(This is the sequel to The Edge Case - you're going to want to read that first).
1
There were times, Fetch mused gloomily, when the twenty-fourth century was very fucking obviously the far future.
This was patently obvious on the face of it: all the spaceships and aliens were a pretty unmistakeable clue. He no longer lived in a (damp) 2 bed semi in Streatham, sharing with a (dodgy) accountant named Nigel, making a living as an IT support bloke; he lived in a (sarcastic) ex-Romulan scout vessel, sharing with a (mostly) Orion girl named Nola, making a living as an 'I'll-be-back' cybernetic badass who could shoot phasers out of his hands (only they didn't advertise that part, mostly because he was a terrible shot with them, but also because the whole cybernetic badass thing was hush-hush and Very Bad Things would happen if anyone knew).
Future shock shouldn't, therefore, really be occupying his thoughts so much. In general people were still the way they'd been in 2021, whether they were human people or alien people. They still ate and drank and farted, still talked crap and goofed off, did stupid things for good reasons and good things for stupid reasons. It was all slightly different, of course, but most of the time it was like living in a foreign country: the basics were all the same, everything was just in a different font. You got used to it.
Fetch, though, only had maybe three or four months' worth of reliable memories on which to base his understanding of his new timezone, most of which concerned his time as an unwitting and unwilling assassin for the Tal Shiar. He had access to information about 2385, of course, but his dinosaur 2021 brain – which had been liberated by nefarious Romulans from a frozen jar somewhere – didn't always look it up or interpret it correctly. Therefore 2385 could still bite him on the arse from time to time, and right now was one such time.
Fetch and Nola got all their jobs through a Boslic named Mirizin (Miri to her friends and closer associates), who ran a loose network of freelance badasses like Fetch, referred to only as the organisation, without any particular emphasis or foreboding capitals, but everyone always knew what you meant. This was all administered from a somewhat less than glamourous pub known only as the Quiet Bar, near the somewhat less than glamourous spaceport in the deeply unglamourous Silba City – the nominal capital of the Confused Territories and all-round hive of scum and villainy. It smelt bad but Fetch kind of liked the place.
Part of the lower-case-o organisation gig was use of a back room for pitching to clients, negotiating terms, and ironing out deals and/or disputes with other mercs. It was nothing fancy – just a big table with ten chairs around it, a viewscreen in case some sort of presentation was needed, lots of privacy shielding and a replicator slot for coffees and, if the clients were upscale or it was a bad day, booze. None of that was necessary right now, because this was a 'third job': to appease Fetch's regrettable proclivity for doing good things for no money, Nola (who was less altruistic, at least when anyone was around to see and judge her for it) had agreed to a ratio of two paying jobs to every freebie. They still needed to meet the clients, though, so: back room.
Said clients were a trio of Andorians: two men and a woman. Their wife had gone missing, which would have been bad enough, but this was a bigger problem than usual because she was apparently about to get pregnant.
Fetch had been willing to let the four-person marriage concept wash over him, but had called a time out at that point as the future reminded him it was still the future and bit him squarely on the arse.
"Let me get this straight," he said, putting his coffee down and pointing at each of the men. "You two have both had, ahem, marital relations with her," he said, and indicated the woman.
"They have," the woman replied, somewhat frostily. Fetch supposed he was probably being a bit insensitive, but felt they were conspiring with the future to gang up on him, was tired anyway (it seemed unfair that despite a high-tech robotic body, his dinosaur brain still got tired, and the last job had been gruelling), so wasn't inclined to diplomacy right now.
"And thus you are now pregnant," he continued.
"Fetch, why don't-" Nola – who could tell when Fetch had had enough and was about to say or do something stupid – started to interrupt, but Fetch waved her to silence.
"Indeed," the woman confirmed, again quite coldly.
"But you two also need to have a baby with your other wife, otherwise you lose this one too?" Fetch asked.
"Incorrect, Captain Fetch," the first Andorian man, named Tyaan, replied. He was the older of the three. "Saras is our shen – she carries eggs within her like your Bajoran women. But Liras is our zhen – only she can carry the foetus to term. It has been this way with us since time immemorial."
Fetch squinted while he quickly flicked through his memory. His dinosaur brain didn't have a brilliant hookup to his robot brain. "Hang on, this is sort of swimming into focus now. Didn't some clever blighter cure this?"
"It is not a condition that needed curing!" Saras hissed at him. "It is our precious biological and cultural heritage!"
Oops – nerve thoroughly hit and losing hull integrity. Fetch was about to backpedal, but Nola beat him to it.
"You'll have to excuse Captain Fetch, he's got a bad case of being a massive idiot," she said, with a diplomatic smile and a simultaneous surreptitious boot into his lower leg.
Saras glowered, but dialled her anger back a little. "A biology lesson is hardly necessary for the purposes of this investigation, Captain Fetch. Our wife has been kidnapped. We need her to be returned to us before three days have passed, otherwise we will lose our baby. Is that sufficient detail for you?"
Stop being a dick, Fetch, Fetch thought to himself – or at least he was fairly sure it was him. Nola had a wide spectrum of empathic and telepathic gifts, but she hadn't been able to influence him so far by any means less obvious than booting him in the leg under a table. Either way it was good advice.
"Of course it is, sorry," he apologised. "I'm not really cut out for the modern world – we only had standard issue two-person marriages on Ear-, on Bajor. We'll take your case – no charge."
Saras looked immediately relieved: Tyaan might have been, too, but if so Fetch couldn't detect it either in his expression or his physiology. The last one – a younger man called Shrin, gave him a nervous smile. "We were sure you would. Liras was very fond of your people. She was on the way to your Temple when she disappeared."
