Leslie Fish's Blog, page 6

Banned From Argo -- Chapter Five

 

5.

 

Our head nurse disappeared awhile in the major Dope Bazaar,

Buying an odd green potion “guaranteed to cause Pon-Farr”.

She came home with no uniform, and an oddly cheerful heart,

And a painful way of walking – with her feet a yard apart.

 

            Argo First Pharmaceuticals was an old, large, respectable company that insured its respectability with tons of paperwork.  This meant that dealing with them, even for a simple ship’s-supply order, took nearly two hours.  By the time she got out the front door, Nurse Christine Chapel was tired, annoyed, and suffering from aching feet.  Once out on the street, the first thing she did was look for a taxi, any kind of taxi, ground or air.

            While she was looking, a rickshaw – of all things – pulled up by the curb.  A middle-aged woman, wrapped in a green sari and carrying a large basket, peered out at her.

            “Christine?” the woman asked.  “My word!  Christine Chapel, is that you?”

             “It is,” said Chapel, stepping forward. “But who--  Oh my stars, is it Lana Kasagian?!  After all these years?”

            “Oh yes,” the woman chuckled.  “Hop in: you look as if you could use a ride.  What have you been up to since medical school?”

            Chapel gladly climbed into the rickshaw, whose operator promptly turned around and demanded an extra three credits for the added weight.

            “Here you go,” said Kasagian, handing him some chips.  “Now, straight to Greenmarket Boulevard.  Ah, Chris, what luck to find you here on Argo!  I make regular visits, but I haven’t seen you here before.  And isn’t that a Starfleet uniform?  Are you working shipboard?”

            Chapel gave a quick summary of her life since leaving medical school, while the rickshaw rolled off down the street and turned onto a tree-shaded avenue in a mixed commercial/residential district.

            “—so that’s how you came to find me, hot and sore-footed, in front of Argo First Pharmaceuticals,” Chapel finished.  “So what have you been doing since you got your last degree in exobiology?  I thought you’d be on a research ship by now.”

            “Oh, I fell in with bad company, you know.”  Kasagian laughed, her merry brown eyes catching the light.  “I got into the Naturopath Heresy, so all the big synthetics companies blacklisted me.  Not that I cared, by then.  I’d saved enough money to found my own little modest company, and now I supply natural medicines to like-minded pharmacies all over the quadrant.  I’m here on Argo to pick up some locally-grown plants, fungi, and even helpful bacteria.  I take the goodies home and process them myself.  My old friend Alison – you remember her from school? – she takes care of the advertising, shipping, and general business end of things.  The company has done surprisingly well in the last few years, and I just might retire very rich.”

            “It sounds wonderful,” Chapel smiled.  “If I ever decide to leave Starfleet, I just might show up on your doorstep asking for a job.”

            “You’d get it, in a red-hot minute.”

            “Say, didn’t Alison get married?  I heard something about that after I left school.  What’s her husband doing?”

            “That,” Kasagian sniffed, “Is a long and ugly story.  She had the bad taste to fall in love with dear Dr. Rochambeau Plankman.”

            “Oh no, not The Roach?!  How could she fall for that—that arrogant, hot-pantsed, puffed-up, self-centered—“

            “She was quite young and naïve at the time, and he made special effort to charm her.  She did come from a Society family, you know, and he thought she’d make a good trophy wife.”

            “Oh, poor Alison!”

            “Naïve, perhaps, but not stupid.  It took her no more than two years to understand him completely, call a good divorce counselor, and boot him out.”

            “I’m amazed she lasted that long.”

            “It’s hard to give up on young love.  But anyway, after that she got back into medicine and eventually linked up with me, so everything came out well.”

            “I’m glad to hear it.  So, where are we going?”

            “To the so-called Flower Market,” Kasagian grinned.  “Driver, this is fine.  Step down, Chris, and have a closer look.”

            Chapel stepped out of the rickshaw, while Kasagian paid the operator, and looked around her.  Here the boulevard widened out into an oblong park, shaded with grand tall trees and planted underfoot with a sturdy variety of moss that resisted trampling.  It needed that resistance, for the park was filled with small tents and booths and their customers.  The nearest booths were selling flowers, countless vases of them, in riotous colors and wild designs.  A little further up the row Chapel could see other booths selling potted plants.  Beyond that, the crowd was too thick for her to make out anything else.

            “This way,” said Kasagian, taking her arm.  “You have to get further in to see the good stuff.”

            As Kasagian led her deeper into the maze of booths, Chapel began to see what she meant.  Here stood a tiny shop selling what were plainly medicinal plants; she recognized aloes, chamomile, hemp and foxglove, but there were others whose names and species she couldn’t begin to guess.  Further along stood a booth selling what claimed to be herbal teas, but Chapel noted that many of the packages bore names of medicinal rather than flavorful dried plant parts.  She saw much the same at another mini-shop supposedly selling spices.  Another quaint signboard announced: “Yeasts for Wines and Cheeses” – but the jars on the shelf held an amazing variety of colorful molds.  Kasagian stopped to examine the goods at this one, giving Chapel much time to look around.

            Next door, set back far enough that it was difficult to see, crouched a booth selling “Essences”, which Chapel assumed meant aromatic oils for perfumes.  Certainly the front bench was loaded with tiny colorful bottles.  She wondered why the dealer had set her shop in a spot where it was hard to find.  She took care to point out the booth to Kasagian, who was just loading her basket with packages. 

            “Perfumes?” Kasagian laughed.  “Oh, that too, but primarily herbal extracts.  Many of them have amazing medicinal uses, which is why I’m heading there next.  Hmmm, and some of them would outrage the Terribly Respectable city fathers, if only they knew.”

            The shopkeeper, an incredibly old woman, knew Kasagian on sight and welcomed her like a long-lost sister.  After a quick introduction to Chapel, she whisked the two of them into the tent at the back of her booth where three comfortable folding chairs were set around a tiny folding table.  On the table sat a self-warming pot that smelled of bergamot tea, and a group of exquisite porcelain cups.  To one side of the tent sat a stack of sealed cartons.  The old woman sat Chapel and Kasagian down at the table, poured a cup of steaming tea for each of them, and then dived at the topmost carton.

            “I have your usual supplies here, Lana,” she purred, pulling out a flask whose contents gleamed emerald green even in the shadowed tent.  “But this is something new and wonderful that I just concocted last month.  Here’s the recipe, and notes on where to get the ingredients—” She handed Kasagian a message-padd, which Kasagian duly plugged into her own minicomp to download.  “I tried it out on a few select customers, and the response was so overwhelming that I’m afraid I’ll soon be sold out.  Now, just from the recipe, what do you think of it?”

            “My word,” marveled Kasagian.  “If these act synergistically—“

            “Oh, they do!  Indeed, they do.”

            “Why, this should be an immune-system booster that would make corpses jump up and dance!”

            “Just about,” the old woman chuckled.  “I’d write it up for the journals, if it weren’t for one, ahem, embarrassing side-effect.”

            “Drop the bomb, Doctor,” Kasagian nudged.

            “Heh-Heh!  Well, it’s also a pan-specific aphrodisiac.  The real thing.”

            “I don’t believe it!” said Kasagian and Chapel together.  They both peered over the notes on the minicomp’s display.

            “It’s true, dears.  Apparently, in setting off the endocrine and nervous systems, it…ah, rouses the libido to amazing levels, in just about every oxygen-breathing species known.”

            Chapel and Kasagian looked at each other.  “I can see why you wouldn’t want everyone to know about this,” said Chapel.  “And yet, the medical applications…”

            “Precisely,” grinned the old woman.  “My crowning achievement.  I intend to retire on this one, Lana.  Frankly, I’m giving you the secret just to keep it safe.  If the Argo government found out, they’d probably lynch me.  Hmmm…”  She turned back to the carton, pulled out a second flask and handed it to Chapel.  “Safety in numbers, my dear,” she said.  “Lana, print her a copy of the recipe and source-notes.  This way, if both of us are somehow stopped, the discovery will still make it out of here.”

            Chapel gulped, and stuffed the flask quickly into her shoulder-bag.  A moment later, Kasagian stuffed the printout in there too.

            “Doctor…”  Kasagian gave the old woman a hard look.  “Don’t tell me you’re planning what I think you’re planning.”

            “You bet your britches I am.”  The old woman gave a remarkably witchy cackle, probably rehearsed.  “Since rebellious kids and old degenerates simply will insist on playing with drugs, let ‘em take one that’s good for ‘em, says I.”

            “Oh Heziah, not again!” Kasagian groaned.  “I remember that last scandal, when you were pushing niacinamide—“

            “A perfectly safe, healthy and legal vitamin, which just happens to counteract the effect of nastier drugs, and also just happens to give you a marvelous rush.”

            “’Heziah’?”  Chapel flogged her memory.  “Wait a minute.  Doctor Heziah…Palindo?  Aren’t you the one who got two planetary governments to ban ‘dihydrous monoxide’ before anyone with a high-schooler’s knowledge of chemistry could catch up to them?”

            “That’s me!”  The old woman cackled again.  “Don’t you just love puncturing stuffed shirts?  Hee-hee-hee!”

            Chapel burst out laughing.  That ‘dihydrous monoxide’ scandal had been the joke of the quadrant three years back.

            “You—you scandal-mongering, trouble-making old dope-dealer, you—“ Kasagian sputtered.  “Oh, I can just see where you’re going with this one!  When I hear stories of Vulcans having orgies in the fountain at high noon, I’ll know whom to blame!”

            “Hah.  They could use it;  their birth-rate’s dangerously low.”

            “Heziah, you’re impossible!”

            “Oh, does that mean you don’t want to get involved?  Well, just hand back that sample, then.”

            “No, I won’t.  I intend to put this to good use.”

            “Heh-heh!  So do I!  …Oh, and if you have to hide out quick, I’m at the Hotel Avalon, as always.”

            “I intend to take this to Doctor McCoy,” said Chapel.  “Never mind the aphrodisiac effects; this could save lives.”

            “Precisely.”  Doctor Palindo leaned back in her chair and smugly sipped her tea.  “I intend to die rich and scandalous – and to be remembered as a great benefactor of all sentient kind.”

           

                                                            *           *           *

            An hour later, Chapel and Kasagian sat at a different table, in the patio restaurant attached to the Argo Inn, enjoying dinner and comparing notes.

            “I’m really grateful to have met the Notorious Dr. Heziah Palindo,” Chapel smiled around a mouthful of prawns steamed with coconut.  “You know, I’ll be invited to dinner at every port just for the promise of telling this story.”

            “The story’s not over yet,” said Kasagian, digging into her beef-and-peapods.  “We still have to smuggle the swag to our respective laboratories, analyze it, test it, gather the seeds of the ingredients, breed them under optimum conditions, harvest and extract and mix and package and sell…  Oh dear, do you even have samples of all these items in your ship’s stores?”

            Chapel thought about that for a moment.  “Our ship’s arboretum is overcrowded as it is.  There’s still room in the biostock vaults, though.  Hmmm, I think we have most of these ingredients, and with Dr. McCoy’s help I should have no trouble getting the rest of them.”

            Kasagian made a wry face.  “Well, I suppose cloning plant and fungal tissues is halfway between natural growing and synthesizing.  Nice to know that there’s some compromise between us Naturopaths and the Synthesists.”

            “There’s no such conflict aboard the Enterprise,” Chapel laughed.  “Believe me, in the Sickbay of a working starship, we’ll grow, clone, synthesize or trade with the natives to get whatever we need.  Dr. McCoy’s attitude is that whatever works, works – and damn the theories.”

            “Hmm, you seem to have a close working relationship with him.”

            “Don’t even think of matchmaking, Lana.  He’s a sadder-but-wiser divorcee.”

            “Did someone call me?” boomed a voice in her ear.

            Chapel and Kasagian flinched together, and traded horrified looks.  Neither of them had heard that voice in years, but both of them instantly recognized it.

            “Indeed I’m sadder and wiser.  Lana, darling, so good to see you!”  Dr. Rochambeau Plankman did his best to loom over the table.  This was difficult, because he was only of medium height.  Besides, his distinctly thick waistline gave the impression of pulling him downwards.  Other than that, he was just as flashily dressed and manicured – just as loud-voiced, just as blind and deaf to subtle expressions, and obviously just as sure that he knew how to charm anything out of anybody – as he had been back in school.

            “So very good to see you again,” Plankman amended, pulling over a chair from another table and sitting down without waiting to be invited.  “And who is your charming companion?”

            “Don’t you remember me from medical school?” Chapel asked, knowing this wasn’t much of a diversionary tactic.

            “Med--  Oh yes, of course.  Ah, blonde…tall…  Ernestine, wasn’t it?” he chirped, clearly not remembering her at all.

            “Christine,” Chapel corrected, trying to sound chilly and offended.

            “Oh, right: Christine.  Easy mistake, darling: there was another tall blonde named Ernestine,” he chatted, noticing nothing.  “How marvelous to meet you again.”

            “And what a coincidence,” added Chapel, wondering why this boor was here, now, on an off-track world like Argo.

            “Isn’t it, though?” said Plankman, turning back to Kasagian.  “I happened to be passing through on my way back from a conference, and I heard that you were in the neighborhood.  So what have you been up to, darling, and how is your little health-food business?”

            “We were just finishing dinner,” Kasagian said coldly.

            “No problem,” Plankman beamed, “I’ve already eaten.  I’ll just share a dessert wine with you.  Waitress?”

            While he waved signals toward the waiters’ station, Kasagian and Chapel traded looks and fast gestures.  Chapel’s said: ‘how do we get rid of him?’  Kasagian’s answered: ‘I don’t know’.

            “A local white Ziffunil,” Plankman told the waitress, then turned back to Kasagian, giving a passing smile to Chapel.  “I’ve never found a bad white Ziffunil, have you?  Care to join me in a bottle?”

            “I never touch alcohol,” gritted Kasagian.

            “I’m fine,” said Chapel, pointing to her glass of plum wine.

            “Just a demi for me, then.”  Plankman’s hand moved as if he considered sending the waitress off with a pat on the bottom, but he caught himself at the last moment.  “Where was I?  Oh, right.  Lana, dear, I hear that your business is doing well.”

            Kasagian’s only answer was a quick nod as she dug resolutely into the beef.

            “And how is Alison doing?”  Plankman leaned closer to the table.  “I still care about her, you know.  Hardly a day goes by that I don’t wonder where she is, how she’s doing, all that.  Did she ever marry again, do you know?”

            “She’s fine,” growled Kasagian, around a mouthful of peapods.

            Right there, Chapel realized that Dr. Rochambeau Plankman knew very well that Alison Leesburg had not remarried, that she was doing quite well as Kasagian’s partner, and that she was presently manning the main office back on Alpha Centauri Four.  She also knew that Plankman hadn’t come here by accident.  Now she had the middle of the story;  what was the beginning and the intended end?

            “I never did fall out of love with her.”  Plankman affected a wistful look, which was only slightly spoiled by the waitress returning with his order.  Plankman tossed a chip on her tray, poured himself a glassful of wine and reset his wistful look to fit around the wineglass.  “It was she who left me, you remember.  I always loved her best.”

            “What, Dawn and Kitty and Moriah notwithstanding?” Kasagian said acidly.

            “Momentary lapses.”  Plankman waved a hand as if shooing a fly.  “Just the stress of the moment.  Those girls never meant anything to me.”

            Kasagian rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

            “I always really wanted to get back together with her,” Plankman finally played his trump card.  “If you see her again, tell her all that, will you?  Please?”

            But why? Chapel wondered.  For love, possession, or…

            Kasagian struggled not to give a really rude answer, and almost choked on her drink.

            Consider,Chapel thought.  Kasagian’s business might be bigger than she mentioned.  Alison just might have a good bit of money on her own.  The Roach might know.

            Find out.

            “Other than that,” Chapel cut in, smiling sweetly, “How have you been doing?  Where are you working now?”

            “Oh, well…”  Plankman made that shoo-fly motion again.  “I finally left that synthetics company that I worked for when I was married to Alison.  Made some investments in pharmaceuticals.  Also…”  He grinned conspiratorially.  On him, it didn’t look good.  “There’s a chance I might be appointed to the Medical Review Board here on Argo.  Yes, I’m doing quite well, but there’s no one to share it with.  I still miss Alison.”

            Another memory clicked;  the synthetic pharmaceutical business had taken a steep dip on the stock market just a year ago.  Perhaps Plankman didn’t think that a specialist in natural drugs – or, for that matter, any friend of hers – would have heard about it.  And now The Roach was trying to get a bureaucrat’s job, on Argo, no less.  Chapel would have bet her eyeteeth that to get that job Plankman would have to spend some money, wining and dining influential people.  She caught Kasagian’s look, and their eyes spoke volumes: Plankman wanting cash, Alison with plenty.  Right.

            And Chapel got a marvelous idea.

            “Investments in pharmaceuticals?” Chapel smiled innocently.  “Why, what a coincidence.  I was just thinking of investing some of Daddy’s money in Lana’s company.  After all, I have to put it somewhere;  I can’t just leave it sitting around in a bank, and I couldn’t spend it all in a lifetime.”  She marveled that she could lie so smoothly.

            The way Plankman’s head swiveled toward her erased any last doubts Chapel might have had about why he wanted Alison back.

            Kasagian stared at both of them, her jaw dropping.

            “Wh—why, I’m sure Lana’s company would be an excellent investment,” Plankman beamed.  “In fact, I know of several other excellent investments you could make too.  Why, I have scads of information in my hotel room, if you’d care to come by.”

            “Why, I’d love to,” Chapel cooed, trying to sound stupid, greedy and easily seduced.  “What time should I show up?”

            “Why not right now?”  Plankman was practically drooling.

            “Oh, not right now, you silly thing.”  Chapel did her best not to giggle.  “I have to finish dinner, then go bathe and change and do my nails, and check in with my broker first.  Suppose I drop by at, say, eight?”

