Mission to Daleth IV - Chapter 02
Title: Mission to Daleth IV
Author: Soledad
For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the index page
Chapter 02 - Associates
Author’s notes:
Horsa’s Pub is a cheap little bar, the one seen in the Tribble-episode not unlike. Clones as full citizens of the Federation (and one specifically named Dethwe) were mentioned in one of Diane Duane’s books, I believe in “The Wounded Sky”. I consider her books semi-canon, as some aspects (particularly where Vulcans and Romulans are considered) are much more convincing than in the actual shows.
Also, what is told here about cloning has no scientific basis whatsoever. I’ve made it up for the sake of this series, and I can be completely wrong. Remember, this is an AU, a story for entertainment, not a scientific thesis.
The adventures of Harry Mudd, mentioned in this chapter, are recited by Spock in the Animated Series episode “Mudd’s Woman”, though I changed the circumstances a little. The gloomer appeared in the animated episode “More Tribbles, More Troubles”. The events considering the Klingon Empire are from the never-realized second series script “Kitumba”, written by John Meredyth Lucas.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The next simulated morning Of Daleth Station found Captain Vierchi tired and bleary-eyed but in a somewhat better mood than he had expected. The previous night had been a very long one, checking on all his contacts - all little fishes, low on the criminal hierarchy, and, what was a pleasant surprise, most of them still alive. Either S’Bysh was getting careless, or he was preparing for something so big that he had no time and no expendable people to watch the small criminals more closely.
True to his word, Sanchez had delivered the new First Mate to the Bianchi: a sixth-generation clone of some indefinable humanoid species. The guy wore the name Dethwe, was completely hairless (inclusive eyebrows) and his proportions would have put an Orion mercenary to shame. Which, considering the fact that the closest equivalent of an Orion mercenary was a particularly large Sumo wrestler, was quite an achievement.
Most people had problems with working with clones, especially ones of higher generations, as the cloning process, despite the high hopes made considering it on 21st century Earth, turned out to have a hidden risk factor, which could cause both physical an mental deformations. Also, with each new generation, the clones tended to become less stable mentally and were bent to have violent reactions, if provoked.
The one Sanchez had offered Vierchi as First Mate looked normal and stable enough, save the odd colour patterns all across the visible parts of his body. According to his medical file, there had been a system malfunction in the cloning chamber when he had been created, so he was due to carry these marks till the end of his days. Other than that, he looked friendly and more or less capable, even if a little slow. He showed acceptable familiarity with ship systems, so Vierchi decided to keep him. It wasn’t as if he could afford anyone better.
Painfully obvious the fact that his First Mate would never fit into the only small cabin onboard, Vierchi had allowed the clone to settle down in the empty cargo bay as well as he could. Then, after a few hours of unruly sleep, he rose again and went to find his associate.
They had established different meeting places for different contacts years ago. They had even switched back and forth between these places several times. It was safer this way - well, as far as one could speak of ‘safety’ on Daleth Station at all. Therefore Vierchi knew that for this particular meeting he had to go to Horsa’s Pub - a small bar, as far from S’Bysh’s as possible, while still on the same trade and entertainment ring.
He strolled through the open entrance - the owner of this bar had made a policy of not having any doors, for some reason - and took a good look around the brightly lighted space with its ugly, plastic furniture.
As always, there were lots of people here, enjoying the cheap booze. The bartender - a small, chubby Tellarite - leaned against the bar, haggling with some persistent salesman; one of the Free Merchants’ Guild, if the traditional clothing was any indication. Nobody else wore those ugly leggings and ridiculous tunics, complete with the widely cut, hooded cloaks under which one could smuggle out a middle-sized, stolen generator… or a drugged slave child.
Other members of the Guild sat in small groups around the oddly shaped little tables. Most of them were humans or other inhabitants of the Rigel system. Orions detested this place for its openness, bright simplicity and total lack of comfort. Which made it absolutely invaluable for Vierchi when he needed to meet some of his associates.
He aimed at an empty table in a corner of the room, near the door, tried to find a semi-comfortable position on one of the impossible chairs - and waited. There was nothing else he could do at the moment. He had sent the message. His associate knew about his arrival by know and would come as soon as possible. Such were the rules of this game.
A scantily clad waitress with short, strangely purple hair and large, tingling earrings of obviously fake gold approached his table, with a tray in her hand.
“What’s your pleasure?” she asked in a deep, smoky voice.
Vierchi was tempted to order something really potent for a change, like Aldebaran whiskey or Saurian brandy. He always was, this part of his old problem was never going away. But once again, he won the battle of the day, ordering Altair water instead.
The waitress made a fully face, as if serving water, no matter what sort, would be beneath her dignity, but swayed away nevertheless.
His water arrived only moments later, and Vierchi continued his silent watch while sipping from it, cataloguing new and familiar faces, trying to figure out patterns in the interaction of the small crowd. He had been away from Daleth Station for months, and it already showed. Things tended to change here at an awfully fast speed and he needed all his wits together to keep up with the changes. Handling otherwise would have been… unhealthy, to say the least.
After about a standard hour or so, the entrance of the pub darkened again, and this time a big, rotund merchant rumbled in, grinning from ear to ear, and with a slight spring in his step that belied his considerable size. He had a round head, short-cropped hair, and wore an utterly ridiculous jacket of the colour of weeks-old mould, with an orange-and-white striped shirt beneath, baggy kneehosens and high black boots.
“Ah… excuse me, ‘scuse me,” he said, waving around jovially with a beefy hand, flashing a golden ring that was just a tad to big and shiny to be real gold. His smile was so broad it almost split his face, but his small eyes went around quickly, catching briefly as many looks as he could. The he approached the bar, efficiently pushing out of way the smaller merchant by his sheer size.
