Surefoot 86: Illegal Moves

Surinh Dag stood there, let them display their power and contempt for him, ignored the offerings from the slaves who approached him, waited until the owner of this estate, and the most powerful of the Syndicate Lords, wiped his wine-stained lips with his forearm and looked up, his pudgy olive face darkening from his heart's efforts to keep him alive despite the gluttonous, sedentary lifestyle. "Ahh, Surinh Dag, we meet again. How long has it been? Ten years?"

He crossed his arms, displaying the muscled limbs. "Yes, Ngottin Cor. I didn't think I'd see you alive again when I came back."

"Oh? You think I'd be foolish enough to let some rival get close enough to slit my throat?"

"No, I thought you'd have choked to death on some underchewed mutton, or had a long-overdue heart attack waiting for some prettything to clamber under your rolls of fat to find your knob to suck off."

Ngottin Cor raised his head as if to display that he actually had some neck beneath his layers. "Your time in poverty and obscurity has obviously degraded your manners, Ex-Gamesmaster. Do you think just anyone can have the honour of approaching the Prime Lords of the Orion Syndicate?"

Surinh Dag made a show of looking around at the other Orions... and then laughing back at his host. "Are you serious? 'Prime Lords'? This sorry collection of lazy, effete, degenerate cuksirs lying around racing in place to see which one of you will die from congested arteries first?"

Ngottin Cor and the other Prime Lords looked up at him as one in disbelief, leaving their leader to demand, "Have you come here to die, you miserable, muscle-bound golem?"

"Where's Zaddo Natale in this cabal of so-called Prime Lords? Or Daimmek Forez? Or Tamon Gar?" He smiled. "Oh yes, that's right, they and all the other truly significant Lords in the Syndicate broke away and formed their own cartel, leaving this collection of minor miscreants I see around me to fake their importance the way their prettythings fake orgasm when they're under you?"

Ngottin Cor snarled, motioning to the side. "Nazoh! Break two of anything you want on this has-been, and flush the rest into the septic tanks!"

Surinh Dag saw from the corner of his eye the bodyguard moving in from the shadows, and in response he produced... a holoprojecctor, pointing it upwards and conjuring a three-dimensional image of a starfield over a planetary surface, the centre of the image featuring a ring-shaped array, and a small spacecraft slowly approaching the centre of the ring.

Ngottin Cor held up a hand to pause his bodyguard, as he stared at the image. "What are we looking at?"

Surinh Dag smiled. "The means for you and the rest of your partners here to potentially earn enough latinum and influence to rival, and maybe even surpass the likes of Zaddo Natale, Daimmek Forez and the rest." He paused, letting them watch as tractor beams from sections on the array seized the spacecraft, making it glow a bright electric blue... and then disappear. "A graviton displacement catapult, capable of hurtling starships across a hundred light years of space or more in the time it takes you to finish off a leg of roast sehlat. And I've been told that the displacement can't be detected by conventional sensors."

Surinh Dag watched the reaction to the other Orions, and continued. "The Bel-Zon will soon be seizing Salem Sector, with the assistance of the Kzinti and the Paserak, and removing the presence of Starfleet at Station Salem One. The Federation will respond, of course, but find that more difficult than they expected, given the seeds of discontent we are sowing even as I speak."

He switched off the holoprojector. "The Bel-Zon are offering you exclusive Orion use of the graviton displacement catapult network, letting you expand your markets deep into Federation, Kzinti and other neighbouring territories, avoiding the local customs and law enforcement agencies. And in exchange, the Bel-Zon will receive a reasonable percentage of the considerable profits you will accrue."

Ngottin Cor glanced at his colleagues, his flabby face creasing in thought, before looking back at Surinh Dag once more. "You despise us. So why make this offer to us, and not Zaddo Natale and the others?"

He smiled. "Because if you're selling food, you go to those who are hungry." His communicator beeped, and he turned to one side and answered it. "Yes?"

"I found the family, Sire. Your orders?"

"Have they bought any protection?"

"Not enough to stop us."

"Then draw your weapons and invite them to join us on the Green Death. We have a reunion to plan."

*

Zorin focused on the board. He had mastered this game, all versions of it, long ago. He defeated opponents both living and artificial. Not even this twisted monstrosity would overcome him.

