Setlick and Sons Hotel and Resort
Setlick City
Cetlus Minor
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The general opinion of Cetlus Minor among people in the Federation was that the planet was a poor man's Risa, in polite terms. In not so polite terms, it was a wretched hive of scum and villainy, not the sort of place where honest people came to make their holidays.
Mor had visited the planet several times, for both business and pleasure. Elysium was the nearest settled M-Class planet, and Black Star ECS had a satellite office in the capital, Setlick City. Cetlus Minor was not nearly as well armed as her neighbour, but she attracted an equally wretched collection of criminals, mercenaries, and lowlifes. The five-planet system shared an immediate border with the Ferengi Alliance, and the Ferengi ruled over the system with a latinum coated fist, even though the planet was – by strict technicality – non-aligned. In addition to Black Star, Mercenaries from every stripe and nation guarded staggering, palace-like mansions owned by the merchant race who sold pretty much anything to anyone with enough coin.
As a result, the planet sprawled with resorts, hotels, and time-share condominiums for holidaymakers to relax and party in. Unlike Risa however, which was a gentle tropical paradise, Cetlus Minor was a wild, near-lawless vacation destination, featuring drugs, prostitution, gourmet food, shooting ranges, hunting of exotic species and more all for the right price.
Federation citizens were always made welcome, of course. At the end of the Dominion War, the Federation was the galaxy's largest economy, considering that both Cardassia and Romulus had collapsed, the Klingons were too focused on rebuilding their shattered military to invest capital in anything else – much less a Ferengi controlled Planet Sin – and there was no other power in the Milky Way that could compare. Despite most of the activities available on Cetlus Minor being the sort that would land a Federation Citizen in a Fed-Sec holding cell for decades or more, the citizens themselves were always well looked after.
The Cetlus Minor Constabulary – corrupt and all but controlled by the Ferengi as it was – dedicated whatever competent resources and officers they had into protecting Federation Citizens like royalty. With Elysium being less than an hour away at warp one, any naval support would quickly be purchased or rented – likely from Black Star – where the small Ferengi Navy couldn't or wouldn't respond.
And naturally, open carry was not only embraced, but strongly recommended in every tourist advertisement one could find.
As interesting as all these facts were, it all meant nothing to Mor. He was here for an extremely specific purpose, to rescue his daughter Eyos from the clutches of whoever dared to invoke his anger.
As much as he wanted to simply kill everything in front of him, Mor hadn't survived the long decades as a Klingon Warrior by being a fool. Storming the planet and shooting dead anyone who stood in his way would only end with a violent response from either the CMC or the thousands of independent mercs on the planet. And while Mor would be sure to take thousands of them with him to GretHoR, it would do little good for the safety of Eyos.
So as much as it went against his Warrior's spirit, he had made a call to Salimov and ordered the Russian Merc to join him in the capital. To Mor, Salimov was a pathetic, whoring, drunk of a Human who would have been executed had he been Klingon and served in the Tenth Targs. And yet, he was a good shot with a rifle and knew no fear in his drunken, whoring heart. And for a reason lost to the old Klingon, Mark had seen fit to turn over the company – at least on paper – to Salimov's control, considering that a Uniformed Flag Officer of the Federation was not supposed to be associated with a mercenary outfit.
Mor sat patiently at the bar of the hotel as he waited for Salimov and a selection of Black Star Operators to arrive. Though his body craved the embrace of Warnog, Mor's mind limited his body to prune juice. He required that his senses be fully sharp and ready for the bloody business that awaited him.
Salimov had no such convictions. The surly Russian Merc bounded into the bar with all of the subtly of a wounded Targ. He slapped Mor on the shoulder and loudly proclaimed, "Boss Mor! So good seeing you again! You want hooker? Hotel bring in new girls from Rigel VI! They have Romulan one, her tits as big as starship's nacelles!"
Mor had little patience for insolence this day. He seized Salimov by the collar of his hockey sweater and swatted him with a backhand, not hard enough to kill but enough that Mor hoped to knock sense back into his weak, human brain.
