Have I a deal for you! A measure of Paramount will get you Star Trek; and for half a Decker, some Star Traks is available. If you are strapped for cash, a little Meneks will buy you a whole BorgSpace.
Formula 419
To All Good-Hearted Entities:
It is against my nature, to reach out, to strangers, but I am in desparate need for hlep. Though I have not met with you before, I believe one has to risk confiding, in someone, to succeed in life and the persuit of Credits.
My name is Frenchina Damar. My Father, a rich busyness tycoon, has died an untimely death, although I suspect Fowl Play, leaving everything to me. This is unusual because I am Ferengi female. Ferengi females are not supposed to have good, bussiness sense, but I am unusual. And now, my evil uncles (whom I think actually are the ones to blame for my Father's Death) are out to steel the business from me.
The besiness was a commodities reseller. When Daddy died, he had on hand used warp nacelles, dillithium crystals, many, many things too numerous to list. If you ask, he probably had it. I want to follow in Father's steps, and I /know/ he had every Confidence in me when he was Alive. First, I need your help.
As I said, I am very, very, very desperate to keep the business away my eivl uncles. They will stop chasing me if it seems that the commodities, have been transferred to another holder. Please, oh-gentle-being, for a modest, no, negligee Cost, I will 'sell' you these items. In truth, you will be merely holding them for me - the deed, not the actual items...no worry for wearhouse space - until my uncles give up. With my uncles gone, you will then give the deed back to me.
In return, you may have /anything/, up to 10% the Total Cost of the Inventory (and it is a lot!), when all is complete. If you ask it of me, I am sure that it is preset in Father's inventory.
Please, please, please help me...I do not know how much longer I, a mere Female, can hold out, against, my evil, uncles.
Respectfully Yous,
Miss Frenchina Damar
*****
To Miss Frenchina Damar:
If your inventory stock includes omega altered used warp nacelle plasma (crystalline condensate) we would be interested in your proposal.
From,
Anonymous
*****
Dear Mr. Andanymus:
Oh, sir! I thank you ever so much for Riding in on your White Charger to save this poor female form her evil uncles! You will help me achieve my dreem to be the female first Ferengi to excel in the commodities resale markets!
Enclosed you will find coordindindinates. I will escape my uncle's' ever-watching eyes to meet you their. When we meet, we will make arrangements to complete the transaction. The Cost to you will be Minor, and the payback immense!
Your Bestest Fiend,
Miss Frenchina Damar
*****
"Andanymus?" rhetorically asked Second, a hint of scorn in his voice and a large dollop of suspicion coloring his mental signature. "/Andanymus/? And the grammar is suspect, not to mention some very creative spellings."
Several holowindows illuminated Captain's nodal intersection, reflecting not just the two drones present, but the multiple streams of consciousness currently prominent for sub-collective and Captain. Of them, foremost was the galactic ingredient map and its accompanying 'recipe' card.
"I'm just a piece of furniture now, am I? A metaphorical table, maybe a drafting board? Shall I go so far as to propose refrigerator door?" sarcastically inquired EMH Frank from a corner of the intersection. The map matrix had never been completely severed from the hologram, and so whenever the former was required, the latter was forced to manifest nearby as well.
Captain ignored all comments as he highlighted the fourth item on the recipe card, underneath three already crossed out. "Omega altered used warp nacelle plasma, crystalline condensate...not only do we actually recognized all the words, but we maintain engineering files describing the material." The consensus monitor was channeling the sub-collective, thus using the pluralities he otherwise tended to avoid.
Second was unimpressed. "The map shows the location of the condensate. The coordinates 'Miss Frenchina Damar' provided are nowhere near."
"So? The material has been observed and described." A file link was established to species #803, initiating yet another subsidiary holowindow to join the crowd. "It cannot be so rare as to reside in /one/ location within the galaxy. Besides, you /know/ what is at the coordinates described by the map. Do we /really/ want to go there if we do not have to? Supply Depot #761 was bad enough, and that was a minor outpost." Captain raised a valid point. However, he also conveniently omitted from the argument that the other five ingredients, both those acquired and those not, were, in fact, unique and had only a single origination.
Second frowned as he felt the point of view he was representing to be slipping. The civil conversation, despite what an uninformed hypothetical observer might construe, was merely the physical manifestation of the actual give-and-take and cold calculation that defined the consensus process.
"A corkboard. I am a corkboard at some university where everyone posts their announcements," muttered Frank to himself, ignored as he twisted a metaphor long gone stale.
As Second opened his mouth to respond to the rhetorical question posed, he froze: the consensus cascade was finalized. Adjacent, Captain similarly halted motion mid-sweep of prosthetic arm. In his corner, Frank merely sniffed.
"We will go to the coordinates proposed by Miss Frenchina Damar," announced Captain as he reanimated.
"Goodie," commented Frank acidly as the hold upon his program diminished. Map and recipe card vanished. "And if you excuse me, I need to return to the very important task I was working on before you required my presence-right-now: experimenting with theory to prevent partial elixir from putting more holes in this ship. As Delta has informed me several times, this sub-collective is quite adept at that particular activity without assistance from me. Damn it, no matter how many files are linked into my matrix, I'm a physician, not an engineer!" Frank disappeared.
Yes another window opened in the nodal intersection. Several possible courses were highlighted, all converging upon an unremarkable point in intergalactic space.
{Bah,} stated Weapons, {how much trouble can a single Ferengi female be? If she will not give us the condensate - and the warehouses probably has other items we require as well - we will just take it.}
The rendezvous described by Miss Damar's coordinates was not empty. Not quite. Waiting for Cube #347 when it arrived was not the anticipated vessel, but rather one inoffensive buoy, a meter long metal lozenge painted red and white. A decorative green light slowly pulsated at one end.
