Chapter 11 – Follow the Money
Nicoletti looked up from her console. "Data transfer complete, sir," she said, as the EMH made a show of rolling his head, as if freeing his holographic neck muscles from hours of tension.
"And?"
She shrugged, apologetically. "Nothing. I'm sorry. All there seems to be on the data the Doc absorbed from that terminal is an endless supply of records relating to the day-to-day operations of the Commissary and the Snowflake lounge: Vaccine sales; deliveries of Romulan ale; energy charges; salaries for the barkeepers; takes and pay-outs for the Dabo tables. Even overtime for the guy who keeps the wait staff robots from falling apart."
Tom frowned. "Any data on acquisition of the vaccine, or anything about the dancers? I mean, they are the main attraction in that bar, and after what we just heard from Asil and Lemarr about Darmoth Krall ..."
Nicoletti punched in a few key words, and shook her head. "No, sir. Nothing. Sorry."
Schmidt snorted, his derision not directed at Nicoletti, but at a point in the distance above her head, somewhere on the other side of the Flyer's observation window, where the warp trails were starting to flicker a little more erratically already.
"Sometimes, when it comes to business records, the path to enlightenment lies in the stuff that isn't there."
Tom clapped the security officer on the shoulder and nodded his agreement. "Precisely. If these are supposed to be complete records, the omissions themselves are enough to revoke Kalpak's license for Federation dockings, if someone bothers to look. Incomplete records of personnel and salaries, no indication where goods sold on the station came from … You correlate some of that with the Dabo transactions, which Jarod called a money laundry, and that's deadly stuff for an audit."
Suddenly, the soul-sucking hours Tom had spent in his ready room studying up on the bone-dry politics of private space station development and regulation didn't seem to have been an entirely empty sacrifice. He almost heard his father's voice deep inside his head, whispering a slightly smug, See, son – studying does pay! He shut it down with a resolute blink.
"Sue – is there anything about the vids sold in the commissary? Ayala mentioned a whole raft of them, and Lemarr said something about making videos. Anyone claiming intellectual property rights in the stuff? Where does the money go?" Tom had long since stopped keeping track of his income from Captain Proton holovid sales – Jenny Delaney looked after that for him, just as she had after the betting pool - but he knew it was linked to records that were kept each time one of them was sold.
Nicoletti punched in a few additional commands and, obviously having gotten into the spirit of things, slapped her console with the palm of her hands.
"There are records of vid sales, but no links to any distributors. Prices recorded seem rather less than what Ayala said they were charging for those things, too."
Tom whistled soundlessly. "Remember what I said about the Syndicate trying to look legit? Seems to me, that if you do something out in the open, like sell stuff in your stores, and keep some records about it, nobody will question you. But once you lift up the rug and look underneath, you find all sorts of unpleasant things. Or you don't, which can be just as telling."
He turned to Schmidt. "Rule #47 of the Paris School of Dirty Tricks: Never underestimate bureaucracy as a weapon of war. Arno, can you transmit this stuff to the bean counters at the Federation's Office for Corporate Affairs and Licensing? Getting a flock of auditors on the tail of the people who run Kalpak could be useful. Before they know it, they and their profits will find themselves pecked to death, if not shut down."
He started chewing on his lower lip. "Too bad though. I was hoping for a smoking gun. Guess that was too optimistic."
The Doctor gave an ostentatious sigh of his own. All that … hassle, humiliation and risk to the Commander's life, just to track down some regulatory infractions that might lead the Federation to prohibit a few ships from docking at the station?
His reinvigorated subroutines raced through the last few hours. Was there something he had missed, something the barkeeper or that telepath had said? He slowed down the internal replay, felt himself running down the curving corridor, the Nausicaans right behind. He could hear them barking orders at each other – conflicting orders, how curious – then …
A clattering sound. Something had fallen out of his non-holographic jacket. He kept running. What was it? A PADD.
The PADDs he had stuffed in his pocket.
"Lieutenant," he turned to Nicoletti, who had started on a routine monitoring of the Flyer's engines. "What did you do with the PADDs that were in that disgustingly filthy jacket of the Captain's? Did you think to remove them before you put it in for a scrub?"
Nicoletti frowned for a second, then slapped the console with her flat hand. "I forgot. Of course – I should have run those things through analysis as well! I think they're still on the floor by the 'fresher. Here, I'll get them for you."