Vierchi suppressed a chuckle as he watched his associate trying to talk the bartender into buying some of his so-called spician flame gems. He had known Cyrano Jones for more than fourteen standard years by know and couldn’t believe that the other man was still dealing in those completely useless pieces of coloured glass - and that there still were fools who would actually buy them. Granted, the little trinkets were pretty, but other than that…
Considering that Tellarites had no use for gemstones to begin with - they completely failed to understand the concept of wearing jewellery - it was more than surprising that within ten standard minutes, Cyrano Jones actually managed to sell the bartender not only several dozens of the flame games but an equal amount from the small vials containing Antarian glow water. He persuaded the guileless Tellarite that the stuff was absolutely necessary to polish the flame gems with, so that they wouldn’t lose their spark. Why a Tellarite - a member of a race with particularly poor eyesight - would feel the need to keep sparkling chunks of glass was a mystery beyond Vierchi’s comprehension, but he had to admit that Cyrano Jones was good in what he was doing.
The big merchant now turned away from the bar, clownish smile still plastered firmly on his face, and scanned the pub quickly. He discovered Vierchi in the corner and strolled over to him at once.
“Salvatore!” he exclaimed, pumping Vierchi’s hand in his customary exuberant manner. “My old friend Salvatore Vierchi! How good it is to see you again!”
Vierchi found it hard to resist hitting the other man. He absolutely hated his first name... and everyone who dared to address him by it. The other customers gave him pitying looks, which didn’t exactly cheered him up, but he could hardly flat out ignore the man for whom he had been waiting since his arrival here.
The waitress transferred Jones’ abandoned drink form the bar, and the two men finally sat down to discuss serious business. Sipping his Altair water, Vierchi watched incredulously as his associate emptied several of his bottomless pockets, spreading various items of his collection - mostly cheap fake gemstones and crystals - generously across the entire table. No other merchant Vierchi had ever seen carried so much useless junk on their person.
Of course, one needed a very well trained eye to notice the barely visible glow that appeared in the obviously fake gem in Jones’ huge ring. It was obviously a scrambler, and a very cleverly hidden one at that. Among all the fake gems glittering in various too bright colours on the table, one could only catch the change in the ring’s stone when one knew what to look for.
Vierchi looked at the ring, then at his associate and nodded slightly, signalling that he understood that they could speak more or less freely now. They both brought forth their PADDs with the trading contracts, as they were supposed to do business with each other, and while the scrambler “translated” their words into standard haggling patterns for anyone who might have been listening, Vierchi could finally address the topics of true importance.
“We were afraid you wouldn’t be able to make it,” he said, checking the long columns of numbers on his PADD with a convincing scowl. Well, of course it was convincing. Regardless of the circumstances, he still hated the fact that he had to handle sixty per cent of his incomes to the other man. “Running into Kirk, of all people, was something none of us could have foreseen.”
“You are absolutely right, of course!” Cyrano Jones exclaimed with a broad grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It was a… delicate situation,” he added, lowering his voice, so that only Vierchi would hear it. “It could have sabotaged all our well-laid plans - the man is unpredictable. For a moment, I was really concerned. Especially since I didn’t have a pretty woman at hand to divide his attention.”
“Well, using tribbles to reveal a Klingon agent was certainly a stroke of genius,” Vierchi nodded. “Where did you get the annoying little buggers from anyway?”
“That, my friend, is a professional secret,” this time, Cyrano Jones’ grin was genuine. “But they worked like a charm, didn’t they? A good think that they have such a mutual dislike for each other, them and the Klingons. Plus, the chaos that they caused has made Kirk nice and mad, so he insisted that I’d be forcibly kept on K-7 until they were gone.”
“I assume the method with which you managed to get rid of the tribble-plague is one of those professional secrets, too?” Vierchi asked. Jones rolled his eyes.
“Really, Salvatore, you don’t think that I’d bring tribbles with me anywhere, without having a gloomer ready to deal with them?”
Vierchi nodded his understanding. Gloomers were the only natural enemies of tribbles. They kept the tribble population in check. If one wanted to avoid a natural disaster caused by tribbles, one needed a gloomer.
The pattern was simple enough. Tribbles ate everything they could grab. Gloomers, on the other hand, ate nothing but tribbles, and they spawned by asexual bipartition when overfed, just like their prey. Once all the tribbles were gone, the gloomers died, too, by starvation.
“Besides,” Jones added jovially, “most of the furry little things died from the poisoned wheat anyway - save those which Kirk’s people managed to beam over to the Klingon ship from the Enterprise.”
“They did what?” Vierchi almost choked on his water. Jones shrugged.
“Most people don’t know that tribble fur causes severe allergies by Klingons - something akin to human asthma, just much worse. Children can suffocate when forced to stay in a closed environment with tribbles, but adults suffer from them almost as badly. Horribly itching rush is the mildest reaction.”
“So, I guess you made quite a wealth out of selling your gloomer to the Klingons, didn’t you?” Vierchi said.
“Of course,” Jones grinned. “Your sixty per cents wouldn’t keep my business up and running.”
“True enough,” Vierchi admitted; his incomes had been rather on the low side lately. “What has become of our little Klingon agent, though?”
Cyrano Jones shrugged. “He was sent to Limbo, never to return.”
Well, of course, Vierchi thought. Where else should they send a spy if not to Limbo?
The Limbo penal colony was the only place where convicts with a life sentence - imprisoned for piracy, spying, high treason, mass murder and other very serious crimes could have been sent. Right after death penalty - dealt only for violating Starfleet’s General Order 7 which prohibited the visiting of planet Talos IV - being sent to Limbo was the worse thing that could happen to a person.