Stopping Weapons from using the buoy as weapons practice precipitated a minor tug-of-war within the dataspaces between his hierarchy and command and control. Weapons eventually lost, but not before a pair of torpedoes were sacrificed to the depths of space.
Now Captain stood alone in his nodal intersection, contemplating the opening frame of an audio-video sequence which floated in front of him. Center was a young - mid-teens - Ferengi female, her face displaying the tell-tale indications of anxious fear. The buoy had held a message, a transmission initiated once the cube had passed an invisible line 200 meters from the object. Broadcast automatically captured, this would be the fifth viewing.
{It isn't going to change,} noted Second. He was in Maintenance Bay #5, glancing through an out-of-date copy of 'Rockhound Surgery Monthly' while awaiting his turn upon a worktable for routine lower limb preventative maintenance. {Although, I do admit that there is a greater likelihood of change by the message, if considered on the cosmic scale, than that I expect from Doctor providing a new selection of reading material. This thing was published over five centuries ago!}
Captain ignored his backup's commentary. {Play,} he ordered the computer. The Ferengi lurched into motion.
"My name is Miss Frenchina Damar. I am so sorry I could not meet you here in person, but my evil uncles are suspicious and are watching me like a hawk. I could barely sneak this buoy away!" Frenchina reached up to nervously stroke an earlobe. "I don't know how much longer I can hold out...and I /so/ do not want to lose Daddy's business to my uncles, who will surely run it into the ground. Short-term profit is /not/ better than long-term gain, but that is /all/ they believe in! Woe is me!" A sob shook the Ferengi's frame.
"However, there is a solution. I know some people - some of Father's closest associates and trade partners - who are willing to help me. Unfortunately, my uncles are powerful, and the money to gain the assistance of these people is more than I have on hand. And I cannot sell any of /my/ merchandise because then my uncles will absolutely /know/ I am up to something - right now they only have suspicions - and will bring in the corporate take-over lawyers." The word lawyers was spat, an expression of disgust twisting Frenchina's face before modifying to abject despair. Finally, a glimmer of hope was suggested by pleading eyes. "You, kind Mr. Andanymus, can help. I know you can. If you can just loan me the money to pay for my escape, I will be eternally grateful. In fact, I'll increase your portion of the warehouse inventory to /15%/. That is sooo much more than your outlay of credit. It will be worth it! I beg of you! Help me!"
Frenchina's wails dissolved into additional sobbing. Tears shone on her face. Crying eventually slowed to a pair of hiccups, then silence. "You will not fail me, I know it. Please send me a letter when the transaction is complete so I will know that my salvation is at hand. A secondary channel to this transmission provides the crass, but necessary, details as to cost and allowable payment methods. I will be indebted to you, kind sir."
The message ended. The promised subfrequency was nothing like the primary transmission, instead an extremely business-like masculine voice specifying the recipient bank account, as well as supplying current exchange rates for a wide variety of items, from species-specific currencies to latinum to various types of livestock. The actual cost for Frenchina's deliverance was not an astronomical sum, but neither was it a bargain. Tacked at the end of the secondary channel was a contact number for a non-GPS Xenig delivery firm.
{Weapons!} chastised Captain as the buoy exploded. The named had managed to gain control of a neuruptor bank despite weaponry lock-out.
Weapons scoffed. {All data was transmitted. The buoy was most useful to us as target practice.} Mental tone radiated satisfaction at the fait accompli.
The ex-buoy represented a critical decision point: continue or abandon the pursuit? While the latter option was probably most pragmatic, the potential gain of the former was great. The crystal condensate location shown by the map embedded in the EMH's matrix was not without major risk; and, in comparison, a single Ferengi female was a non-threat.
The suspicions radiating from the bloc represented by Second, a collection of 'retired' hustlers and ne'er-do-wells, were dismissed as irrelevant.
Decision made, a new window replaced the visage of Miss Damar. It was a scrolling inventory list, including both the 'official' manifest and the items known to be hoarded by those drones of a collector nature. Money was not a commodity carried by Cube #347, except as represented by 180 of 510's coin collection. However, the sub-collective did possess several items on the exchange table; and they were highlighted on the inventory list as encountered. Miss Damar's acquisition would be accomplished via 2.3 crates of brandy, several barrels of nuerogel, and whatever else was deemed appropriate.
A Xenig of patchwork hull and an air of general disreputability appeared even before the sub-collective had finished scrutinizing the inventory.
*****
Dear Mr. Andanymus:
Thank you, thank you, thank you times infenity from me, kindest, most generous sir. I have recieved your Deposit, paid Father's (now mine!) busyness associates, and am safe. For the moment. I am sure my uncles will use they're many resources to find me, for I represent an even more vast sum of Credits which they surely desire.
Attached to this letter is a location where we can meet. There we will finish our Transaction, and you will be my ultimate savior. As a gesture of my good-will and overabundance of thanks, I will even bring you the omega altered used warp nacelle plasma (crystalline condensate) that you desire. This will be a gift special of me to you, and not part of the 15% Stake in my whorehouse inventory.
I hope you see you soon, most bestest of sirs!
Indebted Fourever,
Miss Frenchina Damar
*****
A small vessel was held in Cube #347's tractor beam grip. The ship was an Asset-class Ferengi yacht, a private speedster able to comfortably house six individuals within an atmosphere of luxurious narcissism and pleasure. While sub-collective files included schematics of a vessel twenty meters long, vaguely resembling a stretched version of a Second Federation Starfleet runabout, this particular specimen did not quite fit the expected standard. For one thing, cube files did not include the large holes which passed completely through the hull, exposing the interior to vacuum; and neither did melted scars from energy weapons overlaying the characteristic blast marks of torpedo near-misses constitute normal exterior decoration.
