Chapel and Priest: Husks part 4-6
Four: You've got to pick a pocket or two, boys
“So, what have we got today, Charlie?” Scotty pulled his raincoat collar up against the drizzle. Apparently, it was a myth that the Inuit had a thousand words for snow. He'd bet the inhabitants of New Glasgow had a thousand words for rain though. Whoever named this planet had a sense of humour at least; it was just like Glasgow, back home in Scotland. On this small grey planet it rained for thirty-five percent of the year, half an inch in an afternoon was common. Pavements were permanently slick, but when the sun came out, it lifted the spirits, along with the veil of smog that floated in from surrounding mining operations.
“Standard swipe: you bump into and apologise. Hoots mon, I'm a wee Scottish laddie an' I'm awfy sorry! I'll rifle through their clothing.” Charlie grinned, mouth closed; the anticipation of a well-executed theft always got her pumped up.
“Ya rascal, I dinnae talk like that. Cheeky besom.” He laughed. Every time she smiled he wanted to pick her up in a hug. When he watched her defuse a bomb, he wanted to tell the planet, galaxy and universe that she was his girl. When it came to Charlie, he had his heart in his mouth, and on his sleeve all at once, never knowing if she was going to blow herself up. “What does the Doc want?”
“An Orion's ID chip.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man,” answered Charlie. “There's an Orion underground club on Renfield, a kinda specialist place, fetishists, submissive, bondage; that kind of stuff. He wants to sniff about there on a case.”
“Oh Gorn, does this mean he'll be taking the tanning pills again? He's even worse on them. Like a bear with a sore heid.” Unfortunately Scotty, Chapel and McCoy were the only crew-members who could sport a convincing Orion disguise. Chekov was too nervous and green, pardon the pun, and Charlene was too dark. The side-effects were grim, and caused the doc to exhibit levels of methane-fuelled surliness usually reserved for calls to his ex-wife. To date they hadn't been able to synthesise a make-up convincing enough to fool a real Orion, so the pills it was, in all their stomach-churning horror. “Aye, he'll need a cork.”
There was a window of about a day, when you could stop taking the pills to allow your intestines to unknot, and before the complexion started to fade. You got all your sneaking about done in that day.
Charlie and Scotty split up and milled around New Glasgow's main square, looking for a mark. Just like its namesake, the square had lions, and a classical central column that Scotty had always assumed supported a statue of someone called George. It was called George Square, after all. One day, after an evening dram, he called New Glasgow Tourist Information and asked who was at the top of the column. An incredulous silence followed, and after too many seconds, the operator answered, “It's Mayor Khan, sir.” Oh right, my silly mistake, thought Scotty, of course it is. That's me told then.
About twenty yards away, he saw Charlie indicate a likely target by a nod of her head, and Scotty strode through the crowds, only to have his path blocked by a tall, fat man wearing a purple zoot suit with stripes so wide it could have been cut from the cloth of a fortune-teller's tent. Jewelled rings squeezed chubby fingers that were smoothing out a moustache the size and shape of a small rodent. A purple velvet Homburg festooned with a green feather had an uncertain purchase upon his wide head.
“Mister Scott, de-lighted to make your acquaintance again. How is my favourite head of engineering at Clyde spaceport?”
Harry Mudd: a reporter who would sell an organ for a story. “Mudd, ye know I'm the only head of engineering there, and I'm in a hurry.”
“Oh, dear boy, don't let me stop you. I just have a message for your neighbour, Detective McCoy. He does forget to call me and I've left so many messages for him. I know you have an apartment in the same building as his little agency. The Herald Enquirer is very interested in an angle on these missing persons. No, please don't tell me he isn't on the case, he is on every case here, him and that funny little Russian boy.” Mudd paused, in mock discovery of the striking of a sudden thought. “Oh, my dear, do you suppose they are,” he affected a sotto voce, cupping his pudgy hand to shield his mouth, “having an affair?” The other hand rose and he clapped them together in childish delight, rising on his toes. “How simply divine.”
