Go To Part Five
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“No, cher. Allow me,” Noel DelMonde insisted he slid payment for his and Lian Rendell’s second round of drinks to the waiter through the grate at one side of their table.
T he engineer was in -- what was for him -- a positively jovial mood. When their drinks had arrived, his had turned out to be neither “candy-sweet” nor offensively “girly-ass” in any significant manner.
In a second positive outcome, DelMonde’s tiny pocket-watch tricorder indicated that they were near an entrance to the underground network of tunnels. The engineer’s observations of the patterns of movements of the employees of the cabaret led him to theorize that the entrance might be located adjacent to a pair of larger rooms that could conceivably be serving as dressing room for the performers. The Drake officers were waiting for the next big production number to empty these locations sufficiently to allow them an opportunity to test this theory.
It was, surprisingly enough, the previous floor show they had viewed that had provided the third element that had so elevated the engineer’s frame of mind. Rendell would have supposed that “The Lamentable Execution and Death of the Blessed Landru by Abominable Archons” should have proved quite offensive to most individuals in service to the Federation. After all, the narrative core of this skit consisted of a party of performers in grotesque masks -- obviously meant to represent certain specific Star Fleet officers -- chasing a fellow in long robes with wonderfully side-swept and up-puffed hair around the stage.
While in pursuit, the villainous team of Archons shouted things to the effect of, “Ooglie-booglie! Oooglie-booglie! Submit to us because we are superior to you in every way!” The performer playing the lead Archon was particularly impressive. He assumed grandly heroic poses as he delivered his lines magnificently, but with a peculiarly distinctive cadence – “Laahndru! Laahndru! We are the Archons, Laaahndru! You will…surrender...to us!!”
This vicious verbal assault continued until the poor poufy-haired gentleman clutched his head with a shattering scream. He then spouted brilliant crimson streamers from both ears accompanied by an extremely loud whistle and “Pop! Pop! Pppoppp!!” sound effect. The robed figure and his splendid coiffure then both succumbed tragically center stage. His demise was greeted by indignant howls from the spectators. In dramatically downbeat denouement, the pack of evil Archons then turned on the grieving crowd with shouts of something like, “Booglie-Ooglie, you deplorable savages! Booglie-Ooglie! Now we will rule you all!”
DelMonde had allowed that the dialogue was a bit jingoistic and more than a tad provocative than necessary. However -- the engineer had opined as he reached through the bars of their enclosure to chuck a bottle at one of performers smeared in green make-up and clad in particularly hideous mask featuring pointed ears, upswept eyebrows, and a comically long nose – he felt these flaws were amply offset by the production’s attention to certain details of undeniable historical accuracy.
“What is it?” Rendell asked when DelMonde suddenly looked at her, frowned, and made a “tsk, tsk” noise.
“I am jus' that astonished at myself,” the engineer confessed, “that I have never so much as thought t' make th' slightest offer t' take you out t' dinner befor'.”
Rendell laughed and tapped the bars enclosing them. “My dear boy, it is a bit alarming that you can look at our current surroundings and are able to contextualize them as a sort of a romantic rendezvous.”
The engineer dismissed the hectic excesses of the Betan cabaret with a flick of his wrist. “Oh, I been clubbin' wit' Haven gals before, darlin'.”
“Not exactly my tastes,” Rendell objected, then had to concede, “but, point taken.”
According to the placards that had announced it, the entertainment underway on the stage floor below them at the moment was entitled “Escape!” The show had commenced with a colorfully dressed figure with a very commanding presence leading a parade of three of his comrades around the stage to the accompaniment of a very forbiddingly off-key melody played by the band. Other assistants had wheeled out an extremely large open box. After solemnly waving his hands around their head and shoulders, the commanding figure in the orange robe was now binding his followers hand and foot in streamers.
Rendell couldn’t decide if the performance was going to turn out to be some sort of magic act or was just a designed to appeal those who enjoyed watching others being bound up in a novel and decorative manner.
“I am not at all surprised,” the doctor said with a rueful shake of her head as she leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her drink. “I seem to have an unfortunate knack for encountering you when you are at your very worst … which is -- you must admit -- exceptionally bad…”
As the figure in orange robes signaled that he had completed gift-wrapping the first of his followers, the group of assistants came forward and made a great show of lifting the colorfully bound person into the open box.
