Surefoot 86: Illegal Moves

Ferengi vessel Venture Capital, Salem Sector:

"DaiMon! A Starfleet vessel is approaching!"

DaiMon Lejer reached out to the cup of grub worms on the arm of his chair, expertly skewering one on his latinum finger extension and flicking it into his mouth. "Calm down, Tanzo, your lobes will drop off from stress. It's standard procedure in Federation space: Starfleet will come along, flex their muscles, remind us that we're subject to their laws while in their territory and to keep our business here legitimate, and then move on."

"And that's it?"

Lejer chuckled; his brother's son was new to space travel, never having left Ferenginar before six weeks ago. "They're not Klingons, Nephew. Yes, the Hyoo-man-dominated Starfleet likes to racially profile us, but otherwise they're harmless. Besides, the best part of it is we are on legitimate business here. Helm: Full Stop. Ops: let's see our friends."

Lejer felt his ship drop out of warp, and his viewscreen came to life, presenting a starfield, and a disc-shaped starship with twin swept-back nacelles built into the main hull, a more compact version of the typical Starfleet design.

"Ugly ship," muttered his Weapons Officer Ordak.

"It's economical," Lejer countered genially. "The Sabre-class is multifunctional, wastes no space, and is durable; we can appreciate all of those qualities. Do we have a name for our approaching friends, Maga?"

His Ops Officer glanced down at his station. "Their ID beam says USS Surefoot."

The DaiMon smiled; as part of his mission, he made himself aware of the local authority figures. He opened a channel. "USS Surefoot, this is DaiMon Lejer of the Venture Capital. We are a scheduled transport ship carrying construction supplies and building materials to our new colony on Telamon. Do I have the pleasure of addressing the estimable Captain T'Varik of Vulcan?"

No answer.

Lejer didn't miss a beat, having done his research on the Starfleet vessels and their Captains in this sector. "Peace and Long Life to you, Captain. We have some Vulcan port on board to offer you, free of charge."

There was a sound, and he noted his First Officer Glarta cut off the transmission, turning to him in disbelief. "Free? FREE? What are you doing?"

The DaiMon leaned back in his seat confidently, expecting this reaction. "Relax, she won't accept it-"

"'She'? You mean they let females command?"

Lejer chuckled again; Glarta and the others had much to learn about dealing with the Federation. "Get used to it. And my gesture, which will cost us nothing as it will be turned down as they have rules against bribery, is reinforcing the friendly relationship we need if we're establishing a colony world within Federation borders. And if the rumours from Ferenginar are true, maybe a few years from now we'll even join the Federation-"

"DaiMon!" Maga interrupted. "The Surefoot is responding! Audio only!"

Lejer stroked his lobe triumphantly at his First Officer as he replied, "Let's hear it."

The voice they heard was not the softer sibilance he expected from a female, but rather a rough growl. "We'll take your port. And everything else we want."

Lejer's smile dropped in confusion. "Excuse me?"

An alert to his left from the Weapons station, and Ordak blurted. "They're locking phasers and torpedoes on us!"

"Raise shields!" Lejer rose to his feet, his heart racing. What was happening? "Surefoot! We have authorisation to be in Federation space! Captain T'Varik, what are you doing?"

"I'm not Captain T'Varik." The image of the starship vanished from the viewscreen, replaced by a Starfleet Bridge, and a large, furred Caitian male sitting in the centre, with a thick mane and a predatory look on his muzzle.

The DaiMon recognised him instantly. "Commodore Hrelle? B-But- I thought you were no longer in command there- you were put in charge of Salem One-"

Hrelle bared his teeth. "Oh, I'm still in charge of Salem One, Ferengi. But occasionally I find it useful to get back out here and remind those who enter this space that I am The Lion of Salem Sector. And to ensure that all tolls are collected."

"What? 'Toll'?" Lejer glanced around him, before looking back at the screen. "The Federation doesn't do 'tolls'! You're all... philanthropic!" He almost choked on the profanity.

Hrelle shook his head as he laughed, making his mane shake. "Times have changed. We have your cargo manifest on record, and are assuming you've hidden a few extra little goodies here and there. So for you, the toll will be twenty percent of the latinum you're carrying for the colonisation staff."

"WHAT?"

