Surefoot 86: Illegal Moves

The reports she had read, about the Kzinti's past encounters with female opponents of other races, described their being distinctly disturbed. And though Ferasans and Kzinti weren't closely related, her being a felinoid must have accentuated the Kzinti males' apprehension at her presence.

But it was the Kzinti females' reaction to her that Jet Jaguar found intriguing. They must have seen her, wearing clothes and weapons and speaking to others, as making her neither male nor female, at least as they perceived it.

It hadn't been as extreme on Ferasa Prime, where she had been born and raised, but it was close: she had learned to hunt and fight in secret, teaching herself through study and observation, and she had been glad to escape, to seek her own destiny out in the Galaxy. Especially now that her people were all but extinct, existing only on a small colony on Cait, or on a few ships here and there. Perhaps she should seek them out? With their numbers so depleted, her own worth might be better appreciated-

She dropped suddenly to a deeper crouch, completely still, as she caught a glimpse in the community, of two Kzinti females behind one of their huts, believing themselves to be alone and out of sight of the males... gesturing rapidly to each other, using elaborate paw gesticulations, showing intent rather than randomness.

A language. A silent, secret language among the ostensibly-unintelligent Kzinti females.

Interesting...

*

Within a great stone hall not far from the community and their starship landing pad and repair facility, the strongest, most valued members of this Kzinti Pride stood surrounding the alien in their midst: a humanoid male, frail-looking even by humanoid standards, with a bizarre combination of marshmallow white skin on the left paw side of its furless face, and licorice black on the right paw side. They wondered about it. Mostly about what it would taste like.

The alien, in contrast, barely acknowledged their existence, let alone their threat. Bele of Cheron, former Chief Officer for the Cheronite Commission on Political Traitors, current Last Survivor of his people, cared little for anything but achieving his ultimate goals... even if it meant cooperating with the genetic trash infesting the Galaxy.

He folded his hands behind his back as he continued, wondering how much longer he had to try and win over these musky animals. "Pridemaster, my associates are aware of your people's contentious history against the Federation in general, and Terrans in particular, with your so-called Man-Kzin Wars-"

His host growled, the sound silencing those around him as he muttered, "We know our history, Alien. You have spoken much since arriving here, but said little of actual value." He leaned forward on his throne. "Get to the meat on the bones of your visit... or we'll get to the meat on your bones, and see if there is a difference in the taste of your white and dark meat."

The Kzinti around him roared in support of the threat.

Bele ground his teeth; little wonder your bestial kind could be defeated so often by the weakling monocoloured humans. "Please excuse me if I've wasted your time to date, Pridemaster. We are aware that your Pride, while strong and prominent, is not equipped to seize control from your current Patriarchy... yet. But you will... when you are provided arms, and intelligence, and seize control of an entire sector of Federation space in your Pride's name, destroying the Starfleet facility and personnel controlling it.

The banner of the Kzin will fly over what was once Federation territory. In return, the Bel-Zon will administer and manage trade on your behalf within the sector."

That made the Pride react... and their Pridemaster appear to take Bele seriously for the first time since his arrival. He was older than the others, had more grey and white fur than the rest... but he appeared no less deadly. "An entire sector of space? Your associates have weapons of such potency?"

"They do."

"Which sector?"

"It is designated by the Federation as Salem Sector, currently under the authority of-"

"Commodore Esek Hrelle," the Kzin finished, baring his teeth with each syllable.

And with that, Bele knew he had made his case. He knew all along, in fact; the intelligence provided about this particular Pridemaster and his history with the target suggested as much. Still, he played along. "You know him?"

"Oh, yes, Alien." He bared his claws, raking the stone arm of his throne. "Sagar-Var, Pridemaster of the Southern Black Claws, most assuredly does know that Caitian... and his conniving, deceitful, dangerous mate. We have clashed with them before."

He rose to his feet, as if to display the sheen from his body armour against the surrounding torchlight. "And we have much to settle. With both of them."

*

Lady Fantomax waved to the bartender with her empty glass, aware of how much she had imbibed so far, aware of how close Darvil had become, physically and emotionally, as the evening progressed. Aware of how loose had tongue had grown. She should have returned to her quarters in the Bel-Zon facility, and slept off her drink and her bottled-up anguish and frustration.

