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.