"Ten percent if you deliver it in ten minutes or less," the Caitian clarified. "Oh, and that Vulcan port, too. You can keep the concrete, nails and stembolts."

Lejer felt like his lobes would shrink up and drop off like leaves in autumn. The Federation - Starfleet - acting like, like... like Ferengi? What was the Galaxy coming to? Had the Dominion War poisoned them?

No. No, Hrelle had obviously gone rogue, and out to make some private profit, something Lejer could certainly appreciate. And yet, what about his crew? They couldn't have all gone rogue! And yet, there they were on his Bridge, all acting normally.

"I'm waiting, DaiMon," Hrelle reminded him, growling.

Lejer focused on him again, steeling himself. He had always preferred to let discretion be the better part of profit, but there was no way he was going to let this greedy grimalkin fleece him like some neophyte! "This isn't my first day at the Markets, Commodore! You're facing a Ves-class Raider! We're more than a match for even a Galaxy-class starship, let alone that little hotplate you've got!"

Hrelle smiled at him, saying nothing, but signalled to someone at his right.

Another alert sounded, and Ordak practically squeaked. "More Starfleet vessels appearing, surrounding us! Out of nowhere! They must have cloaks!"

"Yes, we must have," Hrelle agreed, raising his paws up as if to embrace them. "Now, shall we conclude business and be on our respective ways? Then you can go off and warn others about what to expect when they come to Salem Sector..."

*

New Jericho Colony, Planet Scesity, Salem Sector:

The man beamed into the centre of the community without warning. He was humanoid, tall and pale, lanky, with a high forehead and receding auburn hair over his gaunt features, and he smiled politely as he strolled around like a tourist, holding up a recorder occasionally and dictating into it.

The miners and their families peered at him, no one approaching, as if waiting for someone else to take the first step.

Someone did, an older, white-haired human with a slight limp from the cold in the air. "Excuse me? Can we help you?"

The stranger turned and faced him, beaming affably. "Greetings and felicitations!" He drew up to him, pocketing his recorder and removing his glove to offer his long, lean hand. "You are Dmitri Christofas, the Colony Governor, yes? Well, of course you are! You have that innate air of authority that only those born to command exude!"

Dmitri accepted the hand, and the vigorous shake, warily. "That, and my name is on my coveralls. You still haven't told me who you are."

The stranger chuckled as he released his hand. "Forgive me, Governor, forgive me, my excitement at being here overwhelms me!" He stuck his hands into his longcoat pocket, his breath ghosting before him in the morning air. "Rather brisk, isn't it? I hope this is your winter and not your summer weather!"

Dmitri stared blankly at him.

The stranger chuckled. "Apologies once more, I'm behaving so unprofessionally! My name is Berlinghoff Rasmussen, and I'm a representative for a consortium that's rapidly emerging in this sector of space, one with the offer of a lifetime for you and your little community here."

Dimitri continued to stare at him, even as he felt several of his fellow colonists draw up cautiously, curiously behind him. He raised a warning hand to them; the experiences they had, when Starfleet had withdrawn from the sector to divert their resources to fighting the Dominion, leaving them vulnerable to Raiders, was still fresh in their minds. "Well, Mr Rasmussen, that sounds intriguing, but most salespeople make first contact with us through subspace."

The stranger smiled again, moving in place as he glanced around again, like a man eyeing up property for sale. "Yes, of course, that's how most might operate, but we prefer to be more direct, upfront. The Human Touch, as they used to say in the past - even for those of us who aren't human. Besides, the situation out here is rapidly changing, so it's for the best that we skip the usual overtures and get down to brass tacks - another old saying from Earth, I'm not sure about the origins-"

"What are you talking about? What situation is changing out there?"

Rasmussen stopped moving in place to look at him and frown. "You're not aware already? How inconsiderate of Starfleet to leave you out here ignorant... but then, as I understand it, it wouldn't be the first time you've been abandoned, would it?

The Federation is readying to secede authority of Salem Sector."

The declaration sent anxious rumblings through the gathered colonists, questions and denials and demands that rose, until Dmitri raised a hand to silence them, taking control of the conversation once more. "You're talking crap! Starfleet's come back! Commodore Hrelle is at Salem One! Everything's back to normal now!"

