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.