All's Well That Criswell

Posted on Fri 24th Sep, 2021 @ 6:20pm by Voareth Darqaron & Criswell Sandbags
Edited on on Fri 24th Sep, 2021 @ 8:23pm

2,110 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: A Good Day to Hunt
Location: Empok Tyr
Timeline: MD -14

Poark stepped into the dim corridor. Only after he was pushed though. He was poking his head out of the airlock and looking both ways, time and again, trying to build the courage to take that first step. A hand on his back had aided him.

Poark did let out a squeal. He expected phaser fire, a blade, some form of battle cry, only for his life to come to a screeching halt. But none of that came and he only looked around the emptiness, trying to act brave.

“Welcome to Empok Tyr,” he said taking in the abandoned station. “It’s ok Lumate. See?” He spread his arms out, showing no sign of anyone else present.

“My name is Lumaite…Loo-May-ee-Tay,” said the Romulan. He emerged into the corridor, his disruptor drawn, looking in all directions. There better not be any surprises Pork.”

“Poark. My name is Po-ark.” And after a deadly glare from the Romulan, “but Pork is fine.”

“How do you know of this place, Pork?”

“It’s an old Cardassian station. Been in and out of the hands of the Klingons, the Cardis, and the Rommies ever since Hobus went kablooie. You know, ever changing spatial claims and all. Tyr, the planet down below is barely an M-Class. No one seems to have much interest in it; the planet or the station. Empok Tyr is an amazing place to do business, the kind you want to be under the radar if you know what I mean. I forget who has laid claim to it now. Whoever it is, they don’t care about it.”

Lumaite holstered his disruptor. “And your contact is still en route?”

“Should be here in half an hour by my count. Should we get your merchandise situated?”

“You…should get my merchandise situated. I’m not paying you just for the brokerage.”

Poark decided to not argue and ventured back and forth between station and ship, moving boxes and boxes of, “Romulan Ale is not much of a contraband anymore Loo-My-eeee-tay,” he overpronounced. “The Federation made it legal during the Dominion War.”

“Some of us have managed to double the alcohol content, making it more potent. My sources say the Federation is contemplating making it illegal again.”

Poark struggled with the last crate of ale, even strained as he placed it down. “With Romulus gone, I guess making a living for yourself means upping the ante, taking on jobs you never thought you would take. Making the trade in this location makes more sense then. For a moment there I thought,” and as he turned around to face Lumaite, a disruptor blast whizzed by his face, striking the corridor wall behind. Poark squealed in fright and dropped to the floor, the first more for all Ferengi in a firefight. He quickly launched himself behind a crate of Lumaite’s super-ale. “What. What!?!”

“There is a price for your head Poark,” said Lumaite. “FCA wants you out of the way. I figured, what is that saying (?), ‘two cats, one stone’.”

“It’s bird!” yelled Poark as he popped his head up real quick. Lumaite sent off another round which struck a crate of ale, sending the potent liquid and debris in all directions. Poark used the fray as the opportunity he needed to charge toward and enter an open ventilation duct. He did and he made it. Two reports of a disruptor nearly ended him as he made his charge.

Poark made his way further into the station’s ventilation ductwork. Too much noise meant a disruptor blast nearby, so he ventured forth slowly and quietly. Every so often, he could hear the chirp of a handheld scanner. Lumaite was scanning for him. Luckily for Poark, the nearby star and the barely M-Class planet below gave off enough radiation to disrupt biological scans. With the station being defunct, said radiation was able to permeate the station. Long exposure, say, a year could prove detrimental to one’s biology.

Poark always knew the FCA was going to try and swindle him out of his wealth and/or life at some point. His skills and career as a broker made him nearly indispensable. Nearly, because someone was certainly trying to dispense with him.

He managed to lose Lumaite and double back toward the docking ring. It was only minutes before Criswell was to come out of warp for the exchange, but Poark decided not to wait for that. With Lumaite’s double-cross, Poark had another idea in mind.

He emerged from the ventilation shaft after kicking out the cover. Certainly enough noise was made to call back his Rommie-would-be-executioner. Poark made his way aboard Lumaite’s quaint vessel and powered it up. Closing and sealing the airlock, he spun up the polarization of the hull in the event Lumaite had an emergency site to site transport in his pocket. Raising the shields for added measure, Poark started away. A big grin stretched across his face as he was still in possession of his life and for the advance Lumaite had paid him. Undoubtedly, Lumaite was going to reclaim the advance over Poark’s dead body. Fortunately, fate had other ideas in mind.

With the FCA trying to get rid of Poark, that is, if Lumaite was telling the truth, then Poark’s finances were certainly going to be frozen, which is why he kept his wealth spread out over vast distances in various banks. With the advance he had in hand, he could buy his way into some kind of refuge. The Federation was always a good bet.

Back on Empok Tyr, Lumaite had no choice but to wait patiently for his buyer and possibly a way off the station.

Only a few minutes of boredom had passed when another ship came out of warp and connected to the station. The ship's outer plating had clearly seen a bit of phaser fire, but the small nacelles were clearly in tact. It resembled a Cardassian runabout, complete with a phaser bank that looked hardly used. The piece of junk wouldn't affect something as big as a starship, but could probably easily weaken the engines of a smaller craft. The small shuttle was also very maneuverable, with strong aft and forward thrusters. This was not at all a ship ready for battle, but was modified enough for a quick retreat.

