Then
"'Scuse, is this seat taken?"
"Does it look like I'm sharing a table with the invisible man, genius?"
"Okay, fine, whatever. I'll go somewhere el-"
"I'm fucking with you. Sorry. Have a seat."
"Thanks. I'm Vincent, by the way."
"You'd be the new guy then, Vinny."
"Vincent. But yeah, I'm the new bloke, I suppose."
"Bloke. So are you Australian or British?"
"Brit. I thought I didn't have my accent back yet. They said-"
"I know what they say. You don't have an accent yet, but nobody from America is going to call themselves 'the new bloke', are they? Ergo, you are either Australian or, as you have so kindly confirmed, British."
"I could have been a kiwi."
"A what now, Vinaroonie?"
"Vincent. A kiwi. From New Zealand."
"Details, details."
"You sound American. Oh, you're not Canadian, are you?"
"I have just decided to not answer that, my dear Viniwin. It'll be fun watching you try and work it out."
"Vincent. I'm starting to see why this seat was empty."
"Be nice. Anyway, welcome aboard the USS Amnesia, Vinster. You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps. Although we are all mad and frankly it doesn't help worth a damn."
"Hah, that's an old one."
"They're all old ones, they told you the year, right?"
"2369. Hard to credit it."
"And yet here we are. I thought that saying was pretty new when I, y'know, went under, though."
"Oh, right. When are you from?"
"Moi? 1988 – my friend bought me a coffee mug with that printed on it, it was my favourite. How about you? From what period of history haileth the Vinnasaurus Rex?"
"Vincent. 2021. Sorry, I didn't get your name."
"My name, dear Vincenzo, is…"
...
"Yes?"
"It's a dramatic pause."
"Oh, sorry, I thought you were having an episode. The doctors said that I should expect periods of lost time, maybe seizures, and-"
"Yeah, I know, I've been here a while. This isn't one of those. Work with me here, Vincamabob, okay?"
"Okay, we'll go again. My name is Vincent. Charmed to make your acquaintance. And you are?"
"My name, dear Vin-Vin, is… Why are you hitting the table?"
"It's a drum roll. You wanted a dramatic pause."
"Oh, right. Pro-tip, Vin-thing: your fine motor skills are gonna be for shit for the next couple of weeks."
"Sorry."
"Don't worry, I appreciate the effort. Third time lucky. My name, dear Veeeeeeeeeence, is-"
"Seriously, please: Vincent."
"Okay, Vinny it is."
"Fine – I'll take it, before it gets worse. And you are?"
"My name, dear Vinny, is…"
…
"...Britney."
"Seriously?"
"Hey! Stop laughing. I didn't make fun of your name."
"Yeah, I don't think you'd get that assertion past a jury, to be honest. But anyway: sorry. Pleased to meet you Britney."
"Actually it's Moonstream. My parents were hippies, don't judge me. I had it changed to something more normal before I started high school, though. I mean, you can imagine the teasing, right?"
"So, you were looking for 'more normal' and you chose Britney. You're defo 100% American."
"Okay, ya got me, Sherlock."
"Sorry to ruin your fun."
"Don't worry, Vinny. I'll think of something else."
Now
"How did we end up here?"
It was a trio of dishevelled looking Bolians – a man and two women – who spoke, but the sentiment and the tone certainly struck a sympathetic note with Fetch.
Along with the Bolians and a multispecies assortment of other luckless drifters, Fetch was in the large, odious passenger compartment on a shuttle of debatable spaceworthiness, inbound to Silba, the (purely nominal) capital of an area of space known mostly as the Confused Territories, or simply the Confusion, a patch of several systems in a backwater part of the Beta Quadrant. The Confusion was little-known within the Federation, where most of the passengers had begun their journey, save for rumours that it was utterly lawless, completely uncivilised, and effectively ungoverned.
Perfect, from Fetch's point of view. That didn't make him any more sanguine about his prospects here, though.
All or most of the passengers were clutching a few possessions and staring at the sole operable viewscreen the shuttle possessed, the others being either absent, broken or so heavily defaced by graffiti and random acts of vandalism as to make them useless.
The view of Silba didn't inspire confidence. It was a large, dark stain on the surface of a rocky, apparently lifeless planet of the same name – a sprawling agglomeration of buildings, some of which seemed to actually be on fire. Silban orbit was crowded with vessels – none of which were from the Federation, although a Klingon bird of prey and a superannuated Romulan warbird were present, to uphold the fiction that the Confusion was under the joint oversight of the two empires. Neither government was particularly bothered with fulfilling their mutual obligations to police the area, although the Klingons were rumoured to chase down pirates when they were bored and after a bit of harmless fun. What the Romulans did when they left orbit, nobody knew. Fetch privately speculated that 'funding piracy' was probably pretty high up on the list: you had to test your weapons somewhere, after all, now that there wasn't a limitless supply of invading Jem'Hadar as handy guinea pigs for your new killware.
Fetch had a lot of speculation and only a little bit of actual fact about the Confusion, and even that was only because he'd spent a lot of the trip from the Federation listening in on conversations between the other passengers: the freighter he'd travelled in hadn't boasted individual berths, just a big cargo bay with eight-high metal bunks welded in place, and a distinct lack of escape pods or indeed lighting: passengers were expected to bring a torch. It had made eavesdropping, for a man of his capabilities, as simple as lying on the top bunk and listening.