            “Perfect.”  Plankman actually grabbed her hand and tried to kiss it.  “Here’s my card; I’ll just write my room number on the back.  I’m right here in the Argo Inn.  Eight o’clock it is.”

            “And do put on something nicer than that silly suit, won’t you?” Chapel sank her last harpoon.

            “Uh?  Oh, of course.  See you at eight.  Don’t be late, now.”  Plankman almost fell out of his chair in his scramble to get up.  Trailing waves, smiles, and fond backward glances, he hurried away – blessedly away – to change his suit and set up for seduction.

            “Christine!” Kasagian hissed, leaning over the table, “What in all the stars are you doing?!”

            “I got him out of our hair, didn’t I?” Chapel grinned.  “And you’ll notice that I didn’t give him my last name, or room number.”

            “True.”  Kasagian sank gratefully back in her chair, then tensed again.  “Oh-oh.  If you’re staying in the same hotel, you’re bound to run into him again.  And even if you don’t, you know he’ll come nattering after me, instead.”

            “I don’t have to stay in this hotel,” Chapel considered.  “I’ll beam my gear back to the ship, check out and find another place.  Hmm, why not the Hotel Avalon, with Heziah?”

            “Why not, indeed.  But that still leaves me for him to chase after – not to mention Alison.”

            “Hmmm…”  A really cruel plot was unfolding before Chapel’s inner eye.  No, it might not work; she shouldn’t tell Kasagian yet.  “Well, I’ll think of something,” she promised.  Something is right.  If I pull this off successfully, he’ll be too busy to bother chasing you, or Alison, ever again.

 

                                                            *           *           *

 

            At exactly 7:30, Chapel poured a tiny amount of the green potion into a very small vial.  The vial went into her fancy handbag, along with her communicator and The Roach’s card.

            She gave her hairdo, makeup job and dress a careful, critical going-over in the mirror; the idea was to look innocently sexy, rich but dumb – not quite like an Argelian joy-girl.  Well, the high neck on the Zenobian spider-silk dress would look innocent enough, and the clingy fabric of the tight bodice should do the rest.  The war-paint looked just right, and the hair looked cute but not fussy.  Yes.

            “Let the games begin,”  she murmured, pulling out her communicator.

             Two brief calls later, all her gear was beamed back to her quarters on the Enterprise, the hotel was aware that she was checking out, and her bill was settled.

“Forward to the lions,” she grinned, stuffing the communicator back in her fancy purse.  She left the door unlocked, and strode out.

At exactly 8:06 – just enough of a wait to look dumb and make The Roach nervous – Chapel knocked on Dr. Plankman’s hotel-room door.  Down at the end of the hall, she noted with glee, a passing hotel employee had paused in his errands to give her a disapproving look.  She kept her side turned to him, hoping that from that angle she really did look like an Argelian joy-girl.  Now let the staff gossip.

Behind the door, she heard music being hastily turned on, and then turned down, and footsteps hurrying across the floor.  Guessing what she’d encounter next, Chapel plastered a cheerful, silly smile on her face and waited for the door to open.

Sure enough, there stood Dr. Plankman with a smile splitting his face from ear to ear.  He wore a green-on-green leisure suit, which did absolutely nothing for his complexion.  The room behind him had endured a quick redecorating in Early Hollywood Outrageous style, complete with holographic fake fireplace, hidden speakers playing painfully corny “mood” music, and a real-life bucket of ice with a champagne bottle sitting in it.  The curtains were pulled wide to show off the balcony and the view of the city beyond, and that was just about all of the décor that was original.  There were a few papers and brochures set out on the coffee-table in front of the fake fireplace, just enough to provide a legitimate excuse.

“Christine, darling!” Plankman boomed, “How good to see you again.  Come right in.”  He took her arm with a little more force than necessary, and steered her toward the couch.  “I have all the information right here: local companies, sector-wide corporations, whatever you like.  Would you care for some refreshment?”

He reached for the champagne.

That’s my cue.  “Why, I’d love some,” Chapel cooed, batting her eyes.  “Ooh, that’s Tetterer’s, isn’t it?  You have to let it breathe for a minute before you pour it, you know.  Ooh, are these the companies you meant?”

She bent over the scattering of brochures, giving Plankman the benefit of her rear view.  Sure enough, he fumbled the champagne cork and the frothy liquid shot all over his leisure suit.  He swore, and almost dropped the bottle.

“Ooh, you poor thing!”  Chapel trotted back to him, oozing concern.  “Here, let me clean that up for you.”

“That’s all right, dear.”  Plankman patted a handkerchief absently to the wet spots on his suit, his eyes glued to her clingy dress.  “Say, would you tell me how to spell your last name, again?  I never could remember spellings.”

Ye gods, he didn’t even ask my name before he set this up! Chapel marveled. “It’s Morgenstern, with one ‘o’ and two ‘e’s.”  Just like the ancient Earth weapon.  “And I think Rochambeau is a perfectly lovely name.  Here, darling;  you sit down and explain about all those companies and things, and I’ll pour the champagne.”

“Oh, right.”  Plankman was eager enough to get to the couch.  “Well now, the larger corporations are less likely to suffer sudden losses, but also unlikely to give you spectacular gains…”

While he ran through his opening spiel, Chapel poured one glass of champagne for herself, then quickly pulled out the tiny vial and emptied it into the bottle.  Last, she poured out a glass of the now-dosed champagne for Plankman.

“The smaller companies are more of a gamble, you know…”  Plankman took the glass she offered him without a second glance.  “They could collapse overnight…”  A wistful look darted across his face, strongly hinting that he’d learned that lesson the hard way.  “But then again, they could take off like a battle-courier overnight, and you’d wake up rich the next morning.”  A sustained eager look revealed that he still hadn’t learned the lesson completely.  

“Ooh, so it’s something of a gamble, then?”  Chapel batted her eyes once more, and took a tiny sip of her champagne.

Sure enough, Plankman took a more-than-tiny sip from his glass.  “Yes,” he leered, “But I’ve always been a bit of a gambler.  I’m even willing to gamble with my heart, to risk falling in love at first sight…”

Not wasting any time, is he?  “Ooh, you’re a Romantic, then,” she giggled.  “You know, I’m something of a Romantic myself.”  Liar, liar.  How long does it take for that stuff to work?  And I need an excuse to keep him busy…

She needn’t have worried: the buzzword ‘Romantic’ set off Plankman’s prepared speech about life-is-too-short-to-waste, love-is-too-precious-to-deny, follow-your-heart, yakkety, yakkety, yak – every word of it copied from holovid soap-operas.  All Chapel had to do was look wide-eyed, nod at regular intervals and sip her champagne.  Plankman swigged recklessly as he warmed to his subject.  The level in his glass sank to almost nothing.

“—so here I am, pouring out my heart to an old school chum.”  He did his best to look soulful.  “And perhaps we’ll go our separate ways and never see each other again, but there’s always the chance that a chance encounter might lead to something more, might strike a spark that could kindle into the love of a lifetime, and I’m always willing to take that kind of chance, to leap bravely into the unknown country of the heart.  I believe in love, and I believe that you believe too.  Am I right, Christine darling?  Do you have that kind of faith in the power of love?”

Chapel batted her eyes again, looked soulfully into his face, and said: “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

Plankman halted with his mouth hanging open, looking faintly pole-axed.

“Champagne always does that to me,” Chapel giggled, getting up.  “But I love it anyway.  Don’t go away, now; I’ll be right back.”

With that, she turned and hurried to the bathroom.  She paused at the door only long enough to give him an encouraging smile, and noted that he’d reached for the champagne bottle again.  She shut the door behind her, and locked it.

It took effort to keep from laughing out loud as she turned on the faucet, hard enough to cover any noise, whipped the lipstick out of her purse and scrawled the words on the mirror: SORRY I COULDN’T STAY.  START WITHOUT ME.

Now for the communicator, a quick beam-up call, and out of here.  She flipped the communicator open.

Nothing but static answered.

Oops.

It took all of two seconds to realize that the building’s structure must be interfering with the transmission.  She’d have to get out on the balcony.  How could she get there from the bathroom?

Her eye fell on the bathroom window.

“Christine, darling,” sounded from behind the door, “Don’t take too long.”

Was Palindo’s Potion taking effect already?

“Just a minute, dear,” Chapel warbled back, shoving the reluctant window open.  “I’ve got a snag in my pantyhose.”

Outside, the balcony ended just short of the window.  She could reach it, reach the railing certainly – if she hung out the window with both hands and reached with her feet.

“Time to abandon the shoes,” she muttered, kicking them off.  “They were cheap, flashy things anyway.”  She slung the purse on her shoulder and climbed feet-first out the window.

From far below came the sound of surprised voices, then squawks of dismay.  Obviously, somebody down there had noticed a woman’s legs sticking out of the window.  Well, no time to worry about that now.

She was halfway out, belly pressed to the windowsill and feet groping blindly for the railing, when she heard Plankman calling again.  His voice sounded a bit rougher.  Ye gods, that stuff must work fast! she thought, just as her toes brushed the top of the rail.

“What in heaven’s name is going on up there?!” howled a voice from the ground below.

“Call the police!” shrilled another voice, female.

“Christine?” wailed Plankman.

“Patience, darling,” she shouted back.  “Just let me get my skirt smoothed down.”

“It’s got to be something obscene,” echoed from below.

“What room is that?” demanded an official-sounding voice.

Chapel hooked one foot over the railing, then her knee, and she inched backward out the window. 

“Don’t do it, lady!” howled someone below.  “Whoever he is, he’s not worth it!”

Must be quite a crowd down there by now, Chapel considered, as she hung by her hands and knee.  She couldn’t spare the effort to look down and see what was happening there.  She glanced toward the balcony.  If she could just get her left foot into the uprights of the railing…

“Christine!” bellowed Plankman, knocking on the bathroom door, loud enough to be heard out the window.

“She’s trying to get away from an attacker!” another voice shrilled from the ground.

Brilliant deduction, Holmes, Chapel laughed to herself.  She could hear someone else pounding on the front door of the suite, and someone yelling something about Hotel Security.  No more time.  She took a deep breath, let go of the windowsill and pulled hard with her anchored leg.

Below, several voices screeched.

The landing was as awkward as a belly-flop.  Chapel’s left foot skidded off the edge of the balcony, leaving her right knee to take all her weight, and she swung bottom-first into the uprights.  She could hear her dress tear, and feel the bruises she was going to have tomorrow.

She could also see, for one upside-down moment, the sizable crowd gathered on the sidewalk below.  She noticed one man with a camera, another talking rapidly into a communicator.  She could also hear, through the wall, Hotel Security seriously pounding on the front door.

Whispering expletives that would have startled her captain, Chapel hauled herself up onto the edge of the balcony.  She also heard Plankman pounding furiously on the bathroom door, ignoring the noise out front.  Muscles twinged from her waist to her toes as she dropped onto the balcony, clawed open her purse, and pulled out the communicator.

“If this doesn’t work,” she muttered to no one in particular, “I swear, I’ll brain him with the champagne bottle – unless Hotel Security gets him first.”

She could hear the bathroom door giving way under Plankman’s hammering.  She could also hear the Security staff at the door clattering their master keys.  The crowd below was cheering.

“Enterprise, transporter room, Rand,” came loud and clear through the communicator – just as the bathroom door went crashing down.

Chapel hit the emergency beam-up button.

 

                                                *           *           *

Yeoman Rand stared, not saying anything, as Nurse Chapel pulled herself up from a crouch on the transporter pad.  She noted the nurse’s ripped dress, and the slow and painful way she moved off the pad, as if her thigh muscles were so sore that she couldn’t pull her feet together.

“Oof,” Chapel panted, feeling the extent of her strains and bruises.  “Yeoman, could you please contact a Dr. Heziah Palindo, either in the Flower Market on Greenmarket Boulevard or at the Hotel Avalon?  I’ll take the call in my quarters.  Oww…”

“TheDr. Palindo?” Rand couldn’t help asking.  “’Dihydrous Monoxide’ Palindo?”

“That’s the one.  I have to tell her how well her potion worked.  Ouch.”

“I’ll have the call sent to your quarters as soon as I contact her,” Randpromised, watching Chapel limp out the door.  What potion? she wondered.  And why is she the third officer to beam back here with their clothes half ripped off?

She wondered if she could persuade the infamous Dr. Palindo to chat a bit with her, or if she should check the city news and police reports first.

It seemed that there were a few compensations for being stuck on ship while everyone else went down on shore leave.

Banned From Argo -- Chapter Four

 

                                                                        4.

 

Our proper, cool, First Officer was drugged with something green

And hauled into an alley, where he suffered things obscene.

He sobered up in Sickbay, and he’s none the worse for wear,

Except he somehow taught the bridge computer how to swear.

 

            Commander Spock, late of Vulcan, First Officer of the Enterprise, was busy hunting.  He peered from one computer screen to another, punched in some more space for comparative split-screens, ordered the computer’s voice to repeat certain highlighted key words, and closed in on his quarry.

            “’Tcha-luk-ma’,” recited the computer.

            “’…some Look-Ma girls…’” appeared, highlighted, on the screen.

            “Yes!” Spock whispered, in a rare but excusable breach of Vulcan propriety.  “Orionese origin!”

            He leaned back to study the screen, and considered the implications of what he’d found.

            Item: the Argo government, as noted in the planetary information summary, made considerable effort to keep ‘foreign influences’ out of the planet’s culture.

            Item: nonetheless, certain phrases of extraplanetary origin had crept into the common vocabulary, particularly among the lower managerial and upper laboring classes – but only in certain areas.

            Note: those areas were almost entirely limited to the groundside spaceport, the orbiting dock, and businesses directly connected to interplanetary trade.

            Item: very few of those loaned words came from Federation worlds; the vast majority of them were Orionese.

            Why Orionese, specifically?  Certainly Argo had some trade with the Orions, being close to their regular space-trade routes, but judging from simple logistics Argo should have at least as much trade with the Federation.  So, why the preponderance of Orionese words?

            Item: the borrowed Orionese words were usually expletives, concerning the usual humanoid preoccupation with excretion and mating, but a good third of them referred to something else.  They were common Orionese terms used in the slave-trade, for which the Orions were notorious all over the galaxy.

            Item: the word ‘tchalukma’ referred to a slave purchased for ‘entertainment’ services.

            “Disturbing…” Spock murmured through his steepled fingers.

            This implied that several employees of Argo’s orbiting dock were allowing Orion ships to transport slaves through the local system.  Worse, the use of the Orionese terms among personnel connected to the ground port and related industries implied that slaves were being brought onto – or, worse, taken out from – the planet’s surface.

            Did the Argo government know?  Just how high did the chain of corruption reach?

            But all this was speculation.  Linguistic clues were not enough to launch a Starfleet investigation.  More evidence and solid facts were needed.

            And the present two weeks’ shore leave presented an excellent opportunity for a private fact-finding mission.

            Spock poked the computer further, saving his notes under a simple first-level code which the captain could access if necessary.  The computer-voice ran through the list of Orionese words once more, and Spock memorized the pronunciations carefully; if he heard any of those words spoken groundside, he wanted to recognize them at once.  Finally he jabbed the computer to silence, got up and considered his wardrobe.  He could not possibly wear his Starfleet uniform; the sight of it would scare away possible informants.  Something civilian, of course: some costume of a barely-successful merchant…

            “A dealer in kevas and trillium,” he remembered, his lips twitching in the faintest ghost of a smile.  Yes, that disguise had fooled Klingons once; it should work quite well on Argo.

 

                                                            *           *           *

 

            Half an hour later, his tricorder and communicator concealed under loose Vulcan merchant’s robes, Spock strode to the transporter room. 

            The tech on duty, he noted, was Yeoman Rand.  Yes, she had been training recently for the rank of transporter technician, certainly a wise career move, but right now she seemed less than pleased with the responsibilities attendant upon her new rank.  In fact, she was arguing with three of the Argo space-dock technicians.

            “I’m sorry, lady,” the chief tech insisted. “The sky-dock is Argo property, and Starfleet regs specifically state – section 43, paragraph G – that at least one Starfleet officer must remain on board at all times, except during fumigation – and we won’t get to that for another three days.  Sorry about holding up your shore leave, but them’s the rules.”

            “But with only three of us here, that means I’m stuck on board until the first relief comes up – and that won’t be for another four days!”

            “Hey, sorry, but your own officers wrote the duty-roster.”

            At that moment Rand’s eye fell on Spock.  She did a double-take, then – with a recovery speed which Spock would have found admirable at any other time – she all but lunged toward him, wearing a desperate smile.

            “Mister Spock,” she chirped, “I’m surprised to see you.  You don’t usually take shore leave.”

            “This is a special case,” he said, stepping onto the platform with a little more haste than was absolutely necessary.  “Send me directly to the ground port, please.”

            “Ah, are you sure you want to leave just now?  Couldn’t it wait for a few days?”

            Spock considered that some sort of compromise might be in order.  “I assure you, Yeoman,” he said, “I shall return in considerably less than four days.  Please energize.”

            Defeated, Rand went back to the transporter control board and glumly jabbed the buttons.

            A moment later, Spock materialized on one of the general-passenger platforms at the Argo Port Citygroundside spaceport.  He automatically patted at his clothing to make certain his tricorder and communicator had arrived safely with him, then noted the somewhat ragged Tellarite standing in front of the platform.

            “Get off, get off already,” the Tellarite snorted.  “Not hold up traffic.  This one want to leave now.”

            Spock obligingly stepped off the platform.  The Tellarite hopped up into the space he’d just emptied, pecked a destination onto the wall-mounted keyboard beside the platform, then stepped quickly to the center of the marked circle and beamed away.

            Curious, Spock looked down the line of platforms stretching down the side of the passenger concourse and noticed that every spot had a waiting-line.  He watched for precisely one standard minute, and observed two more Tellarites, three Andorians, two Caitians, two Themaxo, several heavy-world Humans, and – yes – one Orion get on the platforms and beam off.  He saw nobody arriving.