Commented Second, "It is not right."
"The ship has been shot up: what is there to be right about it?" challenged Captain absently. The window located fore of the nodal intersection was split into four quadrants, each displaying a different point-of-view from drones inspecting the derelict, but he paid no attention to it. Instead, Captain's gaze was distant as he rode the visual streams directly.
"It is too...perfect. Too artistic," grumbled Second, mostly to himself. His natal culture had been rife with corruption, drugs, and general violence, a civilization where it was perfectly acceptable for the strong to prey upon the weak. Among those pre-assimilation memories which remained to Second included ambush planning by a childhood gang and the best bait to use given the potential target.
Second's concerns were dismissed. Again.
{How is a Ferengi female to threaten an Exploratory-class cube?} demanded Weapons. {This vessel is barely worthy of target practice.} In emphasis, a neuruptor lanced out, missing the derelict by a mere eight meters.
{Hey! Drones working here!} protested 46 of 46 from his location on the almost-target's hull.
Inside the ship, 6 of 203 finally finished wiggling a meme-crystal from where it had been wedged within a slot on the primary navigation board. The computer had been among the casualties of battle, those files not erased by power surges transformed into unrecoverable hash. However, storage in the form of crystal media remained uncorrupted. {I found something.}
Captain held out a hand. Upon it materialized the crystal. He held it up to the light. "It looks intact."
"Give me that," said Second as he snatched the meme-crystal from Captain's grasp. "Who knows what sort of nasty viruses are on that thing. Give it to Assimilation to examine." The object under discussion vanished in a transporter beam.
{Hooray. I am called to do a duty. Joy,} morosely commented Assimilation. {Maybe my neural processor will be scrambled, maybe it won't. It does not matter either way. Estimated time to completion of media analysis is five minutes.}
"You and your bloc's paranoia is becoming excessive," complained Captain. He eyeballed Second out of the corner of his whole eye before shunting visual reception back to the datastreams originating from those drones on the derelict. "It is probably a Ferengi financial report or an 'entertainment' video, just like the other meme-crystals we have found."
Retorted Second, "One cannot be too careful. This whole situation is just /too/ perfect."
Five minutes later, the contents of the crystal declared to be clean of electronic nasties. No stories with plots of a dubious nature were revealed, nor gigabytes of a spreadsheet tracking household income. The contents consisted of a log containing one entry, with the now-familiar Miss Damar featuring prominently.
"Woe is me!" cried Frenchina, tears streaming down her face. Loud bangs and thumps, such as those associated with a craft under attack, punctuated the aural background. Lights flickered. "I don't have much time, good sir, and I do hope you find this recording. I've been /betrayed/ by Daddy's associates: they were bought out by my evil uncles. Even now my ship is being battered; and I stay here on the slim hope that you will arrive in the nick of time.
"However, I don't think that is going to happen-"
An extremely loud *BOOM!* interrupted Frenchina's words, shaking the picture. The view steadied, almost, except for a thin overlay of static. A high-pitched hiss became an audio irritant. Frenchina's head returned, forehead sheened by sweat. "I'm being grappled! Kind sir, I regret that you could not help me, nor I help you. These attackers will surely take everything of value they find aboard - myself, your omega warp, um, consolidated crystal...everything! I do so hope-"
What Miss Damar hoped was never revealed, for at that moment the recording cut.
Second snorted as the holowindow blackened. "Good. This farce is over. Let us leave."
Captain had just pivoted his body in preparation to answer Second, to provide a verbal concession, when chaos interrupted in the form of the emergency alert. {You /didn't/,} he accused Second as public talk radio - topic a controversial book accusing high Second Federation officials of prolonging 'police actions' for political gain - replaced the normal alarm at deafening volume.
{Not me!} protested Second as GPR's infamous Gary Trose boomed a question for the book's author to answer. {However, a certain designation comes to mind...}
Captain had just discovered that his command to the computer to silence the speakers was not being acknowledged; and, similarly, the grid would not detune itself from the station. {Delta! Fix it! And Sensors, what is happening?}
Sensors, the instigator of the alarm, calmly answered, {Sensors sees a [cat scratch post] disturbance at the [vodka fifth] subspace layer.}
{Vodka? Cat post?} Captain echoed the words which the universal translator had tagged as approximations. {Clarify, Sensors.}
{Too late. Here is the [paper shredder],} said Sensors.
"Are you not worried these same elements you detail in your book will look unkindly upon you, considering the specifics - names! - you provide to the universe at large?" inquired the ever-shrewd Gary Trose. The answer went unheard as speakers throughout the cube emitted an electronic squall, followed by blissful silence.
Informed Delta, {Repairs to the PA system will require 3.7 hours...but the estimate could be shortened if a certain drone - 81 of 152 - were temporarily reassigned to engineering hierarchy. After all, she seems to have a certain intimate knowledge of the system which could prove to be very helpful.}
Simultaneous Sensors' announcement and the uniting of critical speaker system control elements with a length of solid metal, an alarming shimmer began to develop approximately five kilometers off face #7. The sharp pinpoints of stars wavered as if caught in a heat mirage. A tactical situation developing, Weapons seized his chance, taking command of propulsion and breaking weaponry lock-outs. Somewhere, someone was trying to tell him, his hierarchy, something relating to identity of the enemy. Unimportant.
Neuruptors stabbed out towards the disturbance. They sliced through the intervening obstacle which was the derelict, turning it into expanding ball of gas and metallic vapor. The fact that half a dozen assimilation drones had barely escaped becoming one with the ship's destruction was unimportant, as were the protests they lodged following rematerialization upon Cube #347 from the emergency transport.
