Malcolm hunched himself into the jacket as he followed his companion through the freezing black windswept warren that was Farlaxi Station.
His mood, at that moment, was foul.
It hadn't been possible to formulate much by way of a plan that would hold together in such circumstances as these. Better, in his opinion, to take things as they came. He had ideas, but when you were as deep undercover as this, you had to go with the flow a lot of the time.
Which was all very well for him, because time had been when that was simply what survival depended on, and certainly there had been moments back then when he hadn't cared very much whether he lived or died. After all, nobody much gave a toss about him. There's a certain bleak and barren freedom in being an outcast; those with whom you live and work are outcasts too, and understand the price.
Jonathan Archer, on the other hand, was portraying all too well the character he was supposed to be – taken utterly aback by the turn of events, and appalled by the cruelty of those into whose hands he had fallen.
Including those of one Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, lately Tactical Officer of the NX-01 Enterprise. But doubtless not occupying that post for very much longer, if they got out of this alive at all.
Still. If he somehow miraculously managed to get both of them and Keri to safety, doubtless the Section would welcome him with open arms. Harris had implied as much at the time of the Terra Prime affair. And maybe now he'd be even more useful, because now he really wouldn't give a damn if he lived or died.
The opening of a door jerked him from his black reflections. A well-remembered warm fug enveloped him.
The inhabitants of Farlaxi Station could never have been described as the most social crowd, but there was a gathering place of sorts – a 'dive', as Trip would call it – where anyone feeling the call of mingling with their fellows or even just a change of scene could find cheap alcohol and even cheaper company. It naturally also functioned as the station brothel, and as if running both of these necessary and lucrative functions wasn't enough, the proprietor thereof and his minions also had a high-tech room where they kept a beady eye on approaching traffic from space, ready to alert those whose job it was to deter unwanted visitors. It was Naz who would have detected the shuttlepod's arrival and passed on the recognition code to So'owith; the subsequent flyby would have been ordered just to check that the expected visitor posed no unexpected threats. This was where the panic button would have been pressed if it had been Enterprise arriving, in the extremely unlikely event that she'd managed to get so close without being detected by other watchful eyes. It was also Naz whose sisters had such long and not wholly affectionate memories of Malcolm's previous visit – presumably they'd compared notes afterwards and put two and two together.
Well, that probably wouldn't have worried Naz all that much. He'd undoubtedly have had them working upstairs if he hadn't been scared they'd find some way to knife him in his sleep for not giving them a fair share of their earnings.
So'owith led the way to a table – unsurprisingly, all the tables were at least partly screened off from one another, though they were all naturally in view from the bar, where Naz himself was presiding over the decanting of a quantity of spirit into a glass flask that seemed far too fine for its surroundings. Considering the man had the jovial air of a born publican, his pale and gaunt appearance presented a most disconcerting contrast.
A waitress appeared, her attire presumably meant to draw customers' minds to what else the establishment had to offer. So'owith ordered, and she drifted away; Malcolm's gaze and mind dropped her like a cat dropping a dead bird.
His companion was leaning across the table, his expression one of intense curiosity. "You really want to talk to Kazary? There's someone I know who has some rare stock for sale…"
"I don't mind taking a look," he said with a shrug. "But like I said – I'm after something in particular." He described exactly what. His mind detached itself from what was coming out of his mouth, though he felt his soul rending at its moorings.
"That'll cost you," So'owith remarked, eyeing him with something between wonder and distaste.
"My credit's good." So it was, thanks to a certain talented individual employed by the Section, who had quietly inserted a handsome amount of cash in his name into the deposits centre of a bank on a nearby world which handled the station's more reputable finances, where it was ready to be inspected if required, and even spent if necessary – though if he had anything to say in the matter, that was where it would stay until the Section removed it again.
