MISSION TO DALETH IV
by Soledad
For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.
Author's notes:
This chapter contains discussions about sexual slavery. If it offends you, please hit the Back button now. Thank you.
The Rigelian Hypnoid featured in the animated episode Mudd's Passion.
CHAPTER 06: THE TRAP
The appearance of the man who docked his unusually designed scout ship at Daleth Station two days later could only have been described as "colourful". He was a very big man, wearing the kind of clothes usually seen in Terran role-playing games that featured pirates: a bag-sleeved, blue silk shirt, wide kneehosens, high boots and a sleeveless leather jacked with shiny – and apparently dysfunctional – brass buttons on its many pockets. A wide-rimmed hat, adorned with a long, flexible feather and a silk scarf instead of a belt that would have been a lot more practical, rounded up the picture he offered to the rest of the universe.
The man had a round face, a curiously twisted moustache that almost covered the lower part of his cheeks, wavy brown hair that didn't quite reach his collar and a golden ring in his left ear. He also wore golden rings with obviously fake gemstones on both of his beefy hands and seemed unarmed – at least to the naked eye. Which didn't keep the constable on duty from scanning him very thoroughly, however.
"Really, officer," the man rolled his eyes in demonstrative exasperation, "is this necessary? I'm just a peaceful businessman, delivering me completely harmless cargo…"
The constable – a middle-aged human colonist from Rigel IV – gave him a sour look. Members of the civilian constabulary didn't like being called "officer", especially not by suspects, as doing so was nothing but a clumsy attempt to suck up. Besides, he'd known the newcomer for quite a few years and despised the man from the bottom of his heart.
"I'd be brain dead for days before I let you pass unchecked, Mr. Mudd," he replied dryly. "I don't trust you any further than I can throw you by five G, and that's not very far to begin with. Now, gimme that phaser you're hiding under your clothes – or do you want me to have you stripped?"
"You're a hard-nosed one, officer," Harry Mudd shook his head with almost convincing sadness, "You're not gonna take the word of a mechanical device over that a man, are ya?"
"When the man in question are you – every time," the constable replied, stretching out his free hand expectantly. "The phaser, please. Now."
Harry Mudd sighed, fished a small hand phaser from one of his many pockets and threw it to the constable who snatched it from the air with practiced ease. "I hope you're happy now. Can I go?"
"In a moment – right after I've checked your customs declaration. You do have a data chip, I assume?"
"Why, certainly," Harry Mudd exclaimed in the tone of hurt innocence. "Where do you thing I'm coming from? Some backward planet?"
"That's a matter of interpretation," the constable replied. "Compared with the Rigel-colonies, both Ilyra VI and Sirius IX – which both have a death warrant on your head, by the way – are considered backward planets. And, if I'm not mistaken, you're still wanted on Deneb V as well."
"Barbarians, all of them!" Harry Mudd declared in a highly offended manner. "Fortunately – as you know it very well, sir – those warrants are not acknowledged by Federation law."
"Which is the only reason why I don't throw you in jail on the spot," the constable riposted. "However, I'll have the pleasure to charge you for the illegal operation of a stolen vessel, as your master's licence, revoked at Stardate 1116.4, hasn't been reactivated ever since. And now your customs declaration, please."
"You're a stubborn fellow, aren't you?" Harry Mudd put on an oversized frown. "But I don't mind. Not at all. As I said, I'm simply an honest businessman, and me cargo is all legal. Me personal guarantee on that."
And with a theatrical gesture, Harry Mudd handed the constable a data chip.
Unbeknownst by both of them, their banter had been watched from a nearby gallery all the time, by two persons who didn't seem to have a thing in common. Which impression, as most first impressions on Daleth IV, was false, of course.
"He is good," Lt. Makepeace, now in moderately colourful civvies, murmured with reluctant respect, just loudly enough for the thin Andorian woman to hear. "While he is distracting the constable at customs, the servants of S'Bysh remove the illegal cargo from his ship. Did we got everything we need?"
The Andorian, pretending to look into a different direction, checked the tiny screen of her palm-sized, highly specialized tricorder.
"Yes, sir. We've got both audio and visual records about the whole operation," she replied in the typical, whispering tone of her people. "They seem to be done. Customs can take the ship apart now, piece by piece, and they won't find a thing."
"At least nothing that Harry Mudd doesn't want them to find," Makepeace flipped his communicator open. "Diego? Ben. The package has reached its destination."
"Understood," came the clipped answer. "Move off to the next observation point."