Energy weapons converged upon their target, a rare instance of perfect aim. Just five seconds of output by the beams represented sufficient power to feed four large orbiting industrial complexes for nearly a day.
The target solidified, shedding space-time vortices, and...endured.
A hail pinged upon the sensor grid.
Captain answered it.
"Hey! That tickles! I'm just the delivery service! Think you could tone it down a bit? No respect to the working mech these days, I swear, absolutely no respect." The voice-only transmission originated from a saucer-shaped form at the neuruptors' loci; and, more specifically, a roiling black shield through which the figure could be dimly perceived. The hellish fury of the neuruptors was being swallowed by unknown shield technology, energy vanishing from the ken of sensors as if it were being poured down a black hole. Perhaps it was...Xenig technology was inscrutable at best.
{Weapons! Desist, now! Comply!} ordered Captain to the head of the weapons hierarchy. Xenig of the delivery persuasion were not well known for their even dispositions: the high stress of repeated jumps across the galaxy (and beyond), spanning both space and, on occasion, time, while dealing with customers trying to wiggle out of cash-on-delivery obligations made for Bad Days. Cube #347 had on several occasions been on the receiving end of those Bad Days; and even Weapons recognized the fact that an Exploratory-class cube set against a Xenig had the same chance as snowball versus star.
Neuruptors abruptly ceased.
"Thank you," said the mech. The black shield faded to reveal the same Xenig which had transported the sub-collective's trade items to pay for Frenchina's request for monetary assistance. This Xenig was no squeaky clean GPS mech. Instead, its hull was streaked with soot and other indefinable substances, only rare patches of cleanliness marring the otherwise dirty expanse. An attempt had been made to reveal delivery service name and logo, but it had been abandoned after a few half-hearted swipes. "Now, do you want to hear the message I was hired to courier to you? Okay, technically not you specifically, but whomever found what /used/ to be a rather holed yacht. You will do."
An audio-only response was made to the Xenig, Captain keying the Multivoice. "Do we have a choice?"
"No skin off the nose I don't have if you decline. I get paid either way." There was the hint of a dismissive shrug in the tone.
The sub-collective took a quick poll among itself. "Commence."
"Ahem," said the nameless mech as it approximated a throat-clearing. "Oh, zap it. The message is involved and rather boring, what with the gloating and such, and I don't care to relay it all. Besides, I can never synthesize the diabolical laughs correctly, no matter how much I practice. In essence, the evil, bad men - several Ferengi, a Gorn, and one or two other meatbag biologicals - whom kidnapped one Miss Damar Frenchina, a business tycoon daughter, demand ransom. They are willing to release the girl to the highest bidder, unharmed and with everything she had on her person at the time of the abduction. The auction is blind, meaning all potential bidders send in the amount of money they feel is sufficient to acquire Miss Frenchina. There are no refunds to the losers.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Do you wish to bid on the ransom? If so, I'll be your courier for any currency-equivalent items. Here are the details."
A datastream was intercepted from the Xenig. Expanded, it was an audio-only clip of a masculine voice describing the lowest acceptable bid (substantial) and a list of acceptable exchange merchandise. Not only was the voice the same one which had accompanied Miss Damar's request for funds, but the format for acceptable trade items was word-for-word identical.
"And the bank account for direct deposit of a single digit away from that used by the so-called Miss Damar Frenchina," emphasized Second. "Has sufficient evidence been gathered to recognize that this is a scam? Hmm?"
Captain heaved a sigh.
Second quirked one side of his mouth into a wicked grin at the nonverbal acquiesce. "I told you so." Pause. "/We/ told /us/ so."
The conundrum of the moment: what now? With Miss Damar Frenchina, or whatever her real name might be, revealed as a fake, it was obvious that payment for her release was one more element of a scheme designed to leverage the most money possible out of a victim. On the other hand, it was still remotely possible that the bait being waved - the crystal condensate, not a mythical warehouse filled with supplies - was real. Second and other drones of dubious personal histories knew that the best lure was a veneer of truth obscuring the lies beneath. Besides, Weapons remained confident that Cube #347 and his hierarchy was more than sufficient to overwhelm any scammer.
A decision was made.
"Xenig."
"Yes?"
"We will have items for you to transport. We require eighty-seven minutes to prepare."
"Sounds fine." The Xenig drifted closer, gliding along artificial gravitonic potentialities as only its kind could. "Say, I don't deal much with Colors, and certainly not Borg, but I do know that your kind aren't big on names. Numbers and designations, yes, names, no. However, does 'Mr. Andanymus' mean anything to you?"
"Yes."
If the Xenig was waiting for elaboration, it was surely disappointed. On the other hand, the response it provided suggested no clarification was required. "Oh, boy," it commented, appending an electronic chuckle to the words, "I think I understand. I may have to hang around to watch this one to its conclusion."
*****
Dear Mr. Andanymus:
Congratulations! Due to your very generous bid, you are the Winner in the auction of Miss Damar Frenchina.
Attached to this letter you will find coordinates whereupon we will meet such that you may Claim your Prize. You WILL come alone in a small runabout. You WILL NOT bring weapons of any kind. NO backup is allowed within one light year of the coordinates. Other stipulations are detailed in the secondary attachment. If you do not follow these Rules, there will be unhealthy consequences.
Your Best Friend,
Evil Double-Crossing Kidnappers
*****
To Evil Double-Crossing Kidnappers:
We are a big, rich corporate officer for a high-level, ultra-secret defense industry company of which you have never heard. We are so rich we can pay to keep our name out of all public documents, and have erased our company name such that our competitors do not even know when they are bidding contracts against us. We tend to win all the big contracts; and then we always manufacture cost over-runs. Needless to say, we have acquired many large bonuses over the years, in addition to our obscenely huge salary.