"No need," the Doctor intoned superciliously. "I have flown this vessel myself, and I do know where all the appliances are located."
Tom had followed the exchange with keen interest, and watched the Doc pick up the two PADDs. Of course. It stood to reason that any truly sensitive information wouldn't be kept on a central system, capable of being hacked into by anyone on the space station with a rudimentary knowledge in cryptology.
"Let me know what you get as soon as you get it, Sue," he said. "It won't take them long to figure out that the PADDs are missing, and whatever is on there, if anything, won't remain actionable intel for very long."
Jarod may not have seen the Doc take them, he added mentally. Would that slow them down? When would they start wondering about them? What if they asked him, and he wouldn't be able to answer? Would they …?
Tom managed to suppress that last thought with the same ease he had many others this day, locking them up to be guarded by those finely honed defence systems he used to keep inconvenient considerations at bay until he was willing to examine them, or they had been rendered harmless by subsequent events. The technique helped him function when over-analysis would impede rapid action, but he had also learned that those unpleasant thoughts, if left alone too long, could at times come back with a vengeance …
He was almost grateful when the comm gave a chirp, followed by the telltale crackle anyone on Voyager would forever associate with the Snowflakes. Asil's uninflected voice filled the small cabin, unheeding.
"Voyager to Delta Flyer. Captain, we have analyzed the data Lieutenant Ayala and Cadet Icheb obtained from the Rigellian freighter. The logs do not show any particularly suspicious routings or declared destinations. However, a correlation by Cadet Icheb of the length of the time the ship's engines spent at warp speed and impulse, respectively, with various astrometric charts suggests that the vessel may have made repeated stops in one specific region. In particular, the data suggests that the asteroid belt circling the O-class star known as Alnitak, or Zeta Orionis, may be of particular interest."
"Thanks, Asil. Give me a second." Tom recalled a few details about Alnitak from his academy courses in astrophysics, but a refresher was clearly called for. He punched a few data into the Flyer's auxiliary console.
His memory was correct; the easternmost star in Orion's Belt, as seen from Earth, Alnitak was a triple star system; it's primary sun was an O-class sun that did not lend itself to planet formation, due to the photo-evaporation effect common to these hot blue supergiants. Nonetheless, the early observations by astronomers such as those of the Spitzer Telescope had been wrong in presuming that this meant there would be no other celestial bodies in the vicinity. Alnitak sported an asteroid belt composed of hundreds of thousands of proto-planets and planetesimals, nearly two thousand times the radius of that circling Sol's system between Mars and Jupiter.
It did not take a former Maquis – of however short-lived a career - nor a graduate of the James T. Kirk Centre for Advanced Strategic and Tactical Command, to come to the obvious conclusion: An asteroid belt of the size of the Alnitak system would provide a plethora of potential hiding places for anyone with an interest in conducting business beyond the reach of official scrutiny.
Tom punched in a few additional commands into the Flyer's computer, smiling in grim satisfaction at the result. Those seven years he'd spent as the head of Voyager's conn and navigation department did come in handy on occasion.
"You're right. Alnitak is off the freighter's current course, but they may just be trying to misdirect us, hoping to lose us in the Snowflakes' distortions. It makes sense, though, that that's where they'd be headed if there is an Orion bolt hole in the belt. You keep up the pursuit in case I'm wrong and go elsewhere; I'll take the Flyer straight there. Maybe we can head them off. Good work, team. Paris out."
He cut the connection before Asil could start listing the potential problems with sending the Flyer ahead to what could possibly be a well-established base, got up off his chair and walked over to the conn. "We'll have to cut through the heart of the Snowflakes to get there. Ensign, you up for some stormy weather?"
Coulthard swallowed. If there was a correct answer to your superior officer's question whether you felt confident about your ability to do a job, he had yet to figure it out. Coulthard's mouth opened, then closed, as his mind raced furiously. Say no, and you'll be written off as a gutless wimp. Say yes, and you'll be considered a cocky bastard. Not to mention if you screw up … Especially with the Captain's own ship, and him being Starfleet's top pilot. Oh, hell.
Somewhat belatedly, he managed to croak out an "I think so, sir. I'll do my best.".
