Surefoot 86: Illegal Moves

"I'll speak with Monsieur Benjamin when we hold our so-called planetary survey briefing later in the week." Now he smiled. "You know, Relee, sometimes I regret not taking up a safer, more conventional corporate position somewhere... and then times such as these remind me of how much of a bore a safer, more conventional corporate position would be-"

His further musings were interrupted as his office door slid open without warning, and Bo Darvil stormed in, shaking off the grip of a security guard. "Dumont! You son of a bitch!"

Dumont rose to his feet, as did Baulahl, the former fixing a steely glare on the Zeon smuggler. "Monsieur Darvil, please calm down."

"The Hell I will! Your goons grabbed Lady Penelope, took her away somewhere!"

"I know; it was under my orders."

"Why?"

The Frenchman sneered. "Do not play ignorant with me, Mr Darvil. I am well aware that 'Lady Penelope', aka Lady Fantomax, was planning on leaving Elba II without authorisation, and that you were conspiring with her. It is only your entitled position as leader of the Highwaymen that you are not also being penalised as she is... but this will be your first and last warning: that position, as entitled as it is, does not make you sacrosanct."

Darvil's gaze tightened. "What are you going to do to her?"

Dumont turned back to view the squall of poisonous gases outside. "Her usefulness to the Bel-Zon has come to an end. We'll facilitate her departure from this facility... just not in the way she expected."

*

"I SAID GET RID OF IT!" Bad Ronald demanded, shrinking down into a gulley in the rocks, his Grim Reaper's cloak wrapped around him as if for protection.

Zorin rose up, still holding the amulet before him. It was true, this creature was afraid of it, stopping its attack on the Klingon starship and driving it into hiding, before Zorin's people found it. "Why? You said you never met the Klingons before! Is it the alloy? Is your physiology sensitive to the metal? Is it the image of Kahless? Like the cross to a vampire from old legends-"

Bad Ronald dropped the cloak cover, revealing a more human-looking face, but with slicked-back hair starting from a widow's peak on the forehead... and fangs in its open, as it hissed at him. And it spoke to him in a hammy Eastern European accent. "I vahnt to suck yoor BLOOD!"

It rose to its feet again, now dressed in an old-fashioned tuxedo, holding up the cape now like bat wings. "Children of the Night, Maximilian... vaht music they make!" He dropped the cape again. "Ridiculous, isn't it? Just like you."

He swept up to Zorin, who continued to hold the pendant before him... until Bad Ronald, still appearing as Dracula, bent down and kissed it with mock affection. He smiled toothily up at Zorin. "I hope you didn't spend too much buying this. It won't protect you from me."

Zorin's jaw tightened, and he tensed, ready to fight this entity. "It's kept me safe so far."

Bad Ronald laughed, as it and the environment around them morphed, darkened and twisted. "Has it? Or have I simply allowed you to believe that? Let you wallow in your naivete? In your delusions of superiority?"

It altered its form again, becoming Zorin's father, his voice identical to the old man's as he intoned, "I should have taught you humility, Maximilian. I would have, too, if you hadn't killed me first."

His father became his grandfather. "Don't listen to him, Maxie! Come, sit on my lap once more!"

His grandfather became his calculus tutor Marta Kenwell, her body and face battered and bloody and broken from his first berserker rage against her at age fourteen. "So much death, young man, and you're never satisfied."

Marta Kenwell became his son Julian, equally pulped and dead. "Not with her, Dad. Not with me. Not with any of us."

Julian then became Commodore Hrelle, his tail swishing behind him. "You'll never be satisfied, Buddy. That little secret implant in your head that you hope will grant you immortality may work, may let you live another lifetime, a hundred lifetimes... but you'll still never be satisfied."

Then the Caitian became a clown, a human clown... if one had died and was somehow reanimated, its rotted flesh making the white makeup crack and curdle. He danced around in place. "Like this one, Maximilian? One of my people, on a previous sojourn into your space centuries ago, developed it during a visit to Earth. Penny brought back many good reviews about young human cuisine: so pure, so untarnished."

He pointed a finger at Zorin, grinning. "You're not young anymore, Maximilian, and you were never pure... but you'll do for a snack..."

