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The bookkeeper did not reply for several seconds, until a rhythmic series of beeps emitted from the briefcase. “There we are,” he said, his face brightening into the Zakdorn equivalent of a smile. From where he stood, Quinn could now see that the computer monitor was displaying a rolling screen of data, orderly columns and rows depicting text and numbers in varying colors, whatever pattern they might be employing far beyond his ability to decipher.

“This is everything?” Ganz asked. “I’m sure you won’t mind if my staff here verifies your figures.”

Armnoj nodded. “Well, why certainly. I think you’ll find everything to be in order, down to the last credit, including a comprehensive ledger detailing every transaction I’ve made on your behalf since you first employed me. The cross-reference database should prove most helpful, as it includes journal entries with locations, dates and times, transaction origin and destination information, all meticulously organized and capable of being displayed via any extract criteria you might—”

“Thank you.” Looking to Morikmol, Ganz indicated for his henchman to take the case from the accountant. As Armnoj surrendered the unit, the Orion added, “I think we’re done here.”

Clearing his throat again, the Zakdorn nodded rapidly several times. “Very well. What would you like me to do now?”

“Disappear,” Ganz said, and Quinn saw the look he exchanged with Zett as the Nalori reached beneath his jacket and extracted a stout silver cylinder with a single red button set into it. Without aplomb, Zett pressed the button.

Quinn’s eyes widened in realization. Holy…

The air hummed and crackled as the obelisks flanking Armnoj glowed to life. Searing white energy spat forth from each of the obsidian stanchions to wash over the Zakdorn. His body was obscured by the blinding flash of light for an instant, allowing the accountant one final befuddled look before his form dissolved. Then the light was gone, and with it Sarkud Armnoj.

“What the hell?” Quinn blurted, a faint lingering scent of ozone the only residue of the bookkeeper’s passing. Stepping forward, but taking care not to move between the obelisks, he directed a stunned look at Ganz. “I don’t get it. You told me he was valuable!”

His expression remaining neutral, the Orion replied, “Actually, what I said was that his information was valuable. As for him? He was whiny and self-important, like most Zakdorns. Why do you think I had him banished to that backwater mudball? He was more trouble than he was worth.” His brow furrowing, he asked, “Didn’t you notice?”

Relieved to at last be free of the irritating accountant but feeling more than a bit put off by the harsh and arguably unnecessary method used to expedite his departure, Quinn’s main concern at the moment was that he might be joining Armnoj sometime in the next few minutes. A quick glance told him that Zett still was holding the small control device in his right hand.

As if reading his mind, Ganz actually released a chuckle, though to Quinn it sounded more like the sound a predator might make upon finding its next meal. “Relax, Quinn. You at least still have some use to me.”

“Glad to hear it,” Quinn replied. As relief washed over him, the pilot was caught by a sudden, unexpected thought: I wonder if Sniffy gets everything in the will.

The Orion held up his glass. “Other men might have tried to take advantage of the situation I placed you in, maybe taken a shot at learning where some of my money was stored; you might have helped yourself to whatever you could cram into that pitiful excuse for a ship you fly. You didn’t. That goes a long way with me.” He offered a mock salute with the goblet before taking another long pull from its still mysterious contents.

Holding his hands out, Quinn affected his best smile. “Mama raised no fools, Ganz.”

“That’s good,” the merchant prince replied. “Then you’ll know when you’re threatening to overstay your welcome.” Nodding in dismissal, the Orion added, “But don’t go too far. I might need you sooner than you think.”

I can’t wait.

Quinn said nothing as he preceded Zett down the stairs and back across the gambling deck. This time he ignored the gaming, drinking, and carousing taking place all around him, focusing instead on the fact that he still needed to deliver the data core from the Klingon sensor drone to T’Prynn, and the possibility that Zett might kill him before he made it back to the boarding ramp.

“I suppose you’ve figured out by now that Broon blew it,” Quinn said over his shoulder. “You always were the smartest one on Ganz’s payroll.”

Unsurprisingly, Zett offered no reply.

Quinn stopped, turning on his heel to face the Nalori. Regarding the assassin’s seemingly bottomless black eyes, the privateer did his best to hide his nervousness, knowing without doubt that his counterpart could kill him six different ways inside of ten seconds. If he was still alive right now, it was only because the normally unflappable Zett was still afraid of angering his employer.

“You could have told Ganz,” Zett said, his lips curving upward to offer a sinister smile while revealing a mouthful of gleaming, sharp teeth. “Why didn’t you?”

“I’m no snitch,” Quinn snapped. “This is between you and me.”

“Between you and me,” Zett repeated, “you were fortunate this time, Mr. Quinn.” His tone and expression betrayed nothing. “That won’t be the case forever.”

Though the contention between them had until this point been limited to verbal jousts, Zett had taken things to a new level. Despite that, neither of them would take their squabble to Ganz, to preserve their pride if nothing else. Quinn knew that the situation between him and the Nalori was far from over, and would likely remain unresolved until one of them was dead.

Maybe I can find someplace nice and peaceful to settle down and hide,Quinn thought. Like the Klingon homeworld.

43

“Do you people think I’m a physician or a geologist?”

On the all-too-frequent occasions throughout his career when he found himself faced with an autopsy, Ezekiel Fisher always harbored a single question: How had death come to claim the unfortunate soul whose remains were placed in his care?

Standing once more in the station’s morgue—his second time in as many weeks—and as he looked upon the body of yet another being whose life had ended amid the frozen wastes of Erilon, Fisher was confronted not only with the challenge of understanding how his latest patient had died, but also how it had lived, as well as what it had been in the first place.

“Well, I’msure not the geologist,” Xiong said, glancing up and offering a supportive smile to his newest colleague as they both regarded the body lying atop the examination table that was as much mineral as it was flesh.

This isn’t some kind of joke, is it?

Unlike the cold, polished metal of the table itself, the body’s dark shell—that was how Fisher thought of it, anyway—seemed to absorb the room’s ambient light. His attention once more was drawn to the head and face, which were devoid of features, and the conical limbs, which tapered to points rather than digits.

Xiong finally spoke. “What did the commodore tell you about this?”

“Just the basics,” Fisher replied, recounting in broad strokes the information Reyes had provided to him about the creature’s presence on Erilon and how it was believed to have been the same assailant that had decimated the original research team as well as Captain Zhao and his landing party from the Endeavour. His first look at the thing upon entering the morgue was enough to tell the doctor that it or its apparent twin—whatever the hell it might be—had killed the Denobulan, Bohanon, whose body he had examined the previous week.