Tom recognized the blind panic in the young man's eyes, and decided to give in to compassion. "Tell you what. Take navigation, and we'll do this together. Consider it a learning opportunity." Coulthard's relief was palpable, and he prepared to relinquish the pilot's seat with almost unseemly haste.
Tom, for his part, tried hard not to seem overly eager as he cracked his knuckles, ready to run his fingers over the familiar array of levers and buttons. Kahless, a spot of flying, especially a challenging one, would feel sooo good right now …
…..
In the semi-darkness of her quarters on Voyager, eerily disrupted by the softly flashing lights of the yellow alert that promised spatial disturbances ahead, Crewman Cor Zelis bent over the dark, curly head of her son. She touched Algor's hair softly, almost reverently, watching him breathe deeply and evenly as he slept, blissfully oblivious to the safety harness she had slipped over his bed. Zelis knew from experience that nothing, apart perhaps from a middle-of-the-night craving for a glass of chocolate milk, would wake her boy once he was asleep.
She looked around, briefly grateful for the luxury the private quarters afforded them. Non-commissioned personnel were usually expected to share, especially on a first assignment; the presence of her five-year old son had ensured that she would not have to accept the whims of another roommate. It had been hard enough, during her training year, that she not only had had to leave the child with his father on Bajor and been forced to live with his absence, but had also had to put up with the daily ignominy of finding other people's dirty socks on the floor.
But Algor's future, she was convinced, lay far away from Bajor with its ongoing struggles for reconstruction amid religious infighting, and whatever price she had had to pay to secure it, she had done so gladly - and would do it again. As far as Cor Zelis was concerned, the two of them were finally on their way, although it hadn't been a particularly good couple of days for the transporter technician, all things considered.
Most worrisome had been the chewing out she had gotten from Captain Paris, about telling her boy the story of those dead Orion women and the one who had arrived so unexpectedly out of nowhere, the day before. Sure, he'd been kind enough, making a good show of the idea that he was just talking as one parent to another. But she was convinced that the fact that it had been his own daughter who'd been the recipient of Algor's breathless retelling of her own indiscretion, had allowed just a little … edginess to creep into the Captain's voice. Not the best way to come to the attention of the man who, according to the whisperings on the lower decks, was still looking with a certain wariness at those members of his crew who had not previously served with him. She would have to be more careful, or she might not pass probation.
Then there had been the … intense scrutiny she had felt when the Acting Captain came in to the transporter room review the last week's personnel logs. Why the Lieutenant had done so personally - rather than leaving the task to one of her subordinates or relying on their reports - was a mystery to the young Bajoran, but it was the Vulcan's penetrating gaze that had really left her on edge. Maybe the mistake she had made, showing her ignorance of certain advanced possibilities in transporter technology in front of several senior officers, hadn't been sufficiently made up for when she had pointed out those irregularities in the delivery coordinates?
Zelis took a deep breath, and allowed herself one last stroke of Algor's head, trying to let the tension seep through her fingers as she did so. They were a team, she and the little guy, and sometimes she marveled at the strength she managed to derive from his presence in her life. The memories of the displacement camps where she had grown up; the indignities of extreme poverty; her parents' inability to move beyond their acceptance of victimhood as a state of being; the fights with Algor's father when she had declared her intention to leave Bajor – it all vanished into thin air with his smile.
She was exhausted, and with the promise of a rough flight ahead she knew that she should be curling up beside him and getting some sleep. But there were still things to be done, and this was the time to do them.
The Acting Captain's prohibition on external communications complicated matters, and in light of her fears regarding her status of the ship, she almost considered postponing what she had to do. Almost. Zelis headed over to her private comms terminal, steeling herself for what came next with a mixture of fear and determination.
If there was one thing Cor Zelis knew with complete clarity, it was that she would allow nothing, nothing to stand in the way of her child's future.
…..
"Captain," Arno Schmidt's voice cut through Tom's preparations to take the helm. "As soon as you've entered the new course, I think you'll want to see this. The codes on that PADD, by the way, were grade school level. If those Orion types want to get somewhere, they need to get themselves someone with Starfleet encryption training."
As Tom winced a little at the artless observation, the Ensign called the PADD's contents up on the main screen. An interactive map of the Narov system appeared, with each planet blinking enticingly, waiting to be tapped for further information.