“Oh… Well…” The engineer gave a deep sigh, his good mood dispersed by memories of the disastrous misadventures he’d had triggered when he’d first transferred to Sulu’s command. Rendell knew better than most that the pandemonium DelMonde caused was the consequence the deep damage to his psyche resulting from his undercover mission into Romulan territory. However, that didn’t mean the doctor had to enjoy coping with the fallout from such mayhem.
“You got me there, cher,” he agreed remorsefully. “When I come t' th' Drake, I was in a very bad way…”
“Yes, you were an absolute wreck,” she agreed, bluntly but not unkindly. “Dreadful. Completely dreadful. Actually, though, I was thinking of before.”
The engineer squinted at her. “Befor'?”
“Yes.” The doctor smiled at his confusion. “Don’t you remember? You’ve known me a long time. You used to call me 'ma’am'… which I found a bit disconcerting…”
DelMonde tilted his head to one side and blinked at her blankly. “Huh?”
Rendell laughed. “You really don’t recognize me, do you?”
“Recognize you? From what? Where would I know you from? When was I 'round Havens?” The engineer scratched his head until a dim light began to dawn. “Oh… You mean from th' Clave?”
“Shhh!” the doctor admonished him.
The Cajun rolled his eyes. “Oh, like who here gonna know what we talkin' 'bout?”
“One never knows…” Rendell cautioned sagely.
As the last of the three bound followers was lifted into the large box on the stage below them, the man in the orange robe walked towards the audience, lifted his arms and shouted, “It is done!”
Despite the tone of finality of this announcement, the gesture did not signal end of the act.
Instead, the band struck up a lively tune as the team of assistants drug out a sort of a giant lid for the box made of painted canvas stretched over a big frame. The orange robed fellow stomped around the stage making dramatic sweeping gestures with his arms while the assistants fastened this lid in place.
DelMonde frowned. One of the many confusing things about Havens was that it was almost impossible to judge how old they were merely based on their looks. They were far longer-lived than Humans. This could lead to some odd situations in dealing with them on a long-term basis. Case in point: Here he was flirting madly with Rendell, assuming the two of them were around the same age. As a teen-ager, it seems he hadn’t bothered to spare her a second glance, judging her to be far too mature for him. In reality, it was entirely possible that she was actually old enough to be his great-grandmother… And regardless of her vintage, the lady was still undeniably as hot as a bright beam of baby blue plasma.
The engineer chewed the end of his thumb and shook his head. “I not remember you as a client when I was a Maker…”
“Oh, dear Devri, no!” The doctor dismissed the notion with another laugh and a wave of her hand. “By the time you had made a name for yourself, your little vessels were far beyond my meager means…”
“Then you musta been a gambler…”
“Is there a Haven who isn’t?”
The engineer crossed his arms speculatively. “A disgruntled gambler…”
The doctor sighed sadly and quoted, “Never bet on a fat president or a pretty flower.”
DelMonde snapped his fingers, recognizing this familiar motto of the Clave’s most fanatical odds-makers. “That even sound like somet'ing you would say…”
“I wish it was something that I did a little more often.” Rendell took a long, regretful sip of her cocktail. “The flowers and the presidents – Was there actually anything to that? Were the names of those ships some sort of code?”
“No, it were jus' street names in th' neighborhood where I growed up.” DelMonde shrugged. “I reckon a keen observer could have put two an' two together an' took th' names as a clue that them needles wit' those names was my personal property – my test ships – which I not never pay much fo'. So I guess they might be a li'l more likely fo' somet'ing to go wrong wit' ‘em. If a ship I sittin' in got a fancy name, it probably belong t' somebody else. Although, Poydras, Layfayette, an' Tchoupitoulas were all mine. That 'flowers an' presidents' rule not gonna help ya’ll wit' them.”
The doctor closed her eyes and rubbed her hands together wistfully. “Oh, but the potential profit I might have squeezed from just as much of a hint such as that…”
DelMonde smiled. He was always amazed at how even the most sensible and level-headed Havens went a little crazy when they started scheming about wagers. “Then you was a big gambler back in th' day?”
