First and Last Conversations

Posted on Mon Aug 11th, 2025 @ 11:20am by Ambassador Drusilla Creon
Edited on on Mon Aug 11th, 2025 @ 11:23am

2,763 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: Histories
Location: Deep Space 9, Habitat Ring
Timeline: 2388 (After 'Retail Therapy')

Drusilla had something less than ninety minutes after leaving Frath with the disruptor in her bag - that's what she said - before every caution Hiram, in his uncommonly anxious way, had passed along turned out to be well founded. She only had to venture near an annex closer to the center of the Habitat Ring to learn this.

It was getting on towards midwatch, and plenty of Starfleet types were out and about. She was not a bad-looking person and stray looks did not necessarily arouse her suspicion, especially in a dull sector command headquarters like DS9. The murder of three people in the VIP complex that morning had still not made the news feeds and Lazlo's murder a couple of days earlier was only interesting to the degree that it happened on a level of the Promenade occupied by the security center. Lazlo himself was insignificant. Nobody around here was looking for a woman with a weapon in her bag.

Not even the young Bajoran woman with the severe dark hair who appeared out of a service entrance and studied her just long enough to make a positive identification and approach.

It was a sure thing that Drusilla had never seen this girl before, but that the girl had seen her. She had a strong jaw and a thin mouth, and wasn't wearing lipstick or clothing that might offer some clue as to what she did for living. Naturally then, she was probably some kind of a cop. She looked tense but not all that threatening.

One or two of the brawnier men hanging around this particular hub of foot traffic could be cops, too. It was hard to tell; there were Marines stationed here, and union dockworkers stumbling around.

"You're walking into a trap," the young Bajoran said quietly, not quite taking Drusilla's arm as she changed direction to match that of the bounty hunter. She stayed uncomfortably close - enough so that Drusilla could smell her moisturizer - but only to avoid being overheard. "There's someone you need to talk to before you do. Is it too late?"

Her glance was neutral as she eyed the girl without turning her head, in all likelihood, she had friends who were watching. It didn't have any of the hallmarks of a con. "That depends entirely on who it is I need to talk to." Dru considered brushing the girl off and telling her she had the wrong person, but there was a severity to her that seemed sincere. Everything about this was dicey, she should've expected a cryptic stranger before too long. She slowed her pace, but kept in the same direction.

"I can't tell you that," the Bajoran murmured. "But he knows something that could change your approach to your assignment. I say that without knowing anything about your assignment. I'm not involved." She did not seem particularly apologetic for giving out so little information. It was hard to believe she didn't disapprove of whatever Drusilla was up to, or that she was just some kind of messenger.

"You can't go armed," she went on, "and you must be alone. Try any other way and you'll be denied entry. A gate on Pylon 1. A-4. Kobliad private transport. There'll be a guard posted. Give him a password: 'Underhanded.' If there's anyone else around the terminal, wait until they're gone. Can you do that? You must not warn your business partners. Do that and it won't be a friend waiting for you - I can promise you."

"I see." The girl knew too much for this to be anything random, Dru could see there was obviously something larger at work here. "And aside from a new perspective, what do I gain from this? I don't make it a habit to walk onto strange ships completely defenseless without a very good reason."

"If you don't think your own life is a very good reason," the girl said with a trace of disdain, "I won't argue with you. The threat isn't anything you can outmaneuver. Even if you could -- this isn't some filling station. It's Fleet Command. We didn't bump into each other. Whatever else your bounty is, it isn't legal. Do it."

Before Drusilla could respond, she abruptly turned right and moved briskly off. Any thought of chasing after her was checked by a couple of openly hostile stares from two brutes on the other side of the intersection. In another moment, she was gone.

The Trill had not bothered to straighten up his chambers in advance of Drusilla's arrival. Berthing on the Kobliad Security vessel was less agreeable even than that on the Lissepian civilian transport which had brought him to the station, and while he did not have a naive Andorian bunkmate to worry about this time, he was not so grateful for these makeshift accommodations as to keep them neat.

When the guard delivered her, he was slouched on his lower bunk amidst several days worth of empty beer containers and crisp packets, an ashtray overflowing with butts, and clothes on the floor. The television was turned up loud to a local news network, and he was still wearing the striped pajamas they had given him when he arrived: a black-bearded, deep-chested man in his early thirties with greasy long hair and multiple tattoos.

