising the colonists, before being chased away."

Zorin frowned. "What could chase away a creature like that?"

"Fajo didn't say, but he confirmed that Bad Ronald is holed up in a derelict Sydney-class transport ship, the Pallasso, on an uninhabited planet in the Triacus system. And Fajo said that Bad Ronald was very insistent on not being contacted or approached."

He scowled, breathing in hard. "Contact the Bridge, divert us to the Triacus system. I'll speak to Bad Ronald personally."

Dusk tensed. "Mr Zorin-"

She stopped when he brought a forefinger up to her lips in a silencing gesture, his voice soft. And deadly. "This isn't open for debate. This really, really isn't open, and I've already had enough trouble on the subject from your sister. I'm going to my quarters to shower, eat and rest."

A sound from an unseen source behind him drew their attention, Zorin declaring aloud, "Bon appetit, Jaws."

From the corner of the Holodeck, the huge reptoid unshrouded himself, leaping onto one of the Klingon corpses, his jaw unhinging and long, gleaming teeth reflecting the light as he began tearing into the flesh.

Zorin turned back to Dusk. "And have Services clean up whatever's left in here when he'd had his fill." He paused at the sound of bones being snapped. "Best not let anyone disturb him before then."

*

Madripoor, Inferna Prime:

Casino Royale sat on a high perch over the city by the bay, as if it had airs and graces about being better than the crime-driven metropolis it overlooked. It wasn't, except that the clientele could afford the exorbitant entrance fee. The various intelligence agencies who kept abreast of such affairs estimated that more than half of the sector's illegal activities originated here, where deals were made in back rooms while money was won and lost in public. The wealthy liked to be seen there, as it was the place for the powerful and beautiful in this part of the Quadrant.

Captain Kazan and Ilsa Wölfin entered, clad in a pair of sharp black Rigellian tuxedos, the former smirking as he leaned in to his companion. "You'd have looked much more attractive in that evening gown I suggested."

She sneered as she took in the surrounding decadence. "I am a member of the Master Race. I do not exist to be objectified by inferiors. Where is this creature we seek?"

"In the rear of the establishment. Follow me. Try not to kill anyone unless necessary." They walked around the perimeter of the main room until they reached the curtained archway he was looking for.

Kazan and Wölfin slipped through the curtains and found a small, private bar where a bartender was chopping ice with a pick in the sink under the counter, opposite a large Nausicaan thug in what passed for formal clothes for his race.

Kazan strode up to him. "I'm here to see Rojiro Vance."

The Nausicaan took a sip from his drink but didn't look up. Then, turning menacingly to Kazan, gnashing his fangs, he growled, "There is no Rojiro Vance here. Go back into the Casino."

"Tell him Captain Kazan is back."

The Nausicaan fixed his beady black eye on him, leaned forward, started to stand and reach for him. "I said, go back into the Casino, and take your whore with you-"

In one swift move, Wölfin moved up, grabbing the ice pick from the bartender, and slamming it into the bar - through the centre of the Nausicaan's right hand. He screeched, tried to reach inside his jacket, but the Ekosian woman was quicker, reaching in, taking out a disruptor pistol and firing it point blank into his left kneecap. He screamed now, collapsing, but remained suspended by his impaled right hand, as Wölfin pointed the weapon at the bartender.

"What did I tell you?" Kazan chided, not very reprovingly.

"I didn't kill him."

From another doorway at the far end, armed men streamed in, and Wölfin aimed her procured pistol in their direction.

Kazan raised his hand and voice. "Wait! WAIT! We're here to see Rojiro Vance!"

One of the new guards, a beefy Bolian female, stopped and smirked in recognition. "Kazan? You had the balls to come back here?"

Kazan lowered his hand again, and motioned for Wölfin to lower her pistol. "Hello, Nixx. Long Time, No See."

Now she chuckled mirthlessly. "After tonight, it'll be 'Long Time, No Breathe'. Oh, I can't wait to take you to Vance, you'll make his week."

"I doubt it." He raised his hands. "We're only here to talk." To Wölfin he ordered, "Throw that pistol down."

The Ekosian glared at him, her hesitation at his words clear, before finally complying, allowing Nixx to pat them both down.

As the other guards parted, allowing the visitors to finally venture further inside, Wölfin asked surreptitiously, "You did not say you knew this 'Vance'."

Kazan nodded, keeping an eye around them. "I used to be a Captain in the Cabal here, and Vance was my Commander. I wanted to buy my way out of the business, but he refused, so I went over his head to his Commander, who granted it." He paused. "Vance might have taken it as an insult."

Wölfin made a sound. "You tell me this now?"

He never responded as they entered darker, more intimate surroundings, as an elephantine human male clad in decadent silks with a moon face red from far too much alcohol and rich food, reclined on a pile of plush pillows, flanked by two nude women curled up against him as if providing warmth. Further on either side of them, two tall figures stood guard: a massive Nausicaan of indeterminate gender, and a black-furred Ferasan female, her tail twitching and her sabreteeth gleaming in the strong light from above.

Kazan took note of Nixx and the other guards surrounding Wölfin and him from behind, but focused on the man on the pillows. "Good evening, Vance. You're looking well. Have you lost some weight?"

Vance glared up at him, his many chins quivering, his voice trembling with abject disbelief. "Y-You- You... You're... here? You actually returned? I'm not just dreaming this, Arkady? After your base perfidy?"

"Rojiro," Kazan started, wanting to remain in control of the situation. "Please. You can't have been holding a grudge this whole time. It was never anything personal."

Vance's face hardened. "It's personal if I say it's personal! You don't get to deny me that, you miserable Cossack!"

"Rojiro, I didn't come back to argue the past, or to trade insults. I have too much respect for you."

Wölfin crossed her arms. "Did you really take orders from this bloated bag of grease?"

Vance looked in outrage from the Ekosian to Kazan, who clarified mildly, "I said I have too much respect for you." Kazan glanced at the guards on either side of the mobster. "Listen, Rojiro, I came here because I've joined a new organisation, one with a very generous sponsor. We need people with specific skills and talents. People who are wasted in their current positions, who could realise their full potential with us... and profit from it, beyonds the dreams of Avarice."

Vance grunted, idly stroking the hair of one of his women. "That's it? You think you can just waltz in here after all these years, after humiliating me the way you did, and offer me some job working for you? Seriously?"

Wölfin snorted in amused contempt. "Vainglorious blob! We didn't come all this way to recruit the likes of you! What could you offer anyone but a disappointing and disgusting sexual experience?"

Kazan ground his teeth - you should have come here alone - but focused on the Ferasan, who had been eyeing him curiously. "Your people hold little regard for their females, hardly even give them names. So you fled your world, your race, and forged a life for yourself, as a tracker, a bounty hunter, a bodyguard and enforcer. You became known as Jet Jaguar."

"Hey," Vance spat. "Don't talk to her! She belongs to me!"