A heavy sigh blew through Scotty's lips. “Mudd, GTF ye slimy git. You lot are scum, grubbing through people's rubbish and hacking into their comms. McCoy tells me he just got a new communications operative to hunt you down and put a stop to your shite. Now bugger off before my fist goes off by accident.” Scotty forged on as Mudd shouted after him, “Well he knows where to find me, m’dear.” Of course, the mark was gone, and he and Charlie spent another hour in the rain before they got what they came for.
**
“Gorn, it's freezin' in here Charlie, I'll get the fire on.” Back at their apartment, Scotty shook out his trench coat and hung his hat on a peg at the door. Already in the small kitchenette, Charlie made noises that meant a pot of tea was on its way and Scotty settled into their dumpy - and a bit lumpy - couch to read the news on a Padd.
“There's a picture here of Khan, the creep, at a party hosted by JT. Gaila's in the background. Canny believe the press still think she's his PA. She's lookin' good 'though.”
“Scotty!” Censure came from behind.
“Och, ye'd have to be blind...” It was time Scotty stopped talking on that subject he thought.
A cup of tea appeared on the table at his elbow and Charlene's hand rested on his shoulder. “You want a slice of malt loaf?”
“Did you make it, love?”
“Of course I did.”
“In that case, you bet.” The Scotsman rubbed his hands together.
They sat squashed up on the couch and Charlie read the news with him, curled up like a cat. “Gaila was in the office the other day.”
“Aye? That's no' like her.” He put the Padd down and faced his partner, offering his full attention.
“One of her friends has gone missing. She's frantic with worry. I spoke to her this morning. I wish we could find a connection.” She slid sideways onto the arm rest and put her chin in her hand.
Scotty slid over and put an arm about her, kissing the top of her head. “Now, don't you be going out at night on yer own Charlie. I mean it. Not until this thing is cleared up.” A future without this woman was an abyss, a void.
“It's not just women!” Her eyes hardened in a look Scotty knew as: I may be small but I don't need any man telling me I can't look after myself - moron! “Can you turn the fire up? I'm still cold.” A tartan blanket lay over the couch back and she pulled it about her shoulders.
“You look like a wee old Heilan' wifey. I can think of a better way to get warm, granny.”
Charlie's small chin stuck forward in challenge. “Oh yeah? Show me what you got.”
“Only if you promise to call me Commander.”
“Aye Commander, show me what you got.”
~~~intermission~~~
GTF: Scottish expression; abbreviated form of Get To F***
Five: Did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?
“So, you'll be in apartment six. Here's your Work ID and a door combination. Memorise that.” Chapel passed Uhura a small brown wallet.
So, this was her story: Nyota Penda Uhura. Communications Operative, New Glasgow Spaceport. Her own impassive face looked out at her.
“Don't worry,” Chapel explained, “you'll only be there three days a week. It's a good place for keeping an ear to the ground. Only myself, McCoy and Chekov are officially employed by the agency. Scotty is chief engineer at the spaceport, Spock lectures a few hours a week in Quantum Mathematics at NGU and Charlie is a consulting academic in geology and explosives technology, working with the silica mining operations on the planet's South pole.”
It was easy to see how Charlie and Spock combined their workloads with SI, although Spock could easily handle two full jobs. “How does Scotty manage to work with us and the port?”
“Just the way he did when he used to work on a ship. He doubles his estimates for fixing things, which is still 20% faster than any other engineering crew. It gives him plenty of spare time to work with us. They still think he's a miracle worker. Nobody at the port goes into the Chief Engineer's office in the afternoons. Not unless they want a rocket up their ass. That's when he does intelligence work -- sorry, did I say intelligence work? I meant his paperwork.”
“But what does SI need with an engineer?”
“He's very good at hot-wiring shuttles and fixing destroyed evidence, but he's got another skill -- he's a crack forger. It comes in really handy here, especially when we need fake credentials. They're a great team, him and Charlie. She steals stuff, like IDs, and he 'adapts' it.”
“So, what am I supposed to be doing with the rest of my time if I only work at the port two days?” Surely Uhura needed a cover for the rest of the time?
Chapel smiled. “Well, we heard you have a great set of pipes. Anyone asks, you’re trying to get work as a singer. This way, if someone tries to give you a gig, accept. It was the captain's idea. We get information from the most unlikely sources. Just ask JT.”
“Where is Kirk? I haven't heard much about him. I thought he’s supposed to be our boss?” Uhura hadn't communicated with the captain at all.