We are a very important person. Therefore, we need assurances that (1) you will be providing us with the goods we won; and (2) that we will not be kidnapped or otherwise detained. We do have important schedules to keep and profitable ventures to invest in, after all.
Also, Miss Frenchina Damar had a quantity of omega altered used warp nacelle plasma (crystalline condensate) upon her person when she was apprehended. Is this item among those which will be returned?
From,
Anonymous
*****
Dear Mr. Andanymus:
My name is Mr. Daram Chenuf, and I am the leader of this band of profiteers. Let me give you my sincerest Word as a Businessman that you are Perfectly Safe. While there may be unscrupulous people out there in the wide and wild galaxy, I am not among them. At your request, I will provide you with a list of kidnappings and extortions of which I have been involved with over the years. You will find not a one upon whom I reneged after a suitable Ransom or other arrangement had been reached. I have many Happy Customers who will be glad to provide a reference.
There is nothing to fear, Mr. Andanymus. I promise you, swearing upon the grave of my dear sister.
And, yes, the Item upon which you inquired will be returned, along with Miss Damar.
A Sincere Businessman,
Daram Chenuf
*****
{Well, Mr. Andanymus, are you ready to meet your fellow businessman?} asked Second of Captain. {Just be careful he doesn't drool on you too much, mister big, rich corporate officer.} There was a definite hint of snicker coloring the words. The signature abruptly sobered. {And definitely /do not/ manage to terminate yourself. I do not wish to be in permanent charge of the baby-sitter's nightmare which is this sub-collective.}
{Thank you for your concern,} dryly replied Captain, nee Mr. Andanymus. Accessing the (cleaned-up) Cube #347 sensor grid datastream, he saw the three ships which represented the scammer fleet remained unmoved behind their asteroid hiding place. Captain really wished they would hurry up and /do/ something: the waiting he was enduring was an inefficient use of time.
A thought directed at the runabout's computer, via nanotubule interface, sent the vessel into a slow tumble.
{Hey!} complained 127 of 230. {All extreme maneuvers were expressedly prohibited. We have been using up racers, shuttles, and other vehicles from my collection faster than I can put them together - no thanks to Weapons and his "live fire" tests, mind you. That is a genuine "Wooster Special X-46" endurance racer replica, and I want it back...with no dents, dings, or chipped paint.} As censure filters eroded, 127 of 230 had become increasingly protective of her diminishing shuttle collection. While she had no choice but to comply with the sub-collective consensus concerning the use of this particular ship, nothing stopped her from commenting upon even the slightest probability of damage.
Captain sighed and returned the runabout to motionlessness.
The rendezvous location was a white dwarf system, one of a large class of solar systems which had a number in a stellar catalogue, but were otherwise too unimportant to merit visitation by an intrepid explorer. This particular white dwarf was accompanied by the remnants of its youth in the form of three planets and numerous asteroids. Two of the planets were terrestrials, lumps of fused rock which had experienced a too-close encounter with the star during its red giant era. The third planet was a degenerate gas giant, little more than rocky core with a few wisps of gas, the rest of its atmosphere stripped during its primary's death tantrums, leaving the deep oceans of liquid metal to long ago boil away to space.
The runabout, with Captain at its helm, had been dropped off several light years out, allowed to enter the system alone, as stipulated by the scammers. Those particular worthies were hiding in the sensor shadow of an asteroid...or what would have been a sensor shadow if the runabout's sensor grid had been relied upon to provide Captain with his view of the universe beyond its thin hull. However, the consensus monitor and facilitator was not reliant upon the shuttle's inadequate grid, instead able to draw upon the much more powerful electronic eyes of Cube #347 itself.
The Exploratory-class cube was currently in orbit close to the ancient system's primary. Although the white dwarf was little larger than the standard life-supporting terrestrial planet at this point in its evolution, it /was/ a star. After disgorging Captain and the runabout, Cube #347 had snuck into the system, moving itself to hide within the glare of the dwarf. One might think this folly, especially as the cube no longer had a cloak, but in truth, a solar system is a large volume to watch. Additionally, the cube sensor grid had noted several classes of leaks from the waiting scammer fleet - plasma, atmosphere, badly shielded electronics - which indicated a less-than-up-to-date state of repair. Therefore, even if attention had not been riveted upon Captain's very obvious approach, it was highly unlikely the mini-armada had the ability to see Cube #347 unless the cube paraded itself directly in front of their asteroid hiding place.
{The bait is becoming tired of waiting,} muttered Captain to himself for the - check of a certain subprogram - 37th time in the last ten minutes.
As if hearing Captain's thought, the smallest of the lurking trio was seen to lurch into motion by Cube #347's sensor grid. As it rounded the obscuring asteroid and was revealed to the runabout, an audio-only demand was sent: "Miss Frenchina Damar and all items on her person will be provided to us." Captain paused as he realized his verbal faux-pas. "Er...provided to me."
If anyone on the recipient ship noticed the slip, it was not commented upon. Instead, a return transmission was received, an audio-visual stream which featured a Ferengi with several gold rings piercing his lobes. In addition to the hardware, a sly grin, such as only possible by a Ferengi anticipating gain to his personal wealth, revealed tooth insets of semi-precious gems. The ensemble was completed by buccaneer hat and velvet brocade coat with too many tassels, a scene which screamed disreputable pirate (with bad fashion taste), not legitimate businessman.