Within minutes, a tall yet not imposing man entered through the airlock carrying a small flip device the size of a flattened Federation tricorder in his left hand. Hanging from his right hand was a wooden device the size of a human baseball bat that was looped over his wrist with a strong leather strap. The wood on the club was splotched with brown-ish stains. Blood, perhaps?

The man had wide eyes that made him look wild and a little crazy, like someone who should've been kept in his remote chamber never to be unleashed. When he spoke, the voice sounded at first like the man was insane.

"Hello," said the intense stranger. "My name is Criswell. I was supposed to be meeting a Ferengi named Beef or something. He has some equipment of mine that I was hoping to purchase... legally I assure you, Mister...?" he asked, flashing a strangely friendly smile. His tone of voice was oddly jovial for a man who looked like he could kill a child in his sleep.

“Lumaite,” said the Romulan. “Just Lumaite.” He stood a ways away from the airlock, maintaining distance between himself and the newcomer, with the merchandise between them both. Lumaite looked the man over and noticed his choice in weapons. He brought a wooden club where Lumaite brought a disruptor. If Criswell was looking for a fight, then he sure came ill-prepared. “And Poark…is his name…never mentioned anything about equipment. My only interest here is to sell this lot of Romulan Ale.” He pointed to the many crates between them. One was clearly destroyed. Glass and drying liquid was sprayed about the vicinity. “Twice as potent as what the Federation declared legal but indistinguishable when compared to the regular stuff when subjected to any and all scans and tests. Save for consumption that is. Poark informed me you would be interested in buying this lot and move it into Federation Space unhindered. Being a Romulan, I would be subject to extreme vetting. Once inside Federation boundaries, sell it as you wish. Everyone wins.”

Criswell's brow furrowed slightly. "Poark did mention the Romulan Ale," he said. "And I told him I wasn't interested. Well then, you are not the 'equipment' person I was looking for. Still..." He considered the containers of ale. "Tell me... why is one of those crates smashed?"

Lumaite had a raised eyebrow. “Since he made no mention of your lack of interest in my ale to me, it seems our mutual acquaintance is not the honest businessman he made himself out to be.”

Criswell nodded, moving his eyes around the room, noticing the fresh phaser burns.

Lumaite stepped closer to the crates of ale, lowering his guard but keeping his attention on Criswell. “Poark demanded his cut of our arrangement, before we made a trade. When I refused, he drew on me. Opening fire, he destroyed one of my crates of ale. I, of course, fired back but he escaped. You know how wily Ferengi can be. He stole my ship in the process.”

‘Not for long,’ Lumaite thought. With a tracking device on it, he could find it easily.

"A wily Ferengi indeed," Criswell remarked. "Especially one with a price on his head. It was wise of you to cower behind that crate while Poark shot at you... with a Romulan disruptor by the looks of it, much like the one you have now."

Lumaite picked up well the hint of suspicion in Criswell’s voice. “Poark has spent much time in Romulan space. What WAS Romulan space,” he corrected. “He acquired more equipment than simply a disruptor.”

Criswell inspected the undamaged crates and even took a sip out of one of the damaged bottles from the wrecked container. "My, my, that is very good ale! I suppose I can take it off your hands. What are you asking for it?"

“A stash of this size of regular ale will bring 400 Talons. Since this ale is twice as potent…800 Talons, minus,” he pointed at the debris, “the destroyed crate…750.” He had been slowly stepped as he spoke and stopped just before Criswell, still outside of arm’s reach, even with his wooden club. “If you could provide transport off this derelict and help me track my ship, I only ask 400 Talons.”

Criswell giggled. "You need passage off this heap and assistance tracking your ship as long as I pay four hundred talons for your worthless ale? I couldn't get two hundred for that stash, and I don't even want it! I have a better offer. How about I get you off this station and you give me six hundred talons to find your ship, or four hundred if I'm merciful enough to take the Romulan ale?"

A moment ago, the man was complementing the ale. Now he insults it. Lumaite gave a little grin understanding the man to be haggling. Lumaite had to admit to himself that the loss of his ship was his own oversight. Letting Poark still be alive was his own oversight. Neither not for long. Besides, the price on Poark’s head would certainly cover his losses with the ale. ‘Desparate times,’ he reminded himself.

“Agreed,” said Lumaite.

Criswell grinned. "Excellent! There is another matter I must discuss... you see, I have an 'arrangement' with our mutual friend Poark, and to keep that arrangement I really need him alive. He may not be worth his weight in lobes but I stand to make a large profit from our dealings. Perhaps you and I could work together on finding the miserable dunce. Once my business with him is complete, I'll leave him in your capable hands. I get my equipment, you get your bounty. Win-win!"

Lumaite figured there was not much in the way of keeping this man from seeing and deducing the obvious, but he decided to keep his business to himself regardless.

“Yes. Perhaps we can work together.” Lumaite was pleased that this endeavor was not a total bust. At least he had means of getting off the derelict station. To show that he was willing to do his part of the work, he bent and picked up the first of the many crates of ale.

 

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