“Oh, no.” Rendell waved a dismissive hand. “Well, only in that I was a member of Lane Gage’s crew… That was enough of a risk for anyone…”
“Gage’s crew?”
“I was his medical officer.”
“Oh…?” The engineer leaned forward and peered at her as a hazy memory began to resurface. “…oh…”
The doctor smiled, nodded, and made a circular gesture with two fingers to encourage forth his belated recollection. “Yes?”
“Are you…? Did you…?” DelMonde began, before settling on, “Have you changed your hair?”
“I didn’t wear a Star Fleet uniform back then,” Rendell offered.
“Now, that would make a difference.”
“You’re telling me,” the doctor agreed heartily, sipping her drink.
“You was… uh….” DelMonde spun a finger in the air, still not quite able to nail down the specific memory he was searching for. “You th' one that…”
“Pumped your stomach after you overdosed,” the doctor supplied. “More than once.”
“Oh, yeah.” Immediately both the memory and the reason why it was so blurry became clear. “An' I…”
“Threw up on me,” Rendell completed cheerfully. “More than once.”
DelMonde winced. “Yeah… I… I awfully sorry 'bout that, cher.”
“So am I,” the Haven agreed adamantly.
“Mais,” the engineer began hopefully. “Doctors not supposed t' hold that sort o' t'ing against a person, non?”
Rendell lifted a dubious eyebrow. “Is that what Human doctors tell you?”
“Well, all I can say is that I awful sorry 'bout it,” the Cajun repeated sincerely. “I was a dumb kid at that time.”
“Yes,” the doctor confirmed.
“An' very unhappy…” The engineer looked down into the restless crowd. His gaze became distant and distracted as if he were commenting on someone’s situation other than his own. “Found myself suddenly wit' a lot o' money t' burn… Dumb, unhappy, wit' money t' burn… That 'bout th' most destructive combination there can be….”
The orange robed figure swept his way back to the front of the stage and once more gave a loud shout of, “It is done!”
This once again did not mean the show was over. Instead, his assistants carefully tilted the big box up on edge so that it was facing the audience. “Tyranny!” was painted in blood red letters on its canvas lid. While the band went crazy with a cacophonic build up, assistants brought out a scary looking prop knife dripping with streamers and presented it to the robed fellow.
Coordinating neatly with a melodramatic chord from the band, a lurid green spotlight hit the canvas lid. Under the special lighting, the outlines of a new image glowed in phosphorescent paint on the canvas. An unmistakable, six-foot-by-four-foot representation of a Star Fleet emblem glittered as it was revealed by the garish spotlight.
“Feel the liberating love of Landru, my brothers!” the robed figure bellowed before going at the canvas with his knife.
“Hmmm.” Rendell lifted a bemused eyebrow as they turned to observe the bound figures inside the box bursting free from pre-cut slits in the canvas lid to the wild cheers of the crowd. “Do you suppose we’re supposed to read anything into these edifying little dramas?”
“Mais, as an artist,” the Cajun replied, watching the robed figure rip the streamers from the restrained figures with a feral gusto, “I can confirm that there are times that 'stead o' goin' fo' the subtle metaphor that only a few eggheads critics are maybe gonna catch years later, sometimes it best t' jus' throw yourself out there an' drive your message home…”
“…with a butcher knife?” Rendell finished, as the music swelled to a crescendo and the entire cast turned and began to savage the canvas. The special lighting was switched off, so that the lights went down on the ensemble attacking the mangled remains of the word “Tyranny.”
The crowd rewarded their efforts with a hail of bottles and a wall of noise.
One of the departing assistants switched the placards on the side of the stage, revealing the title of the next performance to be, “Revenge of the Faithful on the Most Vile Betrayers.”
“This might be our chance, honey,” DelMonde announced, consulting his pocket-watch. “It look like they clearin' out them dressin' rooms fo' somet'ing big. We need t' be ready t' make our move.”
“None too soon.” Rendell turned away from the stage with a shiver. “I am beginning to feel distinctly unwelcome.”
“Oh, don’t worry 'bout it.” The engineer snapped closed the ornate lid of the tricorder/watch and replaced it in his vest pocket. “They not'ing personal to it. They not know who we are or not'ing.”