"Pride Goeth Before a Fall," Bad Ronald intoned.

Zorin looked up. "You said you wouldn't read my thoughts."

The spectre leaned back, offering a grin with teeth like twin ross of dirty tombstones. "Oh, I'm not, One in a Million Max. I'm reading the hubris in your eyes, your face, your sweat. What do the Klingons say? 'A warrior who wears his heart without armour will soon lose it'? "

Zorin reached out and moved another pawn forward. "I've earned my confidence."

"I believe you; your list of achievements in your various enterprises speaks for themselves. Of course, the many bodies you've left behind, whether by your own hands or by your own orders, say nothing. We're very much alike."

Zorin made a sound. "We're nothing alike. You kill for pleasure. I kill for self-protection."

His opponent laughed coldly now. "Who are you trying to deceive, Maximilian? How threatened were you really when you beat your own son to death in front of the Bel-Zon? When that Andorian journalist threw some barbs at your press conference on Starbase One? All those personal assistants and sex workers and other underlings who have committed the cardinal sin of failing you, or getting in your way, or simply being there?

How about your first lover?

How about your father?

Your bloodlust is as much a part of your genetic makeup as the enhanced strength and intelligence you received from your family's secret, illegal Augmentation. You make the Klingons look like pacifists."

Zorin leaned back, as if regarding his opponent. "You talk a lot about Klingons. You meet them much in Chaotic Space?"

"No." It leered at Zorin. "Now, I know that the Fat Cat exposed your flawed terraforming project, and that you have had people killed for far less reasons. So why establish an entire criminal organisation, create a practical army, all just to wreak revenge on your behalf on him? Why not just send an assassin with a gun, or a bomb, or poison? It would be quicker, simpler, and with less risk coming back to you."

Zorin focused on the current placements of the pieces on the board. It had been a long time since he had played this variant of the game, and he would not allow himself to be distracted. "The Alkemy Project would have yielded immense profit for decades, even centuries to come, securing capital for other operations even after making the minimal reparations when the flaws to it inevitably emerged. It was a more important linchpin to my corporation, and me, than anyone else could have imagined.

Any punishment I inflict upon Hrelle must therefore also be commensurate, touching not just him, but his position, his family.

And the retribution I have planned for him will also serve me in the long term. Perhaps not to the extent that Alkemy would have, but I'll make it work."

"Oh, I am sure you will, Maximilian... but to what end, ultimately? For your posterity? You beat that to death in a conference room not far from here. You talk of the profit that your efforts will bring in for decades, for centuries to come, but for all your Augmentation, you won't live forever to enjoy it."

Zorin scowled now. "Is this going somewhere?"

Bad Ronald indicated the Grim Reaper form he had taken. "The Seventh Seal taught that your journey through life is nothing but a series of distractions: love, sex, family, food, travel, war, riches, poverty, faith, etcetera, etcetera... but Death is always waiting for you by your shoulder. You either pretend it isn't there until it takes you by surprise, or you try to outwit it and buy more time. Ultimately, however, it will take you on your Danse Macabre."

It leered at him, smiling. "Unless you have a contingency for that prepared already? Well, Maximilian? What have you got waiting? Cloning? Android body?" It tapped the side of its head. "That little implant I know you have up there?"

Zorin tightened; the creature had obviously learned much during its previous telepathic intrusion. "You talk a lot, but say little of value."

"Then start asking the right questions."

"What's in Chaotic Space?"

"Chaos."

"Why do you prefer to torture and kill children instead of adults?"

"Why do you prefer red wine to white?"

"What connection do you have with Klingons?"

The entity frowned. "Again with the Klingons; you're obsessed with them, Maximilian, not me. And you're beginning to bore me. Make your next question more interesting, or I'll insert every piece on this board into you."

Zorin stared hard now, sensing that Bad Ronald's reaction to the mention of the Klingons wasn't from boredom. "You're from another dimension. You have formidable abilities. You claim to be indestructible."

"Very true. Not questions, but all very true."

Zorin reached inside his jacket. "And yet, it was reported four months ago that when you had attacked the Klingon transport ship Juntocx, a Klingon High Cleric named Koroth manage to drive you away..." He drew out a small round pendant, with the image of a standing warrior embedded onto its facade. "With this."