Nola – despite her veil – was glaring at Fetch. She turned her attention back to the trio of blue-skinned aliens. "What my colleague meant to say is there will be no extraordinary charge – the thousand you are able to offer, however, is-"
"Nola – third job, remember?" Fetch hinted.
Nola huffed. "Okay, fine – no charge."
"Let's say we'll donate it to the Temple of the Prophets here in Silba City. The work they do is very laudable," Shrin suggested. "Liras would agree, if she were here."
"Wait, if someone is going to get paid, then-" Nola started.
"Nola," Fetch said quietly.
"Yeah, yeah, I heard," Nola grumbled. "Tell us what happened," she asked the trio.
What had happened, the Andorians related, was this:
The married quartet had come to the Confusion two or three years ago – they were kind of conservative in their views, and childbearing back home was now being done in the more standard fashion, thanks to the interference of Federation do-gooders who laboured under the misapprehension that the Andorians didn't want their species to gradually die out through lack of children. They operated a small, fast and above all armed freighter – such vessels were in demand in the rough-and-tumble of the Confusion, which gave them a comfortable if modest living and kept them off the radar of the Andorian government, which was starting to get a bit insistent with those who held to the old reproductive ways.
Liras was the youngest of the four, and was prone to bouts of youthful selflessness. In particular, when the Kumari III was in Silba orbit, she had taken to visiting the Temple of the Prophets with donations. The Temple ministered to Silba's legions of poor, destitute and hopeless, and operated a hospital. The hospital often had need of various equipment – if the Kumari III came across any on her commercial travels, Liras would try to score it for them, schlep it back to Silba, and deliver it to the Temple.
"Nice of her," Fetch commented.
"Foolish of her," Saras replied coldly.
"How so, Saras?" Nola asked – then did The Nola Thing.
Fetch wasn't exactly sure what The Nola Thing was, exactly, but by God did it work. Nola was an Orion, or at least identified as one in public. Moreover she was a lady Orion, and Orions of the female persuasion came equipped with prodigious gifts of the persuasive variety, an ability which had spawned a huge amount of mostly prurient cross-cultural bullshit but, if you knew about it, could be easily countered with a shot in the arm. There was no such defence against Nola, who also had Betazoid in her DNA: in her particular case this had resulted in two things. One, she was a paler green than most Orions. Two, she had phenomenally powerful telepathic gifts. These mostly manifested by people instinctively trusting her as if they'd known her for years instead of minutes, and wanting to be helpful to her in pretty much any way they or her could think of. A reliable supply of artificial goodwill, it turned out, was a very powerful tool.
So, two minutes later Saras was sobbing, as was Shrin – even Tyaan, who had so far been stoic and impassive, had a tear running down his face.
"I love her so much!" Saras choked out, between sobs and sniffles. "It's not that I don't think what she does is very noble, it's just dangerous here. I kept asking her to take one of us with her, or at least hire a guard, but she wouldn't listen!"
According to Shrin, there had been some sort of issue with the latest donation – Liras had beamed down yesterday to the surface of Silba City to sort it out, and had said nothing to any of her spouses about the trip. They only knew she'd left the Kumari III thanks to the transporter logs, as Liras had obfuscated her entry: she didn't want to be followed, it seemed.
"So she said nothing to any of you about where she was going?" Nola asked. Tyaan and Saras answered in the negative, Shrin merely shook his head and looked down at the table.
"Then how'd you know where she'd gone?" Fetch asked. "She could've beamed to another ship in orbit."
Shrin started. "I-I assumed, I suppose," he said.
There was, to be fair, no other destination on the surface apart from Silba City, and not much above the surface except other private vessels and the ever-present Klingon warbird in her geopolitical-synchronous Making A Point orbit. The Romulans had left to deal with, apparently, the impending collapse of their civilisation due to an inconvenient supernova that was due to go boom any time now, but their peacekeeping slack was being taken up by Unalignment privateers. One of their rag-tag but enthusiastic navy was usually to be found in consort with the Klingons, who had started taking tip-offs from the separatists in order to maximise the number of pirate heads they could hack off and take gory selfies with to send back home, thus earning important warrior-culture brownie points. This new trend was greatly bemoaned by purveyors of black-market bloodwine: the local Klingon contingent was no longer nearly as bored as they used to be, and therefore spending much longer sober.
Anyway: the city was the likely destination. Many Silba City structures, conscious of unauthorised beam-ins and the opportunities for theft and/or skipping out with unpaid bills this presented, put up anti-transporter fields of various effectiveness. This had the effect of turning the city into a patchwork of beamable and non-beamable locations, which tended to change on a regular basis. This made beaming down willy-nilly a bit dangerous, so the Ketari enforced transporter 'safe zones' in a few key places: usually ones that benefitted their own concerns, but everyone was free to use them. This would make canvassing for witnesses merely extremely difficult rather than impossible.
"What was the problem?" Nola asked. "With the medical equipment?"
"I don't know," Shrin answered quickly. "Don't even know what it was she was taking, this time."
"Is that important?" Saras asked.
"Could be," Fetch told her. "Decent medware is hard to come by, out here, so the right bit of kit can be highly nickable."
Saras' eyes went wide and she put her hands to her mouth.
"Which is just one of the lines of enquiry we'll be following up," Nola hurried to assure her.
Fetch winced pre-emptively, then opened his mouth. "Yeah, of course. Also, got to ask this, sorry: is there any reason Liras might have to want to not be here for a while? Did you argue, fight? She's definitely on board with the whole baby plan?"
"She is," Tyaan answered. "As for arguments, we had a minor disagreement last week over rates for our cargo of Sintillian arderite, but that was just a business matter and in any case she was right: we went with her quote."
"Saras?" Fetch asked. "Same question."
"No – nobody is being forced into anything. She was looking forward to motherhood as much as I," Saras replied. Shrin just shook his head.