"Mr. Andanymus, I presume? The synthetic Borg-esque voice is a nice touch. However, let me assure you that your identity is your own. My colleagues and I have, of course, been attempting to find out who you really are, although, to tell the truth, we are quite stumped. No matter. I recognize the need for well-endowed persons such as yourself to desire anonymity," said the Ferengi smoothly. In the background of what was an ill-kept bridge lolled two crewmen, also Ferengi, a game of cards spread before them on a console next to a small pile of latinum strips.
Captain was unimpressed at the unprofessionalism displayed. Or, rather, Captain was channeling the analytical repugnance of Second and several other units whom knew that appearances were everything when it came to a certain class of criminal. This particular Ferengi and his 'colleagues' did not measure up. "Miss Frenchina Damar and all items on her person will be provided to me," repeated Captain. "You are Mr. Deram Chenuf?"
"Who?" asked the Ferengi. He blinked rapidly as he abruptly realized his mistake, then verbally backpedaled, "Oh, yes, Mr. Deram Chenuf...um, if you don't mind, Captain Bromm will do." The two crew in the background had looked up from their game and were now chortling. It helped to know that 'Chenuf' was archaic Ferengi slang, and specifically a vulgar insult for a state of destituteness. "The items you have bought will be released as soon as it is confirmed you are the only lifesign aboard."
The scammer ship approached closer, clearly confident at its larger size, greater mass, and superior weaponry. From afar, Weapons classified the vessel as 'target practice', then proceeded to incorporate it into several parallel-running BorgCraft scenarios to determine how to produce the most spectacular explosion. Sensors, taking an interest in the proceedings for whatever reason incomprehensible to a non-Bug, was feeding increasingly more detailed sensor grid readings to the scenarios so as to achieve a greater degree of simulated accuracy.
It did not miss Captain's attention that some scenarios included the runabout in which he was currently residing. The outcome was usually fatal, even as it did add an average 10% greater BOOM quotient to the explosion. {We are not to blow up the scammer unless necessary, Weapons,} reminded Captain, {and "necessity" will rely upon greater consensus than just you or your hierarchy.}
Oblivious to the terminal fate being played out over and over within the dataspaces of one Borg Exploratory-class cube, Captain Bromm finally said, "A single lifeform. Hooman. You are cleared."
A lifesign scrambler had been installed upon the runabout to prevent the scammers from determining the exact nature of their target. Perhaps such had not been necessary, for it had been set to spoof Bajoran, not human.
"There will be no transporter use," said Captain as the larger vessel slid to a halt, thrusters firing. "Airlock only."
"You are the suspicious bastard, Mr. Andanymus," mildly commented captain Bromm, obviously unsurprised at the demand. The scammer ship was dorsal-laterally flattened, bow end flared into a form reminiscent of the head of a hammerhead shark. Several hatches along the belly were presented as it yawed, the aftmost lighting up with a circumferential yellow glow. "I like that. However, your fears are entirely misplaced: this is a /business/ transactions, after all. You have won the auction and now I deliver the goods. If I did not follow through on my dealings, there would ultimately be no profit for me, for whom would want to do business?"
Captain spun the runabout on its Z-axis, then slid it into amidships mating clamps with a force that caused no small scraping of metal, followed by a loud clang. In the background, 127 of 230 lamented the scars she would now be forced to buff and repaint. The outer airlock door was opened, leaving the inner locked.
Upon the communication stream, Bromm heaved a great sigh. "If I wasn't a Ferengi, I might actually pay /you/ to take Miss Damar off my ship. She is a /great/ disruption to my colleagues and crew, let me tell you. I will warn you now that she is /not/ a decent Ferengi woman, insisting upon wearing /clothes/ and talking back and such. Of course, as a hooman, your females are all similarly ill-trained, so you will never notice the lack of respect for the superior male gender."
From off-screen hissed "Laying it on a bit thick, are we?" in an utterance which matched the voiceprint of Miss Damar. A background datastream was initiated by the assimilation hierarchy, setting side-by-side an image of the kidnapped woman and captain Bromm. Facial configuration, dentition, and lobe structure indicated a 79.5% probability of familial relation, perhaps a half-sibling or cousin.
Captain Bromm plastered a strained smile on his face while the two crewmen in the background leaned forehead-to-forehead over their card game to whisper to each other. "Not now," he spoke under his breath, teeth exposed in a rictus of a grin with chin immobile as he attempted to respond without actually moving his jaw. Bromm noisy cleared his throat, "Sooo....before I provide you with my unwelcome guest, the items she was carrying first. I do like a man with his priorities straight."
"The crystalline condensate is included?"
"Yes, yes, of course." One hand was waved in dismissal.
Captain switched primary attention to the airlock, where a camera was showing a Ferengi underling slinking forward carrying a bulging satchel. With obvious reluctance, the bag was placed upon the airlock floor. The moment hand and foot cleared the airlock boundary, Captain shut the door. The wait was not out of care to prevent maiming, but rather 127 of 230's insistence that she would /not/ tolerate bloodstains of any sort marring the upholstery.
Disengaging himself from direct control of the runabout, Captain made his way the short distance necessitated to reach the airlock. Pressing a pair of buttons on the adjacent console prompted the inner door to slide open, revealing satchel. Picking up the satchel, Captain hefted it thoughtfully, then abruptly upended it to allow the contents to spill out upon the floor.
Clothing fluttered to the deck, muffling the clank of heavy gold jewelry. A pair of purple platform shoes followed, then a bottle of Nagus-brand tooth abrasion as the bag was given a good shake. Captain prodded the jumble with a foot, reaching down as the glitter of crystal caught his eye. He picked up the find carefully, lifting it overhead to allow the light from ceiling strips to shine through.