"Here, look at this, sir." Schmidt zoomed in on Nemoth II; immediately, the image expanded to show a rotating schematic of the planet. A cluster of blinking lights was superimposed on the capital, but there were additional markers in the main population centers. He focused in further on one of the points.
"Nemoth Central Medical Authority," he said, his voice quivering with ill-concealed excitement. "A list of locations, names, designations. Look at this guy, here, for example. He's listed as working for Antal Faradh, the doctor we arranged delivery of the antigen with."
Tom whistled soundlessly. "No wonder the poor woman kept looking over her shoulder when she was talking to us! She knew they'd be grabbing the stuff before she could even get her hands on it, and couldn't stop them! Wonder what they used to get her to play along? A phaser to the head? Threats to her family and staff?"
"Whatever it was, I think we hit pay dirt, sir," Schmidt's gleeful voice cut through his musings. The Ensign was practically beaming with sheer exuberance, a sight Tom would not have believed possible less than a year ago when he had first met him, the desiccated husk of a man lying listlessly on a rough cot inside a Romulan prison camp. His excitement now was infectious, but Tom wasn't quite ready yet to concede success, even as he could feel the Doctor start to preen with pride behind him.
"Go to Parok IV, Ensign."
Schmidt obliged; the PADD yielded similar information on that world – different locations, of course, but similar connections with their second delivery point, as well as a disconcerting cluster of names apparently located in the planet's central administration.
"Arren." A few obliging clicks, more names.
"Pekal III."
As Tom reamed off the list of the members of the Narovian Union, one by one, and saw with his own eyes the depth to which the people on Krall's contact list appeared to have penetrated all levels of government there, the truth of Lemarr's assertion begun to shine as bright as the points of light on the screen: The Syndicate grows …
With sudden, blinding clarity, Tom saw a number of additional puzzle pieces fall into.
By all appearances, the Orion Crime Syndicate had started to metastasize into the very heart of the Union – its law enforcement, administrative and political institutions. There numbers weren't great yet, if the list was complete, but agents were strategically placed: Satellite operatives, who would, if left alone for a few years, allow the Syndicate to hold the Union in its lethal grip as surely as it now ruled Orion III, and allow it to operate its most profit-making ventures with virtual impunity. There was no knowing how many thugs and minions were surrounding each operative, of course; somehow Tom doubted hired help like the Doc's Nausicaans would feature on Krall's master contact list.
The outbreak of the Magellanic blood virus had obviously offered the Syndicate a golden opportunity to expand its power, probably beyond its wildest ambitions. Tom knew, from his insatiable interest in twentieth- and twenty-first-century history, that instability and fear were fertile breeding grounds for those who would wield power for their personal benefit. Whether their business was drugs, weapons, or the exploitation of sentient beings, criminals, as surely as war profiteers, thrived on chaos. Clearly, for the Orion Syndicate, holding the health of a population hostage in the midst of an interplanetary pandemic must have been something akin to seizing the Holy Grail.
And as a bonus, by making it appear – as Ayala had learned - that it was Starfleet arrogance and selectiveness that limited the distribution of the antigen, the Syndicate would also be able to ensure that the Federation wouldn't be welcome in this part of space, even by ordinary members of the public. No one would be in a position to interfere in its more lucrative business ventures for a very long time.
But as Tom stood there, watching the insidious points of blinking evil among the peaceful worlds that made up the Narovian Union, his mind started to race. How do you attack a multi-headed hydra? Surely you would need more than one sword …
His thoughts were disrupted by the EMH.
"Well, Mr. Paris, what we seem to have here is something like … a Who-Is-Who of the Orion Syndicate's contacts in the Narov system."
The Doctor's voice, clearly craving validation, was as smug as Tom had ever heard it, and for once he didn't mind too much. The Doc had earned a moment in the sun, he figured, even if he himself was unable to share in any feelings of triumph quite yet.
"Yeah, you did it, Doc. You and …"
"… Commander Tervellyan," the EMH completed the sentence, deflating perceptibly at the thought of the price that may have been – or might yet be - paid for the information now scrolling down the screen before their eyes.
"Yes. And Commander Tervellyan," Tom added softly.
Jarod Tervellyan. The man who had known just whose quarters were worth breaking into; who knew the man Lemarr Valon had fled from well enough to spend an hour talking to him in a bar - but who was last seen in the presence of that same man, with a phaser to his chest …
If any of this made any sense, Tom had yet to see it. More than anything, he wanted to talk to his XO, to allow him to shed some light on a few things.