They wrapped things up pretty quickly after that, and Nola ushered the trio out of the door, with the promise that they'd get right on to looking for their wife. Fetch went to the bar: he wasn't drinking, but Miri fixed a good raktajino and it didn't look like he'd be getting any sleep any time soon.
"Wow, you look really tired. Bardak mine job got you beat, Fetch?" The Boslic woman asked, as Fetch eased himself into his usual seat. There was still a neat, thin rhombus punched into the metal surface: Baranov's last legacy. Fetch still had the knife that had made the mark, secreted in his left boot. Baranov was no longer in charge of the Ketari, on account of being found dead in his locked, heavily secured office. The cause of death was widely rumoured to be a single stab wound through the left eye so precise that there hadn't even been much blood, but Fetch happened to know that was just a detail. Baranov had risen to the top of the Confused Territories food chain only to fatally annoy a much deadlier predator from a much bigger pond, that had been the cause of death.
"No," Fetch replied, as Miri placed a raktajino on the bar, covering up the knife mark. "We wound that one up okay, but I spent literally the entire time killing massive beetley-spidery things non-stop, and I haven't slept yet."
"Go get yourself some sack time, then, hero," Miri advised with a wry smile.
"No can do," Fetch shook his head, indicating the Andorians who were just leaving. "This is an urgent one."
"Ah, the missing wife," Miri said, nodding. "Good of you and Nola to help 'em out."
"Someone had to," Fetch replied, and sipped his Klingon coffee.
Miri moved down the bar to tend to other customers: she had two or three employees, because her real job was running the organisation, after all, but she liked to keep her hand in.
The décor in the Quiet Bar reflected the interests of the clientele: the walls were primarily covered with mugshots of various wanted sentients from various starfaring nations, missing persons (Liras wasn't up there yet), situations vacant for armed people and reward notices. There were some new additions since Fetch's last visit last week: two multiple murderers were new entries at the top of the wanted charts, someone was trying to get a small private fleet together to secure a colony mission, a Federation-sponsored archeological expedition was offering 5000 pieces of gold-pressed latinum for the return of the coronation goblet of the ancient Sintillian empire, which they'd been lucky enough to unearth but not smart enough to hold on to, and someone had put up another round of 'Borg parts wanted, latinum paid, no questions asked' flyers, which Miri would burn as soon as she noticed.
"You look really tired, Fetch," Nola volunteered, appearing at his side. "That must be why you're passing up perfectly good latinum."
"It's a third job, Nola," Fetch reminded her.
"It's not like they're living on the streets begging for spare credit, Fetch," Nola told him petulantly. "They can afford to pay us."
"It's not like they're printing their own money, either, though, is it? They need help and we're being nice," Fetch replied. "You want a coffee?"
"I want a partner who isn't a pushover," Nola responded, as she pulled up a stool.
Seeing that the Quiet Bar wasn't busy, Nola pulled down her veil. She was in her default ninja-girl outfit, which left nothing uncovered, although she was neither a ninja nor religious. When the only faces around were familiar ones, though, she was happy enough to show her own.
"Feel free to go looking," Fetch replied grumpily. "Remind me again what you were doing while I spent three days squishing bugs down a mineshaft?"
Nola pulled off her gloves and, with a winsome smile, held up her nails for him to see. "They do look perfect now though, don't they?"
"They looked perfect before," Fetch said, unimpressed.
Nola sighed. "I do achieve perfection with remarkably little effort, it's true. You, on the other hand, do not. Please try and be a little more sensitive with clients, Fetch, or failing that work on your silent but impressive pose and leave the talking to yours truly."
"No way – leaving the talking to you was what landed me down a dark bug-infested pit armed only with a goddamned sword," Fetch grumbled.
"And I love you for it, partner," Nola grinned. "We absolutely cleaned up on that job."
"No, I had to spend hours cleaning myself up after that job. I was seriously considering just ripping all my skin off and growing it back. My favourite jacket's a total write-off and we didn't even get paid," Fetch replied. "How does that work again, I thought I was the only one that wanted us to work for nothing?"
"Xaranti bug exoskeletons are worth mega latinum on the Nausicaan market. It's like an addiction with those guys, but most people don't want to get that close to one," Nola started to explain.
"I don't blame them, they're ugly as fuck, carry swords everywhere and throw darts at each other's chests for shits and giggles," Fetch put in.
"The Xaranti bugs, asshole, not the Nausicaans, and don't be speciesist. Nausicaans aren't ugly to other Nausicaans. Every sentient has something beautiful about them," Nola reprimanded him.
"Okay, relative standards and that, my bad," Fetch gestured apologetically with the coffee.
"My point is that unlike any other exterminator the client coulda got in, you weren't squeamish about all the legs and the chittering and the, y'know, venom and having eggs laid inside your skull. Hence you didn't use a phaser, hence we could collect the shells in prime condition, hence I can sell them on to that Nausicaan trader for a shit-tonne of latinum." Nola pointed to said Nausicaan, who had just walked in: she waved at him and called out 'Hi Rashnak, over here!' with every appearance of conviviality.
"Metric or imperial shit-tonne?" Fetch asked.
"Whichever is bigger," Nola shrugged. "He won't care, he's totally in love with me. Not much to look at, I'll grant you, but he always smells really nice. Time for you to take off, Fetch." She appropriated his raktajino, but with a winning smile.
Fetch sighed. The about-to-be-thoroughly-fleeced Nausicaan, he reflected, wasn't the only one a little bit besotted with Nola: but that could get really complicated really quickly and it was wiser not to muck about with working relationships anyway.
"Looks like I'm off to vespers then," he said.
Nola furrowed her brows in confusion. "You really must be tired, that made no sense whatsoever."