{Quartz,} pronounced Sensors as the spectrum was analyzed, her attention diverted from the BorgCraft scenario. {Sensors also [smells] transporter transponder.}
Eyes returned to the pile of clothing and jewelry. {Which object?}
{Sensors does not [curtain] sufficient [kitty-cat].}
Captain frowned as he stared at the items. Unimportant...and expected. With a shrug he kicked the bag's contents, minus gaudy quartz crystal, into a neat pile. The satchel was tossed on top. Returning to the cockpit - a manner of a couple of steps - Captain plugged himself back into the runabout's systems. "We...er, I have received the items."
Captain Bromm, who was conversing with the two card-playing crewmen over the finer points of wagering, pivoted to face the camera. He straightened his coat with a firm tug to the lapels. "Was your crystalline condensate satisfactory?"
Captain looked down at the quartz. Transferring the crystal to his prosthetic arm and slotting it between a trio of pinchers, he proceeded to squeeze. For a moment it seemed as if the quartz would win, but then, with a loud *pop*, it cracked, disintegrating into a shower of shards and dust. "Adequate," he lied, then had to abruptly cut the sound as he inhaled the dust, triggering a series of coughs as body systems attempted to rid his lungs of the contaminant.
"Good, good," nodded captain Bromm, clearly not listening to the answer. "Are you ready for Miss Damar?" The background card game had been brushed away; and a third crewman had entered the picture. All were intently staring at their respective consoles, occasionally glancing at each other while waggling knowing, non-existent eyebrows.
{Remaining two ships unidling engines,} reported Sensors, as if Captain was unable to see so for himself via the background sensor stream.
Coughing under control, Captain reopened the audio-only transmission. "Yes."
Captain Bromm grinned widely. "HA-HA!" he chortled, actually enunciating the syllables. "Not so fast, Mr. Andanymus. Whomever you are, you are obviously quite rich; and as soon as I and my most devious sister" - a fully clothed Frenchina leaned into view of the camera, waved, then vanished off-screen again - "get ahold of you, I'm sure we can 'persuade' you that a few dollars more donated to our cause towards profit is prudent. If you cooperate, then your guesting with us will be short and comfortable...we might even be able to find some hooman food in the stores. If you resist, then we will be forced to raise your price to include the extra handling charges, and you will find yourself in an uncomfortable broom closet until ransom is paid.
"Do you understand?"
Captain did not bother to reply. Instead he backed away from the main console, turning to retrace his steps to the clothes-and-jewelry pile. The two remaining ships of the mini-armada had taken up an aggressive overwatch position, just in case he might try to pull the runabout from its mooring and escape, when the sound of a transporter beam-in announced the arrival of unwanted visitors. Toe tapping and arms folded across his chest - a posture adopted from the file on human body language - Captain waited for the transporter cycle to complete.
The three armored Ferengi who beamed in were confronted not with the sight of a panicking human, but rather a highly cybernized Borg drone, single whole, blue eye narrowed in impatience.
Captain reached out to place his whole hand against a subsidiary computer panel within arm reach. Triggering nanotubules, he quickly jacked back into the communication systems. Eyes never left the faces of the Ferengi trio as the identity of their would-be detainee sunk in. "The quartz you supplied is not omega altered used warp nacelle plasma in a crystalline condensate form. Do you have any of the requested item on board, or was it all part of the scam from the beginning?"
"It's a Borg!" harshly whispered the forwardmost of the trio into a microphone pickup incorporated into the helmet he wore. As he did so, he brandished a weapon. One step was taken backwards, bumping into his comrades, whom then proceeded to crowd behind their colleague to use him as a living shield. "What should I do?"
On the bridge, Bromm was staring dumbfounded at an unseen sight off-screen. "A what? A /Borg/? You are three, you cowardly idiots! Shoot it! And don't let it get the jewelry! Those props are /needed/ next week."
"And one of my favorite outfits is there as well. If /one/ drop of blood stains it, I'll take it out of your paychecks!" cried the voice of Miss Damar.
The potent combination of Bromm and Frenchina, else the threat of garnished wages, must have been of greater worry than a lone Borg drone, for the Ferengi trio halted retreat and lifted rifles. Captain calmly regarded them.
"It's smiling," said the lead Ferengi. "Are Borgs supposed to smile?"
Captain immediately wiped the expression from his face. Certain filters needed to be reinitialized, again.
The invader trio were provided an answer, although not necessarily the one desired. Out of the dim rear of the runabout, three shapes loomed, bulky forms with reaching arms. Limbs wrapped around the startled Ferengi, plucking away weapons even as be-helmeted heads swiveled with startled expressions to face their attackers. One critical item non-Borg outside the formal military (and even those within) tended to forget was that a drone linked to an alcove does not register as a separate lifesign, scanners regarding the body as one more organic ship component. Four alcoves had been bodged into the shuttle and subsequently filled with assimilation units; and now three of those drones had an armful of whining Ferengi, mouths and vocal cords the only body parts currently unsecured. The fourth assimilation drone peered over the shoulders of her comrades, just in case an opportunity should materialize.
Fists hovered, at the ready.
{I suggest we do not assimilate these individuals,} counseled Assimilation. While he did not often have the chance to perform his primary function, and a certain eagerness was permeating his hierarchy, that pseudo-emotion was tempered by the fact that these /were/ Ferengi. {If we /have/ to, fine, but otherwise....} Left unsaid was the fact that Ferengi were a restricted species for the Collective, assimilation not prohibited, but also regarded as unlikely to better the Whole. To potentially add three ship-loads of Ferengi to an imperfectly assimilated sub-collective was unwise, to say the least; and there were insufficient resources to keep them all in stasis against the day that Cube #347 was reunited with the Greater Consciousness.