            Spock turned away and strolled toward the main doors, murmuring quietly to his tricorder: “Note: there seems to be a considerable exodus of off-worlders from the spaceport.  Why?”

            The obvious solution was to question a willing local.  Spock paused by the doors and glanced to either side.  At such locations one could usually find small merchants peddling their wares, or even beggars panhandling, but today there was no one…

            …Except for one lone Human, sub-species indeterminate, who sat huddled on a bench puffing surreptitiously on some manner of smoke-stick.  The Human appeared to be of late middle age, of indifferent health, none too clean, dressed in a collection of Argo-standard clothing which had seen better days.  The man had that slumped, cheerful-in-defeat, cynical look that defined humanoid beggars the galaxy over.  Obviously, he’d be a good gossip.

            Spock approached cautiously, considering the best words for the situation. 

            “Excuse me, gentlebeing,” he said, “But have you seen John, the map-seller?”  The name, like the character, was invented but believable.

            “Dunno ‘im,” muttered the Human, stubbing out his smoke-stick.  “Nobody here today, anyhow.”

            “How curious,” said Spock.  “Where has everyone gone?”

            “Just out of here.”  The man glanced nervously to right and left.  “Haven’t you heard?  Argo City’s doin’ a cleanup on the foreigners.  You’d better turn around and get right back on your ship ‘til after the big bird’s gone.”

            “Big…bird?”  Spock did his best to look bewildered without breaking with his disguise.  “Who might that be?”

            “A ship, y’dumb Vulc!  That big Starfleet battle-wagon that just pulled in.  Th’ Argo gov doesn’t want their crew to see something Less Than Respectable, go tellin’ tales to the Fleet.  Get it?”

            “I do indeed.”  Spock affected a slightly-puzzled frown, just the right display of emotion for a lower-class merchant.  “How, then, shall I complete my business arrangements?”

            “Depends on what your business is,” said the Human, looking sly.

            “I am…St’venn, a dealer in kevas and trillium.”

            The Human’s eyes defocused slightly.  “I got no idea what that is,” he admitted.

            “Medicinal plants,” said Spock, knowing that the term could cover much ground.  “I had heard of an Orion ship with a cargo of raw kevas, but I have no knowledge of her name or whereabouts.  I was hoping to find the Orion sector and ask her cargomaster.”

            The Human gave him a wide-eyed look.  “Oh, man,” he groaned, “You don’t want to go to the Orion neighborhood. Believe me, you don’t.”

            “Is that because the police are likely to be there before me?”

            “You better wish.”  The Human shook his head.  “Hell, it’ll be safer there now that the badges’re running around.  Worst you’ll get from them is beat up, all your cash taken, slammed in the pokey for a few days an’ then hit up for more money by the judge.  The Orions, now…  Well, if you’d been here a few days ago, you could’ve got worse than that.”

            “Really?”  Spock did his best innocent-Vulcan impression.  “What could be worse?”

            The Human looked around again, and leaned close.  “You know the Orions are slavers, don’tcha?”

            Spock raised both eyebrows, and carefully kept his hands from betraying his hidden tricorder.  “Are you implying that Orion visitors snatch passers-by off the street, and carry them away to slavery?”

            “Don’t laugh,” frowned the Human.  “Take it from Ol’ Bob here, it’s happened more than once.”

            Spock sat down on the bench beside the Human, whom he now labeled as Old Bob, taking care not to admit too much too soon.  “Really,” he said, doing his best to sound disbelieving.  “Such rumors abound wherever Orions visit.  Do you actually know of any specific person, at any specific time or place, who was carried off in this manner?”

            “Sure do!”  Old Bob gave him a defiant look.  “Lully, barmaid down at the Jet Tube, joy-girl on the side: she went off with an Orion customer one night, just eight months ago.  Never came back.  Left all her stuff, and everything.”

            “That is hardly conclusive,” Spock nudged. “Just one example, and there could be several other explanations—“

            “You want more?  Ask about Tweewit, one of those…whaddaye call ‘em, bird-people?”

            “There are thirteen avianoid races in this quadrant.”

            “Yeah, avian-something.  Cute little thing, pretty feathers.  Worked as a stock-clerk for Hasper’s, just down row four.  One night there’s an Orion ship upstairs, scout-boat on the ground – right out there in bay 47.  Tweewit makes the mistake of walking home alone, and cutting across the yard to save time.  Bingo!  Gone without a trace.  About the same time, the scout-boat takes off.  Couple hours later, Orion ship takes off – ‘way before schedule.  Heads straight back to Orion space.  You wanta guess what happened to Tweewit?”

            “Was there any police investigation?”

            “Not so you’d notice,” Old Bob sneered. “C’mon.  Orion ships don’t ask for repairs unless they’re really desperate, so they don’t get much by way of inspection.  They pay big fees, never argue – hell, I think they even pay non-inspection waivers—“

            “I beg your pardon?” Spock pounced.

            “What, don’tcha know about that?  Yeah, some little subsection of Argo local-space law;  I think it falls under some kind of quarantine heading.  You wanta skip any inspection at all, you post a whopping bond and don’t let anybody off.  You get all your supplies beamed up, nothing but creds beamed down.  Argo Port keeps half the bond after you leave – ‘surety against possible later damages’, they call it.  Everybody knows what’s going on, but nobody says anything.  You can bet, lots of somebodies are getting paid off.”

            “Disgraceful,” Spock agreed, planning to go over Argo local-space law in exquisite detail.

            “Hmm, Big Rowdy disappeared about the same time,” Old Bob went on.  “Nobody missed him for days, but you can bet it was the same thing.  He was a heavy-worlder, not too bright but strong as an ox.  That’s what they go for, y’know: pretty girls for the fun-houses, exotics for showpieces, strong backs for the mines and farms and what-all.  You Vulcs are strong, aren’tcha?”

            “Indeed,” Spock murmured.  “This greatly complicates my search for the kevas cargo.  Have all the Orions fled the planet, then?”

            “Don’t we wish!  Nah, there’s still a big freighter in orbit – and not in the dock, you can bet: probably hiding on the other side of the planet, where the Big Bird won’t see it.  And you see that lander over in bay 98?  She looks pretty nondescript, but she’s got those big maneuvering-jets the Orions like, so stay away from her.  That makes it a good bet the slaver bupfracks are still on the ground somewhere.  Hell, a big bunch of ‘em came down here three days ago, an’ they’re still here.”

            Spock noted that the odd word was a slightly altered Orionese insult, referring to the genetic insufficiencies of one’s ancestors and relatives.

            “If they’ve got any sense, an’ they usually do,” Old Bob went on, “They’re probably holed up in their little hideaway down in warehouse 87.  Sure bet, nobody else’ll take them in.  You really oughtta forget the kee— whaddayecallems, go down to the Bolt-Hole, and stay safe until the cleanup’s over.”

            Spock couldn’t help asking: “If the situation is as dangerous as you say, I wonder that you yourself have not shipped out or gone into hiding.”

            Old Bob sighed and slumped, as if the words had deflated him.  “I got nowhere to go,” he admitted.  “No money.  No job.  No home.  The badges don’t even run me in anymore; they know I’ve got nothing worth taking, and they don’t want me living for free at the gray-bar hotel.  I’m too old and weak and ugly even for the Orions.  Might as well stay out here and panhandle.  Hey, buddy, can you spare a cred?”

            Considering that the information alone was worth it, Spock handed the Human a twenty-cred chip.  “I thank you for the advice,” he said, meaning it.  “And I would recommend that you spend this on finding yourself a…’bolt hole’ until the current crisis passes.”

            “Bolt-Hole is right!” chortled Old Bob. “I can buy my way in with this!  Hey, thanks, Vulc.  Gods bless.”

            Old Bob hauled himself to his feet and went tottering off toward the warehouse district as fast as his bowed legs could carry him.

            Spock watched him go, then reached under his robe to transmit the tricorder’s data to the Enterprise’s memory-banks.  That done, he got up and strolled casually out into the field of landing-bays, looking for number 98.

 

                                                            *           *           *

 

            Chilashmor and Grobikthia, of House Nashfrap – which was the Orion equivalent of  ‘John Doe’ – were not in the best of circumstances.  They had avoided the last sweep of the badges by betaking themselves into the nearest storm-drain, and their garments were much the worse for wear.  They might have stayed hidden in warehouse 87 were it not for the fact that five worthy members of House Pixosha were ensconced there already, and such folk did not care for the presence of their competition.  Besides, the good liquor was running out and the food-supplies were already down to siege-rations.  Therefore, Chilashmor and Grobikthia decided to run for their small transport-craft and get quickly home.

            By artful use of cover, and careful watch for passing pedestrians, they managed to get as far as the field unmolested.  By the time they came within sight of bay 98, however, a new and unexpected problem appeared.

            “Excuse me, partner-in-venture,” Chilashmor opined, ducking under the conveniently near wing of a Themaxian shuttle, “But I do believe that some rude person has reached our ship before us.”

            “I completely agree,” said Grobikthia, ducking under the wing after him.  “And if you do not duck down further and let me get deeper under this shuttle’s wing, I will be somewhat vexed with you.”

            “I respectfully draw your attention to the fact that I am shoved in here as far as I can fit.  Who is that rude person, and what is it doing?”

            “With all due humility, I must point out that had your girth not expanded from indulging in too many Salty-Treats these past two years, you might have shoved in a few hand-spans further. And for your information, that obstructionist person is strolling around our ship, examining the maneuvering-jets.”

            “This is not the best of news, good brother-in-trade, since those jets are homeworld-made, and any experienced spacer would recognize them as such.  Is that lamentable creature wearing the sort of dress usually preferred by so-called plainclothes police?”

            “Nothing of the sort, but more like the robes favored by the poorer sort of merchants found in Federation space. This, I hasten to add, is not good news either.”

            “What is the creature doing now?  And please remove your elbow from my ribs.” 

            “I respectfully submit that it is not your ribs which are impinging on my elbow, but the thick pad of fat above them.  And for your information, the creature is thankfully stepping away from our transport.”

            “Which way, pray tell, is it going?”

            “At something of an oblique angle, toward the warehouses.  Hmm, in fact, I believe it is…  Yes.  A male Vulcan.”

            “A Vulcan merchant?  Here?  At this unfortunate time?”

            “It is, in very truth, a Vulcan – and neither aged nor infirm.  I believe it might be profitable to follow him.”

            “Grobikthia, this is no time to be thinking of profit.  It would be much wiser to continue our previous course to our lander, and thus escape with our skins intact.”

            “Allow me to remind you that there is room on the ship for a bit of cargo, and that the badges have not yet begun their sweep of the port.  Also, Vulcan indentured servants command most remarkable prices on the corporate mining asteroids.  I intend to follow this potential merchandise, and you may follow or not as you please.”

            Grumbling mightily in flowery Orionese phrases, Chilashmor agreed to follow.  Decades of practice in sneaking after victims stood them in good stead, and the Vulcan failed to notice them.  They skulked as far as warehouse 87, marveling to each other when the Vulcan cast cautious glances about him, and then tapped at the door.  They noted the suspicious voice behind the door that asked to know his business there, and giggled madly to themselves as he answered: “A humble merchant, seeking shelter from the oncoming storm.”  They marveled further as the door opened and their prey passed through.

            “Chilashmor, I have heard parables of plushmak trotting into the slaughterhouse, but never have I seen such enacted in real life.  I think it most imperative that we hasten after our quarry before the excrescences of House Pixosha snap him up instead.”

            “Good Grobikthia, may I remind you that these same House Pixosha bompfracks ejected us from this very refuge not an hour ago.  We acquiesced, if you recall, because there were very many of them and only two of us.  I sincerely doubt that their numbers have diminished since we left.”

            “In that case, let us consider strategy.  Recall, please, that the Pixosha may have numbers, but we have the only available ship – theirs being hidden on the other side of the planet.  Therefore, to use the appropriate Vulcan terms, it is logical that our lamentable rivals will attempt to hide the merchandise somewhere close to hand, someplace where they can keep him safely concealed for the next few days if necessary.  That means that they must hustle him out the rear entrance, into the alley behind this establishment.  I intend to be there, waiting, when they come out with their hands so profitably encumbered.”

            “I request, then, that we find a viewing-place where we may rest in some comfort for however long that will take.  I also suggest that said hidey-hole will shelter us from the view of the local badges, who must eventually come searching this way.”

            “Let us stroll into the alley, then, and see what shelter we can find.”

 

                                                            *           *           *

 

            The interior of the warehouse 87 bar was dark, smoky, crowded and ill-smelling.  Spock’s Vulcan night-vision cut in immediately, showing several crowded tables and an even more crowded bar.  The nearest available chair was one of six grouped around a rickety and bottle-loaded table, five of the chairs occupied by Orions, all dressed in similar clothing.  The Orions were huddled over their drinks, muttering to each other, throwing half-hidden glances in his direction.  They looked like lesser employees of some large merchant company, down on their luck, looking for quick money.

            Perfect.

            Spock looked about once more as if searching for a seat, while in fact he was checking for exits.  Then he shrugged, strode to the empty chair and sat down.

            The Orions all shut their mouths and looked at him.

            “Greetings,” he said calmly, while secretly fingering his tricorder.  “I am St’venn, a dealer in kevas and trillium.  Have you any information concerning how long the present unpleasantness will last?”

            “Unpleasant…  Oh, no doubt you are referring to the present raids,” said one of the Orions.  Judging from the way the others looked at him, he was most probably their leader.  “They’ll certainly last all day, and probably into the night.  Perhaps by morning it will be safe to venture out.  Or perhaps…”  He glanced unconsciously upward, “…not for several days.”

            “Then have all the out-system ships left port?”

            “Oh yes, every last one.”  The Orion twitched his ears in apparent annoyance.  His companions hastily did the same.  “I fear we are stuck here for the duration, good St’venn.  And I would not recommend that you venture out where the local badges can see you, or you might find yourself badly misused.”

            Another of the Orions giggled into his glass.  His neighbor quickly clouted him on one side of his head.

            “How annoying,” said Spock, pretending not to see that.  “And have you heard anything of a shipment of kevas, brought in before the raids began?”

            The others looked blank, then turned questioning looks toward their leader.

            “Ah, I believe I heard something about a shipment of kee-fas,” the leader said smoothly, “But I have no idea who brought it in, or where it might be.  I could, ah, make inquiries –- for a small consideration.”

            “I hope your consideration is not too large,” Spock replied coolly.  “I have only so many credits to spend on obtaining a cargo.” Then he added, quickly, before the Orion could start asking how many credits: “Of course, neither can I afford to go home empty-handed.  If I cannot obtain kevas here, perhaps I could purchase other trade goods which may be in demand on Villifan – where kevas are abundant, and cheap.”

            The Orion leader visibly switched his mental gears.  Villifan was well known as an agricultural planet with a wide-open spaceport.  “Ah, that might be more likely,” he grinned toothily.  “Would you have any timely news of what goods are in demand right now on Villifan?”

            “Unfortunately not.”  Spock didn’t so much as blink while he dropped the bait.  “Of course, Villifan is always eager for additions to its labor force – hired or indentured – but other than that, I have no information.”

            “Labor force, yes…”  The Orion did a poor job of concealing his eagerness.  “I think I can find something for you in that department.”

            Excellent.  Bait taken.  In another moment Spock would have it all recorded.  “I imagine,” he said, affecting just a touch of a sneer, “That after the present raids, the Argo government will have an excess of prisoners to dispose of.  Would the authorities indenture them out, do you think?”

            The reaction was not what he had expected.  All the Orions burst into whoops of laughter, two of them almost choking on their drinks.  Spock only raised an eyebrow and gave the leader a questioning look.

            “Hoo!  Ik!  Oh, yes!”  The Orion leader got his voice back under control.  “My friend, you do not know what a truth you have spoken.  Yes, the Argo government is happy to export its undesirables.  In fact, they do not even charge anything for the removal of said undesirables.  I suspect that if they had to, they would even pay us-- er, pay anyone available who would haul their jail-sweepings away.  Heh!  This means that whoever does the shipping can sell the labor contracts at an almost-clear profit.”

            There.  Spock surreptitiously fingered his tricorder.  He had almost all the necessary information recorded.  Only a few details were missing.

            “I will gladly buy you a round of whatever you are drinking,” Spock said, “If you will tell me the exact procedures for obtaining a cargo in this manner.”

            “My friend, I will gladly accept,” grinned the Orion.  “In fact, I will also buy a drink for you while we are at it.  Barkeep!  Full round here!”

            Spock wondered why the Orion was selling his information so very cheaply.  Perhaps he hoped to make money brokering the deal.  If so, this would take more time than he had expected.  Spock leaned back in his chair and prepared to haggle.

 

                                                            *           *           *

 

            Dubaliosk of House Pixosha could hardly believe his luck.  A solitary Vulcan, apparently young and in good health, had just walked into his reach and was about to accept a drink.  Labor contracts on Villifan, indeed: strong and healthy mine-workers were much in demand on Putrokem, and a healthy Vulcan would bring almost top prices.  Only a Horta would sell for more, and so far no Orion had ever succeeded in catching one.

            The only problem would be transporting the goods to his ship, which was presently on the other side of the planet and would certainly stay there as long as that grpthakking Federation starship was in port.  Still, if he could keep the goods safe and well hidden for just a few days…

            Well, the potential profit was worth the risk.

            “Barkeep,” he called again, “A round of Red Moons for me and my friends, and a Gulakki fruit-juice for our Vulcan friend, here.  That’s right, isn’t it?  You Vulcans don’t drink alcohol, do you?”

            “It has no effect on us,” said the Vulcan.  “We do indeed drink fruit-juice.”

 

                                                            *           *           *

 

            The bartender flinched once as he heard the order, then nodded understanding.  He pulled down six glasses, took five bottles of Red Moon beer out of the cooler, and reached under the bar for a small bottle of something green.