If he was not a prisoner, he was also not an honored guest, and discouraged from roaming the passageways or mixing among the crew. It was clear from the look and smell of the place that he had been stuck inside for days with nothing but the television for company.

He did not move from his bunk when Drusilla was brought in, except for his eyes, which held steady on the guard until they were alone. Then he raised the remote high enough to turn down the volume.

"Vulcan?" he inquired, sounding saner than he looked as he watched her.

"Correct." Her response was clipped as she took a standing position in front of him. There was obvious federal involvement, her Vulcan identity was the one they'd be aware of.

"You can sit down," said he, motioning with the remote at the chair bolted to the deck in the opposite corner of the tiny white cabin, to the right of the screen. It was one of the few surfaces not littered with trash or clothing: his idea of hospitality.

"I prefer to stand." she hated everything about the Vulcan persona, but it was necessary. Her stomach was doing backflips. "It is my understanding that you and I are to have a discussion of some importance."

"We've never seen one another before, have we," the Trill commented lazily, drawing one of his feet up flat on the bunk. He was wearing rubber-soled shoes. "You're... from out of town."

"This is a Bajoran town. I am certainly not Bajoran. So your assertion is correct. I would remember your.. spots." The man was certainly unique-looking, but not so unique that he would stand out amongst the entire Quadrants worth of scruffy outsiders. "I do not wish to rush you, but I assume our intermediaries have given each of us the necessary facts. Why am I here?"

"You must not know Hiram very well," the Trill answered in no rush at all, and eased his hand down into a cooler for a bottle of cerveza. He made to twist the cap off -- then held it out, in case she wanted one. "You're on speaking terms with him."

"No, thank you." She refused politely. "Hiram and I were introduced by a mutual acquaintance. Not a particularly reliable one, but well-paying work isn't as easily acquired as I would like."

"They tell me you're a mercenary," he said, "and you've been hanging out at Quark's casino with the wrong crowd. The big problem with this place is that it's crawling with cops, isn't it? They grabbed me the minute I came aboard. Wanted to know why I had killed Hiram and where I had hid his body on the transport in. I guess someone noticed us together. I guess I know who it was, too."

He twisted off the cap. "Did me a favor, really. Might never have found out otherwise that the man I thought was on our side was actually setting me up as patsy for Starfleet. Yeah, good old Hiram. Who's he sending you after? I'm guessing it's the ex-officer. McGee."

"Amongst others." This situation was uncomfortable, but not dangerous. Certainly not untenable. But she was tired, and soon she knew she would be cranky. Obviously he was going to take his time, and she was willing to wait.

The Trill paused with the bottle near his mouth. He looked like he regretted offering her anything.

"There oughtn't be others, you creep," he said flatly. "There's nobody else on that freighter you can go after anyhow, not without station security minding very much; whether they're a flock of sheep or not. But I see that could be the sort of thing which wouldn't trouble you -- innocent people getting stiffed."

Dru raised an eyebrow to that. She'd never been called a creep before. "A pair of thieves and a disruptor-for-hire. Your notion of innocence is a curious one. These four didn't accidentally blunder into Afsanjoori's line of fire on the way to morning prayers. But we're not here to evaluate the morality of this alleged business, I hope?"

The Trill took a swallow of warm beer. He didn't have to say what he was thinking; her assessments of her targets were coming from someone else.

"There's a bomb aboard that freighter," he said in a roughened voice. "Don't ask me when it's due to go off; it's got a remote detonator. In the right place, it could turn an old freighter like that one straight into salvage. I think you'll probably be aboard when she goes, frankly. Normally I wouldn't care very much, but that bomb wasn't meant for those poor bastards on the crew. It's a crime."

"Then for whom is the bomb intended?" Bombs didn't just appear by accident, in her experience. "And what do you expect that I am to do about it?"

"The bomb is intended for nobody," he answered, and from his depressed, almost embittered tone, it was obvious he had a personal stake in the affair, however slight. "Or if it is, it's an indirect assault on everyone who's trying to control whatever is aboard that freighter that still makes it valuable. As for your responsibilities -- see that girl there?"

He motioned at the screen with the remote. The news feed was not just muted, it was paused; above the anchor's left shoulder was a superimposed file photo of a young human woman in Starfleet dress uniform.