*

The starship departed from Asteroid M, manned by a skeleton crew that Kazan had brought along; they would suffice until their return to Bel-Zon Headquarters.

He sat in the Captain's Chair on the Bridge. It felt comfortable. He smirked. "I wonder if Commodore Hrelle will live long enough to appreciate the bitter irony when he sees this ship return."

Beside him in the First Officer's Chair, Vargas looked up. "Return?"

He nodded. "It originally patrolled Salem Sector; in fact, Hrelle commanded her sixteen years ago, when the previous Bel-Zon attacked them, killing the crew with radiation weapons and capturing Hrelle. Decontamination processes weren't as advanced as they are now, and it was only in recent times when the Dominion War was at its peak that Starfleet thought about cleaning it and restoring it to active service... at least, before Moonfleet grabbed it first."

He grunted, looking over at the dedication plaque on the wall, with the words USS FURYK engraved at the top. "Do Caitians believe in ghosts?"

*

Deep Space:

Somerset knew something was wrong the moment the missile hit his flyer.

He had been on his way to Salem One, examining the data he had obtained from Kivas Fajo along the way, and the missile, and the ship it had originated from, appeared from nowhere, and the attack had caused some, but obviously not fatal damage. He had struggled to perform evasive manoeuvres, entering a nearby system, seeking a habitable planet, unable to call for help.

He found a world, listed in the charts as Alfa 177: Class-K, a former mining colony abandoned a century ago. Maybe you'll find a shovel down there to dig your own grave, James.

He entered the atmosphere; his ship was rapidly becoming a brick, momentum and the upper winds of the planet carrying it into a glide rather than a drop, and Somerset activated the safety harnesses and ant-transporter fields when he was certain he could do nothing more. Nice one, James, you didn't even manage to forward the data to Admiral Raner. You're definitely getting too old for this sh-

*

He woke up, his head aching, pushing past the pain and unharnessing himself, expecting his attackers to arrive and confirm he was dead. The flyer was wrecked, exposed to the elements, to judge from the bitterly cold air outside, and he quickly gathered his possessions, along with a cold weather coat. There was an exosuit as well, which would provide greater protection, but at the cost of speed and peripheral vision, both of which could cost him dearly.

The coat felt warm - until he stepped outside, and it was like he was naked. He ignored it, ignored that ache in his lungs with each breath, as he got his bearings. He had been lucky, and crashed near the remains of one of the mining facilities; some of the nearby above-ground support buildings in ruins. The sky was a black shroud from the thick, seemingly-permanent cloud cover overhead, and the ground a thin carpet that crunched when his boot sank into it.

He looked around again, clutching his phaser rifle, working out a zigzag path, from the shuttle to a rock, and then a piece of wall, and then the wreckage of a land vehicle, and then the entrance to a building that would offer him cover. Easy peasy.

Definitely too old for this, James.

He charged forward, boots kicking up frost, hearing the yelps of blue plasma bolts from different directions strike the ground on either side of him... each subsequent bolt getting closer. He was going to die. He was going to die here, alone, on a dark frozen world-

He dropped behind the wall, his lungs threatening to shrivel up from the sharpness of the freezing air... and his own age. The plasma bolts continued to try and strike him. He crouched down, listening, gauging the directions, before holding his breath as he rose enough to fire back, repeating his actions three more times, before dropping down one more time, waiting for the next round.

Instead a female voice carried over the still, lifeless air. "Commander Somerset! Can we talk?"

He tensed, still listening, wondering if they were trying to get closer while he was distracted. "I think I can fit you into my schedule."

"We only want the data you took from Kivas Fajo! Switch off your anti-transporter device and let us all beam back to our ship! We have no interest in harming you!"

I'll bet. "Sounds reasonable. Drop your weapons, come over and line up for me and we'll talk some more."

Silence, and then Somerset started at the laser targeting dots appearing on the top of the wall. He dropped a little further.

The woman's voice returned. "We could just keep you pinned down there until you freeze to death, Commander. It would make our job so much easier if you could just give up."

He breathed out - they were certainly right about the freezing to death part - and checked the power cell on his rifle. "I believe in people earning their pay."

"Fine. Open Fire!"

Somerset ducked down again as he heard plasma rifles, expecting them to have increased the power levels to chip away at his protection, exposing him.