That silly name stood for a very grim place. The planet Magna Prime was the only natural satellite of a blue-white star five times brighter than Sol. But since the planet itself was three and a half times farther from its sun than Terra was from Sol, it was a bitterly cold place, always tethering on the edge of a sudden, avalanche-like glaciating that could occur every time. That and the high UV-radiation made it barely able to support life, and even the indigenous animals were forced to lead a nocturnal life and to wear extraordinary tick fur for protection.
But the planet also had unusually rich dilithium deposits, which had been the reason to establish here a penal colony. The convicts lived there more or less independently - they could choose their own leaders, create their own little groups and organize recreational activities, as long as they delivered the amount and quality of dilithium ore demanded from them. The overseers didn’t interfere with their lives, as long as things ran smoothly. They just couldn’t leave the planet. Nobody who had been sent to Limbo ever left afterwards. Nor would the Klingon agent.
Vierchi sometimes asked himself if execution wouldn’t be a much more merciful punishment.
“Not that he would be able to return home, after such a spectacular failure,” he murmured, mostly for himself.
“Right,” Cyrano Jones agreed, “but that is hardly our concern, is it? He knew the risks - just like everyone else in this business.”
Vierchi understood the hidden warning all to well. He had known that from the beginning. They both had.
“Speaking of business,” he said, “has your extended stay in Klingon territory and on K-7 resulted in any new insights?”
The man known as Cyrano Jones nodded. “You can say that. It’s amazing how careless people talk around you if they think you’re an idiot. Obviously, they think that being a fool influences your hearing, too.”
They both grinned like sharks for a moment, then the big merchant’s eyes grew deadly serious again, although the clownish grin remained plastered on his face.
“I have learned things few outsiders had ever known,” he added softly. “I can’t go into any details - it would be too dangerous, even with the scrambler - but things do not look promising.”
Vierchi had a hard time to keep his own grin in place. “How so?”
“It seems that the Emperor has recently died - quite unexpectedly and under questionable circumstances - and since his heir is a very young boy, the equivalent of an eleven-year-old human child, all power has been transferred to the Warlord.”
“Who is… what exactly?”
“The head of the ruling warrior class. Now, the new Warlord, Malkhton, belongs to the so-called War Prayers, a group extremely hostile towards the Federation. He has already initiated negotiations with the Roms, as a non-aggression treaty would keep his back free for the case when he makes his move.”
“And the Klins were discussing all these things within your earshot?” Vierchi asked. It was a little hard to believe.
Cyrano Jones laughed. “Of course not. But the scrambler is not the only useful little gizmo I have at my disposal, you know.”
“You bugged them?” Vierchi felt his eyes literally bulging. “How did you manage that? The Klins are the only people more paranoid than the Andorians, and that is not a small achievement to begin with!”
“It is easy when everyone thinks you are a clown and when you act in plain sight,” Cyrano Jones shrugged. “Besides, they had all reason to feel safe. Most outsiders don’t even understand basic Kumburanya, and they were using a rare Rumaiy dialect.”
Vierchi nodded absently. He was not as well informed about Klingon affairs as his business partner - he had never had any dealings with the boneheads - but even he was aware of the fact that the Rumaiy minority, approximately one-third of the whole population, provided practically all scientists, engineers, technicians and clerics. While the Kumburanya majority was divided into warriors (males and females alike) and simple workers.
A handful of ancient Rumaiy warrior clans had survived the Kumburanya pogrom, orchestrated by the first Emperor, Kahless, and were now highly respected, but the power was kept firmly in the hands of the Kumburanya oligarchy. Well, military power anyway. The ruling class had probably no idea how dependent they had become from their subjects, but Vierchi had no doubts that the Rumaiy nobles knew that very well.
“Does it seem as if this new Warlord would succeed in creating a treaty with the Roms?” he asked. That would have been unfortunate for the Federation… to put it mildly. Even for such unofficial members as himself.
Cyrano Jones shrugged again. “It’s hard to tell. The Roms hate the Klins like the plague, but there has been a slight shift of powers in the Praetorium after they had lost their flagship due to Kirk’s most recent actions, and that caused a change in politics. As I was stuck on K-7 for almost eight months, I need to reactivate my info channels concerning the Roms - assuming my contacts are still alive. This new Praetor is a shady figure.”
“Maybe you should sell some spician flame games to Mr. Sanchez,” Vierchi suggested.
They both laughed, knowing all too well that the real item the other man dealt in was the most profitable ware in the universe - information. He wore his clownish persona as an excellent disguise. It had served him well for almost two decades, as far as Vierchi knew.
What he had done before he appeared on Rigel IV, seemingly out of nowhere, was everyone’s guess. The data on his ID seemed genuine enough, backed by government affirmation of some remote colony - they just didn’t lead anywhere. Not even Lt. Makepeace, a conveniently corrupt Starfleet communications expert and criminally talented hacker - for which talent he had been assigned to the relay station in the orbit of Rigel VII - could find out anything about the big merchant, although the bonus he had been offered in case of success was most… inspiring.
Vierchi shrugged off these thoughts. If anything, his associate was very useful, and the information he provided always correct. In Vierchi’s trade, which sometimes included a little smuggling of both wares and illegal immigrants, this was the most important thing.
“Are you planning to stay on the station any longer?” he asked. Cyrano Jones shook his head.
“Nah, I don’t have a death wish.” Seeing the other’s bewildered look, he lowered his voice again. “Look; I’ve already reactivated most of my contacts and will do so with the rest of them in a week - well, in case they managed to stay alive, that is. Then I’ll relocate to Rigel VI and lie still for a while. I don’t want to be here when S’Bysh makes his grand move. Regardless of the outcome, that would be an inconvenient time for us, little fishes, to be on the station.”
“I agree,” Vierchi nodded. “I’ll be leaving in a few days myself.”
“Really? Where are you going?”
“I managed to nail a long-term assignment by the government of Ilyra VI. Short-term interstellar cargo runs, as they have no warp capability of their own, nor enough shuttles to manage for even the interplanetary shipping. So, I won’t even be near the Rigel system for a while.”