“You don't know, huh?” Chapel cocked her head and ran her tongue over her teeth, beneath closed lips.
“No.”
“Woo, it's a doozy. I'll leave it as a surprise. You'll find out what his cover is soon enough. I want to be there when you find out 'though, it's more fun that way.”
**
Chapel left Uhura to unpack. The apartment was small, but comfortable. A circular walnut cabinet for Padds or books hung on one wall and two small red leather couches with black piping sat either side of a rug decorated with black lines and quarter-circles. A curtained recess at one end of the sitting room held a box bed, and a similar recess opposite was partitioned over to make a walk-in closet. Best of all was a green marble art deco fireplace holding holo-flames. In this strange planet of perpetual autumn, a cosy, wintry apartment was fitting. The tiny kitchen and bathroom were quite adequate. She only needed a shower, and her mother had taught her how to cook on just one burner. Here, she had two, more than enough for one person.
She responded to a knock on the door and thinking it was probably Christine, shouted for them to come in without bothering to turn round. As soon as the person entered, she knew it was Spock because he didn't speak, just patiently waited for her to finish putting clothes into a small chest beside the bed. As she closed the final drawer, she counted to five and gripped the drawer pulls until her fingers throbbed.
“Mister Spock.” She gave a brisk nod.
“Miss Uhura.” He stood at the threshold, hesitating.
“Please come in, sir.” He took a few paces inside and launched into a little speech.
“Welcome to the Enterprise. I am gratified by your posting. Here on New Glasgow we investigate many underhand activities. Your unmatched language skills are most welcome, and an ‘extra ear’ at the spaceport is vital to us. I can think of no one better qualified.”
Almost laughing at his formality - he really did speak like an Austen character - she replied, “It's good to see you, Spock. I'm sorry we couldn't work together here at Enterprise until now.” And it was good to see him, not awkward or embarrassing. Perhaps, treading in the footsteps of her Vulcan instructor, she'd learned to submerge her feelings. It wasn't as if anything had happened between them, but seeing him again, in his pin-striped suit, waistcoat and snow-white shirt, it was impossible to imagine herself with another man.
“You were, and still are, my best student. The Farragut, as the good doctor would say, was ‘not fit to lace your boots’. I did attempt to have you re-assigned; Starfleet Intelligence, and the Enterprise agency was your right. When apprised of the situation, Jim made attempts to secure your place.”
“Thank you sir, that means a lot coming from you, and thanks for putting in a good word with the captain. It's nice to be back on solid ground.”
“Privately, I believe Starfleet assigned you to the Farragut in order to rectify a chaotic situation left by their previous head of communications. It was our loss. Your talents are better utilized here than up in space. I also believe it to be somewhat safer here.”
He wanted her to be safe. She always clutched at his most neutral statements, probing their meaning in order to uncover any minute tipping in her favour.
“We almost lost Pike.” Nyota closed her eyes and took a calming breath, trying to push the memory away. “I was monitoring his frequency. I heard him being tortured and there was nothing - ” It was impossible to continue.
“Yes, I know, Nyota. I am confident in your professionalism.” He stepped forward, just one step, and raised a tentative hand, but let it fall. Neither one spoke; she took time to reacquaint herself with his familiar stooped posture. The commander had served with Pike -- rumour was, Spock would follow him to the galactic barrier.
At last, the Vulcan punctured the silence. “He is a man of intelligence and integrity. He would not expect a crew member to carry out an order he would not execute himself.”
“Poor choice of words, Spock. He almost did execute himself.” Her eyelids drooped and she let out a sigh. “It's been a long morning, will you excuse me?”
“Of course; my apologies.” At the point of reaching her door, he looked back, his hand on the frame. “Please believe me, I do appreciate you being here.”
“I look forward to working with you once more sir.” Long after he left, she leant on the inside of the door, her hand touching where his had rested.
~~~intermission~~~
Six: You've been taken by a smooth criminal
As was customary, anyone who happened to be in the agency at lunchtime gathered in the 'good office' to watch the one o'clock news -- if you could call it news. Almost nobody could understand it, except for Charlie, who translated for the hard-of-mediaspeak. This running commentary sparked off a flurry of barely-disguised expressions on Spock's face; alternate frustration, boredom and downright bewilderment.