Rasmussen reacted almost sympathetically to that deflation. "Unfortunately, as the War demonstrated, things can change beyond our control. There will be a change of circumstances in this sector, I can guarantee it, just as I can guarantee that Starfleet will deny it... at least, until they can no longer do so. And with that, your existing shipping contacts to the Federation will be at risk."

He paused to let that sink in, before continuing. "That is why I'm here personally, to assure you all that my employers intend to fully support your efforts to remain here, and further, to not only maintain your cogent profit levels, but even increase them by, say, twenty percent for the first fiscal year, guaranteed?"

That stirred the colonists even more. Dmitri, however, remained significantly suspicious. "Federation contracts are regulated-"

Their visitor smiled. "Oh, we're not talking about Federation contracts, with all their restrictive regulations. It's a big Galaxy, if you open your eyes wide enough.

And why should you earn less than what your Ferengi neighbours will earn just a few light years from here in the same sector? Or the other colonies we'll be contacting on Nepenthe, Telamon and other worlds? We already have markets available for all your goods, markets that will pay far more generously than the Federation."

"'We'," Dmitir echoed. "Who the Hell is 'we'?"

Rasmussen continued to smile. "We're called the Bel-Zon. And we want to do nothing more than to help you and everyone else..."

*

Bel-Zon Headquarters, Elba II:

Dr Orlok heard the door to her lab slide open, but never took her face from the hooded viewer of her nuclear scanner. Not that she had to continue to monitor the subject of her latest assignment, but she wanted to demonstrate to the person who had entered that she was no mere menial, subservient to others, while she calculated the most likely identity of the intruder-

She was correct, as Bastien Dumont announced, "Doctor, you were supposed to provide a report on your progress an hour ago."

The Vulcan straightened up now, making a show of adjusting the cuffs on the sleeves of her jacket as she finally turned and faced him. "My primary work is at a critical stage, Mr Dumont."

The older human male, with receding black hair peppered with iron grey and a hangdog expression, tightened his jaw at her. "Your report?"

Orlok straightened up, indulging in a 1.87 seconds of defiant silence, before turning and lifting up a PADD, as she activated the screens in front of her, raising them to reveal the tall, muscular, featureless humanoid figure standing within an isotube, while servo arms moved all around it.

"Mr Zorin's new bodyguard, Codename: Mayhem, is responding favourably to the genetic and cybernetic enhancements ordered for it, and it should be ready on schedule. The subject's lifespan will be reduced to a significant degree, as warned, but I am aware that this is not a priority."

A noise to his left distracted Dumont. "What was that?"

Orlok made a sound. "One of the members of the so-called Rat Pack. They like to spy on proceedings around your facility." She pointed to the small square vent near the floor. "You can see it, caught in the gravitic trap I set; its painful death should send a message to the rest of its collective mind to respect my privacy. Now, please leave, I can ill-afford to waste my time further sating your puerile impatience."

Dumont frowned. "Take care, Doctor. Your attitude will provoke not just me, but our sponsor."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "I was made to believe that Mr Zorin was to take a proverbial 'hands-off' approach to our activities, and stay off-world."

"He does... until he doesn't. And he's closer than you might think."

*

Closer:

Welcome to my house, Maximilian. Enter freely and of your own will.

Max Zorin strode in, confidently but cautiously, feeling the colour, the heat and life drain from him and the world around him, feeling the chill air, tasting the salt upon it, hearing the crash of waves on rocks and the occasional cry of Terran seabirds.

None of this should be here. And he knew it wasn't here, not really, just an illusion conjured by the occupant of this underground storage facility.

He approached the figure on the rocks by the sea, a black-cloaked entity, sitting by a chessboard set, Zorin not stopping, even as the figure raised its head, revealing a hairless, chalk-faced humanoid face. And its voice once more reached into Zorin's mind, a gravelly dirge like dirt being shovelled into an open grave. Welcome to my house! Enter freely. Go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring!

"This isn't a house," Zorin corrected, ignoring his instinctive revulsion at the telepathic invasion. "I have no happiness for you. And you're quoting from Bram Stoker's Dracula." He waved a dismissive hand at the figure and the chessboard. "This isn't from that story."

True, but I hate those fangs and that hammy accent, and you're not afraid of vampires.

"I'm not afraid of ancient pretentious Swedish allegories, either."