"I'll go ask after Liras at the Bajoran temple," Fetch corrected. "Anything to tell me about our three clients? Any of them hiding anything?"
Nola moved her head from side to side in a non-commital gesture. "They're all three of them worried, Saras most of all. Also Shrin is feeling guilty, so I'm thinking maybe he was on the outs with the missing missus. If this turns out to just be that she's gone off in a strop because they argued and comes back on her own, it'll be easy money."
"Again, Nola: we're not charging," Fetch said heavily.
Nola smiled winningly and patted his cheek. "It's so cute that you think you get to decide on the business side of things!"
Once again, a little bit inside Fetch melted and re-formed regretfully with a sigh. "Whatever," he said. "Comm me when you're done with tusk features over there."
"You got it, partner," Nola replied with a wink, then turned to greet the Nausicaan trader (who towered over her) with a hug. They certainly didn't look like a race given to hugs, but as far as he could tell the tall, fierce alien seemed delighted to see her. Fetch slipped out of his seat.
"Hey!" Nola interrupted her hug.
"What?" Fetch asked.
"Remember you're an actual Bajoran when talking to other Bajorans," Nola reminded him.
"Of course," Fetch – who had completely forgotten – answered. "Laters."
He was barely turned around when Miri hailed him from further along the bar. "Hey, Fetch!"
It didn't do to ignore Miri – Fetch walked over. She handed him a fresh raktajino in a disposable cup. "I was going to give this to Nola, but since she's stolen yours, I figure you get hers instead," Miri said. Nola, already absorbed in sweet-talking the Nausicaan out of his money, didn't notice.
"Thanks Miri," Fetch said, taking the cup.
"Listen," the woman went on. "When you get done at the Temple, go see Pete," she advised. "It's near his place."
Fetch winced. "Pete doesn't exactly rate me very highly, Miri," he reminded her. "And anyway I can't exactly just walk into his office on a whim, can I? Busy man, these days."
Miri nodded. "You're right enough, I suppose, on both counts. Can't do much about his workload but give me time and I can clear the first issue right up for you."
Fetch shook his head. "I think I'd rather just stay off his radar, if it's all the same to you, Miri," Fetch told her.
"Not necessary, Fetch. He knows he owes you his job," Miri hinted quietly.
"He doesn't," Fetch hurriedly insisted. "I thought I asked you to not let him know where the tip off about Baranov's imminent difficulties came from."
"I didn't, but he's a smart man. He can put two and two together," Miri said.
"Then he's got reason to be suspicious of me," Fetch said, sipping the coffee – it was very hot. "Why do you want me to see him, anyway?"
"He's got a question to ask you," Miri replied.
"Fuck, he doesn't think I killed Baranov, does he?" Fetch went cold. He could do without that kind of heat. Pete had already been a high-ranking Ketari the first time they'd met, literally at the very bar he was leaning against – but now he was very influential.
"It's not that. Look, if you don't wanna go to his office, do an old woman a favour and comm him, willya? He'll take the call and play nice, I guarantee it." Miri asked.
"Okay, I will," Fetch acceded to her demands. It didn't do to refuse a request from Miri, either – and if she said that Pete would be a gentleman, then he would: she'd know. "You two set a date yet?"
Miri smiled. "Early summer," she answered.
"Good shout – Silba City smells least bad that time of year, I'm told," Fetch answerred.
"Stop it, you," Miri chided him.
One of the side-effects of Pete's recent job change was that his relationship with Miri was now free to come out into the open. He had popped the question and she had said yes. Nola had cried a little, relating this information.
"Sorry. Got a venue?" He asked.
"Not yet. If the Temple of the Prophets looks nice, let me know," Miri asked.
"Thought you were going for an Earth wedding?"
"If they give us a discount, I'll get hitched Bajoran-style. You're an open-minded people, I'm sure your priest'll be okay with it," Miri shrugged.
"What do you mea-?" Fetch started, then realisation dawned. He had already forgotten that he was – or at least looked, even to the most penetrating of sensors – Bajoran. "Oh, right. I'll ask."
Fetch took a drink of raktajino, suppressed the autonomic urge to yawn, and then walked out of the bar into the allegedly-fresh air of Silba City. Someone, possibly even Miri, had laid a fresh layer of pavement-covering down the alley that connected the Quiet Bar to the main-ish road it abutted. Plastic crates, this time, melted and flattened by some bodged process. The latest weapon in Silba City's eternal war against the oozing mud that underpinned it – nobody had yet been able to organise some actual proper building work and/or drainage.
He dug out his communicator – he still thought of it as a mobile phone – and held it up to his ear as he pointed his feet in the direction of the Temple of the Prophets. It was entirely for show: although it worked and was in good repair, Fetch had far better comms gear built in. He'd give the Tal Shiar this much: when they decided to build a sentient murder bot, they at least didn't stint on the extras, which was good news if you had to make a living as the aforementioned sentient murder bot.
It had rained while he'd been inside with the Nola and the Andorians: Fetch stepped around a fetid puddle as the call connected.
He knew only a few things about Pete, or, to give him his full name, Peter Schaeffer. He was human, greying and in his fifties but still tough, active and fit. He had a policeman's brain: he noticed things. He'd twigged right away that something was out of kilter with Fetch, and hadn't attempted to hide the fact that he was suspicious of him. This had been annoying when Pete had been a senior Ketari: Baranov had kept him around because he kept order in Silba City, but hadn't been interested in his opinion. Now that he was the senior Ketari, it could start to be dangerous rather than annoying. This was offset by the fact that Pete's fiancee, Miri, did trust Fetch – but the good opinion of his missus-to-be could only do so much, and since Pete cared about Miri that might spur him on to even greater suspicion.