            Back at the table, Dubaliosk was haggling with the mark to keep his attention.  Good.

            The bartender filled the five mugs with beer and set them on the tray.  The sixth mug he filled almost to the top with Gulakki-fruit juice.  He unstoppered the small bottle, then paused, suddenly worried.

            How much of this stuff should one give to a Vulcan?

            The usual dose for an adult humanoid was five drops, but Vulcans were reputed to be strong and drug-resistant.  So, six drops?  Seven?  Then again, Vulcans had funny chemistry, copper-based blood, and funny allergies as well; even five drops might be dangerous.  The bartender unconsciously hitched his shoulders higher as he remembered the one time he’d overdosed one of Dubaliosk’s marks: a Rhamphino, big strong creature, looked like it could take eight drops, easy.  But then the damn thing fell over, twitching and frothing at the mouth, and it damn-near died before they could get the antidote down its throat.  Dubaliosk’s underlings had broken a couple of his bones for that, and the bartender wasn’t going to forget it.  No, better safe than sorry, as the Humans said.

            He carefully dripped five drops, no more, into the fruit-juice.

 

                                                            *           *           *

 

            “Ah, here come our drinks.  Give the man five creds, my friend.”  The Orion leader grinned merrily.  “Now, let’s get down to details.  You are new in town, and the Argo officials don’t know you, so if you deal directly with them they will certainly put all manner of obstacles in your way until they are sure of you.  That could take days of tedious paper chasing.  Yes, drink up;  Gulakki is excellent stuff, if you like fruit-juice.”

            Spock took a modest sip.  “How, then,” he said, “Could I reduce the time and paperwork?”

            “The obvious answer, friend,” the Orion almost leered, “Is to have someone broker the sale for you: someone whom the locals know well, and are used to, and have dealt with before.  Someone like my humble self, for instance.”

            “I see,” said Spock, believing that he did.  “And just what fee would you require for this service?”

            “Ah, no more than five percent of the payment on the labor-contract – which, I believe, is about a thousand credits per head.  You need only tell me how many passengers you intend to carry, and we can easily calculate my fee from there.”

            “Indeed,” Spock said carefully.  “Of course I shall have to make some alterations to my cargo bay, in order to accommodate passengers.  Such alterations will be costly and time-consuming.  Also I must calculate the amount of food and hygienic supplies the passengers will need for the journey, which will also cost time and money.  Naturally, these costs will be deducted from my profit.”

            “Well, of course,” the Orion shrugged.  “But since the journey from here to Villifan requires only twelve days at normal speed, I’m certain your passengers can endure replicated food and simple sleeping-pallets for that long.  Perhaps a cost of no more than 500 creds, compared to a profit of a thousand creds apiece.  So, how many…ah, passengers can you accommodate?”

            “Hmm, that calculation would require remeasuring my cargo-space.”  Spock decided that he had almost all the information he needed.  Just one more detail, then he should get out with what he had.  “I will, of course, also need to get information from Villifan concerning current prices.  Clearly, I must return to my ship for an hour or two.  Where can I find you when I return, and by what name should I ask for you?”

            “Ah, I will be right here, my friend,” said the Orion leader, looking unexpectedly nervous.  “And you need ask only for Dubaliosk, with whom you have an agreement.  Come, let’s drink to it.”

            Spock obligingly took another sip of the fruit-juice.  “I should leave, then,” he said, “Before the local unpleasantness spreads any further.”

            “Oh, on the contrary!” Dubaliosk almost shouted.  “Please stay here, where you are most certainly safe, at least until well after dark.  By then the patrols should be well past, and in any case, your chances to escape undetected are much better after sundown.  It would spoil our most profitable arrangement were you to be arrested.  Please, do stay!”

            There was something wrong with the Orion’s insistence, Spock realized.  There was also something wrong with the drink.  His tongue had gone numb.

            Right there, he realized what the real game was  -- and how close he was to the trap.

            Very quickly, he reviewed the symptoms and his possible options.  There was no time for a healing trance.  His best hope to counteract the unknown drug was to raise his blood pressure and metabolism quickly.

            “I believe I am ill…” he murmured, starting up from his seat, noting that his legs were reluctant to cooperate.  There was no time for polite measures.

            Spock dropped to the floor and tensed every muscle he could still control.  That action made his back arch and his limbs shake.

            The effect on the Orions was spectacular.

            “It’s hit him too hard!” yelped the nearest.

            “He’s going into convulsions!” howled another.

            “You idiot!” Dubaliosk roared at the bartender.  “You gave him too much!”

            “Only five drops, I swear!” the bartender wailed, showing the bottle for proof.  “It must be an allergic reaction!”

            “Give him the antidote, quick!  If you saddle me with an inconvenient corpse—“

            “I’ve got it!  I’ve got it!”  The bartender came running to the table, holding out a small brown bottle.

            Spock considered, as the frantic bartender bent over him, that the antidote might be worse than the drug.  Then again, he could use some help counteracting the effects of whatever they’d given him.  He allowed the bartender to dribble the bitter fluid past his clenched teeth, but didn’t stop tensing his muscles.  Above him, the Orions raged and argued.

            “It’s not working!”

            “Dear Ancestors, what if the badges come in and find the body?”

            “Get him out of here!”

            “Where?”

            “Out the back, through the alley—“

            “Sneak him into the parking bays and dump him.”

            And, from another table: “All hail the expertise of Dubaliosk and his team.  Ha-haha!”

            “Oh, shut up!” snapped Dubaliosk. “Grab him under the arms.  This way.”

            Spock allowed himself to be picked up and hauled through the clutter of tables.  He was still clenching his muscles furiously, though he could feel the antidote taking effect.  If the Orions wanted to leave him in the spaceport’s parking bays, he certainly had no objection.

            A door creaked, and light fell across his face.  Spock opened one eye just enough to be certain that, yes, Dubaliosk and company were indeed carrying him into the alley.  A few more moments of minor discomfort, and he’d be free.

            ZZZAP!  ZZZZAP!

            The bright actinic glare of two Orionese stun-beams flashed past him.  Two of Spock’s carriers fell flat, and the rest unceremoniously dropped him on his back.  The others swore wildly, ducked to either side and tugged weapons out of various hiding-places among their robes.

            Spock relaxed his muscles, lay flat and watched in something close to amusement as the stun-beams and curses cris-crossed above him.  Eventually both light and noise stopped, leaving a long moment of peaceful silence.

            “Hssst, Chilashmor,” sounded from across the alley.  “I believe we have stunned the lot of them.  Let’s collect our prize.  …Chilashmor?”

            Spock watched as another Orion, dressed in a slightly different cut of clothing, climbed out of a trash-barrel on the other side of the alley.  The new Orion ran to another trash-barrel, peeped in, and cursed briefly.

            “Chilashmor,” he finally announced, “I cannot possibly carry both of you, and I humbly admit that I am not about to leave this prize lying about just so that I might haul your sorry backside out of the garbage.  I leave you to awake in your own time and find your own way to the ship, or at least to a reliable message service.”

            Having done that bit of propriety, the new Orion came scampering back across the alley and seized Spock’s right arm.  Spock, still limp, let him pull – and learn by experience that Vulcans were much heavier than they looked.  With much heaving, whoofing and straining, the Orion managed to pull Spock reasonably upright and started to carry him down the alley.

            A sharp intake of breath and a scrambling behind them warned Spock, but not the Orion.

            “You!  Grobikthia!” snarled Dubaliosk, grabbing Spock’s other arm.  “I should have known this was your doing!”

            “I saw him first!” yelled Grobkthia, refusing to let go.

            Either unwilling to use their stunners, or else out of blast-charges, the two descended into cursing and snapping at each other while pulling Spock’s arms in opposite directions.  With a loud shredding noise, his robe tore in half from the top down.  The two Orions promptly fell flat.

            Spock, seeing that he was now effectively stripped to the waist – and his hidden tricorder was showing – decided that it was time to end this game.  As both Orions scrambled to their feet and converged on him, he reached out and neck-pinched both of them, simultaneously.  They fell back to the ground, also simultaneously.

            Spock looked around, quickly counted the bodies, added the unseen Chilashmor in the trash-barrel, and thumbed open his communicator.

            “Enterprise,” he announced into its grille, “One to beef— beam up.”

 

                                                            *           *           *

 

            When the blue dazzle faded, Spock found himself on the Enterprise’s transporter pad, facing the console.  Janice Rand was still there, and looked quite surprised to see him.

            “Yeoman Rant,” he announced, “Please inform the Shore Please— er, Police – that there are seven Orion slavers lying unconscious in an alley, at the same coordinates from which you boomed--  beamed me up.  I have conclusive evidoonce against them on my trickorder, which I shall now enter into the ship’s lig-- log.” 

            It appeared that his tongue was still a bit numb, and his legs didn’t feel too stable either.

            “Mr. Spock,” said Rand, giving him an odd look,” Are you certain you’re all right?”

            “I seem to be seemfering from the after-effects of an Orion slaver–drug, but do not be alarmed;  I have taken the antoodite.”

            “I really think you should go straight to Sickbay, sir.”

            “I will, I assure you, but only afther I have entered this vata— vital data in the ship’s computer.”  Spock stepped very carefully off the platform, noting that his legs worked well enough if he watched them closely.

            “Ah, why don’t you enter it right here on my console, sir?  Then you can go directly to Sickbay.”

            “An excellent idea,” Spock admitted, keeping careful watch on his feet.  He managed to make his way to the console, plugged in the tricorder without mishap, then fumbled the record buttons.  Rand reached out to help him, but he waved her hand away.  He could manage this.

            Actually, it took him three tries to unload the data.

            As the tricorder duly hummed its information into the ship’s main banks, it occurred to Spock that he had best add his personal file to the data so as to explain where he’d gotten the idea.  It took him four more tries to get the transfer done, and twice he had no idea which buttons he’d hit.

            “That’s done it, sir,” Rand coaxed.  “Now, shall I help you to Sickbay?”

            “I can minige, thank you,” said Spock thoughtfully aiming his feet toward the portal.

            “I hope so, sir.  It must be a very interesting planet!”

            “Interesting?”  Spock was intrigued by the choice of wording.  “How soo?”

            “Why, sir,” she said, batting her eyes innocently, “Because you’re the second officer to beam back here today with half their clothes torn off.”

            Spock blinked as he thought that over, wondered who the other officer was, decided that he would absolutely not ask, and plodded toward the corridor without further comment.

           

                                                            *           *           *

 

            Rand watched him go, shook her head in amazement, then pressed the playback button on the computer.  There wasn’t much else going on, and she dearly wanted to know just what had happened to Spock down in the port city.

            To her surprise, the computer’s voice replied out of the room’s speakers.  From the echo in the corridor, she guessed that the computer was reciting its information on every open speaker on the ship – including, no doubt, the bridge.

 

                                                            *           *           *

Right enough, up on the bridge the port’s technicians did a classic double-take as they heard the computer duly recite:

            “’Bompfrack’ – a hereditary idiot.”

            “’Grpthak’ – insect dung.”

            “’Bortmin’ – self-inflicted lunacy.”

            “’Tchalukma’ –“

            While the inspection team listened in awe, the computer gravely named and defined every filthy word in the major dialect of the Orionese language.

            It was a long, long list.

Banned From Argo, Chapter Three

 

3.

 

            Our Engineer would yield to none at putting down the brew.

            He outdrank seven space-marines and a demolition crew.

            The navigator didn’t win, but he outdrank almost all,

            And now they’ve got a shuttlecraft on the roof of City Hall.

 

            “Take ‘er oot, Mister Chekov,” said Scott.  “I’ve done enou’ work today.”

            “Right, Mistair Scott.”  Chekov touched the controls delicately and watched as the docking bay of the Enterpriseslid away from them.  “Now det we heff time, could you plis explain why we’re tekkingk de shuttlecreft instead of chust bimmingk down like everyone else?”

            “Three guid reasons.”  Scott ticked them off on his fingers.  “First, oor transporters are due to be inspected and possibly repaired, which means they’d likely be oot o’ commission when we need ‘em.  Second, I’d like t’see a bit o’ the countryside, where local transporters might no’ reach, an’ I dinna see why we should pay tourist rates for aircars when we can use oor own f’r free.  Thirrd…”  He gave Chekov a broad wink.  “I’ve been doin’ a bit o’ tinkerin’ wi’ these engines, an’ I’d like ta test ‘em oot.  Does thot answer yer questions, laddie?”

            “Aye, sair.  Now where shell we set down?”

            “I’ll show ye.”  Scott fiddled briefly with the sensor controls.  A close-up of the city below spread out on the viewscreen like a detailed aerial map.  “There, noo.  D’ye see the spaceport, where the ship-ta-shore craft land?  Ta th’ east set the big ships, an’ ta th’ west lie th’ smaller ones.  We’ll land as close ta yon edge o’ the field as we can.  ‘Tis less distance ta walk.”

            “Walk where, sair?”

            “Look again, lad.  Th’ repair-shops lie in a line along th’ south edge o’ the port.  Th’ line ta th’ west, a’ yon warehooses there, thot’s suppliers f’r th’ yard an’ ships.  Noo look a wee bit behind there, an’ ye’ll see smaller buildin’s.  Yon’s th’ true ‘entertainment district’, an’ no’ the milk-bluided amusements where th’ Argo city elders would send us.”

            “You said you waire on Argo bifore.”

            “Aye, lad: once, years ago; but I doobt th’ place has changed much.  I made th’ mistake o’ wanderin’ inta th’ city proper.”  He made a disgusted face.  “Aye, an’ proper ‘twas!  So proper, ye couldna find a joy-hoose nor bar whot served unwatered drinks nor aught else but th’ opera hoose an’  th’ ballgame arena.  It took me five days ta learn where th’ real fun was.”

            “Es prissy es thet?”

            “Worse!  They dinna even allow holo-virt parlors, an’ e’en th’ videos be censored t’ a fare-thee-well.”

            “Not ellow holo-firts?!”

            “Aye.  Some years ago they decided thot th’ youngsters were spendin’ too much o’ their time adventurin’ in ‘em.  No’ thot I blame the bairns; their lives be so dull, they’d do anythin’ t’escape.”

            “So what do the cheeldren do now?”

            “Och, they’ve invented fun o’ their own.”  Scott laid a finger beside his nose and winked.  “I hear there’s a marvelous undergroond network o’ computer games an’ message services.  I’ll be tappin’ inta it, once we land.”

            He flicked the viewscreen back to normal, and judged the distance to the port.

            “Hmm.  Ye do th’ flyin’, lad,” Scott decided, reaching for the communications console.  “I’ll see if I canna get us a berth entirely by computer-link, an’ no’ hafta speak t’an Argo official at a’.”

            Twenty minutes later, the shuttlecraft settled to a feather-light landing in Berth 103, on the westernmost edge of the landing field.  Scott left Chekov to handle the routine shutdown and lockup chores, grabbed his luggage and got out.  The first thing he did was head toward the nearest warehouse, looking for a public computer outlet.

            By the time Chekov caught up to him, he was drumming his fingers on the now-blank screen and frowning thoughtfully.

            “So, where do we go next, Mistair Scott,” Chekov asked.  “Eh, is sometink wrong?”

            “Aye.”  Scott took Chekov by the elbow and led him, at a discreet but fast walk, further into the warehouse district.  “’Tis guid ta know thot even on Argo th’ youngsters ha’ th’ wit ta question whot they’re told, an’ learn more thon they’re taught.”

            “You’fe talked to friends in the computair undairground?”

            “They ca’ it th’ Undernet.  Aye, an’ a fine tale ‘tis, too.”  Scott glanced casually over his shoulder, making sure they weren’t followed.   “Th’ bairns ha’ hacked inta th’ police computer system, an’ they’ve foond oot thot th’ portside entertainment district is ta be raided, wi’in an oor or less.  ‘Tis th’ orders o’ th’ planetary governor, if ye please.”

            “Redded?  But why?”

            “There be two schools o’ thought aboot it.  Th’ one says, yon governor wants ta clean oop th’ district before th’ Enterprisecrew can find it an’ spend oor money there.  T’other says, yon businesses havna been payin’ enou’ protection money ta suit him.  Ma guess is, there’s truth in both theories.”

            “Cen we warn the pipple there?”

            “A’ready done, lad.  Everyone who’s there has gotten th’ word, grabbed their money an’ departed.”

            “So much for our shore leafe!  Where shell we go now?”

            “Ta where everyone else has gone, lad.”   Scott grinned, heading toward a large, dilapidated-looking warehouse.  “Ta th’ bolt-hole.  Ye dinna believe, do ye, thot th’ governor hasna pulled this trick before?  Nor thot the locals havna made plans f’r more o’ th’ same?”

  

                                                            *           *           *

 

            The warehouse had no visible windows, only two large doors and several small ones.  Scott’s practiced eye picked out the tiny lenses of security cameras peeping from under the eaves.  In front of the building stood a weathered signpost, but no sign hung from it.  Scott pointed to the hole drilled through the post, and the large rusty bolt driven through it.

            “Th’ Bolt-Hole, as I said.”

            Scott led the way to one of the smaller doors, knocked twice, waited, and then knocked three times more.  The door swung open soundlessly, revealing only a short windowless corridor with another door at the far end.  Alerted now, Chekov thought to look up – and noticed the tiny glass eyes of a sensor array peering down at them.  He smiled and waved.

            The first door closed behind them, and the second opened ahead.  Scott and Chekov stepped through, into a sea of noise, fumes and shadows.

            The revealed room was enormous, taking up at least half the volume of the warehouse by itself.  On the back wall stood a long, long bar, stocked with every bottle and glass imaginable, and crowded with customers of just about the same description.  Along the front wall stood a bank of stages, most of them displaying music holovids, some of them designed for live acts.  In between lay a quarter-acre of tables and chairs, also crowded.  It was difficult to see just how crowded, because the lighting was low and the air full of assorted smokes.  The overhead-suction fans labored mightily, but still couldn’t keep up with the customers.