Mixed in with the usual shouts were some screams and groans of terror as the next round of performers trouped on stage dressed in the drab robes of Landru’s Lawgivers. They were even equipped with some semblance of the pipe-like weapon the doctor had seen in the museum.
the marching instead of trying to play a tune.
“The rhetoric of these performances is certainly taking on the character of a rather targeted attack,” Rendell commented, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rise as the seating beneath her began to shake as if in time to a throng of stamping feet headed up the stairs to the second tier.
“Naw.” The engineer shook his head, although he looked less than entirely confident. “They got no way o' knowin' who we are… ‘Less we blurt out somet'ing like, 'As an Archon, I take exception to…'”
The doorways at either end of the second tier opened and a company of persons clothed as Lawgivers quickly filled the catwalk.
“Are you positive we haven’t said anything to that effect?” Rendell asked nervously as two Lawgivers stationed themselves on the catwalk blocking the exit to their table.
Before the engineer could answer, the band struck a particularly dramatic chord and a blinding spotlight was turned on them.
“Archons!” the performer cried, leveling his pipe at them. “Bringers of Confusion and Destruction!”
“Now hold on here jus' a damn minute,” DelMonde objected, “You got th' wrong damned….”
The engineer was silenced as the robed figure’s pipe emitted a glowing beam of light that knocked him out cold.
“Scintillations of screaming Safford’s singular seventh Hell!” Rendell exclaimed as the weapon was turned in her direction. “I really hate participatory theatre…”
“Let me get the ball rolling,” Sulu began as soon as the doors to Lindstrom’s Victorian veneered office closed behind them. “Three years ago, after your funding was cut, you found yourself in a situation where lives were at stake and you felt you needed to implement a course of action that you would not have otherwise chosen …”
“Yes.” The director confirmed, gesturing for the officers from the Drake to take the high-backed wooden chairs in front of his desk. “The funding cut jeopardized our medical supplies. The situation truly is life or death. There’s nothing native that can replace grade of anti-psychotics and limbic stabilizers that we need…”
The captain crossed his arms. “So who’s supplying you now?”
Lindstrom at least had the good grace to look down and shrug apologetically before answering, “There are independent traders in the quadrant…”
“No!” Sulu brought his fist down on the edge of the director’s desk to emphasize the point. “No, there are not! In this quadrant, any trader should be assumed to be Orion-aligned if they don’t have bona fide Federation trade conglomerate credentials. Lindstrom, you are every bit as aware of that as I am… if not more so.”
The director shook his head stubbornly. “They have represented themselves as independents and I choose to believe them.”
“Damn.” Sulu frowned. He had been hoping that the nagging suspicion that had been souring in his gut all the way from the hospital that Lindstrom was involved in backdoor dealing with Orion traders for medical supplies would prove to be wrong. All the wrong people at Headquarters were going to spit blood when they heard about this breach of protocol.
This far out in the quadrant, unsanctioned handshake deals between administrators of Protectorate status planets and space traders took place all the time. The fact that such agreements were commonplace only made them stick in Star Fleet’s collective bureaucratic craw all the more painfully. Headquarters expected starship captains to keep a hard check on this type of dangerous nonsense. As a result, Sulu had certainly seen enough of this wide-eyed, two-fingers-crossed-behind the back “But the nice green man told me he wasn’t an Orion” defense to know that it didn’t generally play well with the Brass.
“I can certainly see why you didn’t want to tell me this,” he informed Lindstrom. “I was a lot happier not knowing.”
“I was happier with full Federation funding and supplies,” the director retorted bitterly.
The captain of the Drake blew out a long breath. Deciding it would be better to deal with the fallout than debate that point, he asked, “What are you using in trade?”
“Borolithium.”
Sulu blinked, not remembering anything from his team’s briefing reports that would have sent up a red flag about such activities. “A mining operation?”
“Very small. Mostly limited to a volcanic plain in a mountainous region we use for wind and solar farming. Passive robotic harvesting. A minimum of ecological impact. There’s no contact with the native population. Pre-arranged quarterly cargo transfers at designated beam-up points. It’s the kind of arrangement we would probably have set up for Beta III anyway as a first step to Intergalactic trade when they advanced to the next stage of their Protectorate status.”
“Not with the Orions,” the captain couldn’t stop himself from pointing out.