Except it didn't happen.

Instead he heard yells and cries, abruptly cut short, before the sounds of gunfire ceased.

Then there was a new, male voice. "Commander Somerset, are you injured?"

He tensed. "Who's asking?"

"Captain Nol Nrari, commanding the Caitian Assault Vessel Crooked Tail. We're aware of your assignment regarding Commodore Hrelle and the Bel-Zon, and were ordered to intercept and assist you. We tracked you from Farius Prime, and arrived here... in time, it seems."

Somerset glanced around again. It still could have been a trap. "Who ordered you to intercept and assist me?"

"First Minister Shall - and I shouldn't have to clarify who she is, or her connection with Hrelle."

"Perhaps, but-"

"But nothing. I'm done talking, this cold is gonna make my tail snap off. I'm coming to you, ready or not."

Somerset breathed out once more, his breath continuing to ghost before him. He knew of First Minister Ma'Sala Shall, formerly the head of the Caitian's Planetary Navy - and their Secret Service. And he knew that it made perfect sense that she would be aware of her son-in-law's troubles, and would have sent help.

It could still be a trap.

Bugger it.

He rose to his feet, still cradling his rifle... relaxing only as he saw the white-furred Caitian approach, a Caitian in cold-weather camouflage gear and holding a weapon of his own, though like Somerset he carried it in a decidedly non-threatening manner.

Closer now, he could see the Caitian's eyes were red, and seemed to glow in the dim light. Behind him, other tailed figures emerged, similarly clothed and armed, though their fur colours varied.

Somerset regarded Captain Nrari, never having met a Caitian in the flesh (or was it fur?) before, but having researched a little on the people and their recent history since receiving his current assignment: at times friendly and feral, with a history of self-reliance, having recently overthrown an occupation of their planet by another felinoid race.

It was typical of many Federation member worlds, especially ones like the Caitians who exist in relatively remote parts of the UFP, to have provincial defence forces instead of relying on Starfleet. It was very atypical of them to send such forces to other parts of the Federation; he would have to check with Admiral Raner, but he doubted if they received authorisation from Starfleet Command to come here.

On the other hand, they did save his life. He drew up and held out his hand. "Thank you for your assistance, Captain."

Nrari accepted the hand, his paw large and strong and furry; this close, Somerset could see that the glowing red in the eyes was because he had cybernetic implants or enhancements. "You're welcome, Commander. We'll take you the rest of the way to Salem One."

"Thank you again." He glanced around. "Did you leave any of them alive?"

"No."

"What about their ship?"

"Destroyed."

Somerset raised an eyebrow. "Captain, as much as I appreciate your assistance, you must be aware that you have no authorisation outside of Caitian space to engage in hostile actions."

Nori grunted dismissively. "If you want, Commander, you can have your office send a protest to First Minister Shall, where she'll give it all the consideration she thinks it deserves.

Besides, we're not the Caitians you should be concerned about, Commander.

It's the ones Shall is assembling back on the Motherworld right now to come out here and deal with the threats to her family... including her cubs and grandcubs.

And we Caitians are at our most dangerous when protecting cubs."

*

Bad Ronald twisted and morphed back into the Grim Reaper again as it trapped Zorin. "Yes, Maximilian, Judgement awaits you on your death. Judgement for your many, many sins. And all your money, your influence, your strength and ability will not save you. It is the one thing, the only thing you fear, that fear that has nestled deep into your psyche since you first saw that old Swedish movie as a boy."

It reached for Zorin. "Time to die."

It stopped.

Zorin stared hard, unmoving. "No, Fiend. Not today."

Bad Ronald pressed to attack, to grab him, even touch him. But it was as if a force field was erect between them.

Zorin smiled. "It was never about the amulet, or anything of substance, that drove you back. It was about faith. The Klingon cleric believed completely in Kahless, and you couldn't shake that faith, no matter what you found inside his head to try and use against him. It became a psychic shield. The amulet was simply a focus for him." He threw away the Klingon artefact. "If you had faced a devout Bajoran with an Orb, or a Christian with a cross, they would be equally effective. Maybe you should go back to the Dracula bit, it'd work better."

Bad Ronald smiled back. "Faith, Maximilian? You're a psychotic nihilist. You believe in nothing!"