            Chekov tried hard not to stare, but he would have tripped several times – over his own feet and those of other patrons – if Scott hadn’t kept a reliable grip on his arm.  Like a tug towing a freighter, Scott steered them straight and true toward the bar.

            “Pardon me.  ‘Scuse me…” Scott recited, politely taking space against the bar between what looked like a drunken Tellarite and a sober Andorian.  “Och, it looks like everra-one an’ his uncle’s here a’ready.”

            “Where else should we go?” growled the Andorian.  “Haven’t you heard?  The SP’s raiding the pleasure-zone.”

            “Aye, I’ve heard, an’ I’d like ta know why.”

            “Righteousness and money,” the Andorian laughed, showing fang.  “A bad combination.”

            “What rotten luck,” Chekov grumbled.  “Dey chose to clin op de plece chust es our ship comes in.”

            “You from Enterprise?”  The Tellarite roused from his stupor enough to glare.  “Is your fault they shut down joy-houses!”

            “It’s us dey rob, you min!” Chekov snapped back.  “Four hundred and t’airty-fife crew mins a lot uff money the fun pleces don’t gat.  Instead, you can bat, de Argos plen to gouge us good.”

            “Just so,” added the Andorian.  “How many clean, wholesome ballgames and ballets can you watch, at thirty creds a ticket?”

            “T’airty creds?!”

            “Not to mention, at least five creds per drink.”

            “Fife creds!”

            “That just for low-alcohol beer,” snorted the Tellarite.  “Wine, seven creds.  Fancy drinks, ten.”

            “Aaaaagh!” Chekov howled.  “Mistair Scott, greb de bartender, quick, bifore de good stuff is all gone!”

            A hard-worked barmaid trotted up just then to take their orders.  Predictably, they asked for Earth Scotch and Stolichnaya vodka.  “Also,” Scott added, looking over the rest of the room, “I believe we’ll take yon table there.”

            They managed to get their drinks and grab seats at the table before anyone could beat them to it.  The entry door had opened several more times since their arrival, and the bar was growing more crowded still.  Despite the loud music from the holovids, it was too easy to overhear the talk of the crowds at the nearer tables, and the general mood was decidedly ugly.  Now that Chekov’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he could see that the drinkers at the next table were a gang of Andorian mercenaries in marine uniforms.

            “I can’t believe they went after Hokhblatt’s place,” one of them was snarling.  “She paid her taxes, bribes, contributions to damn-near everything.  Everyone knows that you can’t milk an althegar if you butcher it for meat!”

            “The governor wants big money right now,” reflected another.  “My third littermate’s engineer

says the dirty little politician needs campaign funds, and wants to break up the Merchant party.”

            “Why?” grumbled a third.  “They bring in good money, don’t they?”

            “Yes,” said the second, “But they’re the ones who want to end the Propriety laws, bring in more spacer-trade, and they’re the ones who forced the upcoming special election after that scandal with the maid in the governor’s coat-closet.  He’ll need to buy lots of votes to keep his fat rump on the governor’s chair.  So: raid the space-trade merchants, and snare two nithgar with one net.”

            “Arrh,” growled a fourth, around his tankard of what looked like Romulan ale, “I say, let’s give him a scandal he’ll never live down.”

            “What do you have in mind?” asked the fifth.

            “Aha, wreck the place!” laughed the sixth, showing fangs.

            “Loot and trash Proper Town, you mean?” bleared the seventh.

            “Now that would be thought on,” murmured the first.  “Where would we start, and how would we get there?”

            Scott and Chekov looked at each other.

            “Should we get out uff here?” Chekov asked.

            “Na, na, keep yer seat, lad.”  Scott eyed his drink.  “Lorrd knows, if we gi’e up oor seats, we may no’ find ithers, an’ I hate ta drink standin’ up.  …Still, I think we’d best nurse oor drinks slowly, an’ order ‘em wi’ lots o’ ice hereafter, just in case.”

            Right then, the music stopped briefly to change discs.  In the relative quiet, Chekov noticed the crowd at the table on his other side.

            The drinkers were a very mixed bag: one Horta, needing no chair, but towering over the table even as he sat on the floor; one Human from an obviously heavy-gravity planet; one Klingon-something with muscles like a bull; one creature that had to be a cross between a Vulcan or Romulan and an Andorian, and it was anyone’s guess how that had happened.  All of them wore civilian uniforms with the logo “Skoov’s Demolitions” emblazoned on the back.  They all looked distinctly angry.

            Also at the table, gulping up a tall glass of what looked like Sangria, was a young Human woman wearing a satin jumpsuit that looked sprayed on, tons of jangly jewelry, odd puffs of lace here and there, and enough face-paint to equip a whole theatrical troupe.  Her mascara was tear-streaked, which looked oddly fetching, and she was animatedly telling a story to the four rapt demolishers.

            “—barely had time to grab our clothes and things.  Maryanne had to leave her teddy-bear collection behind, and it just broke her heart.  What would the badges do with a teddy-bear collection, anyway?”

            “Sell it,” rumbled the Horta.  “You can sell anything on this planet, if you know where.”

            “Right.  Thieves’ Market, on Greenmarket Boulevard.”  The girl rolled her eyes.  “Poor Maryanne!”

            Scott’s ears pricked up at that, and an odd gleam came into his eye.  “Eh, lass,” he said, bending closer to her table, “I’m always willin’ ta help a lady in distress.  Tell me where I can find yon market, an’ Miss Maryanne as weel, an’ I’ll be happy ta help her buy back her teddy-bears.”

            “Oh, would you?” she gushed.

            “Coordinates 34.28, city grid,” said the Vulcanoid/Andorian demolisher.  “We all know it by heart.”

            “Couldn’t survive without it,” said the heavy-world Human.  “It’s the only place on the planet where you can find anything you want at anything like a reasonable price.”

            “Anythin’?” Scott repeated, a wicked grin spreading across his face.  “Such as…itchin’ powder, or stink-bombs, or chemicals for makin’ ‘em, or odd electronic parts?”

            “True,” said the Klingon/half-breed, giving him an odd look.  “Just what are you planning?”

            Instead of answering directly, Scott leaned toward the other table.  “Eh, lads,” he called to the plotting Andorians, “Would ye like ta get some revenge on th’ Argo government, wi’ none bein’ th’ wiser as ta who’s done it?”

            The Andorian marines looked at each other, then swung their antennae toward him.  “Oh, yessss!” they all hissed together.

            “Mistair Scott, what are you doingk?” Chekov whispered frantically.

            “Patience, laddie, an’ learn,” Scott grinned, then turned back to the marines.  “Firrst, y’know th’ kids o’ the Undernet ha’ a’ready hacked inta th’ police computer-system, an’ ‘twouldna take much ta plant some misleadin’ messages there…”

            “Yes?  Yes?”  The inhabitants of both tables leaned toward him, hanging on his every word.

            “Ach, this is goin’ ta take some time t’explain.  Let’s a’ order anither round o’ these decent drinks.  Yo, barmaid!”

 

                                                            *           *           *

 

            It was well after dark when Scott and Chekov came strolling out of the Bolt-Hole and headed back to the landing-field.  They were walking slowly, but not staggering – at least, not much.

            “I still dun’t understend why dey didn’t cetch on,” Chekov hiccupped.  “Dun’t dey know det Nova brend drinks are non-elcoholic?”

            “No’ likely, m’lad.  Yon marines are non-Starfleet;  they’d had little opportunity ta run inta th’ stuff.  Anyway, by th’ time we started orderin’ thot, they were too far doon their own drinks ta notice.”

            “So we left them snoring undair the tebbles.  Ef course, dis will edd considerably to your riputetion, you know.  But why do it in de first plece?”

            “Ta keep yon wee laddies from goin’ inta Proper Toon an’ doin’ serious damage,” Scott grinned.  “Aye, they’ll ha’ their fun, an’ embarrass th’ local governor an’ badges an a’ – if they remember any o’ this when they sober up – but ‘twill be harmless mischief instead o’ real damage.”

            “Mistair Scott, you are a chenius.”  Chekov heaved a huge sigh.  “Now if unly dere was still a nice choy-house where we could spind de night…”

            “Did ye no’ hear me wangle fro’ the lady th’ address o’ th’ respectable place where her not-so-respectable friends be stayin’?  ‘Tis th’ Hotel Avalon, as I might ha’ guessed.  I’ll warrant, we can get a bit o’ discreet fun…  Hey, wha’s thot?”

            Ahead of them, light-beams flashed.  Running, struggling silhouettes flickered against the lights.  Voices echoed: shouting, cursing, and bellowing in pain.

            “Guid Lorrd, they’re raidin’ th’ parked ships!  Come on!”

            Scott dived into the nearest shadow and ran toward the field in its concealment, Chekov stumbling after him.

            “Dey cen’t do det!” Chekov panted.  “Starflit would nefer ellow eet!”

            “Nay, but they might claim search-rights on th’ civilian ships – an’ they can a’ways say later thot they couldna tell a fleet shuttlecraft in th’ dark.  Here, noo.  We’ll hafta wait fer oor chance, then dash for it.”

            The battle seemed to be centered on a middle-sized Caitian runabout, some three berths down.  Unfortunately, only a single small flitter stood between the Caitian and the shuttlecraft, offering little cover.  On the other hand, the battle was a lively one, drawing everyone’s attention.  About half a dozen Argo Port Shore Police were trying to board the Caitian ship, armed with clubs and small stunners; the five furred and fanged Caitians, with their catlike speed and agility – armed only with their natural weapons – were giving as good as they got.  One of the SPs was crawling away, howling over a scratched arm.  One of the Caitian crew slumped beside his ship, trying to shake off the effects of a near miss from a stun-beam. 

            “They’re preoccupied,” Scott whispered, “An’ ‘tis only twenty meters or so ta th’ ship.  Let’s go.”

            Scott and Chekov bolted for the shuttlecraft, trying not to make noise, hoping nobody looked their way.  Chekov devoutly hoped that anyone noticing them would see nothing suspicious about a pair of uniformed Humans running toward a fight instead of away from it.  They managed to reach the shuttlecraft’s flank without attracting attention.

            “Now dere’s unly de little problem uff gittingk inside,” Chekov whispered.

            “Here’s th’ hatch.  I’ll get ‘er open, ye jump inside an’ grab th’ controls.  I’ll be right after ye.”  Scott furiously poked buttons on his communicator.

            The shuttlecraft’s near hatch obligingly swung open.  The hiss of its hydraulics sounded horrendously loud.

            Chekov obediently leaped through the door and scrambled into the far seat.  Scott climbed in after him, not two steps behind.

            “We’ve no’ been spotted yet,” Scott panted, jabbing buttons to close the hatch.  “Once we start up th’ engines, though, they’re boond ta notice.”

            “Too lett for dem!”  Chekov gleefully slapped the control panel.

            No one could mistake the sound of the warming engines, nor the growing lights from the little ship’s nacelles.

            The wounded SP stopped wailing about his clawed arm, picked up his club and ran to the shuttlecraft.  He yelled at whoever was inside, and banged his club on the nearest porthole. Chekov favored him with an ancient Earth hand-sign that only made the badge-man yell and bang louder.

            “Up, lad!  Get ‘er up fast!” shouted Scott.

            “The enchines aren’t complitly warmed,” Chekov worried.

            “They’ll take th’ strain.  Lift!”

            Chekov dutifully punched more buttons.  The sound of the engines changed, whining angrily.

            Now the noise distracted the attention of the other SPs.  Two of them turned around to yell unheard orders at the shuttlecraft.

            This gave the Caitian crew the break they needed.  The crewman on the ground, now recovered, tackled the nearest badge-man and brought him down, thwacking his helmeted head on the pavement.  The other Caitians double-teamed the three SPs in front of them, likewise whacked their heads on the ground, then scrambled for their own hatch.  One of the SPs looked around, saw the Caitians escaping, and shot the last crewman squarely with a stun-beam.  The big cat collapsed in the open hatchway.  Before the badges could grab him, his fellow crewmen took his arms and hauled him through the hatch.  The SP’s attempt to climb after him was met with a decisive kick that threw him back onto the ground.  The hatch clanged shut, and the Caitian ship’s engines began to rumble.

            Meanwhile, the shuttlecraft started to lift.

            “Too slow,” Scott muttered.

            “Too coldt,” Chekov explained.

            The chief of the SP squad whipped his head about, glaring furiously at both escaping ships.  Seeing that the shuttlecraft was more likely to get away clean, he pulled out a heavier phaser than his men had been using, clicked the selector hard over, and fired.

            The glare nearly blinded Scott and Chekov.  Red alarm-lights flashed on the control board.

            “Och, asthore!  Yon’s no stun-beam!” Scott roared.

            “She’s liftingk!” Chekov yelled.  “Fife miters, tin, twinty…”

            “Pity we didna think ta turn on the shields.”

            “…forty, fifty…  We’re out uff renge.”

            “Look ye there; yon Caitian made no such mistake.”

            Sure enough, the Caitian ship was rising.  The red-faced SP squad leader was firing at it, but the beam deflected off the Caitian’s shields in a halo of blue light.

            “Go, pretty-kitties!  Go!” Scott cheered.

            “Sefenty-fife…  Mistair Scott, de controls are sluggish.”

            “Whot’s she up ta?”

            The Caitian ship had stopped lifting at almost exactly twenty meters.  As Scott watched, entranced, she moved forward and right in a sharp curve.

            “Begod, she’s goin’ ta buzz ‘em!”

            Sure enough, the Caitian swooped back toward the fist-shaking mass of SPs, picking up speed as she came.  The badge-men, suddenly realizing their danger, had the sense to scatter.  Even so, the backwash from the low-flying runabout knocked them off their feet and sent them skidding down the concrete in half a dozen directions, collecting scrapes and bruises, shedding their clubs, communicators and sidearms.  The Caitian swung about again, in a wider arc.

            “She’s huntin’!” Scott whooped.  “She’s lookin’ fer more badges ta knock doon!”

            On the console, unnoticed, another red warning-light came on.

            “Which wey, Mistair Scott?”

            “Och, back ta th’ Enterprise.  We’d best see whot damage yon shot did, an’ I should file a report while th’ memory’s still fresh.”

            “Eh, Mistair Scott, I t’ink you’d bitter heff a look et de board.”

            Scott looked at the winking lights, and chewed his lip.  “Oops,” was all he said.

            “Mistair Scott, I’m heffing trouble wit’ steering.”

            “Gi’e me th’ controls.”  Scott jabbed more buttons.  “Aye, I’d better put ‘er on manual...”

            “We’re loosingk eltitude!”

            “I know, I know!  An’ th’ steerin’s way off…  Och, I dinna think we’ll make it ta th’ Enterprise.”

            “But where cen we lend?  Not et de speceport!”

            “A park, a groondcar parkin’ lot, anythin’ big enou’…”

            Scott wrestled with the controls, but the wounded shuttlecraft continued to sink.  Worse, her rubbery steering had pointed her nose toward the downtown section of Argo Port City.  Nothing lay ahead but large, tall buildings.

            “Oh, hell!” Scott groaned.  “Just gi’e me anythin’ wi’ a flat roof!”

            Bright-lit buildings flowed under them, disturbingly close, all narrow and pointy of roof.  The alarm-speaker on the console bleeped plaintively.

            “We’re comingk down!  Try for a strit, et list!”

            Scott was considering that when he saw, right ahead, the answer to his prayers.  It was a big, sturdy building, heavy with elaborate stonework – and it had a big, wide, blessedly flat roof.

            “There, ma bairn…” Scott crooned to the laboring ship, “Only a wee few meters more.  Retros… Easy, easy noo…”

            “Bozhemoi, we’re goingk to mek it!”

            The shuttlecraft hovered, coughed, dropped lower, and settled with an audible groan of relief on the tiled stone surface.  The roof creaked alarmingly under her weight, but held.

            With a silent prayer of gratitude, Scott turned the engines off.

            “We’re alife!” Chekov panted.  “I rilly wish I hed a drink right now.”

            “Weel, we’d best report in.”  Scott sighed, and punched the comm-board.

            The voice that answered him, somewhat to his surprise, was Yeoman Rand’s.  Apparently she was in the transporter room, and monitoring ship-to-shore calls as well.  Scott explained the situation briefly, leaving out the embarrassing details.

            “Before we beam up, lass,” he finished, “Can ye gi’e me oor coordinates?  I confess, I dinna know where we are.”

            There was a long pause, then an odd sound that might have been a smothered giggle.  When Rand’s voice came back on, it was calm and perfectly controlled.

            “Sir,” she said, “There’ll be no problem getting your coordinates.  You’re precisely on top of the Argo Port City Hall.”

            “Oh, bluidy hell!” was all Scott said.

 

 

Banned From Argo -- Chapter Two

2.

 

The Captain’s tastes were simple, but his methods were complex.

We found him with five partners, each of a different world and sex.

The Shore Police were on the way; we had no second chance.

We beamed him out in the nick of time – and the remnants of his pants.

 

            Kirk beamed straight into the Argo Inn’s lobby, stepped off the transporter platform and promptly called back to the ship.  Yeoman Janice Rand duly answered, confirmed the captain’s safe arrival in the log, and mournfully noted that her job wouldn’t end for another three days.

            “Patience,” Kirk grinned.  “The station personnel should take over before then.  Enjoy your shore leave.  Kirk out.”

            He closed his communicator, grabbed his travel-bag and hurried to the check-in desk before the waiting-line could get much longer.  Even so, it was a good half hour before he could get to his room, dump his bag in the closet, hurry back downstairs, get to the hotel bar and order a tall, cool, Eridani Sunset.  The next step, he calculated, was to find some knowledgeable local – maybe the bartender – and ask about the nightlife in Argo Port City.