Fetch would not be surprised if Pete had put out a few feelers about him, and if he found something he didn't like, then...well, he didn't really want to think about that. Fetch had managed to build up something approaching a life, here – he didn't want to have that ripped away.
On the other other hand, Pete was a huge improvement over Baranov. Under his purview the Ketari were changing from a mob that paid lip service to keeping order into something that actually resembled a police force – maybe even a government. Like the Klingons, they were working with the Unalignment from time to time: there was even talk of official co-operation. During his time in the Ketari Pete had won a lot of respect, and had promoted colleagues that shared his views into key positions, so there seemed to actually be a bit of momentum behind this. The times they were a changin'.
They hadn't changed to the point where a busy man didn't need someone to screen his calls, though.
"Yeah?" A rough voice answered Fetch's call.
"Captain Fetch to speak to Mr. Schaeffer," Fetch said, keeping his voice level and neutral. "He's expecting me to make contact."
"Yeah," the rough voice said, but it was markedly less rough, now. "Wait one."
Fetch waited one, while he turned a corner onto a larger thoroughfare that led towards the centre of town. This one even had a few vehicles running along it, on a spectrum from improvised carts pulled by a variety of sentient and non-sentient aliens to actual high-tech anti-grav cars for the wealthy. Fetch altered course to walk along the edge of the street, away from possible injury and almost certain mud-spattering.
"Puttin' you through, Captain Fetch," the voice said, and then Pete's voice replaced it. "Fetch. Thank you for calling, I know you've got a lot on at the moment. How's Nola?"
Fetch hadn't expected politeness. "Um...she's alright?"
"You okay? You sound tired."
"I seem to be hearing that a lot today, yep," Fetch replied.
"Heard you were ass deep in spiders, how'd that work out for you?" Pete enquired.
He almost sounded like he actually cared. This was suspicious.
"About as well as you'd expect, but Nola tells me we're gonna rake it in so I suppose I shouldn't grumble," Fetch answered.
Pete laughed: insincerely, but he was evidently making an effort to be, well, affable. What the hell is going on? Fetch thought.
"I suppose you shouldn't," Pete said. "Here's the thing, Miri and I are finally tying the knot, by which I mean we're getting married."
"I know what tying the knot means, Mr. Schaeffer. Genuinely happy for you both," Fetch said, in the gap that followed.
"Thanks. Call me Pete, Fetch, it's not like we don't know each other," Pete said.
Fetch's internal weirdometer abruptly maxed out. "Okay, Pete, you're freaking me out," Fetch not-quite snapped. "You haven't trusted me from the get go, you weren't exactly keeping it a secret, and the power dynamics in our relationship have shifted dramatically in your favour. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and you're the head honcho in the Ketari now so you can basically do whatever the hell you want anyway and I'll smile and nod and say yes sir, but why am I suddenly getting the kid gloves treatment?"
"That's a fair question," Pete said, rather than telling him to fuck off, which was what Fetch had expected as a response. "So, to clear the air, although I still don't buy your 'I'm just another Bajoran refugee' shtick, you've chosen to do the right thing a few times when you didn't have to, Miri rates you as trustworthy, and you also seem to have gained the good opinion of an Azurian captain of my acquaintance whose opinion I have also come to respect. I have, on balance, decided in your particular case to stop being a hardass."
Fetch actually stopped walking and blinked at this. It was, to say the least, somewhat surprising. The words 'what the fuck?' were about to escape his lips, but then he almost heard Nola's voice in his head: Pete's a potentially massive client, so make nice, asshole!
Fetch followed mental-Nola's advice, and tried to make nice. "Oh-kay," he said. "Thank you for your honesty. For my part I never had anything against you, it's good to have buried the hatchet, and I, um, look forward to a fruitful working relationship, er, going forward?"
Pete laughed. "Hah! Is Nola there at your elbow?"
"No, but in a very real sense she may aswell be," Fetch answered, "'cos I'd get a royal bollocking off her later if I tossed this particular olive branch back in your face."
"She really is a smart girl," Pete confirmed. "Speaks highly of you to Miri, says you treat her well."
"Nah, she only says that 'cos I'm enough of a mug to tidy up after her when she leaves her crap strewn all over the shop, you have no idea how much mess that girl can make. I'm surprised Karian had two good words to say about me, though, all things considered," Fetch said, guessing at the Azurian captain's identity.
"He did mention that you'd rung his bell a couple times," Pete admitted, "but handing a Romulan warbird over to someone for the low, low price of absolutely nothin' at all can smooth over a lot. Including, I might add, some of my trust issues with you. Let me tell you this right now: I am serious about what my predecessor liked to pretend he cared about. The Confusion could stand some improvement. That warbird in the hands of the Unalignment is already making that process go a lot quicker."
"I'll be honest, I forgot about the warbird," Fetch said. "To be fair Susan looted it thoroughly beforehand. Can't move in the cargo bay for half-inched Romulan kit, right now."
"Goin' to need some clarification on 'half-inched', and who is Susan?" Pete queried.
"Half-inched equals pinched equals stolen," Fetch explained casually, then remembered this should be an alien expression, to him, and trotted out his usual version of the truth. "I didn't grow up on Bajor, and I picked up a lot of human expressions. As for Susan, she's the Susarinix's computer," Fetch supplied. "I find it easier to just think of her as the third crew member, she pretty much does what she wants anyway."
"Strange ship you run, Fetch," Pete commented.
Fetch shrugged as he walked. "Only game in town," he said.
"You really do like old-earth phrases, don't you?"
"That period of history had a massive influence on my language," Fetch answered truthfully.
"So it would seem. So Jimmy – you remember Jimmy, right?" Pete asked.
"I remember his phaser rifle in my face," Fetch answered, "but I'm not holding any grudges."