"That's the new owner of the freighter you're about to bravely storm," he said dryly. "She's holding a news conference in the morning at a private law office up on the first level above the Promenade. If you want to meet her, you ought to be there. Find out whether it's worth wrecking her entire life just to kill a 'disruptor-for-hire,' or whatever you're being paid to do -- I guess you think this bounty you've taken is legitimate because it comes from a real trustworthy fella like Hiram..."

Dru felt a pang of legitimate guilt as she looked at the image of the woman. She had a quiet determination to her, if appearances were to be trusted. "I don't trust Hiram as far as I could kick him, but that's only from meeting the man. Do you know something I don't?"

"Hiram is a fucking Starfleet Security plant," the Trill scowled with visible hatred. "He's helping -- I should say them, but most likely he's just helping himself. Still he's certainly taking direction from them. Maybe they have something on him; that's what my hosts seem to think. I wonder where you know him from. If he's got something on you, I should think twice or more about risking your life to benefit his 'allies.'"

Dru didn't speak for a moment, she was putting the pieces together. "There's something valuable on the Fawkes. Given their line of business, I'd say it's weapons. Hiram, on behalf of Afsanjoori, wants four of the people aboard dead, because the organization knows one of them is with Starfleet. Yet, Hiram himself is with Starfleet, against his will. So he's getting a free pass to further the organization's agenda and keep himself clean and fed. They know what's aboard that's valuable, but they don't know about the bomb?" The last part was assumption, but unless he stopped her she was going to continue.

"How do I know any of this is true, and you're not just waiting for an opportunity to seize whatever is aboard for yourself or some other party?" Her mind was ticking over, there was potential here. If everything she'd been told was true, Hiram would probably end up double crossing her, regardless of whether or not she succeeded. Her certainty was crumbling, but more opportunities were appearing. Something in Hiram's notes kept ringing like a siren in her mind, but she didn't know why.

The Trill choked on his beer and wheezed for breath.

"I don't have any opinion about what Fawkes is hiding," he said finally, brushing his shirt. "My knowledge doesn't extend that far. As a matter of fact I didn't even know about Fawkes until I was brought here; my business was not related to her, and when you leave this transport, I'm due to leave as well. That is, I'm due to be escorted elsewhere. Incognito. For my safety.

"As for other parties..." He thought about this. "There are only three that I know of. The smugglers, who you've met; the Starfleet Security team trying to stop them, maybe using Hiram; last, the local security lads, who are suspicious of the investigation and angry about being pushed out of it. On a station as small as this one, there just isn't room for other players. And I don't know for sure that Hiram has told anyone else about the bomb, not even his SS masters. Somebody had to take it aboard Fawkes, though -- I would guess McGee, since he had real tactical training. You can kill whoever it was, I'm fine with that. Just make sure you find out where that bomb is first, and leave the others alone. Or better yet, refuse the bounty altogether and get the hell out of here before they realise how much safer it is just to blow you to Hell with the rest of it."

"You have given me a great deal to think about, if it is true. However, you have not been forthcoming with any proof. So, it is now on me to abandon a potentially lucrative job based on what as far as can be proved is only your speculation. Unless there is something else, I will be taking my leave of you now." She wished that she could've stood up, as a gesture, but she was already standing.

"Proof? Take a look around," the Trill said, incredulous. "Who do you think 'invited' me to hide out here? And why?" He sat up a little, an annoyed look on his face. He couldn't give her anything solid without giving away information that would compromise his safety. "All right. You go ahead and take your fuckin' leave to think about it. I won't be around to help you again. And if you ask your friends about me or about their little internal security problems, make sure your will is up to date before you do it -- because even if you are good enough to take out a few criminals on your own, the feds are on to your ass now... and whatever Hiram knows about you will get back to them before the end..."

She stared at him in silence for a moment. She chewed at the inside of her cheek, now would be the time to leave, but she wasn't leaving. "The new owner of the Fawkes, the young woman, what is her name?"

He shrugged. "Fuck, I don't remember. Some unpronounceable human thing. I'm sure they'll repeat this report again. Every Bajoran man and woman here is following the story. They still think the government was behind it all. Idiots, aren't they?" He smirked at her.

"Thank you." Dru responded flatly, for everything, doubts included. She turned on her heel, and was gone.

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