            He was casting a thoughtful eye around the bar when he spotted a familiar figure.  Tall slender shape, royal blue skin, silver-white hair, long smooth antennae, and a Starfleet uniform: who else could that be?

            “Thelin!”  he called out.  “Over here!”

            “Hai, Jim Kirk!”  The Andorian saw him and changed course, grinning widely.  “Good to see you again.  Last I heard, you’d been made captain of the Enterprise.”

            “True, true.  And what ship are you on now?”

            “My ancestors laugh.  I’m a Commander – in truth, I’m in command of the Althashayn.   She’s a mere scout-ship, too small for a full Captain to command, but she’s all mine and she’s beautiful.  Did you see her as you pulled in?”

            “That lovely little stingray of a ship?  I saw, but didn’t really look her over, I’m afraid.  I just got into port, and I’m seriously in need of R. & R.”

            “Ah, I’ve been here over a week, and would you believe, it took me most of that time just to find out where the real fun is?  Hah, my crew spent their first days here out in the backwoods, hunting.  The Argo’ans worship respectability so, the city’s horribly dull -- unless you know where to look.”

            “I noticed.”  Kirk grimaced at his glass.  “All the travel-guides in the lobby warbled about nothing but art-galleries, sports-arenas and nature-park tours.  Where’s the real fun?”

            “Baxter’s bar and grill, for one.  To begin with, they don’t—“  Thelin tapped a long blue finger against Kirk’s glass.  “—water the drinks.  And they serve real, wood-grilled meat.”

            “Keep talking,” Kirk grinned.

            “And I have it on good authority…”  Thelin leaned close.  “That there is to be a real Orion poker game, in one of the upstairs rooms, this very evening.”

            “Orion poker!  I haven’t played that in…  When and where, again?”

            “Oh, finish that tankard of fruit-juice and come with me.  I mean to be there early, for a good spot at the table.  Do you have a thousand creds that you’re willing to lose?”

            “Lose, nothing.”  Kirk gulped down the rest of his drink.  “I intend to eat a real dinner, then clean out all you card-sharks, and then—“

            “Oh yes, Baxter’s provides that, too.”  Thelin winked broadly.

            “Then what are we waiting for?”

 

                                                            *         *         *

 

            Ten minutes later, a street-taxi deposited both of them at the door of a large but plain-looking townhouse.  There was a tiny lawn, a fiercely-trimmed flowerbed, a small brass plate on the door displaying the words: “Baxter’s Bar and Grill”, and absolutely no other sign that this was a business establishment.

            “As I warned you, they’re Respectable up to the antenna-tips,” Thelin explained while ringing an old-fashioned doorbell.  “In this town, my friend, appearances are everything.”

            The door opened soundlessly, revealing a carpeted hallway and an elderly woman in an old-fashioned long dress and apron.  “Yes?” she asked, volunteering nothing.

            “Dinner for two, please,” said Thelin, pressing something into her hand.

            The woman’s hand darted straight into her apron pocket, but Kirk saw the outline of her fingers moving as if she felt the weight and shape of the…  Was it a cred-chip or a coin?  Both were in use here, according to the scant information he’d gotten from the ship’s computer.

            “This way, gentlebeings,” said the woman, turning away.

            Kirk and Thelin followed, noting that the door swung soundlessly shut behind them.  The woman led them down the quiet corridor, then through a large self-opening door on the left.

            Beyond that lay the dining room, which was notable for its elegance, quiet, and -- Kirk could think of no other word for it – padding.  The floor was covered with a thick maroon carpet.  The chairs were all heavy wood, deep red, padded with thick cushions of dark green plush.  Even the walls were hung with tapestries and curtains in dark vine-and-leaf designs.  Most of the tables were filled with early diners, nearly all of them locals by their looks, many of them chatting among themselves, but Kirk could barely hear an undertone of voices or the clink of tableware.

            “Sound-baffles in the ceiling,” Thelin murmured, catching his look.  “This place prides itself on discretion.”

            The woman led them to a table in a near corner, presented them with antique-style printed menus as big as ship-standard wall panels, and silently trotted off.

            “Unbelievable,” said Kirk, peering at the long list of soups, appetizers, salads and entrees.  “I feel as if I’d stepped back a couple of centuries.”

            “In one sense, you have,” said Thelin.  “Hah!  Mud-lobster soup!  Yes…  The whole planet is trying to preserve the culture common to the upper classes of 19th-to-21st-century Earth.  That leads to certain, ah, anachronisms.”

            “Well, it certainly has its charm.  Oh my stars, buffalo steak!  How do we order?  Wave flags at the waitress?”

            “Just wave a finger.  It’s considered low-brow to wave credit chips or coins, even though we won’t get out of here for less than 50 creds.”

            “Ouch!  The food had better be worth it!”

            It was.

            Kirk and Thelin took an hour to finish dinner, then lingered over dessert.

            “Now that,” Kirk sighed, leaning back in his chair, “Was almost worth dealing with the Romulans.  Where do we go next?”

            “Watch me.”  Thelin wagged a finger, and the waitress appeared as if by magic.  Thelin tucked another coin in her palm and quietly asked: “Where may we view the antique paintings?”

            “Room eighteen, upstairs, sir.”  She pointed, with no more than a twitch of her finger, toward a dark floor-to-ceiling curtain nearby.

            “Excellent,” purred Thelin.  “Check, please?”

            As the waitress trotted off, Kirk glanced at the curtain.  “Hidden doorways?  ‘Antique paintings’?  Is that what they call cards around here?”

            “Appearances are everything, remember.  Pull out your cred-chips and brace yourself for the bill.”

            “Hmm.  Thelin, does it ever bother you that strangers tend to call you ‘sir’?”

            “I’m used to it.”  Thelin shrugged pre-her antennae.  “It seems to be the common form of address, and most non-Andorians can’t recognize a pre-female neuter anyway.  Ah, here comes the bill.  Don’t faint.”

            The total came to 63.58 CR, not counting the tip.  It could have been worse, Kirk considered as he handed in his share; they could have splurged on a second half-bottle of wine, or chosen an imported brand.

            “It was worth it,” he conceded, shoving back his chair.  “Now, let’s part the curtain and hunt for the mysterious Room Eighteen.”

            Beyond the heavy drapes lay a carpeted stairway.  At its top stretched a carpeted hallway.  To either side stood closed doors, which were covered in thick dark-green plastic padding.

            “More soundproofing?” Kirk asked, pointing.

            “Oh yes: the last barriers of Respectability.  Discretion ends at the door.   Hmm, seventeen, eighteen – here we are.”

            Thelin pressed a tiny button almost hidden in the doorjamb, and the padded door swung silently open.  Thelin stepped through quickly, and Kirk made haste to follow.

            Beyond the green door, everything was different.  The floor was scarred heavy-rubber tile.  The walls and ceiling were covered with bare – and patchy – acoustic baffling.  A single utility-lamp hung over a single huge, bare, round table.  The chairs surrounding it were cheap bent-metal and plastic, more than a little stained.  Along the windowless back wall ran a plain but well-stocked bar.  In the left-hand wall stood another padded door, and Kirk was fairly sure it didn’t lead to a closet.

            Around the table sat four other players, toying with a box of well-worn playing cards.  The first  was a middle-aged Klingon female in a flame-red dress, several kilos of jewelry, and a green plastic eyeshade;  the glass tankard of blood-wine near her elbow was already half empty.  To her right was an aging male Caitian in a once-expensive leisure suit that had seen better days;  his whiskers were gray, his fur was patchy, his ears were tattered at the edges, and he reminded Kirk of a chewed-up old alley cat.  Next to him rumbled and grumbled a Vrathi Incubator, noticeably overweight, with wrinkles showing in his/her four visible elbows;  s/he was stripped down to the Vrathi equivalent of trousers and an undershirt, and both looked rumpled.  The last of the assembled card-sharks was a tall and thin Themaxo, old enough to be long past budding-age, for Its pouches hung slack and shrunken;  It wore corrective lenses on three of Its eyes, too much copper jewelry for Its age, and was smoking a pipeful of particularly rank musk-weed.

            In short, they looked like a gang of truly dedicated Orion Poker-players.

            “Greetings, card-maniacs,” said Thelin, grinning roguishly enough to show a bit of fang.  “Is this everybody who’s playing?”

            “Verdoosh couldn’t show up,” rumbled the Vrathi.  “Something about legal troubles.  Who’s your official-looking friend?”

            “James T. Kirk,” said Kirk, wondering if he should offer to shake hands, show his teeth, growl, or what.  “And who might you be?”

            “James Kirk?!”  hooted the old Themaxo.  “The inventor of Fizzbin?”

            Kirk sighed, wondering how long it would take him to live that down.

            “Delighted to meet you, gentlebeing!  I’m Lubthax, off the Quethali Merchant.”  The old Themaxo wriggled Its chin-palps in delight.  “Hokhblatt, we have a real player with us!  Get the Human a drink.”

            “Barmaid all day and barmaid all night, is it?” the Klingon woman grumbled, pulling herself out of her chair.  “You like Saurian brandy, I hear.”

            “And this is Vrrraw,” Lubthax waved at the Caitian, who purred.  “He runs a small meat business down at the port supply-yards.  And this—“

            “I’m Tevrimm,” warbled the Vrathi, “Hmm, retired merchant, waiting for a ride home.  Your ship wouldn’t be heading toward Vrath, would it?”

            “No such luck,” said Kirk, taking a seat. “And we won’t be pulling out for two weeks, anyway.”

            “Too bad.”  Tevrimm drooped in his/her chair.  “I really needed something sooner.”

            “Something will turn up,” said Hokhblatt, returning with Kirk’s drink.  “Everybody set with fluids?  Yes?  Then let’s get out money on the table.”

            “Let Kirk shuffle and deal,” said Thelin, “And let’s start easy: aces high, nothing but joker wild, one cred to open.”

            “Make it local cash,” growled Vrrraw.  “It looks prettier on the table, and we can send downstairs for change when we call for food.”

            “Suits me,” said Kirk, taking the cards.

 

                                                            *           *           *

 

            By sundown the game had shifted to five-card draw, ten creds to open, and everybody’s glasses had been refilled at least twice.  Likewise, everyone had grown more talkative.

            “Gimme one,” Thelin grinned, “And raise you ten.”

            “If you’re dealing to an inside straight again,”  Kirk chided, “Remember:  that kind of luck strikes only once in a blue moon.  See you, and give me two.”

            “I’m out, except as dealer,” growled Hokhblatt.  “You’re getting too rich for a poor barmaid’s blood.”

            “Poorrr?  Hah!” purred Vrrraw.  “I happen to know that you’re half-owner of that bar.  I’ll see you, and take three.”

            “Sure, and you wouldn’t believe what I have to pay in protection money.  Enough to keep me poor, I’ll tell you.”

            Kirk pricked up his ears.  “Protection rackets?  Here?”

            “Oh gowglh, yes!  I’m paying off the district police captain, the fire marshal and the sanitation commissioner.  You wouldn’t believe how badly the Argo’ach want to keep the ‘vice trade’ for themselves, and gouge the hide off us foreigners.  Lubthax, wake up; how many do you want?”

            “Shrivelsacs, who dealt this mess?” Lubthax groaned.  “Against my better judgment, I’m still in – but give me four.”

            “Keeping an ace, eh?  Here you go.  Tevrimm, are you in this game?”

            “Hm?  Oh, yes.  Give me two.  Say, Lubthax, when’s your ship leaving?  And how much for a berth on her?”

            “Not for another five days, and you’ll have to pay 150 creds for really bad accommodations.  Besides, we’re not going anywhere near Vrath.”

            “No matter.  Sign me up.”

            “That desperate to get off Argo, eh?”  Thelin peered over pre-her cards.  “How hard are the badges looking for you?”

            “Not that hard,” Tevrimm squirmed, oily sweat oozing down his/her neck-folds.  “They just want more money than I’ve got.  Why do you think I’ve been holed up here, playing every game I could get, for the last eight days?”

            “They want money?  Oho!”  Vrrraw flicked his whiskers.  “That means they’re looking fairly hard for you, my poor squiggle-bug.  What did you do, assault the governor?”

            “Oh, molt!  I didn’t find out until after half the discs were already sold, I swear to Egg!  How was I to know that pictures of grub-worms were considered obscene here?  They confiscated all my stock and slapped me with a 5000-cred fine!  I really must get out of here…”

            “How,” Kirk asked, “Can anyone call pictures of grub-worms obscene?”

            “Can’t you guess?”  Hokhblatt rolled her eyes and gnashed her teeth.  “Grub-worms look like infant Horta.  Horta are intelligent beings.  On Argo, pictures of the unclothed young of any intelligent being are called Child Pornography.  Big sin: total confiscation and 5000-cred fine, for a first offense.  Sweet set-up for any off-world vid-importers.”

            “But Horta never wear clothes!”

            “That doesn’t matter.  It’s an excuse for total confiscation and 5000 creds.  Get it?”

            “Ye gods,” Kirk marveled.  “A well-intentioned law, used like that!”

            “As you Humans say,” Vrrraw purred, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

            “And I’m getting an interesting picture of Argo.”

            “Veroosh was trying to get me some cash,” Tevrimm mumbled.  “I’m worried that he didn’t show up.”

            “Maybe he sold you out for the reward money – which will, of course, be added to your fine,” Lubthax chuckled.  “I’ll raise you ten creds.”

            “Don’t say that!” Tevrimm wailed.

            “Calm down.  I’ll get you on my ship tonight, and you can hide there until we leave.  Unless you lose all your money gambling, of course.  You in?”

            “I fold.”

            “Clever.  Anyone else want to meet my bet?”

            “I’ll meet it, and raise you another ten,” purred Vrrraw.  “We Caitians have no problem with tattlers.  Hrrrr.”

            “What,” sneered Hokhblatt, “Do you pull out their whiskers?”

            “No need.  We just arranged for lots of supposed ‘stool pigeons’, as the locals quaintly call them, to give the badges wonderfully tempting – and false – information.  Now they don’t trust the word of any Caitian, about anything.  Simple.”

            “Wonderful!” Thelin laughed, tossing pre-her coins into the pot.  “So instead the Argo’ans think you’re all liars.  How do you do any business with them?”

            “We deal only with the local underground, and the spacer-trade.”

            “Really?” said Kirk, idly matching the bet.  “How big is the local underground?”

            “Huge,” tittered Hokhblatt.  “On a world like this it has to be.”

            “How do you mean, a world like this?”

            “Hah!  Prissy, smug, hypocritical, and more self-righteous than Vulcans.  Are all bets in?”

            “I’ll stand—“ Lubthax started to say.

            And right there they heard a distant explosion, then shouts, then loud thumps and sounds of smashing furniture.

            “Grokhpyagh!  That was the front door going down!” howled Hokhblatt.  “It’s a raid!”

            “How do you know?” Kirk asked, scrambling to his feet.

            “Urghblech, I run a spaceport bar, don’t I?”

            “Out!  Let me out!” wailed Tevrimm, skittering for the side door.  “This way!”

            “Out a window!” yowled Vrrraw.

            “Just a minute,” said Thelin, grabbing the coins off the table.

            “Don’t lose that!” clattered Lubthax, lurching after Tevrimm.

            “Hrrisss!  No windows!” hissed Vrrraw, leaping over them.

            “The door’s locked!” yelled Hokhblatt, tugging at it.

            “Stand back!” shouted Thelin – and pre-she made a running kick at the latch.

            The door surrendered, and flew open.

            By leaps, bounds, hops and wriggles, they all went thundering into the next room.

            The next room had been furnished for a very different purpose.  The walls were festooned with fake-flower garlands and lace, but again there were no windows.  The only furnishings were a fussy-frilly dressing table and chair, and an enormous four-poster bed.  On the bed, amid the tumbled lacey coverlets, lay a pot-bellied male Argo-Human, a hairy male Tellarite, an Orion green slave-girl, and two shaggy dogs.  It was anyone’s guess what they had been doing, but when the sudden crowd came stampeding through, the humanoids all sat up and screamed.

            The dogs decided that this meant war.  They leaped off the bed, barking like mad, and charged at the invaders. 

            The nearest invader, unfortunately, was Kirk.  The dogs tried to grab him by the legs, getting only mouthfuls of cloth, but it was enough to slow him down.  “Get off!” he roared, in his best command-voice.

            Vrrraw, who disliked dogs on general principles, turned on the beasts.  He hissed like a tiger, baring his claws and fangs.

            The dogs, deciding that oversized cats didn’t fall within their job description, turned around and ran back to the bed.  They leaped up among the tossing blankets and howling occupants, adding more confusion to the jolly tangle.

            “Door!” shouted Thelin, pointing to another green-padded door in the far wall.

            The others ran for it.  Kirk barely had time to notice that his pants-legs were torn and flapping before Thelin hit the door.

            Actually, Thelin executed another flying kick at the door, assuming that this one would be locked, too.  Pre-she was wrong; this door was unlocked, yielded to the first hint of pressure, gaped wide and let Thelin go flying through to land in a heap on the next room’s floor.  Everyone else tripped over pre-her on the way in, and most fell sprawling.

            As soon as they could pull themselves upright, they found themselves in a room with even more different furnishings.  This one was decked out like an ancient Arcturian torture-chamber, complete with leather hangings and tool-racks full of unguessable objects.  In the midst of what appeared to be an elaborate rack, a male Klingon was doing something ridiculous with a small Horta.

            “Goghblutt!” Hokhblatt shouted, seeing him.  “How could you?!”

            The Klingon actually cringed.  The Horta promptly wriggled out of the rack and started burrowing through the floor.

            “It’s not my fault,” Goghblutt wailed.  “I couldn’t help myself!  All those pictures of grub-worms—“

            “Don’t blame me for this, you— you molt-fungus!” Tevrimm howled.

            The Horta hit the floor below with a crash like colliding starships.

            “That’s done it,” Lubthax groaned.  “Now they know we’re up here.”