Pete coughed. "Anyway, Miri and I are going for a human ceremony, and Jimmy's my best man: kind of like the second-in-command of the wedding. We also need some ushers, who are there to sort of help out on the day, show people to their seats, that kind of thing. I was hopin' you'd be able to help me out there."
Another huge surprise, but Fetch was over it, now. "Suppose I'd best dust off my top hat and tails, then," Fetch answered. "Happy to help, Pete."
"Great, Jimmy'll be in touch with details. We don't even know where we're having the ceremony, yet, though, so nothin'll be happening that quickly," Pete said.
"I'm on my way to the Temple of the Prophets right now, as it happens, and Miri asked me to scope it out as a potential venue," Fetch told him, as he stepped smartly around a pair of brawling aliens that had erupted out of a bar door.
"Didn't take you for the religious sort," Pete commented.
"I'm not, never set foot in one before. Hope I don't catch on fire spontaneously or get smited as a blasphemer when I ask for a discounted rate," Fetch said, and Pete laughed in response. Pete, he was discovering, was an easy man to talk to when you were on the right side of him. "I'm there on business. You got a handle on guest numbers, yet?"
Pete groaned. "We need space for at least two hundred," he said. "We wanted close friends only but there's people I have to invite. Politics," he explained.
"Figures. Can you shunt some of them to the evening do?" Fetch asked.
"Have you been to a human wedding before?" Pete enquired. "Sounds like you have."
"One or two," Fetch answered, as he came to a stop. He'd arrived at the Temple – he leaned against a wall across the road for now.
"Right. No, I can't – these people can't feel slighted," Pete informed him.
"Oh well, I'll see how many pews or whatever they've got," Fetch answered.
"Thanks, Fetch. One more thing – you said you're on a job right now?"
"Missing person," Fetch answered. "That's the main reason I'm on my way to the Temple."
"Canvassing for witnesses?"
"If that's what you call asking people if they've seen someone, then yes."
"If you have any spare time, I'd appreciate it if you and Nola – I'll be honest, mostly Nola – could swing by Jark's Med Supplies. Know it?"
Fetch knew it alright: he'd put a lot of latinum Jark's way, in exchange for the esoteric medical equipment he needed to fabricate the serum he needed to stay active. It was one of the mechanisms the Tal Shiar had used to keep control of their creations. Fetch had workarounds for all of them, but it was a constant, worrying little thought at the back of his mind that there might be another that he didn't know about yet.
"Yeah, done some business with him in the past. What's up?"
"There's been a break in. Jark uses us for security. Can't let that stand, it's bad for business, but I...don't want to use harsh methods until I know it's, well, how can I put this?" Pete's voice trailed off.
"You want to know it wasn't an inside job before you start holding phasers to the kneecaps of the local villains," Fetch guessed.
"Nothing so crude, but essentially yes," Pete confirmed. "Nola has a good sense of people, she'll know if something's not on the level."
Fetch frowned as he tried to think. "Okay – comm Miri about it. Nola's at the Quiet Bar, she's in a meeting right now but she probably won't be ages. Baranov beamed in there once, so I'm guessing you can beam her out, and I know Jark's is in a transporter safe zone, too, because I've beamed some purchases up direct before. Tell her I'll meet her at Jark's, she'll probably be done about the same time I'm done at the temple," Fetch said.
"I'm on it. Thanks again, Fetch. It'll mean a lot to Miri that you're involved with the wedding," Pete said.
"No problem."
"Talk to you soon," Pete said, and ended the call. Fetch slid the communicator back into his jacket, and had a proper look at the Temple of the Prophets.
It was a big building, with probably about fifty metres of frontage, centred upon a pair of large wooden doors with intricate carvings and, Fetch could also tell, some fairly hefty shielding around them, although it was only running at standby right now, possibly because someone was up a stepladder cleaning or polishing the wood. The doors opened out onto a crossroads, the temple being situated on a corner. It had probably been a large warehouse in a previous life, but had been tarted up with what Fetch assumed was Bajoran religious decorations, the largest item being the circle-at-the-bottom-of-an-oval he vaguely recognised as their main symbol. There was a fairly constant trickle of people in and out – mainly Bajorans but not exclusively. Fetch had, so far, tended to avoid them in case one of them immediately looked at him and pegged him for an impostor – he'd also run up against vitriolic anti-Bajoran sentiment a couple of times, and felt very weird about that in a multitude of different ways. It was safe to say he was pretty conflicted about his assumed ethnicity and on balance would have preferred to duck the issue for as long as he could.
Well, the number two wife wasn't going to find herself and the clock was ticking – he walked across the road, ducking past a couple of hovers, and up to the wooden doors. They were open but there wasn't a reception desk or anything inside – Fetch hesitated, blinked, and drunk some more Klingon coffee.
"Have you come seeking wisdom?" A woman's voice asked him, from somewhere up above his head.
"Yes and no," Fetch answered, looking up. "More what you'd probably call information rather than wisdom, really."
"Fair enough," the woman said, as she energetically polished the door with a cloth. "I can probably help you with that, but would you mind helping me a bit first? You wouldn't believe how fiddly this can get. There're spare cloths in the bucket by your feet."
"Um, yeah, right," Fetch answered, and not wanting to look like an asshole, dutifully picked up a cloth and started attacking the wooden door with it.
The stepladder rattled as the woman descended it, jumping down the last few steps.
"Thank you," she said. "You can image the amount of mud and dust that gets stuck into the cracks. It's never-ending."