“No, not with the Orions,” Lindstrom granted.
The director’s gingham-clad secretary popped her head inside the door. “Director?”
“Yes?”
“Undersecretary Cho would like to go over a few notes with you about your speech to the joint session.”
“I’ll be right with him,” Lindstrom dismissed the secretary with a weary wave.
“You’re going to address the planetary Parliament?” Sulu asked after the door closed.
“Yes. I was going to invite you to come listen, but I thought you might be bored.”
“What’s your topic?”
The director’s smile was tight and ironic. “Mining and trade.”
The captain of the Drake mirrored his expression. “We’d be delighted.”
“On one level,” Noel DelMonde announced upon returning to consciousness, “This turned out better than I thought it were gonna there fo' a bit…”
Across the chamber, Lian Rendell groaned before opening her eyes. “You seem to have a very low bar for acceptable circumstance.”
“True dat.” The engineer stretched out his back and neck as much as the handcuffs manacling him to the chair where he was seated allowed. “I thought we was goners, though, there fo' a hot minute 'til I realized some smart-aleck ha' just welded a phaser inside one o' them doom pipes.”
“Kidnap, xenophobia, poor quality libations…” Rendell tried to blow a curl from her hopelessly disarranged coiffure from her eyes. “I think these so-called “landing parties” are grossly misnamed. A positively criminal misuse of the term “party.” Very misleading. In future, I will make a point of avoiding them.”
“A wise policy, cher,” DelMonde agreed, testing the strength of his restraints. “Let’s hope we get th' chance.”
“Not to put too fine a point on such matters,” the doctor began, fixing an accusing frown upon the Cajun. “Or to engage in overly personal critique, or indulge unnecessarily in finger pointing…”
DelMonde sighed and rolled his eyes. “If you got somet'ing t' say, darlin’, jus' spit it out.”
Rendell again blew at the errant curl with an air of exasperation. “But precisely what is the good of being a telepath if one can captured so completely unawares?”
“A’ight.” The engineer cleared his throat, took a deep breath in through his nose, and tilted his chair slightly back in order to allow him more scope to fully deal with this weighty interrogative. “Now fo' th' first part, A) They not exactly sneak up on us. They was stompin' up them stairs. It jus' that we was stuck in that barred up restaurant contraption an' couldn’t do much t' get away from ‘em. A person not need t' be a telepath t' know they was comin'. You knowed they was comin'.”
“Yes, but you were saying they didn’t know who we were,” the doctor pointed out irritably. “They most assuredly knew who we were.”
“A'ight,” DelMonde granted. “They is that. But that brings us to th' second point which is B) The t'ing you gotta understand 'bout bein' a telepath is that you not always wanna know what folks is t'inkin'. These folks here is crazy. They think crazy stuff. I not always wanna know 'bout it.”
“But when the crazy thing is, 'Let’s violently abduct those two very nice Star Fleet officers,' it’s best to take an active interest,” Rendell suggested firmly.
The Cajun sighed. “Mais, it pretty hard under th' present circumstances t' deny that you got a point there.”
“And going forward…?” The doctor prompted mercilessly.
“I gonna keep more o' what you might call an 'open mind' an' be on th' lookout fo' that sort o' t'ing,” the engineer promised.
“That would be much appreciated,” Rendell replied unsmilingly. She turned as much as was possible in her chair. “Well, where are we?”
“Lookin' out th' window behind you,” the engineer said, since the two Drake officers had been left by their captors seated in an empty chamber face-to-face across from one another, “my first conclusion is gonna be that we at th' red-ass end o' nowhere.”
“A glance out the port behind you would persuade me to agree.”
Behind the chair where each was handcuffed was a large, un-curtained window that revealed a bleak unpopulated plain dotted with scatterings of industrial installations.
The chamber they were in was a peculiar hybrid of native architecture and Federation technology. The half of the room where they were seated appeared to be simple wooden structure. However, the windowless back half of the chamber appeared to be salvaged whole cloth from Star Fleet standard issue equipment.
“This here shack we stuck in looks t' be a 5978-b64 survival pod under th' shell o' a piece o' native architecture,” DelMonde said, identifying the familiar hardware confidently. “Probably when you walk through that door, th' front half o' th' buildin' looks like somet'ing old timey.”