“Ilyra VI?” Cyrano Jones whistled in surprise. “Now, that is interesting.”
“Why ever? Since the high and mighty Federation won’t support them with warp technology, they need to get their ware out as well as they can.”
“True enough. But do you know how is wanted by the Ilyran government for lifting drugs and other medical supplies in great quantities from their Pharmacy Centre?”
Vierchi shook his head.
“Our old ‘friend’, Harcourt Fenton Mudd.”
“Harry Mudd?” Vierchi repeated in complete bewilderment. “What is he doing, running free again? Has he not been quasi-imprisoned on some remote planet for trying to steal the Enterprise with the help of a robot army, at about the same time you ran into Kirk on K-7?”
“A little earlier than that, actually,” Cyrano Jones corrected. “That was nine months ago. It took him four months to escape by stealing a small warp-shuttle from the robots. Then he needed another three months to reach Ilyra VI by warp 2. What do you know of Ilyra VI?”
“Not much. It’s a pre-warp civilization but at the same time the top provider of all sorts of wares produced by medical chemistry: medications, cosmetics… that sort of things.”
“And illegal drugs,” Jones added grimly, “including the infamous Venus-drug… and kireshet. They have just broken out the new, advanced version of it.”
Random pieces of information, picked up gradually during the months before, suddenly fell into pattern in Vierchi’s head with an almost audible click.
“The Venus-drug?” he repeated. “Mudd had something to do with that already, hadn’t he? Was he not the one who smuggled those unfortunate women to Rigel XII, to sell them as bed warmers to the dilithium miners? Poor things thought they were going there to get married…”
“Well, they did get married in the end, didn’t they?” Cyrano Jones shrugged. “But yeah, it was Mudd. Though he was only the hand to deliver the ware… both the women and the drugs. The mind - and the money - behind the whole thing was someone else’s.”
“S’Bysh’s”, Vierchi said. It was not a question.
“S’Bysh’s,” the other man nodded. “To pull out a thing of that magnitude, the influence, contacts and money of a potentate are necessary. And had Mudd not lost his own ship on Argelius, due to excessive gambling - which fact forced him to steal a ship and which led to his capture by Kirk - Chief Administrator Thrae would have an even bigger problem on his hands now than he already has.”
“So, let me guess,” Vierchi said grimy. “S’Bysh promised Harry to leave him alive, if he replaces the lost cargo, especially the drugs.”
“Right.”
“So Harry took the insane risk to break into the Pharmacy Centre of Ilyra VI, although he knew that he could be executed for it, as Ilyra VI is not a Federation world and has much harsher laws. He stole a huge amount of drugs and escaped… how exactly?”
“Apparently, he managed to get into his ship just in time and escaped to Sirius IX, a nearby world with less than friendly contacts to Ilyra VI. There he somehow managed to sell a fake love potion to at least a thousand inhabitants. Unfortunately for him, the people of Sirius IX quickly developed an allergic reaction to the potion. Mudd had to steal another ship, this time a small scout, and escaped again, supposedly with his stolen drugs from Ilyra VI.”
“So, he is wanted by the government of Sirius IX, too, right?”
“He is, but that is no concern of his, unless he is stupid enough to set foot on Sirius IX again, since that is another non-Federation, pre-warp planet. He has a rather good little ship now, and both he and his cargo are quite safe.”
“And he is on his way here, isn’t he?” Vierchi asked quietly. “With an ungodly amount of kireshet, the Venus-drug, and who knows what else.”
Cyrano Jones nodded. “He has no choice. He must deliver, or S’Bysh’s people would find him, anywhere. And that would be a lot more unpleasant than a simple public execution on Ilyra VI.”
“But if you know about this,” Vierchi said slowly, “then so does Starfleet Intelligence.”
“Most likely,” the other man agreed. “I think they have had their eyes on S’Bysh for quite some time. They’d go great lengths to get rid of him - it would blow up the Syndicate ring here for a long time, and this place would be a lot safer. Until the Syndicate regroups, of course, but that wouldn’t happen too quickly.”
“I see,” Vierchi thought about it for a moment. “Well, I am glad that I’ll leave, soon. You are right; it won’t be healthy for us, little people, to stay here for the big showdown. Whether Starfleet Intelligence manages to nail S’Bysh down or not, the number of casualties is gonna be high.”
“Exactly,” Cyrano Jones rose and slapped Vierchi’s back jovially. “Well, Salvatore, my dear old friend, it has been great to make business with you, as always. I expect my sixty per cent to be transferred to my account within a local day. Good luck to you.”
“I hope you break a leg on your way out,” Vierchi murmured in a voice too low to be heard by anyone but the listening device he knew was placed near their table. Now, with the scrambler switched off, the device would pick up the words he had actually spoken. Keeping up appearances was everything in this business.
He collected the crystals Cyrano Jones had left scattered across their table. Among the useless junk was one that contained invaluable information. Not even he could tell which one was the genuine article. He’d have to go back to his ship, put them into the decipherer, one after another, to find it. It was also possible that the data were divided among several crystals. It was never the same.
Preparing himself for a long day spent with extracting and decoding information, Captain Vierchi paid for his drink and left the pub.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When he came back to his ship, he found Nina Velez and her team of two technicians working on the Bianchi’s cargo transporter already. The clone watched them with worried eyes but didn’t interfere. Good, It seemed that the guy was, indeed, stabile enough.
“I’ll have to file some business reports,” Vierchi told the chief technician. “Call me when you are ready to test the transporter.”
“Will do,” Velez had already vanished to her hips in the insides of the insides of the transporter console. “Go. You are just in our way here.”
Confirmed that his ship was in the best possible hands, Vierchi retired into his cabin. This was going to be a long day. A very long day, indeed.