Captain eyed the catch. {Quiet them, at least.} Arms tightened around necks until the three Ferengi understood that silence was desired. Captain trekked back to the piloting niche, diving fully into the runabout systems as he initiated a full audio-video system.
Near the star, Cube #347 broke orbit, vectoring towards the pirate ships. Immediately the two support vessels pivoted, engaging engines and leaving their (former) leader to fend for himself.
"We shall ask one more time," began Captain as he watched the slack-jawed, pale face of Bromm, "have you any omega altered used warp nacelle plasma in a crystalline condensate form on board?"
*****
"Will you stop breathing down my neck?" complained Frank nervously to the twin presences which were closely scrutinizing his work. "I...oh, f***." The expletive was highly unusual, originating as it did from the EMH. A balefully look was given to Delta as the latest trial to provide an elixir-resistant substance was ruined. As the tiny drop of partial antidote began to eat through the test vial, the whole experiment was beamed to space before it could escape to dissolve more holes in the cube.
Frank and Delta were in Analysis Shop #7, as were Captain and Second. Rarely did so many hierarchy heads congregate in one location; and a fourth was added to the mix as Doctor arrived to defend his holographic pet.
"You are harassing my Franky!" accused Doctor as he enveloped the sitting hologram in a bear hug and crushed his head against chest armor. "Poor, poor Franky."
"Rhmmmummumgh!" urked 'Franky'.
Delta harrumphed in stereo. "I am merely supervising." In truth, Delta was somewhat miffed that a member of her hierarchy wasn't adapting the ceramometallic alloy extracted from the used warp nacelle acquired at Supply Depot #761 into the appropriate beaker coating. As best as could be determined, the alloy matrix, due to exposure to warp fields, was 'aligned' in the quantum plane so as to possess repellant qualities towards the not-quite-in-this-metareality substance which was the partially completed elixir. It was similar to the concept by which plasma could be confined within a magnetic field. Unfortunately from Delta's point of view, the same innate knowledge which allowed Frank to intrinsically know an ingredient when he was exposed to it also was the driver behind proper conversion of the ceramometallic alloy. "The hologram's base program is /medical/, not engineering, no matter the number of files grafted to its matrix."
"Rhuuughmmm!" cried Frank as pressure to his head increased.
"Doctor," snapped Captain from the other side of the workshop, "let the EMH go: you are disrupting the map." The holographic galaxy, populated by its jewels of emerald and amber, stabilized as Frank was allowed to escape Doctor's clutches.
Second's mouth twisted in that particular half-smirk that he had perfected long before his assimilation.
"Don't you dare..." began Captain in warning.
"I told you so," said Second in triumph. It was a phrase he had been repeating since Cube #347 had hurriedly left the white dwarf system, a haste well justified.
Not unexpected, Weapons had seized control to chase after the two fleeing vessels, reined in only when the pair had limped into hypertranswarp amid the cosmic equivalent of blue clouds of diesel fume. As Cube #347 subsequently trekked back to runabout and remaining Ferengi-crewed vessel, consensus cascades had raged considering the merits and disadvantages of assimilating crew. The arrival of the Xenig courier, gravity ripples spreading out from the folded-space jump, had silenced all internal debate.
"Greetings. My name is Kloft, and I am /not/ a mangy, third-rate courier. I am a private detective hired by the Green Collective to track down a group of scammers who managed to acquire assets which did not belong to them. Green are incoming; and I suggest you make yourself scarce. Oh, and leave behind the Ferengi." There was a pause, followed by a sigh. "I will be /so/ glad to shed this horrible chassis for my normal hull."
Although the words had been clearly directed at Cube #347, speakers on the still open transmission to the bridge of Bromm's ship echoed the advisement. Bromm's eyes widened; and his sister had rushed into view and thrown herself to her knees. "Please, please take us with you," Frenchina (or whatever her real name) had gushed, tears streaming down her cheeks, "and you can have /25%/ of the contents of my father's warehouse, tax-free."
As the first faint subspace fluctuations entered the long-distance scan envelope, the profile indicating a trio of Battle-class cubes, Cube #347 had summarily cut the transmission and recovered its five wayward drones. The sub-collective did not question the motive of the Xenig to reveal its employers; and there was definitely no more consideration upon assimilating the crew of the scammer ship: they all belonged to Green Borg, who would not be happy to share.
Another runabout abandoned when Cube #347 left the white dwarf system, 127 of 230 had pouted for hours before opening one of her diminishing number of kits to build anew.
Second repeated his mantra, "I told you so." The singular 'I' actually represented an inclusive 'we' which included his bloc of supporters. "This map shows /unique/ items. A two-bit scammer would /not/ have omega altered used warp nacelle plasma, in a crystallized form or not."
A noise, like that of a duck being used as a living set of bagpipes, intruded upon the pseudo-conversation between consensus monitor and backup. Simultaneously, the map disappeared under a blanket of static. Captain turned his head. "Doctor! For the last time..."
*****
To Whom It May Concern (which is you):
My name is Zeus Appegio, and I have a wunderfull Business Opportunity for you! I am a Poor Man who has recently found a forgotten treasure trove of used warp nacelles and antique pogo sticks. However, I have no Business Sense and need an assisting hand (or testicle) to ensure that I do the Right Thing. Therefore, I propose to you (whom I know can hlep me) to reply to me with your thoughts. I have found this wonderful brocker who says that with a small investment, he can help me sell these items to the highest bidder and thereby quintuple my money. Therein is the Problem, for as I said I am a poor man who does not have the resources to take advantage of this kind brooker. However, if /you/ loan me a very small perportion of your Great Wealth, I will be willing....
*****
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