Reading the Signs

Posted on Tue 16th Mar, 2021 @ 3:48am by Yuliette Marayan Dr.

791 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: Business Not At All As Usual
Location: Brown Sector: Zodiac - Findley's repair shop

This was the spot where Captain Ulte said he’d last seen Yuliette, the man thought to himself as he examined the shop front called ‘Findley's Repair, Rental, and Sales’ in big vinyl lettering. It looked rather like a fixture of this so-called “Zodiac”. The windows were half obscured by paper bills and the other half hidden behind some chalky whitewash swirls on the glass. Hardly the epitome of a fine electronics establishment.

As he opened the swinging door, a customer in a tattered red hoodie ducked under his arm carrying arm-loads of bagged purchases but not looking up to so much as say a word of thanks.

“You’re welcome,” he muttered, even though the thankless customer was already out of earshot. He shook his head at that and continued inside. The place was roughly organized categorically with cases and shelves, and an orion kid in a shop apron was sitting at a help counter, busy pretending to clean the innards of something to earn his keep.

The kid looked up from his task. “Hey mister.” He didn’t recognize the customer, so probably not a local. With a scar like that through his lip? Oritz was sure he would have remembered that face if he’d seen it before. “What brings you in?”

Ian, taking a stretch from his more intricate soldering work, returned to the general shop room arching his back and wearing his magnification goggles on top of his head, which had the effect of pushing up his hair, mad scientist style.

“Actually, I’m not here looking for any electronics or appliances.” The man observed the gang tattoos on the shop owner’s arm as he stretched. “I’m hoping you might have seen a client of mine, Miss Valentia Zugat.”

Ian shrugged. “Don’t know anybody by that name.”

“She may be using an alias. It would make sense under her unfortunate circumstances.”

The shopboy was squinting at him. “What happened to your face?”

The man touched his scar over his lip and looked amused at the shopboy’s outright question. “I grew up on a farm. Got too close to a harvester when I was fourteen. I’m lucky that’s all I got. But I figured farming wasn’t quite for me, so I chose law instead. Anyway, you don’t need to know about me, it’s my client I’m trying to help. Wait, I have a vid of her.” Reaching into his suit jacket, the man presented a button sized object in the palm of his hand— a recorded image flicked to life from the small holo-cast device while he watched their faces closely for any reaction. The looped video played a miniature hologram of a petite half cardassian woman in a flattering haute couture party dress and expensive jewelry, polishing off a glass of wine, and glowering about something. It didn’t seem to affect Ian Findley who had his arms crossed stoically, but recognition appeared to dawn in the shop-boy’s expression.

“I’m Miss Zugat’s attorney, Ansel Whittering.” He swapped the button projector back into his pocket and then produced a calling card from his jacket pocket and extended it to the boy. Ian Findley intercepted and snatched it en route, however. The man smiled. “I’d contact her about her pardon coming through but she’s been completely out of reach. She’s probably going by an alias. I’ve been doing my level best to find her. If you know anything about Miss Zugat, I’ll pay for the information out of my retainer. She’s very wealthy and needs to know she can return to her estate.”

“You just—” Oritz began before he got smacked across the back of the head by his employer.

“You just need to leave now.” Ian interrupted, pissed that Oritz’s whole face was one big easy tell. He watched this ‘lawyer’ through slitted eyes, giving him a cross between a grin and a snarl. “If you’re trying to find somebody and serve some sort of legal information, you can just go on up to the Sheriff's office upstairs. Leave it with them. Now if you’re not buying, counsellor, you can move along.”

“Of course. Right. The sheriff. They have a sheriff here? I’ll try that. Upstairs, you say?”

“Deck 2245.”

“2245. Thanks.” He stepped back out and looked back at the paint frosted glass. There was a muffled noise of the shopboy getting a stern talking to by his employer. Smiling, the man tilted his neck left and right to loosen it, then straightened his sports coat and decided to do some more asking around on this deck a while. He was close, he knew it.

 

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