"Acknowledged," Makepeace broke the connection. "We've got to move off, Lamia," he said, not looking at the Andorian at all. Do you have an appointed contact?"
"Give me some credit, sir," she pocketed the palm tricorder, pretending to watch the argument of two newly arrived Andorian males in front of the customs area, displaying the exact behaviour expected from a lonely female. She didn't give any sign of noticing how the human walked away from her side.
She waited for two more minutes, giving the quarrelling males the one or other encouraging nod when a snidely remark was made, before leaving for Thorev's Cantina, where she was supposed to work. But she kept taking backward looks to where the highly entertaining argument between the agitated males was still going on.
So it came as no surprise when – about twenty meters from the entrance – she collided with someone hard enough to lose her balance and fall.
"Oh, I'm sorry," the bald, red-eyed, dark-skinned man murmured with a thick Centaurian accent. "Have I hurt you, miss?"
"Not at all," Lamia rubbed her hip with a doubtful expression on her blue face. The man extended a big, dark hand to help her up.
"Allow me…"
Lamia accepted the helping hand and let the man pull her to her feet. "Thank you, sir."
"You are welcome, miss," the man bowed in Centaurian fashion and left.
The Andorian entered the cantina and went back to the kitchens, which were her working place. Left alone for a moment, she checked her pocket and waggled with her antennae in respect. Her palm tricorder was gone.
The young Mo'ari dancer was preparing himself for his evening performance. This was a daily ritual, which wouldn't have taken more than two hours, if he actually were a Mo'ari. Which he was not.
Surgical alterations, like the delicate ridges on his temples and the permanent change of his eye colour – not to mention the completely natural-looking pouch that protected his genitals – provided a very convincing appearance, but some things just weren't doable, even for 23rd century medical science. Not when he ever wanted to look human again. Which he very much wanted, should the current mission be finished.
So, he had no other choice than completely remove his body hair on a daily basis, by applying a special salve, including the sprouting hair on his head and his eyebrows. Which took time and repeated re-checking every day. Shaving wouldn't have done the trick – the results would look very different from natural hairlessness. Not to mention that shaving would have a stimulating effect on his hair clavicles and would make him look like a Tullinite fox dancer when he ever stopped with it.
"This was the last time I ever disguised myself as a Mo'ari," he declared angrily to his "brother", who was just returning to their shared quarters.
The older man, for his part a true Centaurian Mo'ari, shrugged. "You say that every time. But you still do it the next time again."
"This time, I mean it," the dancer grimaced, rinsing off the rests of the hair-repressing salve. "Damn it, Drregg, can you imagine what it means, smearing this stinking stuff all over me, every damned day? I swear, after more than three years, I don't know whether I should scream or throw up when I just see it."
The other man frowned. "This is the first time I hear you swearing, you know. When we're not in the middle of a fight, that is."
The dancer sighed. "I'm sorry, Drregg. I hope we get this mission wrapped up and done before I lose my mind completely. Any news?"
The Centaurian nodded and handed him a palm tricorder.
"S'Bysh's people have already removed the cargo. It's all on the record."
"Good," the dancer cast a cursory look at the date. "Have Ben encrypt the whole thing, just like the rest of our data, then give it to Vierchi – he's about to leave tomorrow morning. We need to get these records out of here and transmitted to the right authority, just in case…"
He didn't finish the sentence, but there was no need to, really. They all knew how easily they could get killed during covert operations like this one. Had known all the time.
"Will do," the Centaurian said. "But let me tell you something without tearing my head off?"
The dancer shot him a suspicious look. "Go ahead."
"Jon, you said I've been slipping, and maybe you're right. But I'm not the only one, you know."
That earned him a cold glare. "What do you mean?"
"This is what I mean," the Centaurian sighed. "You've been unbearable lately. You've treated us like a 20th century drill sergeant gone mad. You've been so hard-nosed it's a pain being in the same room as you."
"Have I?" the dancer seemed genuinely surprised.
The other man nodded empathically.
"You have. Haven't you noticed that the others avoid being around you when they can?"
"No… to be honest, I have not. Do they really?"
"Trust me – they do. Which is a bad thing, man, 'cause we need to protect you. Not only because you are our commanding officer – you are also our best friend. We all understand that you're under more pressure than all the others, and the unit can take a lot before falling to pieces, but I have the feeling we've never been so close to falling apart like right now."
"We've never had a mission this long and unpleasant, either," the dancer replied glumly.