Next chapter
Previous chapter
Back to the index page
Author: Soledad
For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the index page
Chapter 02 - Associates
Author’s notes:
Horsa’s Pub is a cheap little bar, the one seen in the Tribble-episode not unlike. Clones as full citizens of the Federation (and one specifically named Dethwe) were mentioned in one of Diane Duane’s books, I believe in “The Wounded Sky”. I consider her books semi-canon, as some aspects (particularly where Vulcans and Romulans are considered) are much more convincing than in the actual shows.
Also, what is told here about cloning has no scientific basis whatsoever. I’ve made it up for the sake of this series, and I can be completely wrong. Remember, this is an AU, a story for entertainment, not a scientific thesis.
The adventures of Harry Mudd, mentioned in this chapter, are recited by Spock in the Animated Series episode “Mudd’s Woman”, though I changed the circumstances a little. The gloomer appeared in the animated episode “More Tribbles, More Troubles”. The events considering the Klingon Empire are from the never-realized second series script “Kitumba”, written by John Meredyth Lucas.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The next simulated morning Of Daleth Station found Captain Vierchi tired and bleary-eyed but in a somewhat better mood than he had expected. The previous night had been a very long one, checking on all his contacts - all little fishes, low on the criminal hierarchy, and, what was a pleasant surprise, most of them still alive. Either S’Bysh was getting careless, or he was preparing for something so big that he had no time and no expendable people to watch the small criminals more closely.
True to his word, Sanchez had delivered the new First Mate to the Bianchi: a sixth-generation clone of some indefinable humanoid species. The guy wore the name Dethwe, was completely hairless (inclusive eyebrows) and his proportions would have put an Orion mercenary to shame. Which, considering the fact that the closest equivalent of an Orion mercenary was a particularly large Sumo wrestler, was quite an achievement.
Most people had problems with working with clones, especially ones of higher generations, as the cloning process, despite the high hopes made considering it on 21st century Earth, turned out to have a hidden risk factor, which could cause both physical an mental deformations. Also, with each new generation, the clones tended to become less stable mentally and were bent to have violent reactions, if provoked.
The one Sanchez had offered Vierchi as First Mate looked normal and stable enough, save the odd colour patterns all across the visible parts of his body. According to his medical file, there had been a system malfunction in the cloning chamber when he had been created, so he was due to carry these marks till the end of his days. Other than that, he looked friendly and more or less capable, even if a little slow. He showed acceptable familiarity with ship systems, so Vierchi decided to keep him. It wasn’t as if he could afford anyone better.
Painfully obvious the fact that his First Mate would never fit into the only small cabin onboard, Vierchi had allowed the clone to settle down in the empty cargo bay as well as he could. Then, after a few hours of unruly sleep, he rose again and went to find his associate.
They had established different meeting places for different contacts years ago. They had even switched back and forth between these places several times. It was safer this way - well, as far as one could speak of ‘safety’ on Daleth Station at all. Therefore Vierchi knew that for this particular meeting he had to go to Horsa’s Pub - a small bar, as far from S’Bysh’s as possible, while still on the same trade and entertainment ring.
He strolled through the open entrance - the owner of this bar had made a policy of not having any doors, for some reason - and took a good look around the brightly lighted space with its ugly, plastic furniture.
As always, there were lots of people here, enjoying the cheap booze. The bartender - a small, chubby Tellarite - leaned against the bar, haggling with some persistent salesman; one of the Free Merchants’ Guild, if the traditional clothing was any indication. Nobody else wore those ugly leggings and ridiculous tunics, complete with the widely cut, hooded cloaks under which one could smuggle out a middle-sized, stolen generator… or a drugged slave child.
Other members of the Guild sat in small groups around the oddly shaped little tables. Most of them were humans or other inhabitants of the Rigel system. Orions detested this place for its openness, bright simplicity and total lack of comfort. Which made it absolutely invaluable for Vierchi when he needed to meet some of his associates.
He aimed at an empty table in a corner of the room, near the door, tried to find a semi-comfortable position on one of the impossible chairs - and waited. There was nothing else he could do at the moment. He had sent the message. His associate knew about his arrival by know and would come as soon as possible. Such were the rules of this game.
A scantily clad waitress with short, strangely purple hair and large, tingling earrings of obviously fake gold approached his table, with a tray in her hand.
“What’s your pleasure?” she asked in a deep, smoky voice.
Vierchi was tempted to order something really potent for a change, like Aldebaran whiskey or Saurian brandy. He always was, this part of his old problem was never going away. But once again, he won the battle of the day, ordering Altair water instead.
The waitress made a fully face, as if serving water, no matter what sort, would be beneath her dignity, but swayed away nevertheless.
His water arrived only moments later, and Vierchi continued his silent watch while sipping from it, cataloguing new and familiar faces, trying to figure out patterns in the interaction of the small crowd. He had been away from Daleth Station for months, and it already showed. Things tended to change here at an awfully fast speed and he needed all his wits together to keep up with the changes. Handling otherwise would have been… unhealthy, to say the least.
After about a standard hour or so, the entrance of the pub darkened again, and this time a big, rotund merchant rumbled in, grinning from ear to ear, and with a slight spring in his step that belied his considerable size. He had a round head, short-cropped hair, and wore an utterly ridiculous jacket of the colour of weeks-old mould, with an orange-and-white striped shirt beneath, baggy kneehosens and high black boots.
“Ah… excuse me, ‘scuse me,” he said, waving around jovially with a beefy hand, flashing a golden ring that was just a tad to big and shiny to be real gold. His smile was so broad it almost split his face, but his small eyes went around quickly, catching briefly as many looks as he could. The he approached the bar, efficiently pushing out of way the smaller merchant by his sheer size.