            “No windows!” Vrrraw howled.

            “Another door!” Thelin pointed.

            They all ran for it.  This time, Thelin remembered to try the knob first, which worked.  Pre-she ran through into darkness.  All the other card-players followed—

            --and found themselves in the clutter of a broom-closet.

            “Now what?” panted Vrrraw, pulling the door shut behind them.  “Do we keep quiet and hope the badges won’t search the closets?”

            “No such luck,” Hokhblatt growled.  “They’ll search every inch of the place, looking for valuable ‘evidence’ to confiscate.”

            “Hang on,” whispered Kirk.  “I’ve got an idea.  Everybody, hug me.”

            “Not now, you mad fool!” hissed Thelin.

            “Do it!” snapped Kirk.  “It’s our ticket out of here!”

            Everybody promptly laid a hand, paw or tentacle on him.  He whoofed under the impact.

            “Is this right?”

            “What’s this supposed to do?”

            “Shush!  They’re coming!”

            Everyone could hear the loud thumps of multiple boots galloping up the stairs.

            Kirk managed to pull his communicator from his belt and open it.  “Enterprise,” he wheezed, “Emergency beam-up!”  And he hit the bug-out button for good measure.

            An instant later, sparkling blue mist surrounded them.

            A moment after that, the darkness of the broom-closet gave way to the bright light and space of the Enterprise’s transporter room.  Behind the console stood a very surprised Yeoman Rand.

            Kirk hopped off the platform and strode to the console while the others looked about, orienting themselves.  He reached for the communications board and punched some buttons.  In a moment, the small viewscreen revealed a picture of the activity in the house he’d just left.  Kirk did a classic double-take, then looked closer.

            “Damn!” he roared, turning to face Thelin.  “Those aren’t the city badges; they’re the Shore Police!  What the hell’s going on?”

            “Then it wasn’t Veroosh selling me out,” blubbered Tevrimm.

            “No: governor’s orders to clean out the back-of-the-shipyards district, before important visitors could see them.”  Hokhblatt glared daggers at Kirk.  “Important visitors – like you.”

            “What, cleaning up so Starfleet won’t see?”  Thelin’s antennae flailed.  “But my ship’s been in port for a week.”

            “You said your crew all went off to the backwoods, hunting,” Kirk reminded pre-her.

            “Besides,” Vrrraw rumbled, “You just don’t have the clout that the Enterprise does – or else your crew isn’t as famous for being inquisitive.”

            “Thanks loads,” said Kirk, poking more buttons.  “Hell, you’re right.  Look at the shipyards district: SPs all over the place.”

            Hokhblatt and Vrrraw looked at each other.  “There goes my business,” they both said at the same instant.

            “Oh, Egg,” Tevrimm groaned, “And they’re even going after the respectable places, like Baxter’s.  Lubthax, how fast can we get to your ship?”

            “Sign me on, too,” sighed Vrrraw.  “They’ll confiscate my whole shop and bank account for fines.  If you can’t take me on except as crew, remember I used to be a pretty good machinist.”

            “Take me, too,” Hokhblatt chimed in.  “I can do amazing things with a replicator.”

            “What about your Klingon friend, back at Baxter’s?” Thelin asked.

            “Hah!  Let his Horta sweetheart take care of him!  I’m out of here.”

            “Well, this is going to cost us in extra food-staples, you know…” Lubthax wriggled one palp suggestively.

            “Right,” said Vrrraw, Hokhblatt and Tevrimm together.  They started handing him bits of Argo’an coin and jewelry.

            “Hmm,” said Thelin, glancing at Kirk.  “I suddenly understand the custom, among the local underclass, of carrying all one’s cash, wearing all one’s jewelry and dressing in survival-worthy clothes at all times.  Can you send us to our respective ships, Jim?”

            “Can do,” said Kirk, stepping around the console.  Rand hastily got out of his way.  “I’m already getting a very interesting picture of Argo Port City.”

            The transporter hummed twice more, leaving an empty platform.

            “There,” Kirk sighed in the ensuing silence.  “Now, I suppose, I’d best get back to my hotel and start over.  Yeoman, you have the board.”

            “Uhh, sir,” Rand giggled, “I’ll need the exact – I mean, exact – coordinates for your hotel room, sir.  You really don’t want to appear in the, uh, lobby, sir.”

            “Huh?  Why not?”

            “Uh, well, because you’re, uh, not exactly wearing pants, sir.”

            Kirk didn’t believe it until he looked down and saw exactly how much damage the dogs had done.  Then his language grew colorful enough to make Rand take notes.

Something Completely Different...

I won't be posting anything political today, not because there aren't a lot of juicy subjects in the news -- such as the growing revelations about China's complicity in creating and releasing the Covid-19 virus -- but because I've been posing political articles for weeks, and I think everybody (including me) could use a break.  So anyway, fans have been asking me for years to write the novelization of "Banned From Argo", so I did.  I couldn't get it published with the company that does the professional Star Trek books, nor with any of the fanzine publishers (who are an endangered species these days), so I archived it on the Archive of Our Own site.  But the layout there was miserable, and none of the fans knew how to find it.  So, dammitol, I'm going to serialize it here.  Enjoy!
                                                                                       --Leslie <;)))>< 

BANNED FROM ARGO   by Leslie Fish

                Prologue

 

 

FROM:                                                         TO:

Captain James T. Kirk                           Starfleet Command Headquarters                  

USS Enterprise     

                                      San Francisco, USA, Earth

                                                       Stardate 9810.20                                    

Dear Sirs:

            I realize that the regulations of the Federation Charter forbid censorship of any informative or artistic material, other than what is strictly required by state or military security.  Still, I must protest the common promulgation of a particular song, called “Banned From Argo”, which has been making the rounds all over this quadrant.  This song is scurrilous, libelous, slanderous, verges on the obscene and is derogatory to my ship, officers and crew.  Hearing this piece of tripe sung in every spaceport bar from here to Alpha Centauri is damaging to crew morale, and has caused more than one barroom brawl.

            Is there anything that your Morale Office can do to suppress the damned thing?  Can’t you at least find someone you can slap with a lawsuit?  I can assure you, there’s good legal grounds for a slander case;  the whole song is completely untrue, and totally misrepresents the  situation on Argo.

            Please respond soon.

                                                                               Sincerely,

                                                                          Capt. James T. Kirk

1.

When we pulled into Argo Portin need of R. &  R.

             Our crew set out investigating every joint and bar.

             We had high expectations of their hospitality,

             But found too late it wasn't geared for spacers such as we.

        

            “Argo station to Enterprise.  Docking ETA in five minutes,”  said the professionally cheerful voice from the speakers.  “Have a nice day.”

        "Enterprise standing by."  Kirk jabbed the cut-off button on his chair's arm, then stretched until he heard is neck-joints crackle.  "It'll be a long five minutes," he added to himself.            

            Spock heard.  “I assume, Captain,” he said, raising one elegant eyebrow,  “that  we should prepare for a humanoid stampede in the direction of the transporter room within four minutes and 47 seconds.  Should I inform Security?”

            Kirk relaxed in his chair and grinned at his First Officer.  Vulcans were supposed to have no sense of humor, but Spock could be wonderfully sardonic at times.  “I suspect,”  Kirk answered, “That Security will be first in line.  We’ll probably have trouble keeping even a skeleton maintenance crew on board for the next two weeks.”

            “But sir,” Lt. Commander Scott commented from his seat at the Engineering console, “We’ll no’ need a maintenance crew after the first three days.  D’ye no’ remember?  Yon station will be gi’en the ship a complete inspection, overhaul an’ fumigation treatment.  Thot means no one but a few engineers an’ a transport officer will be on board.”

            “Of course.”  Kirk rubbed his forehead.  “I really had forgotten that.  We’re all overdue for rest-and-recreation.”

            “Especially efter dese lest two mont’s,” Lt. Chekov muttered darkly from the Navigation/Gunnery console.  “If I nefer see enother Romulan again, it will be too soon.”

            “Wait a minute.”  Lt. Sulu looked up from the Navigation board.  “If the ship’s going to be fumigated, I’ve got to move my plants.”

            Lt. Uhura, just pulling the communications module from her ear, didn’t hear him.  “I’ve heard,” she purred, “That shore-leave facilities on Argo are excellent.  There’s supposed to be an old-fashioned market square in the groundside port city.”

            Just then the turbolift doors whispered open, and Dr. McCoy stepped onto the bridge.  “How much longer, Jim?” he asked, strolling up to the captain’s com-chair.  “We’ve got 435 overworked crewmen straining at the leash, downstairs.”

            “Just a few more minutes, Bones,” said Kirk, frowning at the viewscreen.

            “Three minutes and fourteen seconds,” Spock dutifully reported.  “That is, if the portmaster’s estimate is correct.”

            “Doctor McCoy,” Nurse Chapel’s voice sounded from the open-intercom speakers, “Do you have the exact location of that pharmaceutical company you wanted me to visit?”

            McCoy rolled his eyes and glanced toward Uhura, who duly patched him through to Sickbay.  “I left the note on my desk-pad,” he grumbled.  “What’s the rush, anyway?  We’ve got two weeks’ leave.”

            “Just checking.  Out.”  The speaker chirped as the connection closed.

            “That girl works too hard,” McCoy muttered to no one in particular.

            “We’ve all been working too hard,” Kirk smiled.  “Thank whatever powers that be, Starfleet rerouted us to Argo instead of sending us all the way back to Starbase Twelve.  Let’s hope this planet can give us the rest we need.”

            “The facilities are reputed to be excellent,” Spock volunteered.  “The planet Argo, more particularly Argus A-4, was one of the first extra-solar colonies founded after Humans achieved stardrive capabilities.  Originally settled by wealthy entrepreneurs who wished to maintain a lifestyle which was fading from Earth’s culture by the 22nd century, its society is based on manufacturing and interstellar trade.  Despite a rigorous adherence to a culture of classic ‘propriety’, the port city does contain extensive entertainment zones.”

            “Aye, ‘propriety’!”  Scott swiveled his chair around to face the bridge.  “Yon means just wha’ ye think it does.  Let’s hope the entertainment zones are extensive enou’ – an’ a wee bit livelier than they were the last time I came by this way.”

            “I would not presume to define your tastes, Mr. Scott,” said Spock, arching an eyebrow again.  “Argo Portusually caters to the local merchant trade, rather than Starfleet vessels, and I would have no data upon which to base an opinion.”

            “No?  Weel, I’ll say ta the rest o’ ye, if ye find night-life in Argo Port Citya bit too dull, come look me up at the Hotel Avalon, for thot’s where I’ll be.”

            Just then the Communications console beeped again.  Uhura hastily pushed buttons.  A blandly polite official face appeared on the viewscreen.  It was the port secretary.  “Please enter the docking area and proceed to the coupling gantry,” he said.  “Welcome to Argo, Enterprise.”

            Everyone but Spock replied with a spontaneous: “All right!”

            Sulu’s fingers danced on the Helm controls, aiming the ship precisely into the station’s dock.  “High time,” he almost sang.  “Now we’ll have a shore leave that planet won’t forget!”

            He didn’t know how right he was.


(To be continued)  

Sore Losers

    "Cet animaux, c'est tres mechand.

    Quand on l'attaque, il se defend."

It's not surprising that assorted Islamists all over the world have spent the past week attacking Jews and stirring up their gullible minions to do the same.  After all, in a single brilliant move the Israel Defense Force destroyed an underground fortress that took the Palestinians several months and three billion dollars to build. 

Hamas, the ruling party of Gaza, had dug and supplied a system of tunnels and caves along the border with Israel, in preparation for a massive assault -- which they expected they could pull off with impunity now that Biden is in the White House and making friendly moves toward Iran.  The Israelis knew about it and had mapped the complex pretty accurately.  When the Gaza irregular army lobbed a couple thousand rockets into Israel, the IDF loudly --- and confusingly -- announced to the news media that it was planning an "action" on the border and assembled a lot of tanks and rocket-launchers there.  The media happily blatted that information to the world, including Gaza.  The Hamas troops heard the word and predictably ran into the bunker to hide.  Then, instead of rolling over the border, the IDF launched a heavy barrage of bunker-buster rockets directly into the ground above the underground fortress;  this collapsed the whole complex, neatly burying all the cached weapons hidden there and the troops that had planned to use them.  The whole operation took less than two days.

Understandably annoyed at being so well tricked, as well as losing all those troops and weapons, Hamas went to its patrons in Iran and asked for help getting revenge.  Iran, eager to flex its muscles, activated all its influences/minions -- political, propagandistic, and terrorist -- to attack not only Israel but all Jews everywhere.      

Thus we have the spectacle of the UN's Human Rights Council creating its first ever Commission Of Inquiry to "monitor and report" on rights violations in Israel, Gaza, and the West Bank -- and nowhere else.  Not surprisingly, the session and resolution were arranged by the Organization of Islamic Cooperation: a collection of Muslim countries which have strongly supported the Palestinian Authority for years -- but, curiously, have said nothing about China's mistreatment of the Uighurs.  

We also got to see the infamous Alexandra Occasional-Cortex and Rashida Tlaib introduce legislation to try to stop the US from providing the Israeli Air Force with the precision-guided missiles that allow it to pinpoint military targets, reduce civilian casualties, and shoot down attacking missiles with its Iron Dome system.  Neither of them mentioned the Hamas rocket attacks on Israel -- some 4000 of them by now -- which deliberately target Israeli civilians and provoked the IDF's response.  We've also seen Tlaib's ally and Bernie Sanders' former campaign surrogate, Amer Zahr, insisting: "Stop condemning anti-Semitism.  Say 'Free Palestine' and nothing else."  

Other members of Congress have likewise repeated the provable lie that Israeli forces, responding to the Gazan rocket barrage, have "targeted innocent civilians", despite repeated evidence that the Israelis make extraordinary efforts to avoid civilian casualties.  There's an audio recording (https://www.westernjournal.com/listen...) of Israeli forces warning a Gaza landlord to evacuate his building because it's going to be bombed, and the landlord refusing to remove even the children because dead civilians "expose" the Israelis' "cruelty".

We've also seen news media lie shamelessly to encourage hatred of Israel, as could be expected seeing how Iranian agents regularly seduce news company staff (https://worldisraelnews.com/they-dran...) and use social media to encourage violence -- against Israel in particular, Jews in general, and even against pro-Israel reporters (https://abcnews.go.com/International/...).  And of course the usual pro-Palestinian flacks in large cities did their usual noisy protests (https://www.cnn.com/2021/05/22/us/pro...).  

What's unusual this time is the number of blatantly pro-Palestinian attacks on Jews around the world, from Los Angeles to Germany, Tokyo to London (https://hotair.com/john-s-2/2021/05/1...).  According to the FBI (https://bjs.ojp.gov/library/publicati...) Jews have been the most common victims of hate-crimes for many years, but before now the perpetrators are assumed to have been neo-Nazis or other right-wingers.  Now it's clear that the attacks come from Palestinians and their supporters (https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-can...), including BLM and Antifa.  The "Progressives" are showing their true colors.

What's remarkable about this anti-Jewish/Israel campaign is its organization.  From politicians and media CEOs to students and street-thugs, Iran is activating its agents around the world.  Clearly this is Iran showing its muscle, hoping to intimidate any ally or sympathizer of Israel.                

The problem with this tactic is that it can backfire seriously.  In a world where public cameras are everywhere, the active thugs/protesters are readily recorded and their pictures handed over to the police -- who can then hunt them down.  At a time when all political groups and political celebrities are intensely watched, they're also readily identified.  It isn't difficult to trace the violence back to its sources, which inevitably lead back to Iran.  This does not make more people love the Palestinians, or the "Progressive" Left.  Groups which were already pushing back against the Socialist Democrats' agenda now have added ammunition -- and more sympathizers.

Besides, the Jews themselves are no longer accepting this situation.  In recent days the street-violence has become no longer one-sided, but active brawls between pro-Palestinian and pro-Israel "protesters" (https://www.nytimes.com/2021/05/26/us...), and the police are growing more actively involved.  Intimidation does not work well on Americans, and the tide of public sympathy is turning against the Palestinians, their patron, and its minions.  

The US government's official position is to demand a cease-fire, which Israel will observe, but the Palestinians certainly won't -- not for long, anyway.  When the Palestinian Authority/Hamas/Hezbollah break the cease-fire, as they inevitably will, Israel will be justified in pounding Gaza to rubble -- and the Palestinians won't have much sympathy from the rest of the world.  

Neither will Iran.  Neither will their "Progressive" supporters.  Hamas and friends will end by paying a high price for their revenge.

--Leslie <;)))><         

  

      

On Gender

The other day I came across an Internet news article that I thought had to be a joke, but on checking out the story I found that it was true.  At least two states right now have fierce internal battles going on over bills that would make it illegal to perform trans-gender treatments on pre-pubescent children without their parents' consent.  That's right: pre-pubescent children.  Apparently there really are people actually fighting to stop this bill.

I don't know who came up with the idea that kids under 12 have enough knowledge to choose gender-reassignment treatment, but they were idiots.  GR transition requires puberty-blocking hormones, which also interfere with growth, and have permanent effects.  The surgery renders the patient permanently sterile, and inevitably cuts nerves.  Children may be very intelligent, but they're unavoidably ignorant;  there's no way a pre-pubescent child can appreciate the profound effects of gender reassignment.  Yes, the parents should damn-well be consulted.  So should the kids' psychiatrists.  For that matter, the people opposing the bill could benefit from psychiatric help too.

Of course, even parental approval is no guarantee.  Just a few days ago a BBC talk show featured a couple who were quite happy with their baby girl choosing to transition to a boy at the age of two.  The father said outright that biological sex and gender are different things, and the show's host sneered at society for putting children in "a girl or a boy box".  I seriously doubt that a two-year-old has any idea about what "transitioning" to the opposite sex entails.    