S'Bysh was emphatically unhappy with the results of the recent action in the docking bay. His unhappiness was clearly expressed by the fact that the unlucky mercenaries had been found with slit throats in their jail cell. Which delivered two clear messages to anyone who listened. Firstly, that failure was not acceptable from someone on the potentate's paylist. And secondly, that not even a jail cell could provide any protection from the quick and merciless punishment.
"How could it have happened," he asked his Second with deceptive calmness, "that two of your best people got beaten to bloody pulp by a single man?"
The Second paled under his yellow skin. He was an ex-mercenary himself, a huge man with muscles like a mugato, and not easily frightened. He usually didn't even flinch when his potentate got mad and yelled at the servants. When S'Bysh was in this eerily calm mood, however, it made the Second scared to death. The potentate was lethal when it came over him.
"We couldn't know that the girl would team up with Sdan," the Second offered lamely.
The slanted pupils of S'Bysh narrowed.
"Wrong answer. Had you watched the girl properly, you'd have known about her company… and her contacts. You should have been able to do something to keep her from leaving, as you had been ordered. Sdan is certainly good – one of the best – but he's not invincible. And his services are available for the best bidder. Were you worth the food I provide you, you should have bought Sdan for us."
The Second tried to become invisible, which was a rather hopeless endeavour for someone of his size. S'Bysh didn't pay his pitiful attempts to look properly ashamed any attention.
"I wonder," the potentate mused, "how the girl was able to pay his price. Maybe she wasn't such a harmless fugitive, after all. Romulans are a deceptive people."
"According to our information…"
"Your information isn't worth rukh droppings," S'Bysh interrupted, still in that lethally soft voice. "This was your last foolish mistake. Make another one – and I shall select a new second. Get out."
The Second fled in absolute horror, as selecting his successor would have meant his immediate execution. S'Bysh sighed in annoyance, shook his head and gestured his First, hiding behind one of the heavy brocade curtains all the time, to step forward.
"When this is over, discard of him," he said. "He has his use, but lately I haven't been able to rely on him properly. He's become a liability. We cannot afford such a weak spot in our shielding."
"I can have him removed now," the First offered, but S'Bysh shook his head.
"No. Not before the ware has been delivered to the buyers. We'll need his contacts to bring this deal to its end, before we withdraw and regroup. But after that…"
"… we'll toss him to the wolves, as Terrans say," the First finished for him. S'Bysh nodded.
"Exactly. Station security need a little success every time and again." He paused, signalling the change of topics. "Have you taken care of Mr. Mudd?"
"Of course, my lord. He knows his place well enough, which is a rare thing for a human. He had a most… unusual request, however, and I wish to ask your permission before granting or refusing it."
"What does he want?"
The First rolled her eyes. "A reptilian Hypnoid."
"Really?" S'Bysh considered it for a moment. "A… costly arrangement. Those beast are rare and expensive."
"Indeed, my lord."
"So you suggest that we deny Mr. Mudd's request?"
"On the contrary, my lord. Providing him with the beast would keep him firmly in your debt. He can't be cut loose anyway – he knows too much, and he has no loyalties, except perhaps towards his own pocket. But he's more useful – and profitable – alive than dead. You can always have him eliminated when he doesn't bring the required results," she added cynically.
"Very well," S'Bysh nodded thoughtfully. "Arrange the beast to be delivered. What about the dancer?"
The First bowed. "He'll be yours tonight, my lord. The kireshet has been prepared, and the girls know what they have to do."
"Be careful," S'Bysh warned. "I want him willing and eager – not damaged or brain-dead."
"Have I ever disappointed you, my lord?" the First murmured.
S'Bysh raised an eyebrow. "You are still alive, are you not?"
Madame Vithra was not pleased to learn about Arrhae's disappearance. She was even less pleased when Denkahr discovered that Arrhae's meagre savings had disappeared from their company's account as well – and that without them being able to collect their usual ten per cents before the account had been deleted. But when she learned that two Orion mercenaries had been found beaten up in the docking bay and then mysteriously killed in their holding cells, she started panicking in earnest.
She had been in this business long enough to recognize the signs.
"It seems that S'Bysh had an eye on the girl," she said to Mondral darkly, "and we've lost her. Where could she be? Do you think Captain Vierchi smuggled her off station?"
The champion shook his head. He was a big, muscular man, looking like the average bodyguard, but unlike the average, his abilities didn't end by physical strength. In fact, he had a shrewd mind, and watching events from the background over decades had enabled him to see a bigger picture than his employers.