Salimov's breath stank of vodka as Mor screamed at him, "I did not call you here to waste your money or my time watching you attempt to fuck Romulan whores, Salimov! You promised me intelligence. Deliver it now, or I will deliver Lady Death to this city, starting with your worthless corpse!"
Salimov put his hands up in shock, "Man, chill Boss Mor. We get Intel for you. We put feelers out across whole planet for little Klingon girl. We get no hits, but Ferengi Boss Pragg says he knows where little Klingon girl is. We must go to big house and do sit down thing; all gangster shit you know?"
Mor gruffed and then shoved Salimov out of the bar and into the cramped hover-car that the surly Russian had arrived in.
A few hours later, the group arrived on the outskirts of the city and piled out of the hover-car in front of the palace-like mansion of Pragg.
The estate was truly staggering. The main house had at least sixty rooms, sitting on top of a steep hill. Behind the house was an Olympic sized mineral pool, behind which was a thirty-acre private forest of conifer trees imported from Earth. Three more guest houses surrounded the main one, centring a small shuttle port that hosted an utterly ridiculous looking Risian Yacht, with ornate gold striping painted into the warp nacelles.
For Mor, who slept on a simple leather pad in his quarters at Camp Nath, it was a waste of good green space. And yet, a part of him was impressed. Not by the house itself, but by the clever man who had designed its defences.
The entire property was surrounded by an eight-foot high tritanium wall, and someone had even taken the time to grind the edges of the solid metal into ornate decorations. There were sniper towers scattered across the property to provide interlocking fields of fire while still being disguised as bird watches. Mor's trained eye also noticed the decorated firing ports on the roof of the main house which would open up to reveal large phaser cannons for both AA and AP purposes.
But most impressive to his mind were the reasonably competent mercs patrolling the estate. Pragg had opted for Naussicans and Cardassians for his personal detail. It made sense. It was a fool indeed who called the Naussican Commonwealth a united government with an organized military – not that the beasts are smart enough to organize it thought Mor – while the Treaty of Bajor had slammed open the door for disgruntled Cardassian Officers to earn fame and fortune amongst the stars.
Mor stood alongside Salimov outside the gate of Pragg's staggering estate and assessed his targets. The Naussicans were wearing their version of a Molotok, sophisticated battle armor that they clearly did not make themselves. Molotoks as made by Virnas were from strange, exotic materials sourced from the Borg. The average Naussican – who could barely manage to stand erect without help, in Mor's opinion – wouldn't begin to understand how to craft comparable armour, but the suits they wore would likely protect them from phasers or less sharp blades than the ones carried by Mor.
The Cardassians – who were at least sentient, even if they were dishonourable cowards by Mor's standards – wore either the standard black Cardassian deployment uniform they had kept from their days in the military, or TAV's similar in nature to Black Star garments. There were fewer of them around, which led Mor to suspect the Cardassians were in charge. They were carrying phasers and rifles in the strange, vaguely reptilian like shape of Cardassian weaponry, while the Armoured Naussicans carried weaponry from a dozen separate places, including – to Mor's shock – Black Star ECS XA-218 Chain Guns.
"Would you care to explain to me why beasts employed by a Ferengi of all things are carrying the same weapons that my Grizzly Bears carry into battle, Salimov?" Mor asked harshly.
The Russian Merc shrugged his shoulders, "I not know. Maybe they cut deal with sales? I fuck sales manager in asshole for you. I make rule that says we not sell to Spoonies. Are all fucking terrorists"
Mor nodded as he began walking towards the large welcome gate, "At last I hear something from your drunken mind that makes sense. Let us continue then-"
Salimov grabbed the Klingon's arm and stopped him place, "Hey Boss Mor, you be cool, okay? Pragg is rich Ferengi, he have friends with local swinya and Orion Syndicate. We piss him off, we end up shooting too many people. Ammo is fucking expensive now since Boss Mark start buying everything for Marines"
"Are you afraid of policemen and Orions, Salimov, you fucking coward?" Mor growled back.
"I not fucking scared of anything, even you Boss Mor. I more worried about money and reputation. I not have Marine pension like you, and hooker is almost as expensive as ammo. Just promise me you be cool, okay?" Salimov replied, still holding Mor by his arm.