The ghoul drew back in mock indignation. Pretentious? The Seventh Seal remains a classic of 20th Century Terran cinema... and one that terrified you when you first watched it, expecting to coldly, clinically grasp its nuances, even with your Augmented six-year-old brain.

Zorin stiffened. "I had no problem with comprehending the themes."

Oh, I know, Maximilian. I know you comprehended, all too well. That's the trouble. You grasped its message, about the inescapability of mortality.

You Only Live Twice: once when you're born, and once when you look Death in the face. That's why you still get that shard of cold, bottomless fear in your gut when you look upon me now.

Zorin scowled at the spectre. It had admittedly been a gamble to try and recruit Bad Ronald into the Bel-Zon; what little that had been verified about the entity had made it seem too dangerous and unpredictable to be contained, controlled... but now it was here, waiting to be unleashed on Hrelle and his kin.

So why don't you? It asked him in Zorin's mind. I'll put the Cat in the Body Bag. And have fun with his kittens.

"Stay out of my head," he warned him.

I'm bored. Sit down and play with me. Or send me some children to play with.

"I didn't come here to play games."

No, you came because since we met, you have been intrigued by me. You have questions. Questions only I can answer.

"I said stay out of my head!"

Bad Ronald smiled up at him. You think you can keep me out?

Zorin kept glaring at him.

And sat down, pretending to focus on the chessboard, picking up one of the pawns. It looked and felt exactly like his grandfather's set, designed for the Martian Jetan Variant of the game, though he knew the original set had been lost in the starship accident that killed Grandfather.

How tragic. You liked Gramps. Even if you did feel an erection from him whenever he bounced you on his lap. It was the only reason he showed you any affection, you know. Until your father killed him. And then killed your mother. And then you killed your father. Your family's antics are worse than a Klingon opera.

Zorin sharply set down the piece once more. "You want to really play? There's no point playing if you keep reading my mind, Fiend."

Bad Ronald smirked... and then finally spoke aloud. "Fiend? How rude, Maximilian. Maximilian Zorin. One in a Million Max. The Augmented Sociopath, casting moral judgement on poor little old me.

So, a game. And, just as in the movie, where the disillusioned Knight played against Death to live, so you will play against me, to learn. I answer your questions truthfully.... And you answer mine."

Zorin continued to stare at him. He didn't have to be here, let alone agree to his terms. It was foolish, reckless, pointless. Just unleash the monster on Hrelle and his family and be done with it.

Then he reached out and made his first move on the board.

*

Axyllus III:

Frankie Novarro adjusted his fedora against the cold desert wind as he flipped his quarter for what felt like the thousandth time. It came up Heads. It always came up Heads for him. He didn't know why it did that, it wasn't even a trick coin. But it was photonic, like he was, and his original programming, the Dixon Hill novel from which he sprang, said 'Frankie Nova always drew Heads, always: a gift for some, a curse for others, if the coin decided their Fates'.

He grunted to himself as he pocketed the coin again; that old hack Tracy Torme who wrote those original dime-store novels centuries ago that described him should've stuck to radio jingles. "Hey, Egghead, I keep sitting here, I'm gonna get moss growing on me."

Nearby, the woman he had been assigned to bring to this old dead world kept her back to him as she knelt over the rocks, passing the scanner in her hand over parts of the dirt. "I don't know what 'Egghead' means, Mr Nova, but it sounds rather ignorant of the complexities involved in my work."

He grunted. "No offence intended, Lady, I'm sure you got more brains in your caboose than I got in my whole photonic body, and then some. I just wanna know how long me and my boys are gonna have to hang around here, that's all. Let's get the loot and am-scray."

Dr Jennifer Vash made a sound. "You sound like a character in one of Jean-Luc's old holoprograms."

He smiled. "You mean Jean-Luc Picard?"

She looked up again with interest. "You know him?"

"Know him? He was there when I came to life! He was running a detective holonovel playing Dixon Hill, and I was in there, just another character saying the lines written for me, dumber than a doornail. And then Q popped up, snapped his fingers and brought me to life-"

Her jaw dropped. "You know Q as well?"

Nova chuckled. "Hey, it's a small Galaxy, huh?" He nodded at the rocks. "Come on, Professor, let's find the Great Whatsit, free those other Eggheads we got locked up, and we can get back with my gang and have a party, huh?"