"Let's go and get him back. But first I need to have a chat with the Admiralty."
It would not be long before Darmoth Krall would discover the PADDs missing, if he hadn't already. Any window for action would be short, and the idea that was developing in his mind at breakneck speed required immediate execution. Not to mention assistance. Tom Paris might be ready to concede, after all these years, that he wasn't a half-bad battle strategist, but to rid eight worlds of criminal infiltrators who looked no different from anyone else around them, was probably a job more suited to people with several years of war against the Dominion under their belt. And a fleet at their disposal.
"Sue, get me a subspace channel to Starfleet Headquarters. Admiral Nacheyev's office."
If Nicoletti hesitated at the thought of her old friend, once her rank equal - during his period of demotion - so casually requesting to speak with the most senior officer in Starfleet, it was only for a fraction of a second.
"Channel open, sir."
"This is Captain Tom Paris, USS Voyager, currently on the Delta Flyer. Request priority direct access to Fleet Admiral Nacheyev, Command authorization Paris Omega Tri-Beta Pi."
The watch officer twitched a little nervously at the code, and started to open her mouth in question. Tom, for once not in the least inclined to politeness, effortlessly channeled his father's haughtiest, most dismissive tone. "And before you ask, Lieutenant, no, I do not wish to speak with you, or with Nacheyev's EA. Only the Admiral. Now. Alone."
He waited in stern silence until the face of the Head of Starfleet blinked onto the screen before him, one eyebrow raised, an ironic smile playing around her lips.
"Captain Paris," she intoned, her own inflection managing to impart an equal mixture of measured professional interest, amused tolerance, and veiled threat. "What an unexpected … pleasure. I didn't expect to hear from you quite this soon, and with this … level of urgency. I trust youhave an excellent reason for disrupting my meeting with the Federation Chancellor and the High Representative of Vulcan?"
Tom swallowed a little, and licked his lips in an unconsciously nervous gesture. In his eagerness to talk to the Admiral, he hadn't really considered what else she might be doing – nor that he, the most junior Captain in the 'Fleet, was necessarily the man who should be keeping her from doing it.
But even at his most insecure, a determined Tom Paris was not easily derailed. At least, he figured, he hadn't gotten her out of the shower, or having sex with Bullock and Hayes. Shit, where did that come from? Stow it, Paris … Disrupting a discussion with some politician the Ice Queen probably barely tolerated was something Picard would deem to be an acceptable tactical risk, and he forged ahead undeterred.
"Apologies, Admiral, and yes, yes I do." Knowing the Admiral's appreciation for succinctness, Tom summarized in the briefest terms his analysis of the Orion Syndicate's likely ambitions in the Narov system, culminating in their infiltration of the Union's member states' governance systems.
"Are you saying that Orion is trying to take over the Narovian Union?" Nacheyev was leaning forward on her desk now, her eyes focused and intent.
"I don't believe it is the government of Orion per se, Admiral, although from what I understand it's not easy to distinguish between them and the Syndicate. I also don't think their interests are political, to the extent that they want to run the place. Based on what else I've seen, they're motivated by profit, and their various lines of business are best practiced when the local government is looking the other way - either because it's unstable and too busy, or happily in their pocket."
He paused for a moment. "We have, by the way, sent some information to the relevant Federation Agency that will cause them to check into the operations of Kalpak, and its suitability as a docking station for Federation vessels."
Nacheyev looked at him thoughtfully, all traces of ironic detachment drained from her features. "I see. And the current urgency is …?"
Tom took a deep breath. "If you send me your command codes, I will transmit information that might enable Starfleet to excise a large number of the Syndicate's operatives from key positions. Right now, with the quarantine in place, they may not be able to get their people out before Starfleet can move in."
The Fleet Admiral remained silent but gave him an encouraging nod to go on, while she tapped a few commands into her console.
"I believe what we're looking at here is the beginning of what in the twentieth century was called an asymmetrical conflict. Starfleet wouldn't be proceeding against a star system or a central government, but individual, private actors who are basically underground. I won't pretend to be an expert in this sort of thing, but our methods would probably have to be a bit … more unorthodox. We'd also need the help of locals they haven't bribed yet, so there's some diplomatic effort involved. And we can't count on a clean, or even a decisive, victory in the short term. Best we can hope for, at least for now, is to disrupt and delay, and prepare for a longer fight."