"Fine. Can we go now?" Mor asked, shaking his arm loose.
Salimov nodded, and the group proceeded up to the gate. Mor had his disruptor at his side, beneath the gauntlet of his shooting hand, with two simple jewels tied into the lacing. One was blue in colour, belonging to Shirthu Nath, the brave little Tellarite who was honoured as the first Federation Marine to fall in glorious battle under Mor's command three years ago at Risa.
Short in stature as she may have been, Shirthu's heart was that of a Klingon, and she had fought with more courage than anyone on Risa that day except for Mor himself. He had taken the jewel to honour her memory and had offered to return it to her father Zoagarg when he returned her body to Teller according to her people's customs, and Mor's own customs of returning honour to the father of a Warrior. Zoagarg declined however, preferring instead for her memory to live on in Mor's heart. Mor longed for her company today in particular, especially with his patience for Salimov wearing thin.
Beside Shirthu's jewel was a red one, which belonged to Eyos. She had worn the jewel around her neck since the time she was born, the only memory remaining of Mor's wife L'Elij who had died in childbirth. Every time he looked at the Jewel, he thought back to the simpler and happier days he had on Kronos.
After spending months at a time on the battlefields of the Empire, earning fame and honour with the Tenth Targs at his back, Mor had one pleasure in life, returning home to visit his daughter. She would run to his arms as soon as he walked through the door and spend countless hours telling him all about her studies and adventures at school and around the First City.
When Mor would ask what Eyos wanted to do with her life, she always had the same answer. She would grow up to become the Captain of a Klingon Warship, and not just a simple Bird-of-Prey but the largest and grandest ship in the Klingon Fleet. She would fly from one end of the galaxy to the next, and she would have the honour of flying her father, the Brigadier of the Tenth Kronos Shock Legion, to his last battlefield for the glory of the Klingon Empire.
It was all a Klingon Warrior could hope for in his children.
Mor took one last look at the jewels before walking forward. For decades, he had believed that his daughter's life had been stolen with his honour, the victim of a game played by cowardly men for political gain that ultimately meant nothing in the end.
Noble Worf had slain Gowron in the final year of the Dominion War for his cowardly incompetence. Lursa and Be'tor had joined their brother Duras in the black halls of GretHoR years before, ending the House that Mor's had backed for generations – a mistake that he cursed his fathers for – and Martok had restored Mor's honour in recognition of his skill on the fields of Bath'lor.
And now he had cause to believe that his daughter was alive after all and would not allow anything to separate them again.
As he walked to the gate, the Cardassian that Mor assumed to be in command of this group dared to bar his way forward with a raised palm, "That's close enough, gentlemen. Take another step forward and you will be fired upon. Do you have an appointment?"
Salimov spoke up for the group, "No we not have fucking appointment. We here to talk to Boss Pragg. He know me. Tell him Salimov has money for him, he let us in"
The Cardassian shook his head, "I'm sorry, but the Master is not taking unsolicited callers today. This is private property, Gentlemen. I must ask you to leave now, and I will only ask once before violence becomes necessary"
Mor was hoping he might say that.
The Old Klingon charged forward and knocked the Cardassian off his feet with a shoulder block. He kept a foot hard on his reptilian throat while he drew his disruptor and fired three quick bolts into the heads of three Naussicans who charged in response.
Behind him, the Black Star Operators raised their own rifles, and Mor listened with satisfaction as the tritanium rounds fired by XR-118's cut through more Naussican armour like knives through a butcher's meat.
When all the immediately visible targets were dead, Mor let the pressure of his foot on the Cardassian's neck go heavier as he growled, "Open the gate, and you can die quickly"
The Cardassian complied, and the gate slowly opened with the push of a switch on his wrist controller. But Mor had lied, and instead used his foot to break one of his clavicle bones, the slowest and most painful way for a Cardassian to die.
Salimov shoved Mor and began screaming, "What fuck you doing?! I said be cool man! Pragg get pissed that we kill all his fucking guards!"
Mor simply raised his disruptor and began a walking advance towards the main house, "They had their chance"