“Look at that slime,” Charlie tutted at the mayor of New Glasgow, “he's been 49 years old for the past five years. Rumour is he's almost 300 years old. Nobody can prove it.”
Uhura turned to her colleague. “What? That seems unlikely, why do you think that?”
“It was in the New Glasgow Herald Enquirer. He's wearing a suit.”
“Uh, he's wearing kind of a linen kurti and pants. The Herald Enquirer? Do you read that site?” Uhura was embarrassed by the faint tone of disdain in her voice, but Charlie was unperturbed.
Scotty burst into the conversation. “Site? Shite more like. A steamin' load of cack.”
“Mister Scott, despite your crude scatological assessment, I must concur. It does, however, behoove us to study all aspects of planetary culture. As this concerns your own human culture, a more open-minded approach would be better fitting for a Starfleet officer.”
“Scotty, you've been Spocked! He just called you a snob.” Doctor McCoy cackled as the Scotsman shook his head and Charlie tried to steer the conversation back to the mayor.
“Quit it guys, I'm trying to tell Uhura about Mayor Khan. He's wearing a suit, an artificially constructed bio-body; bioflesh.”
“What? But they cost millions, serious millions. And they're illegal…aren't they?” Uhura was still feeling her way on this strange planet where normal Terran customs didn't always apply.
“Yeah, but with all his rackets, for 300 years? What does he care about illegal? Who knows? It’s a suit, that's what I think. And look at Marla; she got lucky. She's a disgrace to Starfleet.” Charlie gestured towards the mayor's red-headed wife, a petite, pale woman who beamed out into the crowd gathered at whatever her husband was announcing, her smile beatific and smug. A political wife to the core. Uhura imagined her standing by her husband, the way they all did when scandal and lap-dancers struck. How could they not? Their whole lives revolved about their men.
“Indeed,” said Spock, “she sports a decorative appearance sustained only by great wealth.”
“Yeah,” Charlie nodded, “her wardrobe cost more than this building.”
“She came from Starfleet?” asked Uhura.
“Yeah, a historian. A histrionic if you ask me. Seems like a life of pampering and diamonds compared to Starfleet appealed to her tiny little brain. Stupid little girl.” Charlene's dissection of the mayor continued with glee. “Look at his pecs -- they're not real, they're either implants or he's all bioflesh.” Indeed, the deep v of the mayor's shift displayed an impressive, hilly landscape of smooth brown chest.
“He looks all man to me,” Christine drawled, winding one lanky leg tight over the other.
McCoy's head jerked round. “Christine! I'll have you taken outside and shot as a collaborator.”
The nurse flipped a finger in reply. “Keep your pants on, Bones, a girl can window shop. Just because she's admiring doesn't mean she'll buy the goods. Second thought, I'd take a night with him, as long as he was gagged.” For a moment the nurse's eyes became unfocussed, “and bound; especially bound.”
“What is our esteemed leader's announcement?” Spock craned forward to break free of the wall of giggling caused by Chapel's admiration of the mayor.
“Shush, you guys.” Charlie flapped her hands.
Without doubt, Khan was an attractive specimen: his hair was thick and shiny, his muscles bullish and his posture upright. “... so from next month all surgical procedures under 500 credits will be free. Healthcare reform is a priority for this council. No citizen of New Glasgow will be disadvantaged by their income...”
A murmur of dissent followed in the office; Uhura didn't understand. “But that's good, isn't it?”
“No,” Chekov countered, “he has all the healthcare on the planet in his pocket -- they do cheap deals. Most of the procedures under 500 credits are cosmetic surgery. People are lured in and get more and more done and then they are in debt so much they cannot pay. The company is a loan shark.”
Spock continued: “Many of the non-human species you will see in New Glasgow are in fact human -- fetish augments who, after repeated surgeries, have transformed themselves entirely, on the outside at least. They are colloquially referred to as FAs.”
“Aye lass, Mister Spock canny go tae Finnegan's bar without droves of girls with falsies makin' a bee-line for him.” Charlene glared at her partner. “Eh, false ears I mean. I only have tae challenge them tae an arm-wrestle and we know they're no' real.”
