chemicals—” “No, you get back to work on the computer.” Chakotay turned to the other side of the table.
“Tuvok, I want you and Paris to find these darksiders and locate a chemical supply. Between the two of you, you should be able to come up with something.”
“If you say so,” Paris grudgingly said.
Only a lifetime of control enabled Tuvok to nod agreement without discernible irritation. Even Paris’s wry expression seemed specifically designed to provoke him.
“We will return shortly with the contact,” Tuvok told Chakotay, attempting to set a good example. “If I may suggest, since our communications system is off-line, I would like to provide all personnel who leave the ship with closed-beam beacons in case there is need for emergency transport.”
“Good idea,” Chakotay agreed. “But use it only if you have to.
We don’t want the Cartel asking questions about our transporters next.”
The commander pushed away from the table. “Very well—let’s get to work.”
Chapter 8
Paris couldn’t believe it—he was inside the hub at last, and who did he have as a companion? An uptight Vulcan whose main goal seemed to be to avoid all of the really interesting places. Even now, Paris could have been in the midst of the market throng below; instead he was stuck on an upper terrace, ordered to wait there until Tuvok returned for him.
Paris leaned his arms against the dingy railing, vicariously enjoying the hum and bustle that echoed into the high pointed ceiling. There were voices pitching their products, snatches of music and song, plenty of shouts and laughter. It was much better than that starched lobby at the base of their docking spire, but even though this market held the best possibilities so far, it still didn’t seem out-of-the-way enough for truly serious illicit dealings.
“I believe I have established contact with an individual who can help us,” Tuvok announced, joining Paris.
Only Tuvok could make a drug deal sound boring.
Congratulations,” Paris said dryly. “Where is he?”
If a Vulcan could be pleased with himself, Tuvok fit the bill.
“He will be along shortly.”
“Psst,” someone hissed behind them.
Paris casually shifted, bringing his tricorder into view. None of the Tutopans would know it wasn’t a weapon, and anything complex would be viewed with respect until proved otherwise.
A vague form drifted back into the shadowed hallway, one of the many openings to the endless warrens within the slanted walls of the Hub.
That’s where Paris would start his search if he was in charge.
“Is that the guy?” Paris asked from the side of his mouth.
Tuvok boldly stepped forward. “Mr. Ippi?”
“Ippi?” Paris repeated dubiously.
The figure beckoned, retreating farther. Clearly, Ippi wasn’t Tutopan, but in the darkness, Paris couldn’t tell what manner of humanoid he resembled.
“That is the contact,” Tuvok calmly announced. “Proceed with caution.”
“You bet.” Paris followed Tuvok into the hallway, pausing to one side until his eyes adjusted. He could smell the nervous sweat on Ippi even from this distance, and his pointed face was gray with station grime.
Obviously he wasn’t one of the lucky ones who could afford regular water rations to wash.
“Do you have the corticosteroids I requested?”
Tuvok asked politely. Ippi held out his hands. “What—you think I carry ninety quants of a drug on me?”
“Then where is it?”
“I go get it.” Ippi snuffled, wiping a hand across the tip of his beaked face. “You sure you want ninety quants? That a lot of drugs, spacer.”
“At least ninety quants,” Paris said firmly. “For a start.”
“Ninety quants should be sufficient,” Tuvok contradicted.
Paris tightened his lips. Tuvok had no idea how to barter with the underworld. You were always supposed to let them think you’d need them again, and again, and again…. “Let us know where to get hold of you later,” he added, ignoring
“Tuvok, I want you and Paris to find these darksiders and locate a chemical supply. Between the two of you, you should be able to come up with something.”
“If you say so,” Paris grudgingly said.
Only a lifetime of control enabled Tuvok to nod agreement without discernible irritation. Even Paris’s wry expression seemed specifically designed to provoke him.
“We will return shortly with the contact,” Tuvok told Chakotay, attempting to set a good example. “If I may suggest, since our communications system is off-line, I would like to provide all personnel who leave the ship with closed-beam beacons in case there is need for emergency transport.”
“Good idea,” Chakotay agreed. “But use it only if you have to.
We don’t want the Cartel asking questions about our transporters next.”
The commander pushed away from the table. “Very well—let’s get to work.”
Chapter 8
Paris couldn’t believe it—he was inside the hub at last, and who did he have as a companion? An uptight Vulcan whose main goal seemed to be to avoid all of the really interesting places. Even now, Paris could have been in the midst of the market throng below; instead he was stuck on an upper terrace, ordered to wait there until Tuvok returned for him.
Paris leaned his arms against the dingy railing, vicariously enjoying the hum and bustle that echoed into the high pointed ceiling. There were voices pitching their products, snatches of music and song, plenty of shouts and laughter. It was much better than that starched lobby at the base of their docking spire, but even though this market held the best possibilities so far, it still didn’t seem out-of-the-way enough for truly serious illicit dealings.
“I believe I have established contact with an individual who can help us,” Tuvok announced, joining Paris.
Only Tuvok could make a drug deal sound boring.
Congratulations,” Paris said dryly. “Where is he?”
If a Vulcan could be pleased with himself, Tuvok fit the bill.
“He will be along shortly.”
“Psst,” someone hissed behind them.
Paris casually shifted, bringing his tricorder into view. None of the Tutopans would know it wasn’t a weapon, and anything complex would be viewed with respect until proved otherwise.
A vague form drifted back into the shadowed hallway, one of the many openings to the endless warrens within the slanted walls of the Hub.
That’s where Paris would start his search if he was in charge.
“Is that the guy?” Paris asked from the side of his mouth.
Tuvok boldly stepped forward. “Mr. Ippi?”
“Ippi?” Paris repeated dubiously.
The figure beckoned, retreating farther. Clearly, Ippi wasn’t Tutopan, but in the darkness, Paris couldn’t tell what manner of humanoid he resembled.
“That is the contact,” Tuvok calmly announced. “Proceed with caution.”
“You bet.” Paris followed Tuvok into the hallway, pausing to one side until his eyes adjusted. He could smell the nervous sweat on Ippi even from this distance, and his pointed face was gray with station grime.
Obviously he wasn’t one of the lucky ones who could afford regular water rations to wash.
“Do you have the corticosteroids I requested?”
Tuvok asked politely. Ippi held out his hands. “What—you think I carry ninety quants of a drug on me?”
“Then where is it?”
“I go get it.” Ippi snuffled, wiping a hand across the tip of his beaked face. “You sure you want ninety quants? That a lot of drugs, spacer.”
“At least ninety quants,” Paris said firmly. “For a start.”
“Ninety quants should be sufficient,” Tuvok contradicted.
Paris tightened his lips. Tuvok had no idea how to barter with the underworld. You were always supposed to let them think you’d need them again, and again, and again…. “Let us know where to get hold of you later,” he added, ignoring
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