"Home sweet fuckin' home," he murmured to himself.
"Put in a good word for us with the Prophets, Bajoran," one of the Bolian women said, overhearing his mutterings and taking it for prayer.
"Leave him alone, Falia," the Bolian man told her in a tone somewhere between weariness and hostility.
"We could use a bit of divine intervention," Falia snapped back. "You haven't exactly been of much use, have you husband? If not for your incompetence with business matters, we would not need to be here. So, while you've got the channel open, so to speak, Bajoran, can you pray for some intelligence for this idiot, or, failing that, some misfortune upon his Ferengi creditors?"
"We are fortunate that they provided me with this opportunity to pay back the loan, and keep you in the style you're accustomed to at the same time!" The husband said, back straight and stiff.
"They say they eat people here, you know. It's not even against the law, because there isn't any. You've brought us to a nest of fucking cannibals, Yorin."
"Don't set any store in gossip, Falia," the man replied wearily.
Fetch got up and walked away from the quarreling Bolians – there was no point getting involved, and he was about as Bajoran as they were Andoran.
The shuttle's re-entry was distinctly on the juddery side – Fetch gave them a 70:30 chance of actually making it to the surface (or at least making it to the surface alive), judging from the subsonic whine coming from the approximate direction of the starboard nacelle. The freighter's shuttle pilots, he guessed, probably drew lots to see who got the duty flying this particular deathtrap on any given day. Shuttles were cheaper than transporters, badly maintained shuttles even more so, and the passengers had all already paid their fares.
Fake Bajoran or not, perhaps the Prophets were keeping an eye out for him, because the shuttle did indeed manage the minor miracle of setting down – extremely gently, presumably because the luckless pilot didn't want to risk any shocks or impacts – upon the surface of Silba. The shuttle doors cycled open, admitting a blast of carbon-scented wind which made everyone wince and squint, and the pilot's voice came over a loudspeaker: "This is the part where you get out, you lucky bastards."
Fetch took the hint, shuffling out with the others into the pollutant-laden wind. It smelt like burning fossil fuels was a local pastime, and apparently an unregulated one.
They were in a spaceport, which on Silba just seemed to consist of a large, open area devoid of buildings where shuttles could set down. There were many dotted around, some attended by vehicles and cargo handlers, some not. What cargo was unloaded seemed to be heading towards the same place the passengers were – a complex of large, square buildings a couple of hundred metres away. The sky above was a dead grey, dotted with ragged dark clouds and streaks of smoke from the fires Fetch had seen from orbit: refineries of some kind, perhaps?
A tall fence surrounded the spaceport, alive with the telltale glow of a force field, and interspersed with towers, each of which was manned by a pair of Klingon soldiers. Another pair – one of them obviously drunk – disinterestedly pointed the passengers in the direction of the building, then went over to the shuttle, where the pilot emerged and they began some sort of bargaining over a couple of crates.
The complex of buildings turned out to be the port authority, customs, arrivals and departures, all rolled up into one largely unstaffed example of haphazard architecture. Entrance was through a large, open set of blast doors, and into a long, low hall. The only personnel in attendance were another pair of Klingon soldiers, again evidently not sober, who eyed the new arrivals with sour disinterest from where they lounged against a stack of crates.
Some of the passengers carried on trudging through the hall towards more doors at the other end, some stopped to look around. The Bolians were among the stoppees, and the husband decided, for some inexplicable reason, to pester the Klingons. Fetch could identify a wide range of species, and could tell you all the places where, if you hit them, they would go down, but knew less about their habits and lifestyles than an average Federation child. He did know this though: sober Klingons were bad news, drunk Klingons were worse, and bored drunk Klingons were worse still. The Bolian, though, appeared to not have this information.
"Noble warriors," he addressed them with a bow. "I am newly come to this planet. Can you direct me to the house of the Ferengi Zharck? My wives are very tired from travelling."
The Klingons ignored him. His wife - and, apparently, his other wife - tried to pull him away.
Take the hint, asshole, Fetch thought, and kept walking.
The exit was within sight – amongst a plethora of beings hanging around outside, Fetch could see a Ferengi, peering at the passengers who were leaving.
"I would, of course, be willing to pay for an escort there," the Bolian was saying to the Klingons, misinterpreting their silence as holding out for a bribe, and producing a small bag which jingled.
Big mistake, Fetch thought, as he noted a flat, unfriendly expression replace the boredom in one of the Klingon's eyes. He began to move his hand down to his knife - a d'k tahg, Fetch knew, weaponry being something he did know about - strapped to his waist.
Bollocks, Fetch thought, lost a quick internal battle with his common sense, and then turned back and strode over.
The Klingon pulled out the knife, and pointed it at the Bolian's left eye.
"You will pay for that impertinence with your sight, petaQ!" The Klingon said, then drew the knife back
"Yorin, you idiot!" Fetch said stridently, grabbed the Bolian's arm and yanked him backwards, away from the Klingon's thrust. He twisted the man's arm behind his back, angled him away from the Klingon, and interposed his body between them. The knife caught him between the shoulderblades, ripping cloth but glancing off the more solid protection beneath. Yorin yelped and his wives cried out.
