The flitter traveled for something over half an hour, as best he could guess. There was no clock display on the dashboard, nor any other information. His ears told him that course changes took place, but in the dark he lost track of time, and the turns soon defeated his initial attempt to keep some idea of which direction he might be heading in. At one point he thought the flitter described at least one full circle, and after that he was hopelessly lost.
Presently, however, there was a sense of deceleration. The little craft came to a halt, and set down lightly. After a moment or two, the glass cleared and he was able to see out.
The flitter was in a large room – something that looked like an old garage. It was shabby and dusty, and pieces of equipment that looked like some kind of farm implement hung on one wall. The only light came from a window high on the opposite wall. There was broken glass in it, also dusty.
There was one man other than himself in the room. He was standing perhaps a meter away from the flitter. He was wearing a nondescript trench coat of black leather, and his appearance matched the voice, though he was smaller than Marcellus would somehow have expected. His build was stocky. Under a thick thatch of graying hair, his square face was prematurely lined.
His expression was about as readable as a block of concrete. No pleasure, no relief – nothing.
After a momentary hesitation, the doctor keyed the exit control. The flitter door opened with the usual faint purr of servomotors.
The stranger didn't move. Nor did he speak.
Marcellus got out of the flitter. He was more than a little apprehensive. During the journey he'd had ample time to ask himself what the hell he'd thought he was doing getting into a flitter to be taken God-knew-where to meet someone whom he didn't know for some completely unexplained reason that 'might' have something to do with his work. So far, he hadn't come up with a plausible answer.
He was a writer, not a fighter. All of his life he'd been devoted to healing. If this was some kind of trap….
"Good of you to come, Doctor Grenham." The voice was gravelly, almost without inflection. "You may recognize the person in this photograph." He pulled a PADD from one of the capacious pockets of the leather coat and thrust it out.
Without answering, Marcellus took it.
His heart sank as he did, indeed, recognize the subject.
Joelle had an older sister, Jodie, whose brief and tempestuous marriage had produced a single child, Faye. Given both her parents' volatile natures, it was hardly surprising that Faye had inherited them, and was now in the process of proving that although she was intelligent enough to get into officer training at Starfleet Academy she had only a tenuous grasp of the realities of keeping her place there.
"What about her?" he asked, his throat dry. There was really no point in denials. If this ominous stranger knew enough to bring him here, he might as well acknowledge the realities of the situation immediately.
"Gambling, Doctor, is one of the pursuits that Starfleet Academy does not approve of in its pupils." He took back the PADD and brought up another screen. "Unfortunately, your wife's niece has chosen to ignore that small fact."
"She's been warned," said Marcellus hopelessly. The whole family was aware of the problem. After a string of failed relationships, Jodie now was teetering on the brink of alcohol addiction. The seemingly inevitable ignominious expulsion of her daughter from the coveted place at the Academy would probably tip her over into it.
Unfortunately, you didn't just marry one person. To some degree, you married their family problems as well.
"Regrettable that she evidently didn't take heed. I have to wonder if the family is aware of the size of the problem." The PADD was passed back again.
Marcellus gasped involuntarily. The total was staggering. How could even a foolish, heedless twenty-year-old have run up so much debt?
They weren't talking about expulsion from Starfleet now. They were talking about financial ruin.
"The figures are accurate and verifiable," the stranger went on coolly. "Run up in reputable institutions, with video footage of every second. There was no 'funny business' involved, so put that out of your mind. This is a genuine, legally binding debt, and your niece owes it. Have it investigated by all means. I assure you, the end result will be the same."
He put out a hand and rested it against the smooth side of the flitter. It was something solid in a world that was whirling and dipping around him.
"She'll be arrested," he said almost soundlessly. "We don't have that kind of money. She'll go to jail."
What will this do to Jodie?
What will that do to Joelle?
He dragged his head up from beneath what felt like a mountain of desolation that had fallen on it. "But you didn't bring me here to tell me that," he said, putting his finger on the only certainty remaining in his world. "At least, not only that. So tell me what you want." He was beginning to fear that he already knew, but he wanted the thing out in the open where it could be dissected and dealt with. Somehow. He wouldn't be here if there wasn't some kind of … deal … on the table.
A faint respect gleamed far back in the deep eyes. "You're quick."