“They went to considerably more effort to disguise Federation tech back in Peace City,” the doctor observed.
“Pro'ly way out wherever th' hell we are, they figure who gonna see it?”
“There doesn’t look to be anything at all on your side of the building,” Rendell reported. “There’s a wind farm in the distance. Nothing more.”
“You got some minin' equipment in that field behind you, but not much else.”
“Mining? I don’t remember there being reports of mining on the planet.”
“Hey,” the engineer interjected. “Maybe that what they trading wit' th' Orions. Do you remember th' geology report?”
“I didn’t think there was any need to memorize it,” Rendell grumbled. “Let me see… Only the precious metals are significant...”
DelMonde grinned at the Haven. “Those would catch your sweet eye, non?”
The doctor ignored this patent truth. “Just the usual, as far as I can recall… uranium, gorzite, merrokozite, borolithium, gold, ferrokorzite…”
“Borolithium is pretty rare, non?”
“Not as sparkly as dilithium,” Rendell confirmed. “But a serviceable enough power source to keep your survival pod warm and bright during the cold winter nights…”
“Yeah…” The engineer chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Not all that powerful by our standards, but a good resonate energy source if you know how t' harness it. If these folks were usin' borolithium crystal instead o' just plain glass, it might explain why their solar an' sonic technology was so far ahead o' what we expected of 'em.”
“An interesting thought.” The doctor nodded. “The Orions could be willing to trade for a cheap source of borolithium.”
“Cheap goods fo' a cheap power supply, yeah,” DelMonde mused. “It still could be jus' penny-ante traders lookin' t' make a quick score an' dump some trashy surplus.”
“There is also the possibility…”
“Hold that thought,” the engineer interrupted abruptly.
“Company on the way?”
“See,” DelMonde retorted in a mockingly aggrieved tone as the sound of multiple boot-steps on the wooden floor of the room outside the chamber they were confined within became audible. “I do make an effort.”
The door burst open and nearly a dozen brown-robed, pipe-wielding figures stampeded inside.
“You are abomination!” a leader proclaimed in a machine-augmented voice. “Unclean! Impure!”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” the engineer agreed laconically. “But it sure rude as hell t' say so right off th' damn bat.”
“You are Archon!” a follower chimed in, waving his pipe in the Cajun’s face. “Outside! Unwanted!”
“Son, at this moment, I be jus' as happy t' leave,” DelMonde drawled.
“You will comply!” the leader caterwauled metallically.
“All right now. I jus' 'bout had enough o' this.” The engineer leaned forward and peered through the sea of robed and hooded figures until he singled out a particular one. “Gal-mart, you tell your pal here…”
A palpable ripple of astonishment swept through the assembly.
“Gelmar? Gelmar? Does the Archon know…?” the robed figures whispered to each other, moving away from the mysteriously unmasked brother.
“Oh, don’t bother backin' up, son,” DelMonde called out mercilessly as the robed figure looked back and forth, panicked. “I know it you. You done still got them white drug-store shoes on. And this fella over here. I not know your name, but you th' one that served us our drinks at the club, non? You still wearin' that cheap-ass ring. “
The robed figure hastily clutched his hand to his chest to belatedly conceal the tell-tale jewelry.
“An' th' bunch o' you behind him is th' fellas that was in th' cabaret we see, non?” The engineer continued. “If ya’ll wanna be in disguise an' all, you might should have stopped an' washed th' makeup off your hands, an' maybe take a bath since you still smell like a damn brewery, you know…”
“It matters not!” The leader hastily waved his hands above his head. “It matters not!”
“It matters not a damn to me neither,” the Cajun conceded with a shrug. “If ya’ll wanna go 'round lookin' like jackasses in crap-colored robes an' puttin' on fake skeery voices, then go right th' hell ahead. Knock yourselves out.”
“Archon.” The leader leveled his pipe-weapon at DelMonde’s head dangerously. “You will comply with our demands.”
“I might be in more of a complyin' mood if you untie me an' my companion an' cut th' bullshit,” the engineer retorted, unimpressed.
“We have pierced the mysteries of Landru’s greatest glories.”
The Cajun snorted. “Good fo' you.”
