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  “Ah,” he said. “It’s a simple matter, a simple matter indeed. On shore leave, you can do any blessed thing you want. I’d imagine a captain could go a lot farther—get into even more trouble, if you know what I mean.”

  Dax and Georgiou looked at each other.

  He smiled, his eyes alight. “I’ll tell you, I once hopped a tramp freighter for a weekend just to spend fifteen minutes on Risa.” He kissed his fingers. “But what a fifteen minutes.”

  “Ew,” Dax said.

  Georgiou agreed. “She means you can go now.”

  Finnegan shot her a sidelong glance. “You’ll be a happier person if you try the coffee. The Oast Roast works wonders.” Then he ambled back to the group.

  Dax began figuring. “The captain and Burnham were both on Shenzhou, and Georgiou had a standing invitation. But would she really risk violating a treaty just to visit a friend?”

  “Doubtful,” the emperor said. “She was sickeningly obedient.” She ruminated for a moment. If it were for an assignation, would she bring Michael as chaperone?

  There was no answering that. She threw up her hands.

  Dax paid note. “I don’t think I’ve seen you like this. You’re—well, you’re flustered.”

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I gave you one by talking out of turn at dinner last night. This is all new to me,” Dax said. “I figured we were here investigating, but I guess there’s a distinction between police work and intelligence work.”

  “They’re one and the same in my world. We stuff you in a box and shoot electricity through your body until you talk.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure, whatever you say.”

  The emperor had found she could no longer reliably get a reaction out of Dax by talking about the brutalities of the Terran Empire. Georgiou decided to take that as a positive development. Dax wasn’t any more necessary to her plans than Finnegan was, but keeping company with someone who cringed at her every comment was so dull.

  She saw several workshops along the corridor of the facility. A lumbering Dromax exited one, nearly bumping into her. “Excuse me, madam,” it said, enunciating through the red voice box on its midsection.

  “You’re excused.”

  “I am glad. The day is pleasant. I must return to my security duties.”

  As polite as Gnaeus, she thought, though she noted it had a different-shaped marking on its gut. The Dromax trundled off, making her wonder how they could be the same species she’d seen fighting in the video Captain Maddox had presented, the one that convinced her they needed to be enslaved.

  Then she heard an identical Dromax voice emanate from the workshop. “Stop touching me, imbecile!”

  She peeked around the corner. Another Dromax stood there before one of Quintilian’s uniformed workers, ranting obscenely as the human tinkered with the voice box. “It’ll just be a quick adjustment.”

  “Quick! I’ve seen quicker corpses,” the Dromax said. It had yet another different belly marking. Shifting, it noticed Georgiou. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Just saying hello,” she said.

  “It’s bad enough my general sent me to work here among stinking sacks of flesh. I have to deal with constant interruptions!”

  The human worker apologized. “Sorry, Captain. The Dromax communicate with one another through several methods, including minuscule changes in body temperature at various locations. The translator’s sensors have to be adjusted regularly to sync with Quintilian’s preferred vocabset.”

  “Why are you telling this to—” the Dromax started to say. Something the technician did caused its tone to alter: “—an honored guest of ours, interrupting her tour? Please excuse us, and enjoy your day at Tallacoe.”

  Georgiou grinned. “I sure will.” If only all my minions had had similar gadgets to adjust.

  Rejoining the group, she saw Quintilian return from his conferences alongside an Orion woman whose hair was almost entirely white. “Sorry,” he said, leaning against his regal walking stick, “but the schoolmaster had a great idea.”

  “School?” Georgiou asked.

  “For the children of the shipping workers,” the schoolmaster replied. “We always have a fete day after the harvest is delivered. The students have several athletic competitions planned for Master Trader Quintilian’s benefit this afternoon. Tumbling, dance, gymnastics.” She clasped her hands and faced Dax. “He sent over videos of one of your performances this morning; I showed them to the kids. They’d be absolutely delighted if you’d judge their competition, and maybe say a few words.”