Fetch looked up from his work. She was tall, not much shorter than he was, and he was reliably informed that he was on the tall side by Bajoran standards: his current body (he'd had several, but this one was now, he supposed, his last) was a bit of a unit. She was also athletically built, had blonde hair held back by a rag, and was perhaps in her mid-thirties. She had green eyes, one of which was bisected by an old scar, largely lost in a tan, the standard Bajoran nose ridges, and the only reason you wouldn't call her attractive was that she looked like she'd deck you for it. She wore a simple white vest and work trousers, as well as the earring that every Bajoran (except Fetch) seemed to possess. Fetch's tactical subroutines were pointing out hard muscles, poise and good carriage: evidence of physical training, possibly martial arts. He hated that bit of his brain. His dinosaur brain was just saying 'pretty woman', which was possibly a bit sexist but at least honest, and not looking for a threat everywhere.
She was smiling at him.
"You're a big fella," she remarked, giving him an equal appraisal. "You look a bit tired, though."
"That certainly seems to be everyone's verdict today," Fetch replied.
"The Prophets thank you for your prayers, by the way," she said, and indicated, for some reason, the door.
"I...do not know what to do with that information," Fetch replied honestly, taken a bit aback.
"These are prayer panels," she explained. "We brought them all the way from home, they're seven hundred years old. Polishing the carvings is an act of prayer to the Prophets, which makes up somewhat for it being a huge pain in the ass." She smiled again, quite charmingly.
"Oh! Right. Kinda like prayer wheels," Fetch answered.
She frowned. "Prayer wheels?"
Fuck, Fetch thought, and nearly winced. He had forgotten he was a Bajoran. "It's an old Earth religion thing I heard about once. Carved bronze cylinders – you spin 'em, you pray."
The Bajoran woman raised her eyebrows and nodded. "Sounds a lot more convenient," she said. "So, you had questions?"
Fetch nodded, dug out a datapad, and brought up Liras' picture. "I'm looking for this Andorian woman. I'm informed she was a regular visitor here."
The Bajoran woman looked at the picture and nodded, then directed a slightly harder stare at Fetch. "That's Liras, and yes she is. She's a good person, she helps Ranjen Takar with equipment for our hospital. Why are you looking for her?"
"On behalf of her husbands and wife," Fetch answered. "She's not in trouble of any kind – at least not with me or my clients – but she has gone missing."
"You're with the Ketari?"
Fetch shook his head. "The organisation. If you know them, you can contact Liras' family aboard their vessel. They can confirm that they hired me."
"It's okay, I believe you," the woman answered, although the smiles were all gone, now. "Liras is a friend of ours, and we'll do what we can to help her. I haven't seen her recently, but I'll take you to Ranjen Takar. He may have more information."
The woman picked up her bucket, then collapsed the stepladder. Fetch watched then remembered his manners and lurched forward. "Can I get that for you?"
"Thanks," the woman said. Fetch picked up the ladder.
He followed her through the doors and into the temple. As he did so, he realised what the low-powered shielding was for: noise abatement. Inside there was none of the clamour of the street.
The woman directed him to stow the ladder in a small cupboard just inside the doors, where she also deposited the bucket, then took him out a side door and further into the temple.
The original building had been gutted, as had the ones either side, by the look of it - the Temple had a pretty big footprint. There was no roof and no internal walls. In their place the Bajorans had planted a huge garden, complete with little streams, trees and even what looked like a micro-ecosystem of flying insects and small birdlike creatures. There were a few smaller buildings erected inside it, including one where a dozen Bajorans, as well as some humanoids of other races, were running through what looked like martial arts drills under the hawklike eye of a robed figure. The man nodded to the Bajoran woman as they walked past.
"Pretty odd church you have here," Fetch commented.
The woman looked at him quizzically over her shoulder. "I take it you've never been to a Temple of the Prophets before?"
"No," Fetch answered.
"I thought not. As it happens, though, you're not wrong," she answered. "Most temples don't have a dojo, but this is the Confusion. We are here to minister to the needy and to serve, but the Prophets have never encouraged stupidity. Everyone has to look to their own safety."
"Do you do weddings too?" Fetch asked, remembering the other reason he was here.
"Who's the lucky girl?" The woman asked banteringly.
"It's not me," Fetch replied. "I've got two...friends, getting married. They're not Bajoran, one's human and one's Boslic, but they need a venue. A big one."
"I think I know who you mean," the woman answered. "We keep our ears open, here. One has to, in Silba City."
"Of course," Fetch allowed.
"I know the Mylar pretty well," the woman told him. "I'm sure she'd be open to hosting a human/Boslic wedding. Which tradition are they going with?"
"Human, so far," Fetch answered.
"Will they have one of those special cakes they do, with the little pillars and the sugary stuff all over the outside?" She asked him.
"Icing," Fetch informed her. "I assume so, yes. If it swings them a nice location, then probably that'd be a very safe assumption."
"Well, who doesn't like cake? Leave your details – we'll get back to you about it," the woman said.
"Thanks, are you one of the-" Fetch started.
"And this is the infirmary," the woman said, interrupting him, as they arrived at a large, low building – the largest within the compound. Several diagnostic beds were in evidence, as were people in medical-looking uniforms rather than robes. She waved at one, a younger Bajoran man, who excused himself from a conversation and came over.
"Ranjen Takar," the woman said. "This man is from the organisation and is looking for Liras – apparently she's gone missing and her family are worried. Can you help him?"
"Of course," the man said readily.
The woman smiled. "Thank you, Takar," she said. "I'll leave you to it, then."
She turned and walked away fairly sharpish, picking up a broom from where it was leaning against a small pavilion as she went. Fetch turned to watch her walk away: she started sweeping the path.
"Excuse me?" The Bajoran doctor-monk was asking him.
Fetch turned back. "Say what?"
"I was asking what you wanted to know," the doctor repeated.
Fetch shook himself. "Yeah, sorry, I'm a bit tired."
"It shows," the Bajoran confirmed, not unsympathetically.
