If there is a Great Bird of the Galaxy out there, then the only reason it’s interested in me is so that it can swoop in low and fast and take a big…
“Anything else?” Ganz said, interrupting his momentary reverie.
Quinn shrugged. “Why me?”
“To be honest, I need somebody I can count on not to screw this up,” the Orion said before drawing another long pull from his mug. “Don’t look so surprised, Quinn. I’m a businessman, and I’m smart enough to know when I’ve got a useful employee working for me.” He leaned forward, his thick brow furrowing. “So…don’t screw this up. Understood?”
Unsure of what to make of Ganz’s abrupt, unexpected show at what for him passed as civility, Quinn nodded. “You got it.”
His departure from the Omari-Ekonwas much like his arrival. As Zett walked behind him and just to his right, no doubt ready to kill him if he so much as breathed in a suspicious rhythm, Quinn looked longingly at the festive atmosphere surrounding him as he passed through the gaming deck. Throughout the room, all manner of humans and aliens—none of them Starfleet—were engaging in the sort of whimsical ribald behavior that had made Ganz’s vessel a premier destination for those seeking solace from the more conservative, restrained venues available aboard Vanguard. High-stakes gambling, high-priced liquor, and equally expensive “companionship”—male, female, and a few Quinn honestly could not categorize—all were on stark, uninhibited display here in the ship’s festive sanctuary.
They’re happy now,he reminded himself. But just wait until they see the bill.
Zett, naturally, opted out of any casual conversation as they reached the airlock, offering only a perfunctory nod of farewell to Quinn. Now alone with his muddled and unorganized thoughts as he continued on down the gangplank and toward the docking corridor, the privateer wondered about his chances of surviving a mission into Klingon-occupied territory only to travel to a world teeming with all manner of despicable cretins and abscond with a whiny, nasally Zakdorn whose name his employer had not even bothered to learn.
The outlook was not encouraging, he decided as he rode a turbolift up to the station’s small-craft bays, wondering at the same time whether his day would get any worse before he even had a chance to get the Rocinanteunder way.
Rounding a bend in the corridor, Quinn was almost to the docking bay where his ship was berthed when he stopped short, coming face-to-face with Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn. The Vulcan intelligence officer stood ramrod straight in her crisp red Starfleet uniform, hands clasped behind her back and looking as though she might have been waiting there for a hundred years.
“Good morning, Mr. Quinn,” she said.
Dammit,the privateer thought as a fresh wave of hangover pain chose that moment to course through his alcohol-saturated brain. Reaching up to rub his forehead with the heel of his right hand, Quinn wondered if there was any chance of a hull breach occurring right where he stood.
7
Sweat dripping from her black hair to sting her eyes, Rana Desai lunged forward, her arm and racquet extended to meet the ball as it bounced off the court’s well-marred forward wall and came out short and shallow. Her opponent had placed a wicked spin on the ball with the perfection of a seasoned pro, draining its inertia and forcing Desai to scramble in a desperate attempt to reach it before its second bounce.
She was too slow, groaning in defeat as the ball dribbled past her and rolled toward the rear corner of the racquetball court.
“Nice play,” she said, mopping perspiration from her brow with the sweatband on her right wrist. “If I’d known you could kick my ass all over this court, I might not have recruited you for my office in the first place.”
“Thanks, Captain,” replied Lieutenant Holly Moyer, offering an apologetic smile as she pushed a lock of her long auburn hair out of her face, tucking it underneath the black band she wore around her head. “You almost had that one, though. I may have to get more creative.” Walking toward the small door at the rear of the court, she said, “That’s two games. Want to go best out of five?”
“Don’t push your luck, Lieutenant,” Desai said, maintaining her poker face though her words carried a jovial tone. Though she was Moyer’s superior officer in Starbase 47’s office of the Starfleet Judge Advocate General, she had established a policy among her staff that rank did not extend to off-duty activities. Given that she and her subordinates spent upward of ten to twelve hours each day within the confines of the station’s JAG office, which itself was ensconced within the larger container that was Vanguard itself, the ability to leave behind work and all of its trappings was of paramount importance to her. In addition, Desai also made it a point to schedule one-on-one meetings—preferably in an informal atmosphere—a tactic she had learned often helped her junior lawyers to gain new perspective on a difficult case or some other troubling aspect of their day-to-day duties.
Desai followed Moyer off the court to a low-rise bench atop which sat their respective racquets. “What’s happening with McIlvain’s Planet?” she asked, reaching into her bag for a bottle of water, randomly selecting one of several cases she knew currently sat in Moyer’s open file and which had been causing the lieutenant no end of grief.
Moyer drank from her own bottle before shrugging. “Tellar and Rigel are bringing their cases for arbitration,” she said. “Meetings are scheduled for early next month.” Shaking her head as she took another swallow of water, she added, “The place isn’t big enough for both of them, I guess, even though their respective colonies aren’t even on the same landmass.”
“One big, happy Federation, aren’t we?” Desai grabbed a towel from her bag and wiped her face as she took a seat on the bench. “It sounds like something for the C.A.’s office,” she said, referring to Aole Miller, Vanguard’s colonial administration liaison.
“Will do,” Moyer replied. Adopting a wistful smile, she added, “You know, if the planet really isMcIlvain’s, then why doesn’t he just come take it back from these guys?”
Desai offered a mock wince. “Okay, you’re not allowed to make jokes again.” Leaning against the wall, she considered the next item on her mental checklist. “What about that follow-up statement from Lieutenant Ridley? We need to make a ruling on that bar fight.”
Moyer shook her head. “Not yet, but I expect it by the end of the day. As it stands now, I’m leaning toward simple assault rather than domestic battery.”
“They weren’t married?” Desai asked.
“One guy is the second husband of the other guy’s third wife, or something. I can never keep that stuff straight,” Moyer replied, examining the strings of her racquet. “I’ll call a Denobulan JAG I know on New Bangkok and get her opinion.”
“Fair enough,” Desai said, rising from the bench and moving back toward the court. Feeling energized after the brief respite, she nodded to Moyer. “Let’s go. Three out of five.”
“It’s your funeral, Captain,” Moyer said, the words punctuated by a mischievous smile as she followed Desai onto the court, closing the access door behind her.
Stretching her arms over her head, the captain asked, “What’s up with that cargo-theft case?” While crime, particularly theft, had so far been rare on the station, there had been a handful of notable exceptions, one of the most recent of which involved the attempted pilfering of medical supplies and equipment from a docked cargo hauler. The perpetrators were a band of privateers, and initial interviews with the group suggested they were a loose-knit lot who with magnificent clumsiness had bungled the execution of an equally insipid scheme seemingly plotted over more than a few bottles of Aldebaran whiskey.