“Untold power is within our reach,” the leader’s right-hand man chimed in.
The engineer yawned. “Okay.”
The brown-robes turned to each other, their fists balled in frustration. Clearly persuasive communication was not at the top of their skills list.
“You are the Archon who serves your sky machines, are you not?” another brown-robe demanded.
“I am a Star Fleet engineer, if that what you tryin' t' get at,” DelMonde informed them pleasantly.
Yet another brother stepped forward to shake his pipe at the engineer. “You must aid us in creating a union between the powers of the Archons and the glories of Landru.”
“If you hintin' in th' direction where I t'ink you headin', I not t'ink that such a great idea.” The Cajun shook his head. “Might not be somet'ing that would work out all that good.”
“Our plan succeeds!” The leader shouted, shaking his pipe over his head. “We do not require your blessing, Archon!”
The engineer leaned back in his chair. “Exactly what th' hell do you require, then?”
“Your compliance!” the leader sputtered, enraged.
“The total machine-compliance of the Archons for the greater splendor of Landru!” his right-hand man elaborated.
This suggestion was met with great approval from the assembly.
The engineer chewed his lip. “It sounds like you tryin' t' work on an interface 'tween some old native tech an' some new Federation tech -- an' you got you some compatibility problems you t'ink I could iron out fo' you.”
“You will comply!” the leader enthused.
“Now that does seem like somet'ing I would actually be capable o' doin'…” the Cajun admitted slowly. “An' I certainly would have no objections t' takin' a look at your set-up. In fact, if you would get these handcuffs off me right now, I would have no problem sayin' yes to takin' a look at your set-up. Could you do that? Could you get these cuffs off me in return fo' that?”
There was some hesitation on the part of the brown-robes, but apparently the engineer’s cooperation was of paramount importance to them. It was clear that they would have preferred to have gained his assent through intimidation. They seemed desperate enough, however, to settle for the hope of compromise.
At a grunt from the leader, a brow-robe unchained the engineer.
“Oh, this is much more agreeable.” The Cajun smiled as he rubbed his wrists. “Th' same fo' my companion as well, non? Jus' fo' congeniality’s sake?”
The leader acquiesced with an impatient signal. “You will comply!”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” the engineer agreed easily, then held up a cautionary finger. “However, I gotta warn you, my bosses not like me t' freelance on this sort o' t'ing. I gonna need t' get approval fo' a big job like this. I gonna need t' call my captain an' let him know what I’m up to.”
“No!” The leader’s pipe weapon was once more at the ready. “No contact! You will comply!”
DelMonde shrugged and shook his head. “No contact, no can do, my friend.”
“If you do not comply, your captain is ours,” the leader threatened. “He will languish in the Eternal Clasp of Landru!”
“Is that s'posed t' be some kind o' threat?” DelMonde narrowed his eyes. “I thought we were 'bout t' be pals here...”
“You have one hour to consider.” At the leader’s signal, the other brown-robes began to head for the exit. “Tolor, guard them!”
When all had left except for the guard, the leader turned and pointed his pipe-weapon menacingly. “One hour! Think well of your captain!”
“I generally do,” the Cajun retorted as the door slammed behind him. As quiet again descended on the chamber, the engineer looked to his fellow officer from the Drake. “How you doin', Lian? You been awful quiet.”
“You were handling the situation so splendidly that I would not have dreamed of interfering,” the doctor replied, delicately resetting her mussed curls with her fingertips.
“Why, thank you, darlin’.”
“Not to seem to demanding, but can you possibly…?” Rendell pointed to the guard with an eyebrow.
“I’m jus' fixin’ t' see what I can do ‘bout that,” the Cajun replied genially as the native swung his pipe-weapon in a paranoid arc in between the two of them. “Tolor, buddy, you already pretty sick o' this, right?”
The native gave the engineer a hostile stare from beneath his brown hood.
“I mean, whyfor you th' one get stuck wit' guard duty? That not fair? Huh?”
The watchman’s stance became even more belligerent.
“This no fun, non? They probably like a hundred t'ings you wanna do more t'an be stuck here, right?”
The aim of Tolor’s weapon became more desultory.
“Hey,” the engineer suggested with a smile. “Why you not go get us some food an' drinks instead?”