  The request had caught Dax completely off guard. She looked to Georgiou. “I’m here on Starfleet business—”

  “She would be absolutely delighted to judge your event.” Georgiou patted Dax on the back. “I can do without you for one afternoon, Ensign.”

  “Wonderful!” the schoolmaster said.

  Quintilian smiled at Georgiou. “It’s kind of a command performance. You can watch from my box at the arena.”

  She stepped toward him and straightened his collar. “I appreciate the invitation, but I think I’ll take your pilot up on that offer to look around some more. I’m sure my companions will be in good hands with you.”

  “Dinner, then?”

  “Marvelous.” She touched his cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

  Beaming, Quintilian stepped away to confer with the schoolmaster—and seconds later, Dax sidled up to her. “What did you just do?” the Trill asked under her breath, teeth clenched.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’ve judged so many damn competitions I want to smother myself under the next mat I see. I didn’t come on this mission to do it again!”

  “No, you came on this mission to find Jadama Rohn. And I’m not going to be able to do that unless I can get away. You just keep your eyes on Quintilian.”

  “Hmm. I’ll admit that’s not a hard thing to do,” Dax said, looking over at the man. He seemed confident and magnificent in his industrial element. “He sure is something. Did you get your nightcap?”

  “I could have used a nightgown. He had me stand on a ledge in the middle of the night for an hour so he could show me his telescope.”

  “I’m guessing that’s not a euphemism.”

  “Tragically, no.”

  26

  Alien Region

  CASMARRA

  Phylla and her aircar had been easy for Georgiou to find; both were within the structure Quintilian’s group had been touring. The pilot had seemed delighted that her offer had been accepted—up until the point in the low-altitude flight when Georgiou had surprised her by asking to visit the factory slums outside Tallacoe’s walls.

  Georgiou’s first cover story, that she was seeking a companion of Quintilian’s that she had met years ago, had left Phylla worried and skeptical. Anyone her boss still wanted to know still had a job with him, and thus lived within the confines of Tallacoe—even the retirees were provided for. Georgiou had then played the Starfleet card. “The Federation is interested in issuing Quintilian its highest civilian honor for an act of rescue in neutral space many years earlier. We just need to speak to a witness.”

  Suddenly happy to help, Phylla had deposited her near an Alien Region bar frequented by Quintilian’s former rivals. Unwilling to leave her aircar in that neighborhood, she’d left Georgiou with a communicator and many words of warning. “If I don’t hear from you in three hours, I’m coming back with every Dromax in Tallacoe. If anything happens to you, the boss will have my hide!”

  It had taken her little time to discover why caution was in order. Quintilian’s successes had long ago given him a near monopoly in shipping; the few rival operations had dwindled to a sorry bunch of idlers hanging around the tavern, waiting for whatever scraps of work came their way from S’satah and her factories. Outsiders were suspect and unwelcome.

  Georgiou had expected as much that morning, selecting her ensemble from what she considered her
wardrobe’s “Proletariat Collection,” bland coveralls perfect for a day touring the holdings. Quintilian had approved—but more importantly, the outfit had helped her blend in. To a point: she had only been forced to pummel two people to get the information she needed. Captain Vercer’s children had indeed emigrated offworld, but he had other relations about.

  The trail ultimately led her to a shabby hovel near the western reaches of the Alien Region, in the shadow of the great wall of Casmarran urbanity that separated the area from the next one beyond. Her information hadn’t been very specific; no alley here would ever get a name. But she had found a name etched beside the door to a dilapidated apartment. The letters in Orion were so weathered they were barely visible, but she could make out what they said:

  HOME OF VERCER AND JADAMA

  Jadama. As in Jadama Rohn!

  The door was made of cheap metal; she hadn’t seen an automatic door anywhere in the region. It was bent, having been kicked in a time or two; its lock didn’t catch. When no one answered her knock, Georgiou let herself in, certain that the groaning hinges would alert anyone inside.

  She was right. No sooner had she stepped into the filthy anteroom than a shrill female voice called out from behind a tattered curtain. “Get out of here!”