"I never killed anyone before," she announced loudly, waving off Darvin's warning gesture. "Fifty years of stealing - and only from those who can afford it, bear that in mind - and I never killed anyone, or been party to the murder of anyone. And now, the Bel-Zon have me responsible for five, six deaths, maybe more now-"

He reached out and rested a strong, reassuring hand on hers, leaning in closer to whisper, "Penelope, you need to calm down- these people here have no idea about the business next door to them-"

She faced him, her face feeling hot. "Well then, maybe they should be told? If they did, then they could let in some of the poisonous atmosphere out there and asphyxiate us-"

Now he drew up to her ear. "I'll get you out."

She stiffened, not expecting that. Her mind, swimming, began to clear, albeit sluggishly. She leaned back against him. "What?"

"I have a transport in orbit, leaving tonight for Epsilon Indi IV. I can beam you onboard secretly, and get you there; my crew are loyal to me, and discreet. You can get yourself lost before they can track you down. I'm sure you have secret accounts and false identities throughout the Quadrant to fall back on."

Fantomax stared over his shoulder, at the crowds of drinks and revellers and travellers around them, all ordinary people, as oblivious to the drama unfolding here as they were to the crime and chaos being planned in the neighbouring domes.

"Why are you doing this?" she finally asked.

She felt his breath on her skin, and the soft, waxed bristles of his beard, and the strong, reassuring grip he had on her as he finally replied in a taut murmur, "I've been a shipmaster long enough to see a storm approaching... and one's coming for this motley crew we're caught up in. I can weather it through to the other side, but I don't think you can. Come on, lean against me, make it look like back to my quarters for something else."

She froze in place. It was moving fast, too fast, she didn't have time to-

To what? Wait for the authorities to sweep in, or for Zorin to take a whim and murder her?

Be ready to think on your feet, her old mentor used to tell her, Or you'll end up on your back. And not in a good way, either. "Come on, I've had enough here."

*

Asteroid M, Deep Space:

Captain Arkady Kazan stood staring out through the transparent aluminium wall, not having felt this way since his Starfleet days, a thousand years ago, when he stood in a similar facility, watching his own vessel undergo repairs following the latest battle with the Cardassians, in the pre-Dominion days. He remembered his senior officers, trying to convince him to let the engineers just do their job, while he finally takes his long-deserved, long-overdue shore leave. He let them embrace the romantic notion of the Starfleet Captain married to his job.

In truth, he stayed close so that none of the facility crews would stumble on the secret vault he kept on his ship with the goods he secretly acquired during his tours of duty.

His change of allegiance to his current organisation was at least more open. True, he was more likely to be killed than court martialled for his failings, but one can't have everything in life-

"Captain?"

He turned slightly in acknowledgement, as his First Officer Vargas drew up to him, the Latina woman looking better following the destruction of their last vessel and the physical travails they had faced in escaping from it using an experimental long range transporter system. "Commander. What did Dumont have to complain about now?"

She started. "How did you know-"

He smirked. "I knew that Dumont would pester us for an update. I knew that he would contact you once he realised I turned off my comlink. And I knew he would be complaining, because... well, he is Dumont."

She smiled back, though still glanced around nervously at the facility crew, as if they might secretly be spying on behalf of the Bel-Zon. "After losing the Molotok, I think he wanted to have you... dealt with."

Kazan grunted at the euphemism. In truth, he had half-expected Dumont or Zorin to take more aggressive action against him following his engagement with Weynik on the Katana. A cloaked Defiant-class warship with subspace weapons was hardly a small investment, and despite his outward bravado Kazan had been ready from the start to make his own escape.

As it turned out, his value proved greater. "I have no doubt." He shrugged. "Maybe he has a point; I was overconfident, at least at first. I won't be the same with my new command." He nodded outside; the asteroid had a hollow centre, hidden to outside sensors, where the Moonfleet repaired and maintained their own ships... or, in this case, fulfilled a contract from the Bel-Zon to find and repair an abandoned Starfleet vessel to replace the Molotok.