"Apologise to this warrior!" Fetch barked at the Bolian. "And pray that he accepts one from lowly scum such as you!"
"I'm sorry I'm sorry!" Yorin gabbled, whether to the Klingon or to Fetch it was unclear.
The Klingon grunted, sheathed his knife, and returned to his crates.
"Let go of me!" Yorin said, finding some backbone as the Klingon lost interest.
"Whatever," Fetch replied, and released the man's arm.
"Hey, that's mine!" The Bolian exclaimed. Fetch was holding the small pouch he had intended as a bribe.
"Mediation fees," Fetch said. "Dunno if you can get new eyes these days, but I'll bet they'd be more expensive than this, so I reckon you've come out ahead."
Yorin looked momentarily rebellious, then subsided, rubbing his arm.
"Nice doing business, etcetera," Fetch said, pocketing the pouch, and noting as he did so that his coat now sagged off his shoulder: the Klingon had ripped it up the middle. This was bad. "There's a Ferengi hanging around outside, by the way – might be your guy, might not be. Bye now."
He turned on his heel and left.
"You might at least have let them take his tongue instead, and given us a break from his pompous yammering!" The angry wife shouted after him. Fetch ignored her, and walked out through the doors, holding his coat shut by angling his left arm awkwardly over his shoulder.
People were looking. Fetch was trying to avoid attention. He looked down and away. "Blue tinged twat," he muttered to himself. "Shoulda let that fucker have your fucking eyes."
After a few adjustments, he managed to get his bag arranged so that it held his coat in position.
"Work?" He was asked, at point-blank range and with a whiff of sour breath. A pale-skinned alien of indeterminate race thrust a plastic flimsy in his face, covered with pictures of various alien races looking happy using modern, shiny consoles and posing with their families and/or eggs in comfortable-looking surrounds. "Fair rates, good food, good accomodation!"
Aye right, Fetch thought. "Fuck off," he told the alien. The alien duly fucked off, and repeated his sales pitch to other new arrivals, all of whom looked to be in varying degrees of desperation. One or two took a flimsy, but none followed him. Fetch finished fiddling with the straps to his bag, and took his first good look at Silba City.
It was certainly quite the sight. The spaceport, it seemed, let straight out onto a main street that looked like someone had taken elements of the middle ages, the far future (which was now, Fetch supposed), a cyberpunk dystopia and a selection of fevered narcotic dreams and given them a good mixing together. There were aliens of every description walking up and down, arguing, laughing, doing deals and generally existing. Most Fetch recognised, some he did not. The buildings were a mish-mash of prefab emergency structures, crudely-baked brick, force-fields, rusty trussing and even wood – the street was paved with random bits of whatever anyone could find, pounded down into mud which tried to ooze up between the cracks. In a thousand years' time, Fetch mused, archeologists would make deductions based on those layers of impacted street-crap, write papers about it and try to generate grants to carry on.
The lighting came from a riot of flashing signs and holograms advertising food, drink, sex, drugs and a hundred other things. The street was a battleground of competing sounds: music from the various bars, clubs and brothels, traders shouting out their business – a total cacophony.
Fetch took it all in – some part of him cataloguing, indexing, assessing and advising. There was danger here – a knife rode at a bouncer's waist, another alien brandished a club, but Fetch took note of a sign put up for the benefit of newcomers, in a variety of languages and some fairly unmistakeable infographics, too: blades only in Silba City – you use a phaser, it gets used on you. NO EXCEPTIONS. By order of the Ketari.
Human/alien nature seemed to be universal – the sign had a number of hand-painted addenda: yes we also mean disruptors followed by also guns followed by yes even old ones and just use your fucking common sense.
Next to the sign stood a pair of human men in black clothing, each wearing an armband with a red, spiderlike symbol embroidered onto it. Occasionally someone would approach them and present their sidearm – the men would affix a small clip over the trigger or firing pad, rendering it impossible or at least prohibitively difficult to fire. On the way back into the spaceport, the procedure was reversed. Were these the 'Ketari', Fetch wondered? It seemed likely – it also seemed they weren't the sort you could just wander up to and ask for an explanation. Fetch had no phaser that he could submit for such treatment – or disruptor, or gun, even an old one – so he used his 'fucking common sense' and gave the men a wide berth.
The Bolians had made contact with the Ferengi and established who they were, it seemed. Their minimal luggage was being loaded into a small transport pod by an equally small alien, smaller even than his Ferengi boss, who snapped and snarled at him as if the diminutive green creature would be unable to complete such a basic task without constant badgering. There were a lot of the green creatures around, it seemed – they had two arms but four legs, were about three or four feet tall, and seemed vaguely insectile, although they lacked antennae. The husband was trying to direct the Ferengi's attention towards Fetch in a that's-the-guy-what-are-you-going-to-do-about-him manner, so Fetch flipped up the hood of his coat and ducked down a side street. About twenty metres down a sign said, quite literally, QUIET BAR, so Fetch walked in.