  Avoiding trash on the floor, Georgiou worked her way along the inner walls, heading toward the aperture. She was nearly to it when a disruptor blast sizzled through the curtain, the blast’s energy terminating against the wall by the entrance. Looking back, she saw several blast marks all over the wall, ranging from the floor to the ceiling.

  Lots of intruders—or a poor shot. Maybe both.

  “Get out! Nothing left to take!”

  “Your curtain is on fire,” Georgiou shouted.

  “Damn it!”

  Another blast—and the wall she was leaning against vibrated. That shot had missed the doorway entirely, impacting inside the shooter’s room. Georgiou played a hunch. “I’m going to put out the fire,” she said. “I don’t want you to shoot me.”

  Two more shots, both ripping through the burning drapery. Then…

  “Okay.”

  No fool, Georgiou grabbed a poker from the fireplace and used it to reach toward the curtain. She gathered it in and pulled it from its pinnings, which gave way easily. Seconds after stomping the flames out, she waved the poker before the doorway. When the motion prompted no further firing, she spoke. “I know you’re blind, Jadama.”

  “What of it? We all have problems!”

  “I may be able to help you with yours. But you must not shoot me.”

  A beat. “All right.”

  Georgiou peeked around the corner and saw her: an old white-haired Orion woman curled up in an ancient chair, disruptor pistol tightly clenched. The din of the gunfire past, she could now hear tinkling music coming from a player somewhere.

  “That’s ‘The Dance of the Whirligigs,’ ” she said, easing into the room. “I’ve heard it.”

  “What daughter of Orion hasn’t?” The old woman frowned. “Who are you?”

  Seeing a plaster face mask on the side table near the woman’s chair, Georgiou decided on an answer. “A friend of your husband’s. You are Jadama, correct?”

  The woman nodded—and for a second, her face brightened. Then her expression turned sour. “I know that voice.”

  Georgiou stopped in the middle of the room. “Have we met before?”

  “You know we have,” Jadama said. “You came around here, a few years ago, asking questions. You and your friend.”

  Michael, Georgiou thought. If she and her counterpart had come here, it could only have been for one reason. She quickly settled on an approach. “We talked about your husband, back then. About Captain Vercer. I’m here to follow up.”

  Placing the disruptor on her table, Jadama reached for the plaster mask. Her eyes teared up. “Vercer is dead and gone. Why don’t you leave me alone?”

  “I’d just like to know about his final assignment. His—”

  “Get out!” Jadama clutched the mask to her chest and began fumbling again for the disruptor.

  Georgiou pounced across the remaining distance for it, laying her hand upon the weapon even as Jadama did. In the act, the table tumbled, sending the weapon to the floor. The emperor went down with it. This universe’s Michael wouldn’t approve of her struggling for an elderly person’s weapon, but Georgiou wasn’t about to get shot by—

  “Auntie!” called a voice from outside. “Are you all right? It’s Junah!”

  “Junah, come quickly!” Jadama called.

  A younger Orion female in work fatigues appeared in the doorway and saw Georgiou kneeling on the floor beside the table. The grubby-faced woman reached into her satchel. “Get away from her!”

  Not about to have another weapon pulled on her, Georgiou grasped Jadama’s disruptor from the floor and spun. “Don’t do that.”

  Eyes widening, Junah raised her hands away from the satchel and lifted them to the air. “There’s nothing to take, can’t you tell?” she said. “Just the gun. It’s her only protection from people like you!”

  Georgiou played another hunch. Sidearm still in one hand, she lifted the table back into place with the other. “There was a fire,” she said, nodding to the missing curtain. “I put it out. Ask your aunt.” She looked to Jadama. “I came to visit. Tell her.”

  Holding tightly to the plaster mask, Jadama choked back tears. “She’s one of those who came around before—about Vercer!”

  Junah’s eyes narrowed with recognition. “Yeah, you.”

  Georgiou stared back. “Yeah, me.”

  “I told you to get out the last time you were here.” Then she began looking around the hovel. “Where’s your partner this time?”

  “I came alone.”

  “That’s half of a right decision. Leave.”