Vierchi suppressed a chuckle as he watched his associate trying to talk the bartender into buying some of his so-called spician flame gems. He had known Cyrano Jones for more than fourteen standard years by know and couldn’t believe that the other man was still dealing in those completely useless pieces of coloured glass - and that there still were fools who would actually buy them. Granted, the little trinkets were pretty, but other than that…
Considering that Tellarites had no use for gemstones to begin with - they completely failed to understand the concept of wearing jewellery - it was more than surprising that within ten standard minutes, Cyrano Jones actually managed to sell the bartender not only several dozens of the flame games but an equal amount from the small vials containing Antarian glow water. He persuaded the guileless Tellarite that the stuff was absolutely necessary to polish the flame gems with, so that they wouldn’t lose their spark. Why a Tellarite - a member of a race with particularly poor eyesight - would feel the need to keep sparkling chunks of glass was a mystery beyond Vierchi’s comprehension, but he had to admit that Cyrano Jones was good in what he was doing.
The big merchant now turned away from the bar, clownish smile still plastered firmly on his face, and scanned the pub quickly. He discovered Vierchi in the corner and strolled over to him at once.
“Salvatore!” he exclaimed, pumping Vierchi’s hand in his customary exuberant manner. “My old friend Salvatore Vierchi! How good it is to see you again!”
Vierchi found it hard to resist hitting the other man. He absolutely hated his first name... and everyone who dared to address him by it. The other customers gave him pitying looks, which didn’t exactly cheered him up, but he could hardly flat out ignore the man for whom he had been waiting since his arrival here.
The waitress transferred Jones’ abandoned drink form the bar, and the two men finally sat down to discuss serious business. Sipping his Altair water, Vierchi watched incredulously as his associate emptied several of his bottomless pockets, spreading various items of his collection - mostly cheap fake gemstones and crystals - generously across the entire table. No other merchant Vierchi had ever seen carried so much useless junk on their person.
Of course, one needed a very well trained eye to notice the barely visible glow that appeared in the obviously fake gem in Jones’ huge ring. It was obviously a scrambler, and a very cleverly hidden one at that. Among all the fake gems glittering in various too bright colours on the table, one could only catch the change in the ring’s stone when one knew what to look for.
Vierchi looked at the ring, then at his associate and nodded slightly, signalling that he understood that they could speak more or less freely now. They both brought forth their PADDs with the trading contracts, as they were supposed to do business with each other, and while the scrambler “translated” their words into standard haggling patterns for anyone who might have been listening, Vierchi could finally address the topics of true importance.
“We were afraid you wouldn’t be able to make it,” he said, checking the long columns of numbers on his PADD with a convincing scowl. Well, of course it was convincing. Regardless of the circumstances, he still hated the fact that he had to handle sixty per cent of his incomes to the other man. “Running into Kirk, of all people, was something none of us could have foreseen.”
“You are absolutely right, of course!” Cyrano Jones exclaimed with a broad grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It was a… delicate situation,” he added, lowering his voice, so that only Vierchi would hear it. “It could have sabotaged all our well-laid plans - the man is unpredictable. For a moment, I was really concerned. Especially since I didn’t have a pretty woman at hand to divide his attention.”
“Well, using tribbles to reveal a Klingon agent was certainly a stroke of genius,” Vierchi nodded. “Where did you get the annoying little buggers from anyway?”
“That, my friend, is a professional secret,” this time, Cyrano Jones’ grin was genuine. “But they worked like a charm, didn’t they? A good think that they have such a mutual dislike for each other, them and the Klingons. Plus, the chaos that they caused has made Kirk nice and mad, so he insisted that I’d be forcibly kept on K-7 until they were gone.”
“I assume the method with which you managed to get rid of the tribble-plague is one of those professional secrets, too?” Vierchi asked. Jones rolled his eyes.
“Really, Salvatore, you don’t think that I’d bring tribbles with me anywhere, without having a gloomer ready to deal with them?”
Vierchi nodded his understanding. Gloomers were the only natural enemies of tribbles. They kept the tribble population in check. If one wanted to avoid a natural disaster caused by tribbles, one needed a gloomer.
The pattern was simple enough. Tribbles ate everything they could grab. Gloomers, on the other hand, ate nothing but tribbles, and they spawned by asexual bipartition when overfed, just like their prey. Once all the tribbles were gone, the gloomers died, too, by starvation.
“Besides,” Jones added jovially, “most of the furry little things died from the poisoned wheat anyway - save those which Kirk’s people managed to beam over to the Klingon ship from the Enterprise.”
“They did what?” Vierchi almost choked on his water. Jones shrugged.
“Most people don’t know that tribble fur causes severe allergies by Klingons - something akin to human asthma, just much worse. Children can suffocate when forced to stay in a closed environment with tribbles, but adults suffer from them almost as badly. Horribly itching rush is the mildest reaction.”
“So, I guess you made quite a wealth out of selling your gloomer to the Klingons, didn’t you?” Vierchi said.
“Of course,” Jones grinned. “Your sixty per cents wouldn’t keep my business up and running.”
“True enough,” Vierchi admitted; his incomes had been rather on the low side lately. “What has become of our little Klingon agent, though?”
Cyrano Jones shrugged. “He was sent to Limbo, never to return.”
Well, of course, Vierchi thought. Where else should they send a spy if not to Limbo?
The Limbo penal colony was the only place where convicts with a life sentence - imprisoned for piracy, spying, high treason, mass murder and other very serious crimes could have been sent. Right after death penalty - dealt only for violating Starfleet’s General Order 7 which prohibited the visiting of planet Talos IV - being sent to Limbo was the worse thing that could happen to a person.