"They do good work here," Vargas noted. "They found the ship in a surplus depot near Qualor, contaminated with radiation years before but waiting to be cleaned out and returned to duty for the War, and got it here and readied in record time. I'm surprised the Bel-Zon didn't try to forge an alliance with them."

"They did; the Moonfleet like remaining independent. That might change once we take over Salem Sector, however." He focused on the large Steamrunner-class starship within the drydock cage inside the asteroid hollow. It had the equivalent power of a Defiant-class, but in a larger frame... and with fewer intrinsic problems and vulnerabilities that his former ship possessed.

*

Elba II, Bel-Zon HQ:

Dumont sipped at his tea, a piquant Betazoid blend that he approved of, as he looked up from the PADD in his hand at the subordinates awaiting him. "I want the subspace weapons shipment thoroughly checked over before they're transferred to our ships; we had structural issues with those warp cores we obtained from the Miradorn, issues that have cost us time and money."

Relee Baulahl nodded curtly and updated her own PADD. She was an elderly female Trill, the characteristic leopard-like spots running along her temples beneath the line of her snow-white hair partly obscured by her age lines, and her hooded eyes appeared almost closed.

Dumont felt his amusement rise; Baulahl looked like she should have been in a rocking chair bouncing a baby grandchild on her knee. Few knew of her past, founding and running a business to sell fake symbionts to other Trill wanting to be joined - a business that netted profit, but killed customers. With an interstellar warrant out for her arrest, she found refuge with the Bel-Zon, putting her considerable organisational skills to work. "Has there been an update from our operatives in Kzinti Space?"

"Bele and Jet Jaguar are preparing to return, apparently successful. The Pride they met with are now recruiting related Prides willing and able to work together; they estimate they might be able to bring in a fleet of thirty warships."

Dumont grunted; the Kzinti talked big, but could rarely hold it together long enough to mount a sustained military campaign. "And our 'Representative'?"

"Rasmussen has moved onto Ucarro Minor with his fleet, spreading the word about the imminent changes, and warning them about Starfleet's plans to clear out the Paserak and other independent parties from the Sector." Baulahl paused, commenting, "He seems so... inconsequential. Is it really worth his participation, Bastien? What does he bring to the Bel-Zon?"

"Charisma, and persuasion. He was a 22nd Century confidence artist who managed to convince the crew of the Enterprise-D that he was actually from the 26th Century. Since then he has engaged in some successful fraud operations, in concert with our other undercover operative, Alias-"

"Hey."

Dumont turned, frowning at the sound of the synthesised voice, and the sight of the big brown rat sitting on an adjacent desk. "Bonne Journée, Monsieur Benjamin. Would you care for some tea?"

The rat's whiskers twitched. "We need to talk. Alone."

He regarded the rodent, before looking to Baulahl. "Relee, would you please repair to Security and obtain an update on our activities of our reluctant thief?"

The Trill woman nodded, rose and departed, the door barely sliding shut before Ben asked, "Thief? You mean Lady Fantomax? What are you doing monitoring her?"

Dumont reached for his tea. "That does not concern you. Please, proceed to the reason for this interruption."

The rat rose up onto its hindquarters, as if seeking to intimidate the human. "That Vulcan on your payroll has killed five of my family. They suffered... and I and the rest of the Pack felt it through our collective link."

He lifted up his cup. "Quel dommage." He paused to sip, frowning at how quickly it had cooled. "But perhaps you can learn from this tragedy, and avoid Dr Orlok in the future? She has proved to be irascible."

"'Irascible'? Is that French for genocidal?"

Dumont glanced critically at him now. "The Bel-Zon is not a book club. We didn't recruit your Pack, Orlok or the others to be friends. All of you possess unique skillsets and abilities which we find useful. And each agent is generously compensated for their services... but you have to earn that recompense."

Ben raised a tiny clawed digit to the human. "We signed up because you promised to find us a planet of our own! We've more than fulfilled our side of the bargain! You can't need us for anything more at this stage in your plans, not with the heavy hitters you're bringing into play!"