"Yeah," Fetch said. "That kind of a day. I'm Fetch, by the way. Liras' family have hired me to find her."
The doctor-monk knew Liras, he said, and he was more than happy to help, giving forth an absolute torrent of information without being prompted. She had last visited several days ago, before she was due to leave on her most recent freight run. They had arranged that she would try to acquire a stasis unit – a large bit of medical equipment, with which a patient could be kept alive until proper facilities could be sorted out for a difficult operation or procedure: they couldn't treat everything here. He hadn't seen her since then but he was very worried, and anything he could do to help, he would.
Fetch was no kind of investigator, really, but even he could detect a pre-prepared spiel when someone hit him over the head with one.
"I might have some follow-up questions, later," Fetch said. "Alright with you if I come back with my partner?"
"If my duties allow it, I would be happy to talk to him," Takar answered politely.
"Her," Fetch corrected, then turned to go, but at the last moment turned back – just in case emulating fictional detectives actually yielded a useful result of some kind. "Just one last thing – were you close?" He asked.
"To Lirry?" Takar asked, slightly confused.
Lirry, Fetch thought. Well I'll be fucked, the Columbo thing worked. "Yes, to Liras. Is she a close friend?"
For the first time, Takar displayed something apart from polite helpfulness – he frowned, then abruptly smoothed his features out. "She is a friend, yes – I've got to know her quite well over the months she has been helping us. She is a kind and generous woman, may the Prophets smile on her in her hour of need."
Fetch looked at the guy. "Here's a thing I heard a wise man say once: I'm a people-worshipper. If I ever had a problem, nothing divine ever happened, some man or some woman stepped up and said, we'll do this, we'll do that. I'm the one who's currently stepping up to help Liras – so is there anything else you'd like to tell me?"
"There is nothing else I can tell you now," Takar answered. "I must return to my patients. But you should not neglect you pa'gh, Fetch. Perhaps, without knowing it, you are doing this for the Prophets."
"This is more of a free gratis goodwill type gig, and anyway my partner handles all the book-keeping, mate," Fetch shrugged, then got it. "Oh, yeah. Prophets. I really am a bit knackered."
Takar looked at him, with some coldness. "I will pray they guide you where you should go," he said.
"Can't hurt," Fetch agreed, then yawned. He rattled his cup: empty.
Takar walked away.
"They might maybe genuinely guide you to bed for a few hours," the woman remarked. Fetch had not noticed her approach. She was holding a large plastic sack as well as the broom, and held it out to Fetch. He was confused for a moment, then understood, and dropped the empty cup into it.
"Are you the caretaker here?" He asked her.
"You could accurately say that I take care of this Temple, yes," she answered him. "I'll see you out."
"Thanks. So it's what, like a humbling yourself to gain enlightenment type deal? Wax on, wax off, do the cleaning and the DIY and learn the secrets of the universe in the process?" He didn't mean to sound scornful, and was pretty sure he'd managed to hit his target of good-natured banter.
"If I wanted to learn the secrets of the universe, there are any number of universities on Bajor or in the rest of the Federation that would do a better job than we could here. I want to learn the secrets of myself," she replied.
"Is that the pah Takar was talking about?" Fetch asked.
"Pa'gh," the woman corrected his pronunciation. "Soul, self, personality, pa'gh – call it what you want. Takar is a good Ranjen and a gifted physician, but he's a bit stuffy about matters of faith. It's not so mystical, really – ours is a practical religion. He meditates – I sweep and clean and polish."
"And do martial arts," Fetch hazarded. "You don't get a build like yours by sweeping."
"Evidently you've never had to do much cleaning up," she replied, with a smile.
"Spend ten minutes seeing what havoc my colleague wreaks on my ship and then tell me that," Fetch told her wearily.
"Is that an invitation?"
"If you bring your cleaning kit, definitely," Fetch said. "You have to contend with a road full of mud and dust, I have the world's untidiest partner."
"Business partner?" She asked. "I wouldn't want to go cleaning up something that someone else should be cleaning up."
"Yeah, business partner," Fetch confirmed, and realised that he was flirting and so was she.
"Hmm," the woman said, as they arrived back at the door. "I'll consider your words carefully, stranger. For now, good luck with your...noble quest."
The smile again. It was a pleasant one.
"I'll be back," Fetch said. "About the wedding, if nothing else."
"Sorry, but it's a no – we've barely met," the woman told him.
"Well, it was a stretch but I figured it was worth a shot," Fetch answered, then decided to go all in. "I suppose I'll just have to settle for a drink, maybe? When I'm less tired and not on a noble quest."
"Perhaps – if the Mylar will allow it," the woman answered.
"I hope she's not all stuffy about matters of faith like Takar is, then," Fetch replied.
"We'll see," she replied mysteriously. "Walk with the Prophets, stranger."
She ducked back behind the doors. Fetch smiled to himself, then yawned again, and then his communicator went off.
"Hey partner," Nola said, when he answered. "What's an usher?"
"Wedding helper," Fetch answered.
"Apparently I'm going to be a bridesmaid. I don't know what that is exactly but I get a nice dress out of it, so that's a plus," Nola told him.
"Might be a bit confusing if you and Miri are both wearing veils," Fetch said. "If Pete kisses the wrong woman it'll be unbelievably awkward."
"Why would Miri wear a veil and why would Pete kiss me instead of her? I mean apart from the obvious reason that I'm basically the ideal of female perfection made real, but it'd be a shitty thing to do to Miri."
"Never mind," Fetch said. "Did he get in touch?"
"Yes indeed. I'm at Yark's now. You should get over here," she said. "Jimmy says he'll beam you if you can get to a safe zone."
"Why the rush?" Fetch asked.
"There's something here you oughta see," Nola told him.