That silly name stood for a very grim place. The planet Magna Prime was the only natural satellite of a blue-white star five times brighter than Sol. But since the planet itself was three and a half times farther from its sun than Terra was from Sol, it was a bitterly cold place, always tethering on the edge of a sudden, avalanche-like glaciating that could occur every time. That and the high UV-radiation made it barely able to support life, and even the indigenous animals were forced to lead a nocturnal life and to wear extraordinary tick fur for protection.
But the planet also had unusually rich dilithium deposits, which had been the reason to establish here a penal colony. The convicts lived there more or less independently - they could choose their own leaders, create their own little groups and organize recreational activities, as long as they delivered the amount and quality of dilithium ore demanded from them. The overseers didn’t interfere with their lives, as long as things ran smoothly. They just couldn’t leave the planet. Nobody who had been sent to Limbo ever left afterwards. Nor would the Klingon agent.
Vierchi sometimes asked himself if execution wouldn’t be a much more merciful punishment.
“Not that he would be able to return home, after such a spectacular failure,” he murmured, mostly for himself.
“Right,” Cyrano Jones agreed, “but that is hardly our concern, is it? He knew the risks - just like everyone else in this business.”
Vierchi understood the hidden warning all to well. He had known that from the beginning. They both had.
“Speaking of business,” he said, “has your extended stay in Klingon territory and on K-7 resulted in any new insights?”
The man known as Cyrano Jones nodded. “You can say that. It’s amazing how careless people talk around you if they think you’re an idiot. Obviously, they think that being a fool influences your hearing, too.”
They both grinned like sharks for a moment, then the big merchant’s eyes grew deadly serious again, although the clownish grin remained plastered on his face.
“I have learned things few outsiders had ever known,” he added softly. “I can’t go into any details - it would be too dangerous, even with the scrambler - but things do not look promising.”
Vierchi had a hard time to keep his own grin in place. “How so?”
“It seems that the Emperor has recently died - quite unexpectedly and under questionable circumstances - and since his heir is a very young boy, the equivalent of an eleven-year-old human child, all power has been transferred to the Warlord.”
“Who is… what exactly?”
“The head of the ruling warrior class. Now, the new Warlord, Malkhton, belongs to the so-called War Prayers, a group extremely hostile towards the Federation. He has already initiated negotiations with the Roms, as a non-aggression treaty would keep his back free for the case when he makes his move.”
“And the Klins were discussing all these things within your earshot?” Vierchi asked. It was a little hard to believe.
Cyrano Jones laughed. “Of course not. But the scrambler is not the only useful little gizmo I have at my disposal, you know.”
“You bugged them?” Vierchi felt his eyes literally bulging. “How did you manage that? The Klins are the only people more paranoid than the Andorians, and that is not a small achievement to begin with!”
“It is easy when everyone thinks you are a clown and when you act in plain sight,” Cyrano Jones shrugged. “Besides, they had all reason to feel safe. Most outsiders don’t even understand basic Kumburanya, and they were using a rare Rumaiy dialect.”
Vierchi nodded absently. He was not as well informed about Klingon affairs as his business partner - he had never had any dealings with the boneheads - but even he was aware of the fact that the Rumaiy minority, approximately one-third of the whole population, provided practically all scientists, engineers, technicians and clerics. While the Kumburanya majority was divided into warriors (males and females alike) and simple workers.
A handful of ancient Rumaiy warrior clans had survived the Kumburanya pogrom, orchestrated by the first Emperor, Kahless, and were now highly respected, but the power was kept firmly in the hands of the Kumburanya oligarchy. Well, military power anyway. The ruling class had probably no idea how dependent they had become from their subjects, but Vierchi had no doubts that the Rumaiy nobles knew that very well.
“Does it seem as if this new Warlord would succeed in creating a treaty with the Roms?” he asked. That would have been unfortunate for the Federation… to put it mildly. Even for such unofficial members as himself.
Cyrano Jones shrugged again. “It’s hard to tell. The Roms hate the Klins like the plague, but there has been a slight shift of powers in the Praetorium after they had lost their flagship due to Kirk’s most recent actions, and that caused a change in politics. As I was stuck on K-7 for almost eight months, I need to reactivate my info channels concerning the Roms - assuming my contacts are still alive. This new Praetor is a shady figure.”
“Maybe you should sell some spician flame games to Mr. Sanchez,” Vierchi suggested.
They both laughed, knowing all too well that the real item the other man dealt in was the most profitable ware in the universe - information. He wore his clownish persona as an excellent disguise. It had served him well for almost two decades, as far as Vierchi knew.
What he had done before he appeared on Rigel IV, seemingly out of nowhere, was everyone’s guess. The data on his ID seemed genuine enough, backed by government affirmation of some remote colony - they just didn’t lead anywhere. Not even Lt. Makepeace, a conveniently corrupt Starfleet communications expert and criminally talented hacker - for which talent he had been assigned to the relay station in the orbit of Rigel VII - could find out anything about the big merchant, although the bonus he had been offered in case of success was most… inspiring.
Vierchi shrugged off these thoughts. If anything, his associate was very useful, and the information he provided always correct. In Vierchi’s trade, which sometimes included a little smuggling of both wares and illegal immigrants, this was the most important thing.
“Are you planning to stay on the station any longer?” he asked. Cyrano Jones shook his head.
“Nah, I don’t have a death wish.” Seeing the other’s bewildered look, he lowered his voice again. “Look; I’ve already reactivated most of my contacts and will do so with the rest of them in a week - well, in case they managed to stay alive, that is. Then I’ll relocate to Rigel VI and lie still for a while. I don’t want to be here when S’Bysh makes his grand move. Regardless of the outcome, that would be an inconvenient time for us, little fishes, to be on the station.”
“I agree,” Vierchi nodded. “I’ll be leaving in a few days myself.”
“Really? Where are you going?”
“I managed to nail a long-term assignment by the government of Ilyra VI. Short-term interstellar cargo runs, as they have no warp capability of their own, nor enough shuttles to manage for even the interplanetary shipping. So, I won’t even be near the Rigel system for a while.”