"J'Kar!" Naz materialized beside the table. He'd obviously noticed the new arrival and elected to bring the drinks himself. Anyone who didn't know better would think that Malcolm was the original Prodigal Son, to judge by the size of the beam that spread itself across the unlikely tapestry of the bar-keeper's usually lugubrious countenance. "I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind about visiting us!"
"Oh, I couldn't visit Farlaxi and not call in to say hello." The lieutenant leaned back lazily in his chair. "I trust Venni and Sher are as delectable as ever? Do give them my regards."
Naz tittered dutifully. "You're lucky. They're off working somewhere. Otherwise I'm sure they'd like to have the chance to remember themselves to you."
"And there was I thinking I'd given them plenty of reasons to miss me."
"Oh, they wouldn't miss you. They're both really good shots."
So'owith sniggered.
"Naz, Naz. Your sparkling wit really will get you into trouble one of these days." Malcolm smiled affably at him. "I'm a fair shot myself, you remember. Just as well for you that I never practise on my friends."
The bar owner's smile slipped ever so slightly for a second before he resolutely pinned it back in place. He placed the glass and the bowl on the table and threw a cautious glance around to make sure nobody was within earshot; though the fact that the place was undoubtedly heaving with listening devices made the gesture more of a theatrical one than anything else. "May I ask what particular ... business ... brings you back to us? As I recall, you and your friends left in a bit of a hurry."
"Well, I'll be honest: it wasn't entirely intentional." The smile became disarming. "I always say, it's shocking how little sense of humour some people have. I had a little disagreement with my business associates, which ended up with them dumping me on some godforsaken lump of a deserted planet and leaving me there."
Naz's face stretched with sympathetic horror.
So'owith picked up the bowl of viciously green alcohol and slurped from it. "Should just have shot you," he remarked. "Simpler."
"There was some argument on that point. Luckily, the side that favoured leaving me to starve to death carried the day. And luckily for me, a few days later along came a shuttlepod, complete with a bunch of geologists and a decent pilot." He picked up the glass and toasted his own good fortune before taking a gulp of the contents. "And so here we are. Not where I'd have chosen if I'd had a better ship, but beggars can't be choosers. And I'm sure I'll be able to hitch a ride out."
"A shuttlepod from the Enterprise," interjected So'owith drily. "Complete with the pilot. So we can expect a visit from them any day."
"Starfleet? Those troublemakers? Here?"
"Oh, don't piss on your own feet. They'll find what I'll arrange for them to find, and then they'll leave. It's as simple as that."
"The shuttlepod and the pilot, you mean."
Malcolm smiled coldly. "The shuttlepod and what's left of the pilot."
Naz's watery olive eyes looked the question: isn't that a bit of a waste?
"Well. What they'll think is what's left of the pilot. A bit of DNA and a few scraps of his uniform perhaps. There won't be much left of the 'pod itself when I'm through."
He took another gulp of the drink. His vision was growing slightly blurred. There wasn't nearly enough alcohol content in it to have affected him this quickly, so, concealing a faint smile, he drank again, deeply. "Three whole days on that fucking planet with not a drop of water – I'm still bloody parched. I'm going to have as many of these as I can hold. Don't worry, I c'n pay my way – I made sure I had some insurance before they dumped me."
Naz giggled. "I thought you were getting soft."
"Not in this life or the next." Malcolm sat back, swirling the liquid in the glass; his co-ordination was off, because the liquid slopped out of it. The blurriness was worsening; there was a buzzing in his ears. When he spoke again, his voice was slurred. "C'me in useful– for what I want. A pretty little girl, a special sort of li'l girl…. Know where to come for tha' sort'f merchandise…"
"Ahhhhh." The bar-keeper leaned closer, nodding sagely and tenderly. "Yes, indeed. You always did have a discerning palate, J'Kar."
With difficulty, the Englishman forced his eyes open. "You should know, Naz. I fucked both your sisters often enough."
As he slid into the beckoning darkness, he heard the reply as from a great distance.
"Well, maybe this time you're the one who'll end up fucked."
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