  Seeing how overwrought Jadama was—and that Junah seemed to know something—Georgiou landed on a compromise. “I will—if you’ll talk to me.”

  Still fearful for her aunt’s safety, Junah relented. “Out there.”

  Georgiou stepped into the anteroom with the younger woman and placed the disruptor on the shelf behind her. She expected she could take out Junah a dozen different ways; the weapon was worth more set aside, as a show of good faith. “Now. Captain Vercer.”

  “Isn’t it enough you bothered us before? My uncle is dead. Vercer died before I was even born.”

  That startled Georgiou a little. Life in the Alien Region had aged Junah.

  “But you know of how he died?”

  “Of course—as much as anyone knows.” Junah stepped over to the smoldering curtain and knelt. “What did you expect my aunt to tell you that she didn’t before?”

  “What she told me before would be a start.”

  Junah looked up at her, surprised. “Don’t you remember?”

  “The friend I was with—she took the notes. Those notes went with her after we left.”

  “Parted company, huh?” Junah rose and started to shake out the curtain. “I’m not surprised. Nobody can keep a job on this planet.”

  “Unless they’re working for Quintilian.”

  Junah laughed. “Especially if they’re working for Quintilian!”

  Georgiou sensed an opening. “That was where it started, right?” She strained to recall the events detailed in Lieutenant Georgiou’s report about her encounter. “Vercer had lost his job with the Veneti. That’s why he was operating on his own, with Jadama Rohn. Named for your aunt?”

  “Rohn means ‘dear.’ It was his ship originally; Quintilian bought it when he was starting up the Veneti. When Uncle Vercer broke away, he put all his earnings into buying it back. After… the incident, Quintilian’s people flew it back to orbit—where the Casmarrans confiscated it as a possible biological hazard.”

  Georgiou’s breath quickened. Biological hazard? Now we’re getting somewhere! She ran her finger against the dust on the shelf. “Did they find out what had happened on
board?”

  “Everyone died!”

  “I mean, did they find out why? Was it drugs—or something else?”

  “It wasn’t drugs!” Jadama shouted from the other room.

  “Her ears work fine,” Junah said, smirking. “But she swore it to your face then. Uncle Vercer ran a clean operation.”

  “You… both seem certain of that.”

  Deciding the curtain was a loss, Junah folded it and stepped to the open window. She leaned out, threw it into the street with the rest of the trash, and turned back to Georgiou. “Look, after he broke ties with Quintilian, things were tight. But he’d gotten another client.”

  “What client?”

  “I don’t know. But he told my aunt that the one job would pay for their entire year.”

  “He was in the Tagantha System when his ship was found. You don’t know where he was going? Where he’d come from?”

  “How should I know?” She gestured back to Jadama’s room. “She didn’t, either. He never said. That made it all the worse, not knowing.”

  Georgiou thought for a moment. “The Casmarrans took the ship. Where?”

  “Impound station. Right over there in Vertex 22, in fact. Quintilian gave them a report, so I guess that was the nearest place.” Junah walked to the basin that passed for a kitchen and sighed. “For years, Jadama and her kids tried to get it back, to get some value out of it—but the Casmarrans said nobody would want a plague ship. It’s still there, for all I know.”

  Maybe with my shuttle parked right beside? Satisfied, Georgiou stepped to the shelf and picked up the disruptor. She gestured with the weapon as she approached the exit. “I’ll leave your aunt’s disruptor in the street—someplace the scum who live here won’t find it.” She stopped in the doorway and turned to face Junah. “Present company excepted, of course. You’ve both been very helpful.” She paused. “I’m not exactly sure I can arrange a reward for you—”

  “Don’t do us any favors.” Then Junah looked up, her attention drawn to something behind Georgiou’s shoulder. “You, on the other hand…”

  Before Georgiou could react, a burst of energy at her back sent her flying forward into the hovel. She knew a low-powered stun blast when she felt one; nothing else fired point-blank was survivable. But she did lose hold of the disruptor and was in no shape to fight when a pair of Orion toughs collected her off the floor. They turned her to face the shooter.