Dumont took a moment to sip some more tea, as if genuinely considering the argument... which, admittedly, had some merit. They were very likely not to need the particular talents of the Pack in the next phase of their plans for Salem Sector.

On the other hand, Dumont was keenly aware of the heavy investments - and losses - they had suffered to date, and was reluctant to let any valuable assets leave... not to mention the security risk in letting the Pack, letting anyone, leave with knowledge of their operations.

Finally he set down his cup and smiled politely. "The Bel-Zon are pleased with your Pack's work to date, Benjamin. And I can assure you that work is progressing even as we speak on finding a suitable world, uninhabited by any sentient life, where you can forge your own destinies. In fact, I promise that if you leave it with me, I will arrange for a private meeting between us tomorrow, where I can provide you with our progress to date, oui?"

"Really?" The rat twitched his nose, before nodding and replying, "Thank you, Mr Dumont, on behalf of the Rat Pack. Au Revoir."

"Au Revoir." He kept smiling as he watched Benjamin scurry down from the table and towards the vent in the wall from which he had obviously emerged. Dumont kept still until he was certain the rat had ventured deep into the vents of the facility, before rising and closing the vent, dragging a workstation closer and blocking the vent entirely. "Relee!"

The woman returned to the room. "Security reports Lady Fantomax has sneaked into the Transit Station, she is in the bar there with Bo Darvin. From the listening devices secretly planted on both of them, her talk is chiefly about her guilt and discontent."

He nodded curtly. "The moment she shows any signs of attempting to escape into the crowds of travellers, have her detained and returned here. She's proven to be even more troublesome than the vermin.

Speaking of which: prepare a report on our efforts to find the Rat Pack a suitable home."

She frowned. "That'll be the Galaxy's shortest report."

"Then this will be your opportunity to be creative. Make up a flashy, convincing presentation, filled with technobabble and promise. Keep them quiet... and have Maintenance secure the vents in the facility to limit the Pack's mobility, and set sensors to track their presence.

Now, onto the rest of our business..."

They continued, oblivious to the second rat, the one that had accompanied Benjamin but hid and remained hidden, listening, after its named prolocutor had departed.

*

Orion Prime:

As he strode into the palatial estate, Surinh Dag heard his name spoken of with respect from his people, for the first time, in a long, long time. It felt good, sweet as wine.

He had spent more than a few years in many, many bottles, to help deafen his ears to the laughter, the derision and contempt from other Orions, regarding his fall from respectability and power.

He supposed he shouldn't blame them; when he was younger, he might have acted in the same callous, derisive fashion. He had once been the Gamesmaster, the powerful, popular head of the Deathmatches, pitting gladiators against each other, offering the masses sheer visceral entertainment... and earning himself much wealth and position.

But then his most prized possession, Esek Hrelle - the infamous Beast - had been broken after so many fights, useless to Surinh Dag, and the Gamesmaster sold him off to some Corvallen freighter captain, assuming he had not long for this life, and that Surinh Dag would soon replace him with another fighter who would prove equally popular and profitable.

Neither assumption proved right. Hrelle had not only lived, he had escaped, recovered and returned to Starfleet. And none of his replacements in the Deathmatches could match him. Surinh Dag's fortunes slipped, leaving him vulnerable to a hostile takeover of his business from the Syndicate, and then leaving him destitute, a joke.

But now? Now Fortune proved to shine upon him once again. And on his return to his homeworld, people no longer looked and laughed at him. They respected him. They feared him.

They should. Even these fat fools he now met. The ones who had robbed him of his old life. The human Dumont, whom Surinh Dag had seen with his own eyes suffer his own fall and resurrection thanks to Hrelle, had asked in a moment of concern - or at least self-interest - whether or not the Orion could conduct this task for the Bel-Zon, or if the desire for revenge might overtake him and scupper the organisation's plans.

Surinh Dag assured him it would be done.

Slaves met him and escorted him into the main room of the estate, a dimly-lit expanse of huge plush pillows and carpets and thick tapestries, the air thick with incense and cooked meats and the musk of naked slaves, who now served food and wine and drugs to the bloated Syndicate Lords reclining here and there, not acknowledging the arrival of the visitor until they chose.