Bad Ronald suddenly rose to his feet, kicking back his chair, his cadaverous face somehow paling even more. "Where did you get that thing? Get rid of it!"

Zorin rose as well, holding up the pendant. "I've had this scanned down to the quantum level. It's made of Klingon baakonite alloy, with some trace impurities, crafted using standard tools, displays a representative of Kahless, the first Klingon emperor.

But that's it: no anomalies, no radiation, nothing.

What is it about this Klingon relic that can affect you this way?"

"GET RID OF IT!"

*

Planet Ucarra Major:

"BLITZKRIEG!"

Ilsa Wölfin, the She-Wolf of the Ekosian SS, cackled with orgasmic delight as she razed more of the Untermenschen Paserak she encountered, her initial disgust at having to wear a some of the symbols of the damned weakling Starfleet forgotten as she thoroughly sated her bloodlust, moving around the maze of cargo modules to ensure none of the reptoids escaped.

Chaos reigned among the Paserak tribe, as they sought escape, or weapons, or simply mercy from their attackers.

None could be found.

The tribal settlement was temporary, as was every planetside settlement by the Paserak, established outside of the largest city on Telamon, present long enough to conduct trade, replenish supplies and plan the tribe's next destination.

The attackers had beamed in without warning, clad in Starfleet uniforms but using all manner of weapons as lethal as their tactics. No one was spared: not old or young, male or female, Engineer or Trader or Warrior or Cleric.

Several Paserak, unable to call for help from other tribeships still in orbit, the only potential allies they could trust on this supposed neutral world, found plasma rifles, and quickly formed a unit to raise a counterattack against the invaders, and retake one of their shuttles and evacuate as many of their tribe as they could.

This unit met with a black mechanised monstrosity, a cylindrical drone with eyestalks and multiple energy weapons emerging from various ports, every one of them projecting killing beams, as the drone screeched, "INCINERATE! INCINERATE!"

*

From a vantage point above, a coffee-skinned woman in nomadic robes sat, cradling her rifle, watching the carnage through its scope, listening to the updates through the comlink provided to her by her current employers.

Her name was Kamra Obscura, an expatriate member of a Tandaran tribe with particular psychic abilities that had made her valuable to the Bel-Zon. This was the first operation since her recruitment where she played an active part, albeit in a support role.

This was not what she had expected.

The Paserak were nomads, like her own tribe, though their migration grounds extended across this sector and neighbouring ones. These were not criminals. These were not terrorists or fugitives or threats to others. They were people, families, innocents. And she was expected to use her skills to ensure none escaped the Bel-Zon operatives down there disguised as Starfleet officers.

Kamra continued to watch the massacre. And she participated, firing here and there.

At the ground. At walls. At the sides of shuttles and cargo modules and at bodies that had already fallen and could not be harmed further.

She would push down her disgust at this assignment, and honestly tell the Bel-Zon afterwards that she had given it all that she could.

And then she would plan her departure.

Within the remains of the Paserak encampment, an adult, wounded Paserak with Tribeleader colours was dragged along by several humans in Starfleet uniforms, into a clearing, the reptoid glancing in anguish and terror at the bodies of his tribespeople. "Why have you done this? We are peaceful, neutral! This is a Free World! YOU MURDERERS KILLED US ALL!"

He was forced down to his knees, as Ilsa drew up, cradling her plasma rifle, and laughing coldly. "Not all of you, Paserak Dog. Not yet."

"Nor will we," growled a new voice, as a large-framed, furred Caitian male with Commodore's bars on his Starfleet uniform stepped out of the shadows, his tail swishing casually behind him as he approached the Paserak. "This is not Extermination, Tribeleader Dirigente. This is Enforcement."

The reptoid looked up at him in horror. "You're... You're Commodore Hrelle! B-But Starfleet - You personally! - have always upheld our neutrality, our right to live! Why have you done this to us?"

He drew closer. "I said this was about Enforcement. And it is. Enforcement of the New Starfleet Order in this sector. From now on, there will be no neutrality, no free passage, none of that execrable liberalism that you and others like you have exploited. Now, those who do not swear allegiance to the United Federation of Planets will have to pay."

The Paserak looked around, as if desperate to wake from this nightmare. "But that's... barbaric! Abominable!"

Hrelle bared his teeth. "A Lion doesn't concern himself with the opinions of a Sheep."