"I don't believe so," he replied calmly. "The old pirate is still here, and with him and his new First Mate aboard, there's simply not enough room on that old rustbin of his for the girl to hide. No, they must have found another way."
"But who'd dare to help her?" Madame Vithra asked. "Who'd dare to raise S'Bysh's wrath?"
"I don't know," Mondral shrugged. "According to station logs, only one ship had left docking bay six in the early morning, before the Orions were found – that old courier of Sdan's."
Mondral had his own spies and contacts all across the station, of course. Providing safety for Madame's business required of him to know what was going on at any given time. And he was nothing if not thorough.
"Sdan helped her to get out?" Madame Vithra couldn't hide her surprise, which was a rare thing. There weren't many things that could still surprise her. "I always thought his services were much too expensive for most people."
Mondral nodded.
"They are. There's no way either Vierchi or the girl could have paid him. Either some of Vierchi's contacts had Sdan in his debt or Sdan must have wanted something from them badly enough to do them a favour. Either way, I doubt that we'd ever learn the real reason behind it."
"Which leaves us as the recipients of S'Bysh's displeasure," Madame Vithra said. "I don't like it, Mondral."
"Neither do I," the champion replied grimly. "And if Ishul ever meant anything to you, Madame, you should send him home. Preferably yesterday. He's too pretty for his own good – and S'Bysh is well known for his preference for beautiful boys."
Madame gave him a suspicious look. "You have your eye on Ishul, haven't you? Are you forgetting that he's not one of the rent boys in this… establishment but part of the family?"
"So are you, Madame," replied the champion dryly. "It has never stopped your… other interests."
"I was sold into prostitution as a child," Madame pointed out. "Ishul was sold into marriage, and he was of consenting age back then. That's a big difference. As a junior husband, he belongs to his spouses."
"And which one of you has managed to dominate him so far?" Mondral riposted. "He might be yours by law – in everything that truly counts, he is mine. Has been for the last two years, and none of you ever noticed."
Madame's eyes narrowed. "Have you forced him?"
She didn't particularly care for Ishul, the boy was a nuisance, but she would kill Mondral on the spot, should the champion have violated him.
Mondral shrugged. "There was no need. All he needed was the right touch."
"And that would be yours?" Madame asked acidly. Mondral shrugged again.
"Apparently yes; after two years I can at least assume that."
Madame Vithra wasn't pleased by the thought of her most junior husband having accepted the dominance of her champion over himself, but there wasn't much that she could have done about that. Rigelian marriages were, as a rule, very open. As long as he didn't act against his clan's interests, Ishul could basically do as he pleased. Despite everyone calling him a 'boy', legally he was a mature adult.
And binding Mondral to himself was very much in the clan's interests. Mondral was skilled, useful and absolutely ruthless, and they needed him here desperately. Maybe the boy wasn't the complete fool he looked like, after all.
"All right," she said, admitting her defeat; she was a very practical woman. "Can you get him off-station, quickly and discretely? Get him back to the homeworld where he can be protected?"
"I have my ways," Mondral replied calmly.
"Then use them," Madame said.
Mondral bowed in mock respect. "As my Mistress orders."
In one of the back rooms of S'Bysh's Bar, the potentate's First added the last touches to her preparations. She checked the green female dancers one last time and repeated them their orders.
Very few of the Alpha population had ever been able to learn to at least understand the primitive language of the green savages, as it was mainly made up of various hisses, cackles and gurgles. The First was one of those rare people, even though she wasn't capable of producing all the stranger-sounding consonants. She decided to learn it, because she knew that – contrary to common belief – the primitives did have a shrewd mind and could be taught all sorts of things if necessary, even coherent speech. Keeping them in a primitive state was simply a choice from the side of their masters, because it was easier to control them that way.
"Remember," she said in common Orion, which the girls understood well enough, though barely spoke, "after his last dance, not before. We don't want him to sweat out the drugs. And he'll need at least three doses. We must be sure that it'll work."
One of the girls hissed something in her own tongue. The First shook her head.
"No, it won't kill him. Not until the fifth dose. So be careful – three at least but not more than four. Understood?"
The girls nodded in unison. The First now turned to the group of common slaves. For the more… delicate task she couldn't rely on the green savages. They might have damaged their Master's prey in their excitement.
"Do you have the relaxing salve?"
An elderly woman, the overseer of the potentate's slaves, produced a small jar and showed it to the First, who nodded.
"You know what to do, don't you? See that the others make no mistakes. Our lord is displeased enough as it is – we can't afford another failure."
The elderly woman nodded wordlessly – slaves were only allowed to speak when asked a direct question.