“Sorry,” Uhura was confused, “how can you tell they have fake ears by their arms?”
“A real Vulcan lassie would beat me, wouldn't she?”
The newscaster switched to another story. “And in other news, the actress Crimson Crest returns fresh-faced after her vacation to Dunedin.” A pillow-lipped redhead with curves usually only seen in geometry texts was ushered through a crowd by two monumental Klingon bodyguards. The surface of the crowd glittered with camera flashes.
“Fresh-faced my ass, she's been re-surfaced. She's about as fresh as a week-old catfish left out in the sun.” McCoy grumbled some more under his breath. “Dunedin just happens to be the location of KhanCorp's most advanced surgical facility.”
“Leave Crimson alone, Bones.” Christine leapt to the actress' defence, “she's friends with Jim -- she's OK.”
Uhura felt even more in the dark. “What's re-surfacing?”
“You gotta learn the lingo here, doll; re-surfacing's a skin transplant with lab-skin. They take a sample from between your ass-cheeks where the skin is least damaged, and grow you a whole new surface. Hereabouts, we call it ass-face.”
A look of relish came over the Doc's visage, as Uhura felt her mouth stiffen in horror. “That's revolting, that and the FAs. Why haven't I heard about people doing this on Terra?”
“Regulations here under Khan are pretty lax. Most of these treatments haven't been passed by any Terran FDA,” Christine explained.
“But Starfleet should do something about that.” Uhura was indignant, but everyone laughed.
Christine patted her on the arm. “Don't mind us, Uhura, we're rude, hardened old lags here. MediKhan are at the cutting edge of surgery. Why would Starfleet waste their precious R&D credits when MediKhan will do all their research for free? Thanks to Khan, Starfleet can create sleeper agents who aren't even the species their friends and family think they are, and they didn't pay a penny towards development.”
“That's immoral.” Uhura couldn't believe it.
“Aye,” Scotty scratched his ear. “That's defence policy constrained by funding for ye, look to big business for innovation and turn a blind eye when the regulations are broke. And you know what they say; keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”
“Why wasn't any of this in my briefing?”
Chekov tapped the side of his nose. “Need to know basis, not written in records. We are here to observe and report. Khan is allowed by Starfleet to operate, and he knows that, but they are becoming tired of him. The financial corruption is spreading. We play cat and mouse with him, but he is a genius, and very good at covering his tracks. One day, he will make a big mistake.”
The news over, Charlie flicked to a music feed. A blonde girl sang about robot love. She wore nice earrings -- they were the only thing she wore. McCoy and Scotty leaned forward and Charlie changed the channel to some crooner's live concert. He was young and slim, wearing an evening suit with a crisp white shirt open at the neck, a black bow tie lying un-knotted about the collar. With a confident shimmy, he slid out of his jacket and threw it into the crowd, setting off a brief scuffle. The sound of screaming rose to ear-bursting decibels as he blew a kiss in the direction of the man who caught the jacket, then scrubbed at his scalp in a calculated move that made his hair stick up in a boyish, adorable manner.
Adorable? Had Uhura really thought that? Gorn, she was getting sucked in to the man's charm. It surrounded him like a vortex and shone from his cornflower-blue eyes. Beings of all sexes in the crowd were on the verge of hysteria. She was drawn to the monogram in twinkling lights, picked out rhinestone-fashion above the velvet black stage.
JT
Turning to Christine, her eyes wide, Uhura asked, “This is our captain's cover? Is this a joke?”
“No joke, he's very popular with every sex and species, and he mingles in Khan's circle. It's all very convenient.”
“But I hardly recognised him -- I thought Kirk had hazel eyes, and this guy's hair seems thicker.” Surely this was an elaborate joke at her expense. “I'll believe this when I see it.” She folded her arms in defiance.
“All right doll,” the doc butted in, “tomorrow we'll pay JT's penthouse a visit. We'll take Chekov, he always finds it enjoyable, if his heart can take it.” McCoy elbowed the Kid in the ribs.
Chekov's face turned four shades of red.
~~intermission~~
Awesome fanmix With our Rain Washed Histories by
i_am_32_flavors
Beautiful character art by
theoreticalpixy
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