Miranda, Part 11

Posted on Thu Apr 11, 2019 @ 11:18am by Commander Caleb Ryan

2,204 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: Doors of Perception
Location: Qu’its
Timeline: MD12 2224

Hepzibah wasn’t exactly too thrilled to be back on Deep Space Five. After all, the former Chief of Security was now the Executive Officer, and while he had dropped all charges against her for her information about Daimon Dys, they weren’t exactly friends. But she’d had a generous offer for the weapons she still had that she had been smuggling for Torm before his untimely end, and the dealer had wanted final arrangements to be made on the station. It was, after all, still a fairly out of the way place, with portions still under the radar of Federation security. Places like Qu’its.

Hepzibah waved over the Klingon bartender and got another whiskey and milk, more milk than whiskey. She would need her senses sharp. She could celebrate after she had the latinum in her possession. Wanting to stay off of security cameras, she had pulled on a hooded robe over her normal tight leather pants and bustier. Under the robe she fingered a combat knife and a makeshift blaster. Energy weapons were illegal on the station, and easily detected. But an old trick using a standard power cell and some focusing crystals could get you a decent enough blast to put a hole in someone, and it could be broken down into innocuous components to get through security. The downside was it only had one shot. She would have to make it count if there was trouble.

Hepzibah checked her chrono, her white, fluffy tail swishing nervously behind her. Nearly the time they’d agreed upon. She scanned the dimly lit bar, the lighting no real challenge to her feline senses. She didn’t see any station security. Not that they came down here often. And Qu’it knew most of the regulars. The Klingon was pretty good at sniffing out a plainclothes. Fleeters had a certain put together look about them, after all.

Hepzibah’s eyes settled on three figures as they entered the dank bar. The massive Orion male seriously stood out, dressed in tight leather pants and an open leather vest. His dark green skin was marred by several black-tattooed scars in tribal designs. Hepzibah was familiar enough with the interstellar underworld to recognize that they were Syndicate tattoos and represented a significant number of kills. The space over his heart was covered by the vest, however, so she couldn’t make out what clan he belonged to. He was young, though, and she had seen more tattoos before. She clocked him as obvious muscle, dangerous, but likely only at close range, unless he had a Syndicate Special like hers stashed somewhere.

Another of the group was a Human male. He had lank, brown, mousy hair that hung straight just past his ears, and a bit of a scraggly beard, his eyes a dull brown. He was a bit stooped, dressed in a top shelf business tunic in grays and blacks, though on a closer look it was obviously several years old, looking a big ragged at the edges, and a bit ill-fitting, like he had lost weight. He did look a little scrawny. He carried a business case in one hand, and Hepzibah thought she made out small micro-grav devices attached to the bottom, something to lighten the case and make it easier to carry. It obviously contained something heavy. Her gaze instinctively slid to the man’s too-short sleeve where she saw what she expected. A nondescript chrono on his wrist It was a fairly standard accompaniment. If the case was taken too far a distance from the chrono, the grav units would lock the case to the floor, making it impossible to move, a bit like shackling the case to his wrist without the nasty side effect of losing a hand to a particularly ruthless thief. On the better models there was also a deadman switch. If the wearer’s life signs ceased to be registered, a thermite charge inside the case would slag the treasure inside the case. Hepzibah was too old a hand at this to just dismiss the man as a threat. The Orion was classic “Look at me! I’m dangerous!” That didn’t mean the mousy man was any less so. It just meant he was likely sneakier about it, though he did look more like a pencil pusher than an enforcer.

The third figure stood between them. Like Hepzibah, it was cloaked in concealing robes, the face hidden in the deep shadow of the hood. It was tall, and Hepzibah thought it was vaguely female, but she couldn’t be sure. And like her, no obvious weapons, but who knew what was under that robe.

The three held a brief consultation, and the mousy man walked over to the bar to confer with Qu’it. Hepzibah saw the Klingon jerk his chin in the direction of her darkened corner and grunt. The man put a slip of latinum on the counter in thanks, and must have made an order, because Qu’it started to pour some drinks.

Hepzibah waited expectantly as the three approached her table, her tail curling in anticipation. The micro-gravs on that case likely meant they had payment with them, which would make everything go much more smoothly.

“Ms. P’Rurr,” the mousy man said, a bit of a whiskey rasp to his voice.

“Depends on who’s asking,” Hepzibah said, lounging back and sipping her milk and whiskey.

“I am Mr. Montgomery Slater,” the man said, offering his hand. “We corresponded.”

Hepzibah took the hand in that odd Human gesture of greeting. Of course, Caitians liked to rub up against each other, so she figured that would be pretty odd to a Human. “Monty, yes,” she said in recognition.

He held her hand a bit longer than she was comfortable with, but eventually he released it. Did she catch a subtle nod to the cloaked woman?

“Yes, people call me Monty,” he said. “If tonight goes well, you may, but for now, it is Mr. Slater.”

Hepzibah rolled her eyes, a gesture hidden inside her hood. “Fine. Let’s be formal,” she said. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

The big Orion pulled out a chair for the cloaked figure, who sat down with delicate grace. Yes, definitely female. Monty and the big Orion pulled out their own chairs. She heard the subtle hum of the microgravs as he put the case on the floor between his feet. Qu’it brought their drinks and they settled back.

“I like to know who I’m dealing with in these situations,” Hepzibah said. “Let’s just say I’ve been burned one too many times.”

Monty smiled. “As do we,” he pointed out.