Nacheyev nodded again, silent, thinking. Tom did not dare interrupt; he'd said his piece. The next move was Starfleet's.
The Admiral looked at the information she had called up, and took a deep breath.
"Thank you, Captain. Based on latest data, we have six ships within two to four days' journey to the Snowflakes proper. Transmit your information to my assistant and …"
"No," Tom's reaction was visceral, and probably rather more blunt then Nacheyev was used to hearing from any of her subordinates. She raised an eyebrow, and that slightly dangerous gleam stole back into her pale eyes.
"Apologies, Admiral, but … there are indications that the Syndicate has operatives inside Starfleet. Your new assistant has been in place for less than a month, right? I would highly recommend that at this point, only trusted senior officers be provided with this information."
The indignation in Nacheyev's eyes was permitted to dim and she was attentive again, waiting for more. Tom, for his part, studied his fingernails for a second, before looking straight at the screen, not at the other officers in the cabin of the Flyer of whose presence he was only too aware. He knew that they would all hear his next words, including one who was on Asil's list.
A judgment call needed to be made. So be it.
"You will also need to know that there are indications that someone onboard Voyager has been cooperating with the Syndicate. We haven't been able to ascertain who. So for now, recommend you not advise Voyager of any forward planning by the Fleet. Only the Flyer, only me, until I get back onboard."
Nacheyev's eyebrows went up, but unlike Nicoletti, whose gasp must have been audible over the comm line, she allowed her legendary cool to prevail. She understood perfectly.
"Fine, Captain. I will transmit my personal codes to you … now."
Tom's eyes went briefly to his console, where the promised information flickered onto his screen. He made the link to the PADD, entered the transmittal codes, and waited until Nacheyev in turn acknowledged receipt.
Her next words were measured. "And you? What do you propose to, if not join whatever ships we can send to the Narov system?"
"Voyager and the Flyer will try and recover a member of my crew, who was captured by a member of the Syndicate while securing the data I just sent you. His captors likely include the people responsible for the deaths of those Orion women we reported earlier. We're heading to the Alnitak asteroid belt, where the Syndicate may have an operating base. We expect to be there in approximately …"
He looked a question at Coulthard, who, having followed the conversation intently, quickly splayed the fingers of both hands three times. "… thirty hours with the Flyer, on the most direct course. Longer, if we have to drop out of warp more than once as we cut through the Narov system. Any back-up Starfleet could provide us coming from that end, say any ships that are near Rigel now, would be gratefully accepted."
Fleet Admiral Alynna Nacheyev was without any doubt the single most powerful individual in Starfleet, and as such was concerned at any given time with the well-being of dozens of worlds and the movements of hundreds of starships. But she was still a human being, and there was something in the way Tom Paris' voice had caught, in the way he looked at her when he mentioned the captured crewmember, that made her ask the question.
"Who?"
"Jarod Tervellyan. My First Officer." Quite unnecessarily, he added, "Your former EA, sir."
He watched Nacheyev's mouth tighten a fraction as she reached for the disconnect, but her voice betrayed nothing when she said, "Thank you, Captain. We will follow up. And good luck with your mission. We'll be in touch as appropriate."
The screen dark, Tom turned with an unaccustomed weariness, to find his fellow officers staring at him. He briefly – and irrelevantly - marveled that the EMH had been able to hold off making any comments as long as he had, but even he presumably understood that interrupting an exchange with the head of Starfleet was not recommended. All four were clearly waiting for their Captain to make the first move, to provide an explanation for what they had just learned. It would have to be decisive; this was no time for apologies, or explanations.
"So now you know," he said. "We have an infiltrator. You'll understand why this information has been on close hold. Until further notice, there will be no transmissions back to Voyager to anyone but Asil or Torres, and by no one but myself. Are we clear?"
He watched Coulthard and Schmidt swallow, as the fact sunk in that their own immediate superiors' names were not on that list - that very short list. One by one, all four nodded.
'Right then," Tom snarled, perhaps a little more savagely than he had intended. "Mr. Coulthard, Warp 8.5 until we're forced to drop out. Let's see what kind of dance the Snowflakes have in store for us."