It was, as advertised, a quiet bar. Fetch could feel the sussuration of a sensor arc as he entered, checking him for anything dangerous and finding, as he knew it would, nothing more than a standard humanoid alien down on his luck. The common room appeared to be welded together from old starship parts, the bar itself was the wing of something, lasered off at each end to fit the width of the room, with stools fashioned from equally scavenged-looking materials. There were tables and booths and a stage, currently occupied by a silent hologram of a semi-naked, purple-haired Boslic woman, dancing on a thirteen second loop that would reset with a flicker.
There were few patrons, but one of them appeared to be eating a plate of something, and Fetch's stomach – he smiled, grimly and mirthlessly – rumbled. Although he was not what you could call a big eater, he hadn't eaten in two days. He headed to the bar and the only staff member – a Boslic woman. She was approaching her middle years, but the odd line here and there, and the lighter purple of her hair, could not disguise the fact that it was the same woman as from the holo-recording: the only difference was a bit of extra time. She was fiddling with the holo-projector controls, apparently trying to debug it. Seeing that she had a customer, she shut off the playback.
"New in town?" She asked, as Fetch approached. Her voice was hard and flinty.
"Yeah – that a problem?" Fetch asked, pausing with his ass halfway towards a stool. "I'm only looking for something to eat."
"Got money, Bajoran?" The woman asked.
Fetch resumed the sitting down operation and dumped the contents of the pouch onto the bar – perhaps two dozen coins of varying types clinked onto the scratched and dented metal surface, one of them taking it's time to settle with a roin roin roin noise. Fetch recognised none of them.
The Boslic woman stabbed her finger down onto the semi-spinning coin to stop it, and moved it to one side. She repeated the sorting process for each type, moving them either left or right.
"These I recognise," she said, indicating one pile, "and these I don't." She pointed at the other, and pushed them back towards Fetch.
"That makes two of us," Fetch grunted.
"This and this," she said, pulling two of the remaining coins towards her – a pair of silvery coins, stamped with what looked like a Ferengi face – "gets you a drink and a meal. You stay, you sit there, you don't cause any fuss. You pay, you eat, then you go."
"Okay," Fetch agreed.
The Boslic woman swept the two coins off the bar and into a pocket, then turned to go, but hesitated, and returned the coins to the bar in front of him. "It's on the house, but eat it quick and leave. Ain't nothin' personal," she said, her voice softer, now, less harsh. "I ain't got no problems with Bajorans. Decent folk, weren't right that y'all got a shit deal for so long. But this is an establishment geared toward a certain demographic, and you ain't it. My usual crowd like their privacy, and most folk hereabouts know that."
"Well, now I do too," Fetch said. "Keep the money – I'll eat, then I'll go."
The Boslic woman nodded, although she left the coins where they were. She moved over to a replicator and punched a few buttons. She returned with a plate of indeterminate chunks swimming in a brownish gravy, a fork, and a metal beaker of something clear.
She put the plate down in front of him and spoke. "Some advice for when you leave here. Don't pay no more than two of your coins for food or a room. Don't accept no work from Hidrix or the Shush Brothers, or those goddamned Ferengi, they use up folk real fast in their refineries and when you're all worked out, they'll fake up a debt so they can sell you on. If you got any technical skills at all, go to Muric's on Temper Street and tell her Mirizin sent you, she don't like Cardassians on account of they killed her father, so she might take well to you. Can't do nothin' else for you, Bajoran. Now eat up."
"Thanks," Fetch said. "I'll remember that."
Fetch was ninety percent done with his food when what would later prove to be a life-changing event occurred.
His first inkling that the Quiet Bar was about to get noisy came in the form of a widening of the Boslic woman's eyes, followed by a look of abject fear, and an increase in her heartbeat, all of which registered to Fetch as 'well something just freaked her out'. She backed away from the bar, aghast, and bumped into the shelves of bottles and containers against the far wall.
"Miri, Miri, Miri," a loud, rasping voice came from behind Fetch. "No 'welcome back'? No 'pleased to see you again, Falkus'? I am disappointed."
"You can't be here," Mirizin said.
"And yet here I am," the rasping voice said.
Fetch went very still and did not turn around, but he could do a few things that other people couldn't. Amongst other things, he was very nearly as perceptive from the back as he was from the front.
There was no other way to put it – a very large snake had entered the bar. It's head – green and scaly, but with large, unsettlingly expressive eyes – passed through the sensor arc: which flashed. The head, if that wasn't bad enough, was followed by about three metres of body, followed by two sets of arms tipped with clawed, six fingered hands, followed by, well, more snake. Two of the clawed fists gripped large knives.
Thick, hard scales. Distributed nervous system. Few points which would be vulnerable to the weapons to hand which was, at the moment, a short list of one item, and even that was a fork. Still, few was not none.
"Anyone who doesn't wish to take her side, leave now," Falkus rasped.
The few patrons stood and left as if someone had set the place on fire, one or two with furtive apologetic looks at Mirizin.
Miri's mouth worked for a moment, then she seemed to collect herself, swallowed, and squared her shoulders. "You got what was coming to you, Falkus: you broke the code."
"Perhaps," Falkus said. "Let's face it, we all do it, the real crime is being caught. What grieves me, though Miri, is the underhandedness of it all. I mean, to send me after a target like that, and then to tip him off I was coming… Not a wise move, Miri."
"What do you want?" Mirizin asked. She darted forward, reached under the bar, and came up with a metal club which had Emergency Bouncer spray-painted on it in bad Klingon.