It tried striking again. And failed again.

Zorin crossed his arms. "I believe in myself. I believe that nothing else matters. And I believe that I've wasted enough time here. Stay here, Fiend, stay out of trouble, until you're needed."

He turned to depart.

"One final morsel of advice, Maximilian?" Bad Ronald offered.

Zorin turned back.

The entity stood there in full Reaper regalia. "Faith, even in yourself, will only take you so far. You may keep me in check - for now - but there are forces out there who don't give a damn how much you believe in yourself."

*

Fantomax had grown anxious as the guards led her into a part of the facility she didn't recognise. "Where are we going?"

"Shut up."

She glanced around, noting exosuit lockers and maintenance equipment - and an airlock with a porthole, revealing the poisonous, pea-green exterior. But why would they-

No. She struggled. "No! You can't!" She turned, tried to break free.

The guard punched her in the stomach, doubling her over, before they grabbed her more brusquely and dragged her along to the airlock. "Message from Dumont for you: 'People leave the Bel-Zon when the Bel-Zon says they can leave, 'My Lady'."

She forced down the pain, blindly trying to trip them up, while fighting a growing whine in her ears.

A whine that the guards somehow heard as well, as they stopped and turned. "What the hell is that, a cleaning drone?"

It wasn't.

It was a score of rats riding tiny scooters racing down the corridor toward them.

The second guard laughed. "Hey look, Mouse Motorcross!"

Multiple phaser beams shot out from the scooters in seeming reply, striking one guard and sending him to the floor.

The second guard released his hold on Fantomax to reach for his communicator, stopping only as a ceiling panel dropped after it had been phasered away from above, allowing more rats to drop down on him. He screamed, fell backwards against a wall, as he now tried to retrieve the disruptor on his belt, before the rats on him employed their own phasers, stunning him as well.

Fantomax, on all fours, coughed and gasped in confusion, allowing the biker rats to drive around to face her, Ben in the lead. "Well, that was a narrow squeak! Come on, Milady, there's no time to waste!"

She looked at him, at the rest of the Rat Pack. "W-What are you doing here?"

He hopped off his scooter and scittered up to her. "It's a rescue! We've got access to the docking bay, and a flyer ready for us! All of us! Let's vamoose!"

She blinked, before finally smiling and nodding. "Best news all day."

*

Salem Sector, Station Salem One, Officer's Quarters, Deck 1:

Lt Zir Dassene entered her residence, rubbing her neck, silently admonishing herself for missing another exercise session to focus on her increased duties, and the continued recovery of her close friend Urad Kaldron, severely injured during the Dragon Incident. She set down her PADDs and stripped out of her uniform and padded into the shower, opting for water rather than sonic waves, hopinlipped out of her uniform jacket, rolling her head around to work out her aches.

It had been a gruelling week and more, and her duties as the Adjutant to the Commodore had only increased since the heightened security alert. More than once he had raised concerns for her mental state, concerns she had successfully waved off. He needed her. In her life of self-imposed exile from her former life, he and her friends were the closest things to family she had left.

But she did need a break. Not with her friends, not with her lover Arik Rhov, just herself.

"Lieutenant."

She had returned from her bathroom into the main room, rubbing her eyes, when she heard the voice, male but unfamiliar, but such was her distraction that she didn't even recognise it as an actual sound.

"Lieutenant, we haven't much time."

Now her head shot up, and she grabbed the towel from her bed and wrapped it around herself. Standing before her was a muscular, older Orion male, as green as herself, bald, with numerous jewelled accessories around his leathers and furs.

Instinctively she hit her chest where her combadge would normally be on her jacket, realised her jacket was on the chair behind the intruder, and then opened her mouth to call for Security.

The Orion male raised his open hand to her. "Don't, Lieutenant. By the time they respond, this transmission will be ended." In demonstration, he reached out to an adjacent table, letting his huge beefy hand pass through it. "It's called an isomorphic projection. It's not detectable or traceable either, should you be foolish enough to try either. Do you want to get dressed? I can wait. And watch."

Zir struggled to control her breathing, her pulse. This was the first Orion she had encountered since her escape from Imperial Space. Yes, he wasn't really here, but still... "Who are you? What are you doing in here?"