Then his combadge chirped, and he slapped it angrily, roaring, "What is it?"

"Commodore! The Bel-Zon Fleet has arrived!"

The Paserak watched the Caitian's tail snap in agitation, as he barked, "Beam us all up! Get us out of the Ucarro System, Maximum Warp! We can't face them!" He glanced down one last time. "Remember what we've done here, Tribeleader! Tell others!"

Then Hrelle and the rest of his people vanished in a quantum transporter mist.

The encampment seemed to hold its breath, as the cries of the wounded and grieving filled the air.

Dirigente returned to his feet, readying to gather his people, as new transporter columns, of a different type and colour to the Starfleeters', appeared. He froze, expecting a resumption of the attack.

He did not expect to see a collection of new humanoids in generic clothes, carrying medical kits and other equipment, moving off quickly and professionally in many directions, leaving one humanoid male: a tall, gaunt figure with a prominent chin and deep-set eyes, to draw up to him, hands raised non-threateningly as he stopped a metre away. "Tribeleader Dirigente, I presume?"

The Paserak bared his teeth and clouded his eyes. "Who in the Void are you?"

"Berlinghoff Rasmussen, a representative of the Bel-Zon. And I am sorry, I am so very sorry that we did not get here sooner to stop Hrelle and his murderous actions here. But we did chase them off, and now we can provide your people with all the medical, engineering and logistical aid you require."

Behind him, Dirigente's uncle Somaro rushed up, clutching a plasma wound to his right arm and burns on his tail. "Nephew! These aliens, they claim to want to help! What should we do?"

The Tribeleader stared hard at Rasmussen, never taking his eyes off the human but replying, "Let them... but watch them. And try to re-establish contact with our ship in orbit."

"It was attacked by Starfleet," Rasmussen informed him. "Your main drive and power systems are currently down, but the damage appears superficial. I can arrange for you or anyone to be beamed up to it."

The Tribeleader shook his head in shocked disbelief. "I don't understand... why would Hrelle, Starfleet, become so brutal, murderous?"

Rasmussen shook his head in empathy. "I fear the events of the Dominion War have taken their toll on them, both individually and as a body... just as I fear that other tribes of the Paserak, as well as the rest of the inhabitants of Salem Sector will soon suffer as you have suffered tonight.

That's why the Bel-Zon are here. Like the Paserak, we do not believe in flags, in borders, in the ownership of planets or systems. We reject statist tyranny. We believe in freedom and liberty. And we will defend and support anyone whose freedom and liberty is threatened.

But for now, let's see to the welfare of your Tribe..."

*

Fantomax's heart raced as Darvin and she left the Transit Facility and returned along the secret corridor back into the Bel-Zon Headquarters, silently heading back to his berth. It wouldn't be long now, she told herself. It wasn't as if she had the false identification required to arrange passage under normal circumstances herself-

Guards flanked the doors to Darvin's berth.

*

"Surinh Dag has just sent an update," Baulahl reported. "They've signed an initial agreement with the Orion Syndicate... and they've acquired the family."

Dumont sat behind his desk, but had his back turned to the Trill, looking out of his observation window at a rising storm, watching the sickening swirls of methane and craylon gases triggering occasional flashes of lightning, reminding him of an incident in his childhood on New Paris Colony when the Weather Modification Network failed. "Excellent. Inform him he can sow the seeds at Salem One as soon as he returns to the sector. What about Ucarro?"

"The staged attack has been completed. Colonel Wölfin, however, has protested about Kamra Obscura's lack of participation... though her concerns are enmeshed in between slurs regarding Obscura's skin colour."

Dumont grunted. "I had a hidden tactical sensor placed in her weapons, tracking her activity; Security can examine it on their return. Anything else?"

"Security have run a data audit of the industrial replicator work logs: there have been a number of unauthorised jobs run in the past week, replicating specialist equipment."

He swivelled around to face her again. "What type of equipment?"

"Tools, scanners, weapons... and scooters."

"'Scooters'?"

"Two-wheeled vehicles. And all of the equipment is miniaturised, highly miniaturised."

Dumont smirked. "The Rat Pack. Have Security locate the source of how they have managed to sneak in their requisitions, and close it up."

The elderly Trill female frowned. "And that's all you're going to do about it?"