Falkus eyed it and laughed: an unpleasant scratchy sound. "That's cute. Well, I had made other dinner arrangements, but I thought, why not just pop in for a quick bite? I've never liked the slop you serve most customers here, but the staff are very good," Falkus said, with another low scratching laugh. "If you had any last words, Miri, you can either say them now or choke them out in my guts as you-"
"'Scuse me," Fetch said.
Both Falkus and Mirizin turned to look at him as if he was utterly insane which, he reflected, wasn't entirely out of line with current evidence.
"I told you to leave," Falkus said.
"Yeah, got that part. In a minute. Sorry, Mirizin, is it? Could I have another one of these?" Fetch tapped his metal cup, then tossed it to her in a high arc over the bar.
Mirizin and Falkus both watched the cup as it sailed through the air. Fetch reached down into himself – the cup seemed to slow – and then he flicked the fork into Falkus' left eye.
The snake-alien roared in pain and fury and lashed out with one of his knives – a hefty, two-foot long piece of curved steel. Fetch had already moved, throwing himself out of the stool and grabbing hold of the bar. He hooked his left foot under the seat of the stool, pushed it into the air, and then kicked it hard into Falkus' face. It slammed into the fork and Falkus roared again.
The cup hit the floor with a hollow tinkle.
Fetch pushed back off the bar to send himself up and over Falkus. He made a pushing motion as he did so, grunted with effort, and the blade was torn from the alien's grasp, got nearly to the floor, and then reversed direction. It sheared through the arm that had just held it, then landed with a smack in Fetch's right hand. He came down on the far side of the snake and brought the knife down through it's other arm, and the other knife thunked to the floor. The snake roared again, spraying dark crimson, almost black blood all over the bar and leaking vitreous fluids from his eye.
Fetch got a toe under the knife, flicked it up and caught it in his left hand. He took two shuffling steps back.
"Why don't you leave?" He asked the alien.
Falkus gave vent to a truly evil sounding snarl, but it didn't look like merely losing an eye and a couple of limbs was enough to persuade him to beat a hasty retreat. He reached over his what-would-have-been-a-shoulder with one of his remaining arms to yank a large phaser out of a holster. It did not have a clip over it's oversized trigger.
"Fu-" Fetch started to say, and then he darted sideways to put himself between Mirizin and the weapon and braced something, something he didn't quite have a proper handle on yet, but he knew it was there and hoped to God it worked.
Falkus fired. Fetch sparked a greeny-blue colour, felt a sensation of terrible pressure and swore in pain, but the phaser blast didn't touch him or the Boslic. Falkus made a mistake – he assumed he'd missed and paused to line up a better shot. Fetch didn't pause – he lashed out with a spinning kick hard into the phaser, knocking it across the bar. The alien drew back, then lunged for the gun. When you're a ten metre long snake, you can lunge pretty well. Falkus' head and arms shot forwards while his coils scrabbled across the floor, shoving tables and chairs out of their way in their quest for grip.
Fetch was no slouch at lunging either, though. He kicked out hard behind him and dived for the phaser. With a stroke of luck that, on later reflection, he would realise had perhaps saved his life, he managed to get to the phaser first but not pick it up, because he'd neglected to let go of either of the knives. He was only able to shove it further across the floor, out of Falkus' reach.
This didn't seem like such a fortunate occurrence at the time, though, because it put Fetch on the floor next to a very big set of teeth, the owner of which wasn't overly impressed with him right now. Falkus went for Fetch's throat and Fetch brought the knives up, sinking one into the soft pink tissue of the snake's mouth – the other skidded off the tough scales of the creature's neck – although to be fair this was a snake, he was all neck.
Falkus roared again – unleashing a blast of breath so bad it was almost painful into Fetch's face, but he followed it up with a very definitely painful bite onto Fetch's right wrist.
Fetch screamed – Falkus bit through right down to the bone, or what passed for bone in Fetch's case.
Fetch cursed again in pain, and twisted the knife inside the snake's mouth. Falkus reared back, releasing his grip. Blood sprayed from Falkus' injured jaws all over Fetch, but it hardly made any difference, as he was covered in a generous supply of that already.
The snake dived for the tables under which the phaser had disappeared, or rather bashed them out of his way.
Fetch rolled into a crouch, knives ready for throwing: he'd see how well Falkus could aim without his other eye. Falkus came up holding the phaser: and then jerked spasmodically in sudden agony. There was an almighty buzzing noise: Falkus slumped to the floor.
"Knives on the floor, asshole," Fetch was told. A new voice.
"Do it, Bajoran," Mirizin added her voice. "These ain't folk you wanna get on the bad side of."
Fetch looked up – two humanoids in black clothing and red armbands were pointing disruptors at him – a rifle and a sidearm sized one: they were in fact the same pair who'd been safetying energy weapons out on the street. These men were humans, or close enough, with the usual amount of eyes, ears, etc, all in the right places. Their faces also came accessorised with flat, unfriendly expressions: Fetch laid the knives down, then stood up. He looked at his wrist: he was bleeding slowly, but the wound was suspiciously light for a giant snake bite. He shook his coat sleeve down over his wrist.