"Good," the First said. "We won't be able to get him to our lord's chambers before the bar closes – too many potential witnesses. We'll have to keep him here, in the secure room until the corridors are empty. Guard him well," she added, with a threatening look, addressed to the male slaves. "He won' be capable of leaving on his own, but he is watched by that brother of his closely. Once they realize that he's missing, they'll come looking for him. I can't place any of the guards in front of the door; that would be a dead give-away. So be vigilant, if you know what's good for you."
The frightened slaves nodded obediently. They'd protect their master's prey – or die trying. Satisfied with the current state of things, the First returned to the potentate's chambers to have them prepared for a long night of pleasure.
In a different section of the entertainment and trade ring, the Andorian agent sat over her listening device and frowned, trying to decide whether S'Bysh's new plot had to do anything with the big action ahead. She had no idea whom the servants were talking of; it could be simple slave trade business, but again, it could be more. It was hard to tell without having more details.
She decided to keep an ear on the events – figuratively speaking – and file her report later.
S'Bysh's was unusually full on this evening – meaning that it was even fuller than other evenings. The performances were highly professional, as always – aside from four different numbers of the young Mo'ari dancer, there was a group of voluptuous, belly-dancing Argelian females and, of course, the usual green savages of S'Bysh's personal stock. All sorts of exotic beverages – many of them illegal – were served generously, and for a high price, and many of the customers had already begun to numb their senses by other means as well.
"Is it just me, or are there more drug vapours in the air than on other nights?" Sanchez murmured, massaging his temples with a pained expression. He'd come to hate the bar more and more with every passing day, but he had to help watching over the dancer. The older Mo'ari couldn't do it alone, and as Ben had to avoid S'Bysh's, there simply wasn't anyone else.
"It seems to me, too, that it's worse tonight," the Centaurian replied tiredly, "but this is his last number. When he's done and changed, we can go home as well. Where's Ben, by the way?"
"He's having a date with Nina. They wanted to have dinner at Thorev's, as far as I know."
"Are they trying to iron out things between them?" the Centaurian asked in surprise. Sanchez shrugged.
"I don't think so. According to what Ben said, it's pretty much over. They won't be renewing the marriage contract."
"That's a shame. I thought if anyone, they'd certainly get this relationship thing working."
"Yeah, me, too. But at least they managed to part amiably. That's more than most couples can say from themselves."
"True enough," the Centaurian nodded, with a strangely nostalgic smile. Then he sighed in relief. "Oh, good! Jon… I mean Forrd'hall… is done. We can leave this hellhole in a moment."
But the young dancer didn't join them a few minutes later. Or half an hour later. By then, they both had become worried and decided to go and look for him. The large Terellian guards tried to keep them out of the backstage area – only artists were allowed there – but the Centaurian knocked one of them straight out (one only needed to know the particularly week spot of Terellians for that), while Sanchez grabbed his well-hidden phaser and stunned the other one. They reached the dressing room without further hindrances, but they didn't find there anything else than the young dancer's costumes – if various sorts of over-decorated girdles and tiny loincloths could be called costumes.
"Can you smell anything?" the Centaurian asked.
"In here?" Sanchez asked back, irritated. "The air is so full of drug vapours and heavy perfume – not to mention the aggressive musk of those green girls – that I risk sensory overload by simply breathing too deeply."
"Well, then we have no choice," the Centaurian said grimly, "we'll have to take the risk of alarming the others."
He rolled back his sleeve, revealing a small, highly sophisticated communications device that looked like a bracelet. He switched it on, chose a rare and heavily coded frequency and spoke, "Burt to all. We have a Code Red. Meet me at Checkpoint Tango Six. This is not a drill. Burt out."
He switched the device off again, hoping the message had been short enough so that they couldn't have been located. Nevertheless, they needed to move out of here, at top speed.
"Greg, we might risk everything we've worked for in all these years," Sanchez warned him. The Centaurian shrugged.
"They've obviously taken Jon. If he'd somehow blown his guise, he might be dead now, and are we, most likely. But if they are merely suspicious – or had abducted him for other reasons – we still might be able to act in time."
The other man nodded in agreement. They left the unconscious guards behind and ran off to meet the rest of their unit. A Code Red meant that a commanding officer had been captured and needed immediate rescue, by any means necessary. Eve if it meant to lose one of their important operative checkpoints.
They couldn't leave Commander Jonathan Drake, the pride and joy of Starfleet Intelligence, in the hands of the Orion Syndicate, after all.
TBC