“Fair.” Hepzibah reached up and lowered her hood, revealing her pure white fur, brilliant blue eyes, and felinoid features. Her whiskers and ears flicked a bit and she smoothed a hand through her flowing white hair. She loosened her robes to be a bit more comfortable in the heat of the bar, flashing a generous bit of white-furred cleavage in her scarlet bustier. She smirked a bit to see Monty’s eyes flicker down to her bust. Distractible. Noted.

“And you?” She looked at the Orion and the cloaked figure.

“Inebrey,” the big Orion rumbled.

Hepzibah noted the name. That was one of the pirate clans. Definitely dangerous.

The cloaked figure lifted her hands and pulled back her hood revealing a beautiful, upper middle aged Cardassian woman with lean features and high cheekbones. Hepzibah’s eyes widened in shock.

“Moia Ilmater!” she exclaimed.

The Cardassian woman inclined her head.

“Damn… Everyone said you were dead!”

Moia smiled. “Not dead. Just...delayed,” she said, her voice a husky warm tone. “An unfortunate circumstance.”

The Caitian shook her head in wonder. “You were a legend! I worked for you once when I was starting out, right before you disappeared? Retired?”

“Retired. We can use that,” Moia said with a smirk. “Though I found retirement didn’t suit me.”

“But...your organization… It broke up. What the Federation Marshals didn’t scoop up the other dealers did. Torm, Graeca, Tejera, and Dys…”

“You seem remarkably informed, Ms. P’Rurr,” Monty said.

“Please, call me Hepzibah,” she said, looking at Moia. “And I have to be. I work freelance. Have to know who you are working for.”

“Of course,” Monty said. “It is our understanding that you were recently working for Torm?”

Hepzibah’s tail twitched and she pulled a face. “Not by choice,” she said. “Or, rather, forced by circumstance. I took a job with a crew. They didn’t tell me they were working for Torm. Job went bust. Torm...wasn’t happy. They’re dead. Me, it was either pay him back in work or end up in his harem.” The shudder that went through her fur indicated just how distasteful that thought was.

“I am well aware of Torm’s...inclinations,” Moia said. “His father was much better to deal with.”

“Well, he’s gone now. One of his girls put a disruptor through his brain and burned down his entire compound. Finally got fed up, I guess.”

“And that is why I have returned,” Moia said with a smile. “The weapons market is in flux. I can establish a foothold without having to infringe upon Graeca or Dys and risk starting a war...before I am ready.”

Hepzibah’s ears twitched. “You have bigger plans than just getting back in the game?”

Ilmater gave that sly, Cardassian smile. “That is for the future. For now, I need a stake.”

Hepzibah shrugged. “And that is why I am here. I have a shipment of Torm’s weapons I haven’t been able to offload. I was just supposed to be a courier. Now I don’t have Torm to deliver them to and pay me, and no one wants to risk getting into business with an unknown. I wouldn’t get a decent price to make it worth my expenses. I’ve sold a couple pieces piecemeal, but that got me nabbed here on the station.” She looked around warily for a moment. No one seemed to be paying attention to them.

“That is why we brought this.” Monty lifted up the case and put it on the table. He punched a code into his chrono and Hepzibah heard the case’s defenses shut down and the lock open. Gently she reached out and opened it. She gave a low purr.

“This is more than what I have is worth,” Hepzibah said.

“It is not just for your weapons,” Moia said. “It is also for your expertise.”

Hepzibah’s ears flicked and she raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“I have been out of the business for a decade,” Moia said. “And while Monty has kept informed, he has been busy with other clients in my absence. You know the lay of the land, and you have business connections with all factions.”

“Yes, and I maintain those by remaining freelance,” Hepzibah pointed out. “I don’t get involved.”

“Fair. And I do not wish to interfere in that. What I would like is to put you on retainer to provide assistance when needed, with right to refuse any job.”

Hepzibah frowned. “That sounds nearly too good an offer.”

“Or perhaps Dys and Graeca don’t know the value of your services,” Monty flattered.

Hepzibah’s fur fluffed a bit as she preened.

“Eventually we will want a sit down with Dys and Graeca to set certain...boundaries,” Moia said. “I have been told you could facilitate that.”

“Well, I can put the request out,” Hepzibah said. “I know people who could make the contact necessary. But good luck. Graeca is holed up in that fortress of a star system he’s carved out for himself on the imperial border in the chaos of the Reman uprising. And Dys is paranoid as can be since he got released from that Fed penal colony. He hardly ever sticks his head up either, especially given that the XO here on the station wants his head on a pike.”

“That is fine,” Monty said. “We just need the message to reach them. But not yet. There is a lot of work still to do.”

“And what about Tejera?”

Monty, Moia, and Inebrey both looked at Hepzibah.

“Oh. You don’t know…” She grinned.

“What don’t we know?”

“Deneia Tejera is back. She somehow escaped the Fed penal colony she was in, took back her role as head of Clan Tejera.” Hepzibah looked to the big Orion. Why didn’t he know? Clan Inebrey was Tejera’s biggest rival. “Anyway, she’s been making plays for Torm’s territory, too.”

Moia, as a Cardassian, recovered from the surprise first, regaining her unflappable demeanor. “We will make plans to deal with her should the need arise,” she said simply.

“Right.” Hepzibah tossed back the last of her milk and whiskey. “So do you want to see the merch?”

“Please,” Moia said with a smile, putting her hood up again.

FIN

Hepzibah P’Rurr
Mercenary and Smuggler

Tason Inebrey
Orion pirate

Montgomery “Monty” Slater
Fixer

Moia Ilmater
Arms dealer

 

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