"Smart move," one of the men said. "Keep him covered," he added, to his companion, then turned to Mirizin behind the bar.
"The Bajoran didn't start nothin', Pete," she said to the man. "He was just defendin' himself."
"Two arms on the floor that aren't his, and he was just defending himself?" The man asked, prodding at one of the aforementioned arms with a booted foot. It twitched.
"Well, sometimes the best defence is a good offence," Fetch said.
"Quiet, if you know what's good for you," the other man said, waggling his disruptor rifle for emphasis.
"Okay, point made, mate," Fetch told him.
The first man – Pete – sighed. He was an older man, his black hair shot through with grey, but had a ropey solid build and an unlined face. "Is that who I think it is?" He jerked his head at the motionless Falkus.
Mirizin nodded.
Pete sighed again, and holstered his disruptor pistol. "Dammit, Miri. Baranov is gonna be pissed."
"Baranov often is," Mirizin replied with a rueful snort. "I'll handle it, don't you worry none."
"So what happened – the quick version, please," Pete asked her.
"Bajoran came in for something to eat, Falkus comes in a little bit after, tells everyone else to clear out, they do 'cept the Bajoran, Falkus goes for me, Bajoran goes for Falkus. Falkus loses the knife fight, pulls a phaser, takes a shot at me, Bajoran dives in front of me, then kicks the phaser out of his hand, then they was fightin' over there, then you came in," Mirizin reported.
Pete looked from Mirizin, to the bar, and then to Fetch. "You were stood where you are now?" He asked her.
"Mm-hmm," Mirizin confirmed.
"Falkus was stood where I am now?" Pete pointed at the floor in front of the bar, splashed with Falkus' blood.
"Yep," Mirizin confirmed.
"Then do me a favour," Pete said. "I know there was phaserfire because it came up on the sensor grid – wouldn't be here otherwise. Falkus is stood where I am, the Bajoran – what's your name, son?" Pete stopped to ask.
"Fetch," Fetch replied.
"Odd name for a Bajoran," he commented.
"How the hell would you know?" Fetch fired back.
"Were I you, Fetch," Pete said, eyes narrowing, "I'd adopt a more conciliatory and co-operative approach. You're either new in town or so stupid it hurts, because otherwise you would not have wandered into this particular bar just for a spot of light lunch. Unless, of course, you are somewhat more connected with the events that just transpired than appearances would suggest. If you are, say now, it'll go easier for you."
Fetch shook his head. "I'm literally ten minutes off the shuttle, mate," he said.
"Hmm," Pete said, and turned his attention back to Mirizin. "So, to recap, Falkus is stood here, you're stood there. Fetch, who is so new to Silba City that the first thing he does on arrival is to head into the local mercenary union's notorious watering hole of choice, a place avoided by anyone with a lick of sense, is presumably eating from that plate."
Pete moved over to the bar and indicated the plate by rattling it, then continued: "He decides to take on the meanest, biggest, most badass of said mercs because...why, exactly?"
Pete turned back to look at Fetch. Fetch shrugged. "He was being a dick," he said.
"He was being 'a dick'," Pete repeated flatly.
"Yeah," Fetch confirmed. "What can I say, Mirizin gave me some free food and appeared to give at least a fraction of a flying fuck whether I lived or died, an attitude which seems in short supply hereabouts. Snakey boy was apparently hell bent on taking her out, I decided I didn't want him to, we had a frank exchange of views and he ended up a bit short-handed."
"Hilarious, Prophet Boy," Pete told him.
"Pete, he put himself in front of a phaser for me," Mirizin said, stepping forward to the bar and placing a hand on Pete's arm.
Pete nodded and looked up. "Okay, Miri. I'm not out to get him or you here, but I can't not call this in, and before I do I need to know what happened and why."
Mirizin nodded. Pete turned back to Fetch. "You feelin' okay, there?"
"Never better," Fetch told him. "Thanks for asking."
"Bajoran, please," Mirizin interjected. "This here's a decent man, more so than most any round here. He's Ketari, which means he's the law, but he'll do right by you if you've done nothin' wrong. So – please – stop givin' him a hard time."
"Okay," Fetch said. "I'll behave."
"Good. So to get back to my point, you 50% declawed Falkus here, who then pulls his phaser and aims it at Mirizin, and fires. Mirizin is alive and uninjured because you put yourself between her and what was presumably, at this point, a highly enraged Varkeeshian assassin. The reason for my interest in your well-being, Fetch, is that for a man who's just been shot, you seem remarkably well for it," Pete said, and looked at him with a hard stare.
"He missed," Fetch said.
"That would seem to be the obvious conclusion," Pete replied. "In which case, where is the phaser damage?" He indicated the bar, which was indeed entirely unphasered.
Hark at bloody Columbo here, Fetch thought.
Mirizin put her hand on Pete's arm again. "Pete, please, trust me on this. Fetch was doin' the right thing."
"I trust you, Miri, you know that," Pete told her quietly, although Fetch heard. "Can you trust him, though?"
"Pete, look at him – coat falling off his back, nothin' but a bag of loose change to his name, he's just-" Mirizin started.