“Ilyra VI?” Cyrano Jones whistled in surprise. “Now, that is interesting.”
“Why ever? Since the high and mighty Federation won’t support them with warp technology, they need to get their ware out as well as they can.”
“True enough. But do you know how is wanted by the Ilyran government for lifting drugs and other medical supplies in great quantities from their Pharmacy Centre?”
Vierchi shook his head.
“Our old ‘friend’, Harcourt Fenton Mudd.”
“Harry Mudd?” Vierchi repeated in complete bewilderment. “What is he doing, running free again? Has he not been quasi-imprisoned on some remote planet for trying to steal the Enterprise with the help of a robot army, at about the same time you ran into Kirk on K-7?”
“A little earlier than that, actually,” Cyrano Jones corrected. “That was nine months ago. It took him four months to escape by stealing a small warp-shuttle from the robots. Then he needed another three months to reach Ilyra VI by warp 2. What do you know of Ilyra VI?”
“Not much. It’s a pre-warp civilization but at the same time the top provider of all sorts of wares produced by medical chemistry: medications, cosmetics… that sort of things.”
“And illegal drugs,” Jones added grimly, “including the infamous Venus-drug… and kireshet. They have just broken out the new, advanced version of it.”
Random pieces of information, picked up gradually during the months before, suddenly fell into pattern in Vierchi’s head with an almost audible click.
“The Venus-drug?” he repeated. “Mudd had something to do with that already, hadn’t he? Was he not the one who smuggled those unfortunate women to Rigel XII, to sell them as bed warmers to the dilithium miners? Poor things thought they were going there to get married…”
“Well, they did get married in the end, didn’t they?” Cyrano Jones shrugged. “But yeah, it was Mudd. Though he was only the hand to deliver the ware… both the women and the drugs. The mind - and the money - behind the whole thing was someone else’s.”
“S’Bysh’s”, Vierchi said. It was not a question.
“S’Bysh’s,” the other man nodded. “To pull out a thing of that magnitude, the influence, contacts and money of a potentate are necessary. And had Mudd not lost his own ship on Argelius, due to excessive gambling - which fact forced him to steal a ship and which led to his capture by Kirk - Chief Administrator Thrae would have an even bigger problem on his hands now than he already has.”
“So, let me guess,” Vierchi said grimy. “S’Bysh promised Harry to leave him alive, if he replaces the lost cargo, especially the drugs.”
“Right.”
“So Harry took the insane risk to break into the Pharmacy Centre of Ilyra VI, although he knew that he could be executed for it, as Ilyra VI is not a Federation world and has much harsher laws. He stole a huge amount of drugs and escaped… how exactly?”
“Apparently, he managed to get into his ship just in time and escaped to Sirius IX, a nearby world with less than friendly contacts to Ilyra VI. There he somehow managed to sell a fake love potion to at least a thousand inhabitants. Unfortunately for him, the people of Sirius IX quickly developed an allergic reaction to the potion. Mudd had to steal another ship, this time a small scout, and escaped again, supposedly with his stolen drugs from Ilyra VI.”
“So, he is wanted by the government of Sirius IX, too, right?”
“He is, but that is no concern of his, unless he is stupid enough to set foot on Sirius IX again, since that is another non-Federation, pre-warp planet. He has a rather good little ship now, and both he and his cargo are quite safe.”
“And he is on his way here, isn’t he?” Vierchi asked quietly. “With an ungodly amount of kireshet, the Venus-drug, and who knows what else.”
Cyrano Jones nodded. “He has no choice. He must deliver, or S’Bysh’s people would find him, anywhere. And that would be a lot more unpleasant than a simple public execution on Ilyra VI.”
“But if you know about this,” Vierchi said slowly, “then so does Starfleet Intelligence.”
“Most likely,” the other man agreed. “I think they have had their eyes on S’Bysh for quite some time. They’d go great lengths to get rid of him - it would blow up the Syndicate ring here for a long time, and this place would be a lot safer. Until the Syndicate regroups, of course, but that wouldn’t happen too quickly.”
“I see,” Vierchi thought about it for a moment. “Well, I am glad that I’ll leave, soon. You are right; it won’t be healthy for us, little people, to stay here for the big showdown. Whether Starfleet Intelligence manages to nail S’Bysh down or not, the number of casualties is gonna be high.”
“Exactly,” Cyrano Jones rose and slapped Vierchi’s back jovially. “Well, Salvatore, my dear old friend, it has been great to make business with you, as always. I expect my sixty per cent to be transferred to my account within a local day. Good luck to you.”
“I hope you break a leg on your way out,” Vierchi murmured in a voice too low to be heard by anyone but the listening device he knew was placed near their table. Now, with the scrambler switched off, the device would pick up the words he had actually spoken. Keeping up appearances was everything in this business.
He collected the crystals Cyrano Jones had left scattered across their table. Among the useless junk was one that contained invaluable information. Not even he could tell which one was the genuine article. He’d have to go back to his ship, put them into the decipherer, one after another, to find it. It was also possible that the data were divided among several crystals. It was never the same.
Preparing himself for a long day spent with extracting and decoding information, Captain Vierchi paid for his drink and left the pub.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When he came back to his ship, he found Nina Velez and her team of two technicians working on the Bianchi’s cargo transporter already. The clone watched them with worried eyes but didn’t interfere. Good, It seemed that the guy was, indeed, stabile enough.
“I’ll have to file some business reports,” Vierchi told the chief technician. “Call me when you are ready to test the transporter.”
“Will do,” Velez had already vanished to her hips in the insides of the insides of the transporter console. “Go. You are just in our way here.”
Confirmed that his ship was in the best possible hands, Vierchi retired into his cabin. This was going to be a long day. A very long day, indeed.
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