"It was obvious."
"I meant quick at cutting to the chase. No bluster. I like that in a man."
"I don't give a toss what you like." The phantom courage of despair stiffened him. "Just tell me the bottom line. You're not from any banking institution, and if this was a question of action by Starfleet she'd already be out on her butt. So what do you want from me?"
The stranger studied him in silence for a while. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. It wasn't a particularly nice smile – it got nowhere near his eyes – but it acknowledged a worthy adversary.
"Okay. Bottom line. I'm here to offer you a post at a top Starfleet institution. Funded research, decent pay – better than what you're earning where you are. And by way of a sweetener, we'll arrange for your niece's problems to … disappear."
Marcellus squinted at him. The suspicion was growing on him that he'd wandered into a madhouse and was talking to the sole lunatic occupying it.
This was not how recruitment worked in the research world – and nor, indeed, in any other that he knew of. If you were talented, and lucky, you got head-hunted once in a while, but it had never occurred to him that he was a genius of that caliber. It wasn't occurring to him now, either.
"Don't take my word for anything," the other man continued, still with that faint, unnerving smile. "When we're done here, you're free to go. Take your time, I'll send you all the contact information you need. Verify whatever you want. Talk to young Faye. As for the job offer, the details will be in the mail tomorrow. If you decide you're interested, I'll be here a week from now. Just take the flitter like you did this evening."
"Wait." He put out a hand, though the stranger hadn't moved. "This isn't about any research job. I want you to tell me what you really want from me."
The smile faded. The eyes were cold, and deep, and dark.
"I assure you, Doctor, the job is genuine. It's a secure post, working with some good people. But you will be expected to perform … additional duties. And to keep your mouth shut about whatever you see and whatever you do. Because any mistaken attempt on your part to divulge any details whatsoever to inappropriate persons would have … consequences."
"'Consequences'?"
"Unpleasant consequences." He glanced significantly at the PADD. It was now displaying a family photo, one that Marcellus recognized with a lurch of the heart as having been taken at his in-laws' place the previous Thanksgiving. How it had gotten into this man's possession was a mystery.
There was always talk, of course. His wife enjoyed reading thrillers about such things: secret organizations, shadowy arms of the CIA and even the UEIA … but you never believed that even a tenth of them really existed. And even if they did, they'd never, ever, take a personal interest in you.
"And what happens if I don't show up?" he asked, dry-mouthed with fear and helpless anger. Joelle…
"Nothing. Nothing at all. Except that at midnight a week from now, formal proceedings will be instituted against your niece for debt recovery. And everything after that is out of my hands."
"Blackmail." It was not a protest; protest was useless. It was simply a statement of fact.
The stranger nodded, showing no offense. "If you want to see it that way. On the other hand, you'll be helping your wife's family. Earning a better wage, carrying on with your work – employed by a global company. And the additional duties we'll expect of you are … humanitarian."
Yeah, and I'm the President's great-grandmother.
"Take your time. Talk to your wife. Tell her you've had a career move offered to you – it's the truth, after all." The humorless smile reappeared briefly. "There's no need to mention the other little problem. If you accept, there won't be any problem. If you don't, well – they'll all find out soon enough." He turned to leave, evidently feeling that everything had been said that needed to be, but paused momentarily. "Oh, one more thing. There's really no point in contacting the police: Starfleet will never have heard of me. Your Mister Sanderson will categorically deny ever having handed on the call to you this evening. I'd imagine you've already discovered that there's no record of the call on your phone system. And those consequences I mentioned would really be rather unpleasant."
Marcellus watched him walk away towards the door at the far end of the room. He felt nothing but a sense of total unreality; as if without warning he'd been dumped into the plot of some late-night B-movie, and somewhere out there a few dozen insomniacs were sitting idly watching him over a bowl of popcorn and a beer because the only alternatives were the news or repeats of old talk shows.
"At least tell me who you are," he said, as the door opened. Slanting evening sunlight fell across the dusty floor.
The man paused again and looked back. "You can call me Harris," he said. "It's not my name, of course, but you can call me by it. And if I were you, I'd get a move on. If you hit the late traffic on 23rd you won't get to that bar before sundown. And Joelle does like drinking her strawberry daiquiri looking out at the sunshine."
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