"Miri, look at the severed arms on the floor. That isn't a penniless, helpless refugee over there, if what you said happened did happen," Pete murmured back. "In a minute's time I'm going to be calling Baranov – I have to. Baranov is going to be disappointed that Falkus is not doing what Falkus is supposed to be doing, which was arranged by you, in case you forgot, but is in fact out cold in the Quiet Bar with two of his hands missing, having just fired a phaser in Silba City. I don't know what he's going to do. So – anything to tell me?"
"I told you I'll handle Baranov, Pete," Mirizin repeated.
"I hope you can," Pete murmured back at her, then turned to look at Fetch again.
He drew his disruptor, and pointed it at Fetch. Fetch braced for the shot and started running some mental simulations on how he could take out the two Ketari, but Pete didn't fire at him, but instead sent a hissing green bolt into the ceiling above the bar.
"Okay, Prophet Boy. You shoved his phaser upwards – the shot went high," Pete told him. "You stick to that, hero, or the last thing I do will be to kill you, understand?"
Fetch nodded readily. "Got it." He wondered by this Pete was so willing to cover for him, but then realised he was covering for Mirizin. Some history there, presumably.
Pete nodded back. "Jimmy, you didn't see that, right?"
"See what, boss?" Jimmy – the other Ketari – replied. He was younger, and evidently trusted the older man if he was willing to go along with faking evidence.
"Pete, I don't want you to ha-" Mirizin started to say, but Pete just shook his head at her. He produced a comunit and murmured into it – the conversation went on for a good couple of minutes.
"He's on his way," Pete said, when he closed the channel.
A few moments later there was the red shimmer of three transporter beams – the first Fetch had seen since leaving Federation space. The beams faded, leaving a trio of men behind. Two of them were dressed similarly to Pete and his deputy, the third was a tall, dark-haired man in a well-cut black suit. Instead of a red armband, he wore a red pendant round his neck.
He took one quick glance around the room, taking in the scene, then walked over to the bar.
"Miri," he said – he had a low, gravelly tone, and Fetch even recognised the accent: eastern european, maybe even Russian, he'd bet. "This looks to be a terrible business – you are unhurt, I trust?"
"I'm fine, thank you Mr. Baranov," Mirizin replied, in a tone of marked respect.
"I am glad, my friend," Baranov said, nodding. "You are a pillar of the community we are building out here, Miri. You still have that whiskey I left here?"
"I wouldn't sell your personal bottle, Mr. Baranov," Miri said, with a brittle smile.
"Four glasses, if you would, Miri. We need to have a discussion, I think, no?"
Mirizin nodded, took down a bottle of amber liquid from a top shelf, and poured out four measures into actual-glass glasses. Baranov rated the VIP treatment, it seemed.
"Peter, get over here. You – Bajoran – Fetch, is it? You too. Come on. Do Bajorans drink?"
Jimmy leaned over and prodded Fetch with his disruptor rifle. "Do what he says. Act nice. Try anything and you'll die," he advised Fetch.
Fetch nodded. "I believe you," he murmured back.
"This Bajoran drinks, sir," Fetch said politely, walking over to the bar with his hands held up. The coat slipped down – the bleeding had stopped, and there was now just a set of shallow puncture wounds. Nobody, it seemed, noticed: even the eagle-eyed Pete.
"Good, get your hands down, we are not police and you are not under arrest. Zazdaroye!" He pushed a glass of whisky in front of Fetch.
"You your health too," Fetch replied, taking a sip, then wiping Falkus' blood off his face with a coat sleeve.
Baranov pointed at him and grinned. "A linguist!" He said. "Hah! Peter – my most dependable man. It is good that you were close by."
Pete lifted up his own glass. "Thank you sir." He said levelly, and nodded.
Baranov took a drink, and set the glass down on the bar. "So, Miri, Falkus appears to be off task?"
"He does," Mirizin confirmed. "I can only apologise. Your contract still stands, though, Mr. Baranov. We'll see it fulfilled."
"I do not doubt it," Baranov said quietly, and the affable, jocular mask abruptly fell away. There was cold silence in the wake of his words. Baranov took another sip, and went on. "You said he was your best."
"He is," Mirizin replied,
"And yet…" Baranov indicated the hands on the floor. "Fetch: I am told you are a newcomer to our little corner of the galaxy. Welcome. Now tell me how it is you are able to take on Falkus, who is, let us not mince words, a huge snake with arms, and a fearsome reputation, too. Slightly fewer arms and a slightly lessened reputation now, I grant you, but you look like a normal Bajoran male, on the tall side, yes, wide across the shoulders, but not a giant."
"I have a very particular skillset," Fetch replied.
"A tradesman? Put your hand on the bar," Baranov told him. "Fingers spread out. You can tell much from a man's hand."
Fetch did as he was told.
"Ah, not a working man's hand," Baranov said, looking at Fetch's hand. "No calluses. What is that smell?"
"Big snake spit," Fetch replied. "This is the hand he tried to bite off. Also, y'know, he bled a bit, mostly on me."
"Impressive," Baranov said. He held the whisky glass up to the light, swirling the contents - and then looked at Fetch and slammed a knife into the worktop. Despite the fact it was a hard metallic surface, the knife penetrated a good inch: between two of Fetch's fingers.
Mirizin jumped, even Pete flinched. Fetch had seen Baranov reach casually down for the knife while all other eyes were on the whisky glass, and had seen it's trajectory, too: Baranov did not mean to injure, at least not yet. He didn't move his hand or his features.