Frankly, the Transgender "Movement" has gone over the edge on this one.  In fact, I think it's gone over the edge by considering itself a political "Movement" in the first place.  Note that the same people who think it quite all right to be any gender you want to have been known to raise holy hell about people trying to be any race they want to -- even though changing one's skin-color, hair-texture or nose-shape requires much less major surgery or chemical treatments than changing gender.  Obviously something more than just gender dysphoria is going on here.

Now certainly there are people who simply can't shake the feeling that they were born in the wrong bodies, either for genetic reasons (such as inheriting three chromosomes: XXY or XYY) or for longstanding psychological ones, and no other treatment than gender reassignment will do -- but normally such cases are rare.  There aren't enough of them to form a community, let alone affect local or larger politics.  

That's what seems to be the point.  After two years of watching the successes of political hustlers like BLM and Antifa -- not to mention a year of being locked up at home for fear of Covid-19 -- it's understandable that discontented people would envy the power, the excitement, the sheer fun of rioting in the street (not to mention the pleasures of self-righteousness, of being morally superior to everyone outside the "movement").  All that's needed is a cause -- any cause -- a big enough crowd and sufficient outrage.  It takes time, and judicious use of the Internet, to raise enough numbers and outrage to create a "Movement";  it also takes a lot of smaller "actions" as training-runs.  This explains such peculiarities as cyber-mobbing anyone who mistakenly calls an old but transitioned acquaintance by their "dead" name, or people who were born and raised male for the first 20+ years of their lives "transitioning" to females and then competing in women's sports where they sweep the boards.  These look like deliberate provocations, meant to advertize a political movement, rather than attempts to secure everyone's equal rights to be treated decently and otherwise left alone.  

The movement itself has become more important than the cause, to the point of turning on its roots and allies.  It grew out of Gay Lib, which in turn evolved from Feminism, which historically began in the US beside Abolitionism.  When slavery ended (at the cost of more than half a million American lives) and Abolitionism progressed into the Civil Rights movement, it should have stayed allied with Feminism, especially after women won the vote in 1920.  Unfortunately, cracks in the alliance soon appeared, largely due to destructive elements in Black culture -- as detailed in Prof. Thomas Sowell's book, Black Rednecks and White Liberals -- which still afflict it today.  During the '60s opposition to Women's Lib was actually greater than opposition to Black rights;  note that the Civil Rights Act passed in 1964, while the Equal Rights Amendment failed -- despite the fact that women well outnumber Blacks in the US.  Nonetheless, both groups made steady gains via court cases through the '70s and '80s, gains enough to encourage a still smaller group -- Gay Liberation, comprising at most 10% of the population -- to likewise push for equal treatment, and by the same means: largely through the courts, based on the Civil Rights Act, otherwise through the media.  By the 1980s all three groups were pretty evenly accepted by, if not assimilated into, mainstream American culture under the general label of "liberalism". 

Only the extremist fringes of all three movements had any argument with each other, usually over degrees of assimilation.  All three fringes wanted to push their own values and tastes onto the mainstream culture, and their tastes were often at odds.  Louis Farrakhan's Nation of Islam, for example, was fiercely sexist -- and Farrakhan was working hard to become a national celebrity.  It didn't help that the Liberal political faction was developing a fringe of its own that was growing more and more at odds with the majority of the population.  Although the concept of equal rights for everyone was commonly accepted in America, the beginning of the '90s was not a good time to launch yet another sex-based political movement, especially one that involved less than .5% of the population and was not particularly popular with the previous three equal-rights campaigns.                        

Recent history shows that the Transgender Movement added to its numbers by going after the media, first advocating tolerance -- which was no problem by itself -- then touting various transitioned celebrities.  This didn't gain much steam until after Trump was elected, whereupon the movement joined the noisy anti-Trump faction and its push for "intersectionality": an attempt to collect everybody who didn't vote for Trump under one roof.  Only then, assuming safety in numbers, did the movement start pushing "gender-fluidity" and transgenderism for children.  This, in my not-so-humble opinion, was a serious mistake -- and may prove to be the key to shattering the whole Socialist-Democrat/Progressive/Liberal faction.  

First off, "gender" and "gender roles" are two very different things.  Various societies around the world and throughout history have viewed the sexes very differently, with far-reaching consequences.  For the last two millennia most societies have been patriarchal, but before that there were a good number of matriarchal and ambiarchal societies -- and there still are a few in odd corners of the world today.  A vastly underrated study, The Dominant Sex by M. and M. Vaerting, details how this difference in attitude affected not only the laws, politics and economies of those societies but the very size and shape of their individual peoples.  Archeologists have noticed that, among the ancient Teutons, Celts, and the very ancient (before 1000 BCE) Spartans, it's difficult to tell the skeletons of the adult males from the adult females without DNA tests because they're of generally equal height and muscle-attachments;  clearly they were given the same food, physical exercise, dress and expectations from infancy.  Ancient writers from those periods also tell that among those tribes the men and women were equally tall, equally strong, dressed alike and had similar work.  In a truly egalitarian society there's no advantage or disadvantage in being of one sex or the other -- or, we can assume, in being of one race or another;  therefore there's no reason to envy a different gender, or race, or want to become of that gender, or race.  Such envy, or desire, is normally the result of social inequality.  

I can support this from my own experience.  When I was little, I'd go to school in the prescribed skirt and blouse and leather shoes -- but as soon as I got home I'd change into bluejeans, T-shirt and sneakers, and run outside to play with the other kids, who were mainly boys.  I didn't do it because I thought I was a boy (I knew perfectly well that I wasn't), or because I wanted to be a boy (who wanted a body that was clumsy, smelled bad, and had its tender parts waving in the breeze, at just the right height to be kicked or poked or snagged on thornbushes?);  it was because I wanted to be treated like one.  I wanted to be a default-setting human being, allowed to run around in the woods and climb trees and play with big dogs, not subject to disgusting "lady lessons" (remember those?) or required to be fragile or scolded for mussing my clothes.  In short, I wanted equality -- plain and simple.

This is where the Transgender Movement collides with Feminism, Black civil rights, and the real intentions of all those citizens who voted not so much for Trump as against Hillary or Biden.  Black culture in America today is still infected with patriarchal sexism.  Women's Lib is still mainly devoted to equality of the sexes.  Mainstream society is still horrified at the idea of children "transitioning" and all that entails (which includes effective castration).  I can understand real transgender people wanting to be part of an exciting "movement" rather than a tiny minority, but by insisting on adding to their numbers by enlisting children to the cause they've gone well over the line.  The reaction just might blow the whole Progressive alliance apart.  

If that happens, the alliance will deserve it.

--Leslie <;)))><      

          

         

 

Advice for Cops

As most of you know, I've been an ideological Anarchist all my adult life.  I've also done my share of marching in the streets -- for peace, civil rights, and labor causes -- and had a thwacking acquaintance with many cops thereby.  I also lived for 12 years in Chicago, about which no more need be said.  As a natural result, I have no reason to love the police.  

On the other hand, I'm also a realist.  I know as well as you that, at least until we can create an efficient militia system to replace them, we need local police to protect the citizens from crime -- usually by catching the criminals after the fact and locking them up where they can't get at their victims.  We've also seen, over the past few months, what happens when the police are pulled back or constrained -- by various politicians -- from doing that job.  I won't go into the complex politics of why the police are being thus constrained, even threatened with "defunding" or actual "disbandment", but in all fairness I'll make some suggestions as to how the police themselves can improve this situation.  I've mentioned some of these before, but they're worth elaborating now.

How to deal with the "defund/disband" campaign:  

Go on strike.  

Seriously.  Announce the strike at least a week in advance, very publicly, and give the public warning.  Also tell the public how to defend themselves while you're out on strike.  Give them instructions on how to get together and hire private security-guards, and especially give them training on how to organize, arm and train a proper citizen Militia.  With luck, they'll know how to maintain such a Militia even after your strike is over.  Meanwhile, while out on strike, moonlight as private security guards.

Insist that you won't return to work until the people -- not the local government -- bring up a petition asking you to return.  Then insist on your demands.  These should include no more talk about "defunding";  instead, increase the police department's budget and spend every penny of the increase on purchasing -- and intense training with:

    1)  Stun-weapons -- stun-guns, stun-batons, stun-shields, wired and wireless tasers.

    2)  Also  improved high-volume smoke-grenades rather than tear-gas.  A cloud of smoke is much less likely to cause fires or blow back on and incapacitate your own troops. It can, however, keep rioters from seeing where to throw firebombs and bricks.  Police armed with stun-shields and stun-batons can safely charge into the crowd and "hunt by Braille" until the rioters are all down and snoring.

    3)  Likewise MAVs -- miniature solar-powered spy-drones, easily disguised as large insects (I'd recommend the North American Silk-Moth) or small birds (I'd recommend Hummingbirds) -- which can deploy above the crowd, pick out which marchers are carrying bricks, acid-bottles and firebombs in their pockets and backpacks, and get pictures of them.  MAVs can also fly high above the crowd to see which way it's going, and which way spin-offs from the crowd are going, and report back to a centralized computer in a mobile command-center.

    4)  Improved police armor, including polarized clear face-shields to prevent blinding by laser-beam, improved breathing filters, and more extensive body-cameras.

Also demand immunity from Critical Race Theory "Sensitivity" Training, which creates racism rather than curing it.

Once granted your demands and back at work, use some of the increased funds to hire more Black cops -- also Latins, Asians and Native Americans if they'll take the job, but definitely enough non-Whites ("People Of Color") so that every cop on the street is paired with at least one non-White.  This won't prevent accusations of Police Brutality, but at least it will guarantee that the accusers can't fall back on "racism" as an excuse for getting reduced charges, political clout and money.  

Be serious about creating, organizing and maintaining those civilian Militias;  you'll need their help against the crooks and politicians.            

Don't bother talking to the media;  they'll never believe you anyway, and they're likely to twist whatever you say into supporting their own political agenda.  Also pass that word on to your Militias -- and listen to what they have to tell you in return.  Make a habit of recording and filing whatever citizens say to you;  you never know when it will come in handy, as in the case of the Boston Marathon bombers. 

These tactics will, at best, create the efficient Militia system that we need.  At worst, it will damn-well improve police/citizen relations.  Remember that, no matter how well propagandized by politicians, "activists", the media, academia and the entertainment biz, average people trust in what they see and hear for themselves.  This has been the downfall of many a tyrant -- and crook -- before this.  Take it from a practical Anarchist.

--Leslie <;)))><      

      

Cop Killings and Cop-Killings

I rarely quote whole articles by other people, but this one deserves it.  

"Four Police-Related Deaths and the Importance of Context.

            by Alan M. Dershowitz

"The world is focused on three police-related deaths: the killing of George Floyd by former Officer Derek Chauvin; the shooting of Daunte Wright by former Officer Kim Potter; and the shooting of Adam Toledo, a 13-year-old in Chicago, by Officer Eric Stillman. There is a fourth death that has not received comparable attention: Police Officer Darian Jarrott was murdered in cold blood by a career criminal, Omar Felix Cueva, whose car the officer stopped and politely asked for identification.

"These four cases taken together, demonstrate the considerable disparity among cases involving police-related deaths. Each case presents different facts, different legal considerations, different moral conclusions, and different lessons to be learned. Let us consider them each separately, as they deserve.

"The death of George Floyd was entirely unjustified by any standard of legality, morality or appropriate police conduct. Even if Chauvin initially had the right to place his knee on Floyd's neck or shoulder, there was no reason to do so after Floyd had been handcuffed and subdued. Surely Chauvin should have stopped what he was doing the moment Floyd lost consciousness and stopped being responsive. The legal issues in that case are a matter of degree: was Floyd's death caused exclusively by Chauvin or were there other preexisting causes as well? If caused by Chauvin, did it constitute murder or manslaughter? These are complex questions that should be resolved by a properly instructed jury, not by a mob led by Congresswoman Maxine Waters demanding a murder conviction, or else!

"The accidental shooting of Daunte Wright by Kim Potter was simply not a crime by any recognized standard of law or justice. It was a tragic mistake by a police officer with more than 20 years of positive experience in protecting the innocent from the guilty. Wright was a fugitive from a charge of attempted armed robbery of a woman with a pistol. Potter should not have been charged and should be acquitted if brought to trial. The decision to charge her was based not on the rule of law but on the demands of the crowds.

"The shooting of Adam Toledo is more controversial and nuanced. The 13-year-old — whose gang nickname was apparently "Lil' Homicide"— had fired a gun that he was still holding when the police confronted him and his 21-year-old accomplice in a dark alley. Toledo threw his gun behind a fence but it is unclear whether Officer Stillman knew Toledo was no longer armed when Stillman pulled the trigger less than a second after Toledo threw his gun behind the fence, out of the view of the officer.

"The murder of Officer Darian Jarrott is uncontroversial. Jarrott stopped Omar Cueva and politely asked him to get out of the car. Cueva then pulled out a gun and shot Jarrott multiple times. Jarrott left behind a wife and three children.

"The refusal by radical anti-police bigots to acknowledge the dangers faced by decent, honest, non-racist police officers — which the vast, vast majority are — endangers us all. But it endangers high-crime communities most. We must train police better in order to minimize the use of excessive force, as in the Chauvin case, or mistakes as in the Potter case. But training costs money, and defunding, or reducing funding, will result in less training and more unnecessary deaths.

"Justice is a double-edged virtue. We need justice for the victims of police misconduct, and we need justice for those falsely or excessively charged with police misconduct. The Bible commands "Justice, justice must you pursue." The repetition of the word justice confirms the need for justice both for the accuser and the accused. Maxine Waters is seeking justice for neither. She is demanding vengeance without justice, without due process and without morality.

"The police must be held accountable for deliberately employing excessive, especially deadly, force against minority and other individuals. But they, too, must be accorded the presumption of innocence and the due process of law. (The city manager of Brooklyn Center, Minn. was apparently fired simply for saying that Kim Potter would be accorded due process!) The rule of law must govern every case, without the heavy thumb of the angry crowd on the scales of justice."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

--Leslie <;)))>< 

The Offendedness Game

 

You can't make this stuff up.  According to the Portland Tribune (https://pamplinmedia.com/pt/9-news/50...), a local high school not only changed its name from "Woodrow Wilson High School" to "Ida B. Wells-Barnett High School" -- apparently because Wilson is now seen as "racist" -- but also chose to change its mascot from The Trojans (??) to an evergreen tree, and now the school board is arguing over whether or not an evergreen tree can be considered "racist"-- because, somehow, evergreen trees might be seen as connected to lynching.  Yes, I'm serious!  And, apparently, so is the school board.

Yes, the cult of Woke-ism has gotten this crazy.  I've seen reports that they now consider mathematics to be racist, and Disney's "Snow White" is sexist, and even mentioning that the Colorado mass-shooter was a Jihadist is Islamophobic, and using common pronouns is transphobic, and...  well, there seems to be no end to what the Wokey-dokes can find to be outraged about.  There ought to be some rules to the game.

So, in the spirit of good fun, latest fashion, and political correctitude, I propose The Offendedness Game.

You play it like this.  Take a dictionary, close your eyes, riffle the pages and stop on one at random;  then poke your finger blindly at the page until you make contact with it.  Open your eyes and see what word you've found.  Now, try to find some reason to declare that word's definition to be racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, Islamophobic, xenophobic or able-ist.  Give yourself a score of 5 points for racism, 4 for sexism, 3 for homophobic, 2 for transphobic, and 1 each for Islamophobic, xenophobic or able-ist. If possible, find multiple reasons to be offended and add up your scores.  Give yourself an extra point if your reason is really elaborate and attenuated.  The winner of the game gets to preach his/her argument about the word to the nearest academic journal and become a Woke celebrity.

For example, riffling blindly through my Webster's Concise Dictionary I come across...  Hmmm, "footbridge".  Definition: "a bridge for pedestrians."  Now, what can I make of that?  

Well, a bridge for pedestrians obviously doesn't carry as much traffic as a bridge for vehicles, so it could be considered "inferior"...  Aha!  So a "footbridge" is a minor convenience which the "privileged" allot for the "inferiors" -- such as slaves (5!) and women (4!) -- to use.  So "footbridge" is both racist and sexist, and I get a score of 9 points.  See how easy that is?

Let's try again.  Riffle, point, open eyes...  "Machine".  Hmmm.  

What first comes to mind is the classic rock song, "Welcome To The Machine", about the horrors of graduating from high school, finding out that you have to work for a living, and therefore must dress, speak and act as your boss wants, at least part of the time.  Oooh, how oppressive!  Obviously, the "machine" is the evil-evil Capitalist System, which is also Systemically Racist --  and sexist, and everything else.  Hooray!  I get a whole 17 points!

One more time: riffle, point, open...  "Safflower".  Uh...  Webster's definition: "an herb with seeds rich in edible oil".  Okay, how to make that offensive to anybody?

Okay...  An "herb" is a vegetable, and "vegetable" when applied to a human being means someone totally brainless.  "Seeds"?  Hmmm, I don't think there's any way to refer that to human sperm and ova, but it could refer to potential.  "Rich" and "edible oil" are promising;  the "rich" are always evil-evil (unless they're Democrats), and "edible oil" is valuable.  So... "brainless person", "rich" and "oil", with hints of potential and food;  they add up to a brainless rich person who made their fortune in oil, and... maybe assuages guilt by donating generously to Progressive causes?  Well, that's elaborate and attenuated enough to win me 1 point, but it doesn't point to anything racist, sexist, or etc., dammitol.

Aha!  But what if I can put it into a sentence -- even a slogan?  I've got it:  "Safflowers create only footbridges to The Machine".  How's that, now?  That would give me the whole 17 points, plus 1 for elaboration -- a total score of 18!  Whee!

Now, where should I push that slogan and its definitions?  Salon?  The Atlantic?  The New York Times?  All suggestions are welcome.  

And have fun playing the game!

--Leslie <;)))><