Although wavering, the watchman remained in place.
The Cajun sighed. “Well, all right then, you selfish thug, why you not jus' run along an' help yourself t' a drink an' a smoke?”
Like a charm, the native turned immediately at the proposal and obediently exited the room.
Rendell smiled. “That worked.”
DelMonde shook his head ruefully. “I not able to make anybody do anyt'ing they not already wanna do… but…”
“He really wanted a drink,” the doctor concluded.
“Looks like.”
“I was going to be impressed with your deductive abilities in identifying our mob of brown -robed kidnappers, but then I remembered that you are a telepath.”
“The main t'ing I hate 'bout telepathy is that it tend t make it so I not never get no credit fo' havin’ an independent ounce o' brains,” the Cajun grumbled, trying the door that Tolor had exited. “It’s locked.”
“Do you think can open it?”
“Probably.” The engineer put his hand on the panel of the door and stood quietly concentrating on sound the minds around him for a moment. “I got more concerns 'bout how we gonna get through them fellas who in there arguin' in th' next room.”
Rendell lifted a teasing eyebrow. “Worried your gifts are up to the challenge?”
“I jus' a telepath,” the Cajun replied gruffly. “I not magic or not'ing. I can distract a couple of ‘em fo' a couple o' seconds. We might have jus' as much luck if you went out there an' show’d ‘em your legs.”
“I don’t know about that. You saw their cabaret. They might be more distracted by the sight of your legs.”
DelMonde grinned. “I do got me some fine-lookin' limbs, I must admit…”
“Oh, Saford’s Sparkling Seventh hell… !” Rendell exclaimed and suddenly turned to one side and lifted up her skirt. “Speaking of my legs…. They missed this!” She withdrew her phaser from its hidden holster on her thigh. “Our kidnappers aren’t very good at their job, are they?”
“Well, how much can we expect from a waiter, a drug store clerk, an' a bunch of chorus boys?”
“I suppose a lack of professionalism is actually preferable in one’s kidnappers, though, isn’t it?” the doctor concluded philosophically.
“Oh hell!” DelMonde smacked himself on the forehead. “Speakin' of a lack of' professionalism….”
“What?”
“We not got a lot o' room t' talk 'bout them being idiots when we standin' here lookin' in th' wrong direction.”
“Excuse me?”
The engineer took the doctor by the shoulders and turned her so that she was facing the darkened back of the chamber. “Remember I told you half this room was a standard issue 5978-b64 survival pod?”
Rendell closed her eyes and shook her head. “We’ve had a trying morning…”
DelMonde stuck out his hand. “So we agreed that we leave this part our o' our reports, non?”
“Yes.” They shook solemnly on the deal.
“All right. What goodies we got here?” The engineer crossed quickly to line of panels on the back wall. “Damn. The comm system been yanked out.”
“That’s bad. We need that.”
“It also bad ‘cause it tend t' indicate that somebody on Lindstrom’s team is in cahoots wit' these fellas,” DelMonde commented as he opened up an overhead storage bin. “The folks here not know a computer from a hole in th' ground.”
“They have a collaborator, but they still were very keen on kidnapping you.” Rendell replied, searching through an equipment locker.
“Not much in th' way o' engineers here. Mostly social science types.”
“How would our kidnappers know that?” the doctor asked, handing a tricorder to the engineer. “I get the impression that all Archons look alike to them.”
“Yep.” DelMonde frowned as he closed the hatch of a third empty storage unit. “That a mystery. I not wearin' my engineer hat or not'ing. I not know how they’d pick me out.”
“Well,” the doctor concluded, rising. “Not much in the way of supplies.”
“At leas' we have decent tricorders again,” the engineer said, draping the strap of one over his shoulder. “An', if I right….”
In response to a series of buttons he pressed on the wall beside him, a panel in the back of the building slid open. Unfortunately, it revealed a wooden wall blocking passage to the outside.
Rendell groaned. “We’re just not having much luck, are we?”
“Guess we jus' gonna have t' make our own luck then, cher,” the engineer replied.
Borrowing her phaser, DelMonde burned a neat hole through the wooden wall big enough for the two of them to pass through. Turning to the Haven, he took her hand. “Come on, gal! Let’s get while th' gettin'’s good!”