Baranov lowered his whisky and took another sip. "Ah – that is how," he said. "Consider the knife a gift."
"Thanks," Fetch replied calmly, and raised the glass to acknowledge this.
"Mr. Baranov," Miri said. "We have other contractors with the needed experience and capability to-"
"Fetch will do it," Baranov said.
Mirizin paused, and proceeded carefully. "If that is what you wish, then I will of course be happy to evaluate his skills and expertise, but this man is a newcomer, a refugee, he has no equipment or resources for such an undertaking."
"You make a very good point," Baranov conceded. "Peter – educate Mr. Fetch on our law regarding phasers and disruptors, and what happens to those who break it."
"Yes sir. It's simple, Prophet Boy," Pete said. "You use a gun of any kind in Silba City, it gets used on you, and we don't change the settings. If someone uses a gun on you, you get their stuff as compensation. If they're still alive to disagree with that, well, just don't settle the argument with another phaser."
"Simple indeed," Baranov nodded. "It is our only law – it punishes those who seek to disrupt the peace and rewards those that play by the rules. We find that a straightforward approach to public order gets the best results. No inefficient courts, no need for prisons. We are a free people on Silba, Fetch, with little time for such affectations. So," Baranov pointed at Jimmy and clicked his fingers, "remind me of your name, boy?"
"James, sir."
"Ah yes, Peter's shadow. Another reliable man. Bring Falkus' phaser over here," Baranov ordered.
Jimmy retrieved Falkus's phaser rifle and handed it to Baranov, who laid it on the bar. There was a noticeable increase in the alertness of Baranov's bodyguards, as the weapon came into close proximity of Fetch.
"A formidable weapon," Baranov said, "and set to kill. Falkus was not one for half-measures, it seems, in every respect except that of, recently, functional limbs. Pick up the gun, Fetch. I think, on this occasion, we will outsource justice to you. Execute Falkus," he instructed Fetch.
If Baranov was expecting hesitation, he didn't get it. Fetch had plenty of reason for wanting Falkus dead. He picked up the phaser rifle, examined the oversized controls, and extended it backward, one-handed. There was a hiss, and then the bar filled with the acrid smell of burnt snake as Fetch phasered a neat hole through the snake's head.
"Happy to have been of service," he said, placing the rifle back on the bar. Then he picked up the rest of his whiskey and finished it.
"Excellent! Now he is properly equipped, and we know he has the appropriate mindset for such work," Baranov said, and whacked his hand down on the bar. "They say that the Confusion is anarchic, a chaotic place of disorder, but see! It is a land of opportunity. A few moments ago Fetch here was just another Bajoran refugee, washed out to the Beta quadrant by the tides of the Dominion War. Already he has found a new job and acquired the tools of his trade. Our problem is resolved, Miri. I have a good feeling about this. Fetch and his 'particular skillset' will get the job done, I am sure. You will brief him?"
Mirizin nodded. "I will," she answered.
"Good," Baranov nodded. "And this time DO NOT FUCKING WARN THAT FUCKING BASTARD THAT SOMEONE IS COMING FOR HIM!"
He shouted this directly in Mirizin's face. She flinched and nearly fell over – even Fetch blinked in surprise this time.
"I am not a fucking broom to help you clean house," Baranov went on, quieter but with icy anger. "Did you think I would not find out? Who the fuck do you think told Falkus you'd stabbed him in the back?"
Miri blinked. "You told Falkus?"
"I dropped a hint," Baranov confirmed.
"He killed one of our own," Mirizin told him. "We have our laws too, Mr. Baranov. A price had to be paid."
"Yes, yes, I know," Baranov replied, dismissively shaking his head from side to side. "I am sure it was a serious matter, which is why you are alive right now, Miri. I would prefer your organisation continue as a partner, but do not inconvenience me again to settle a score. If you want me to facilitate your dirty work for you, ask me first. This was your only chance. Only once can I afford to show mercy - even to a friend."
Mirizin had recovered herself a little. "It was regrettable that an internal matter spilled over into a contract with our most important client," she said. "We'll take steps to ensure it does not happen again."
Baranov's flat stare transformed instantly into a broad smile. "Excellent! Good. Thank you for the whisky, Mirizin. Peter will be your contact regarding this matter, you two are close, after all. Keep him apprised of all developments."
Mirizin and Pete both nodded. It was clear that Pete had not missed his employer's emphasis on 'close' – Fetch saw him go pale, and noted the sudden increase in the man's heart rate.
"Good," Baranov said again, then nodded to his two bodyguards. A second later, they were gone in a red shimmer.
Mirizin, Pete and Jimmy all exhaled as one.
"Well handled," Pete said to Mirizin, with slight sarcasm.
"Sorry," she said, with a wince. "We're all alive, though, ain't we?" She had returned to her previous drawl, now that the authority figure was gone.
Pete looked over to Falkus' smoking corpse. "Mostly," he commented.
"I'll call the chop shop," Mirizin said. "Might even get a good price for what's left of 'im, and mopping up is part of the service."
"Great, do they do dry cleaning too?" Fetch interrupted them. "Someone maybe want to tell me what's going on here and what I just landed myself in?"