A lone figure leaned against the rusty metal wall of a dilapidated structure, watching as dust devils swirled past. He wore a heavy brown longcoat with a thick hood draped down over his features, padded gloves and strong leather boots ensured nothing was exposed to the harsh sun. Two more hooded figures stepped out of the bar nearby and walked towards him, stopping a few paces away.
"The information was good," said the first in a deep gravelly voice.
The figure nodded slightly. "Gather the others," he responded in a similarly dark voice. He turned away from the dusty bar as the two rushed off to do his bidding. Moments later he found himself at the end of a nearby alley. He activated a small wrist-mounted comlink and whispered into it, "General, your information proved accurate. The targets will be dealt with accordingly."
"Very good, Commander. We will have assets in place to assist you when the time is right."
"Well what have we here?" A cocky voice broadcast behind him.
"What is that Commander?"
The Commander briefly looked over his shoulder before returning to his comlink, "A small nuisance. I'll contact you when we're ready." He turned to regard the speaker behind him.
A young disheveled Bajoran stood at the mouth of the alley with a smirk on his face. An entourage of other aliens toting small blades and other tools like makeshift weapons filled the gaps around him, blocking the only exit.
"Tourists like you should be careful," the Bajoran said, "there's lotsa dangers round here," his smirk widened into a malicious grin, "sometimes these tourists here? Well they just go missin an end up lost in the desert."
The Commander squared off across from the the small mob, arms across his chest, "Walk away. Only warning."
"What's this now? You seem a bit upset, lil man. Oh don't ya worry now, we'll take good care of ya. Won't we boys?" The Bajoran looked over his shoulder and his eyes widened as the grin fell from his lips. Behind him lay the bodies of his associates. Standing over them were four hooded figures, gleaming blades stained red clenched in their fists.
Quivering with fear, the Bajoran turned back to the Commander, now only steps away. He looked up into angry grey eyes amid scowling pale flesh. "I see I was mistaken about ya mister. I'll just be on my way now if it pleases ya."
He turned to make a hasty exit but was held fast as a gloved hand clenched the fabric at his chest. Inches away now, the Commander's grey eyes bored into his. "Too late for that friend."
The Bajoran's mouth froze in a mute scream as honed steel pieced the tender skin at his throat. Warm blood flowed over the Commander's glove as he applied more pressure. The blade bit deep, finally wedging between two of his vertebrae. A quick twist severed the trachea and served to dislodged the blade. The Bajoran's lips twitched as he mouthed a final plea before his body fell to the ground.
Commander R'zhen cleaned the blade off on his pant leg before replacing it beneath his cloak. The four hooded Remans still stood watching, awaiting orders.
"Get into position."
Like the silent predator, she stalked her prey. A patient huntress, she waited for the right time to strike. Without warning, the cloak fell from her shoulders and fire flew from her fingertips. The fire flashed to nothingness just short of her prey. She opened her mouth and two angry red stars flared to life. They soared down and smote the defiant creature. Crippled and dying, the prey called out in pain.
"Klingon Vessel, this is the U.S.S. Vostok. We surrender! Repeat, we surrender!"
With a slight sigh, the huntress finished her prey and turned her attention to their charge. The lumbering beast tried to run, but the huntress cut their feet from under them.
The huntress's master looked to his subordinate, "No witnesses."
Kre'mak grinned with pleasure, the bloodlust evident in his eyes. He turned from the room to see his grisly task done.
An hour later, Kre'mak reported his mission a success. The Master acknowledged him with a nod and closed the channel, cutting off the litany of "honorable" deeds that started streaming through.
He opened a new channel, "This is Major Korath of the Paq'to. We have the freighter and are moving into position."
The huntress again pulled her cloak around her. She watched as the liberated beast push away, towards the dusty ball known as Nimbus III.
"Klingon Vessel, this is the U.S.S. Vostok. We surrender! Repeat, we surrender!"
With a slight sigh, the huntress finished her prey and turned her attention to their charge. The lumbering beast tried to run, but the huntress cut their feet from under them.
The huntress's master looked to his subordinate, "No witnesses."
Kre'mak grinned with pleasure, the bloodlust evident in his eyes. He turned from the room to see his grisly task done.
An hour later, Kre'mak reported his mission a success. The Master acknowledged him with a nod and closed the channel, cutting off the litany of "honorable" deeds that started streaming through.
He opened a new channel, "This is Major Korath of the Paq'to. We have the freighter and are moving into position."
The huntress again pulled her cloak around her. She watched as the liberated beast push away, towards the dusty ball known as Nimbus III.
Thang, an Andorian who could easily be any of his customers great grand father, mindfully catalogs his wares when he hears that all too familiar voice....
Shug enters Thang's Emporium and in a booming voice, "Thang my friend, how goes business?"
Thang turns around and before he can say anything, Shug drops a large crate of self-sealing stem bolts right in front of him.
"Listen, you know how hard it is to get rid of these things? Please tell me you know of someone I can unload these. I'll give you a 5% cut, honest."
Than only stares, clearly displeased with Shug's presence, made worse by Shug's complete obliviousness to this fact.
"I have to get going, I'm going to try my luck with one of my customers over at the Strike Force Karga's starbase. Don't be a stranger! If you hear of any good business deals, let me know."
Shug picks up the crate and exits the store....
It is said that the oldest Andorians have an unparalleled masterly of the the ancient tongue and dialects of the Andorian language, including profanity. That day, the four walls of Thang's Emporium heard every single one of those words as Thang banged his fist against the table in front of him in agony, after having a crate of self-sealing stem bolts on his foot.
Shug enters Thang's Emporium and in a booming voice, "Thang my friend, how goes business?"
Thang turns around and before he can say anything, Shug drops a large crate of self-sealing stem bolts right in front of him.
"Listen, you know how hard it is to get rid of these things? Please tell me you know of someone I can unload these. I'll give you a 5% cut, honest."
Than only stares, clearly displeased with Shug's presence, made worse by Shug's complete obliviousness to this fact.
"I have to get going, I'm going to try my luck with one of my customers over at the Strike Force Karga's starbase. Don't be a stranger! If you hear of any good business deals, let me know."
Shug picks up the crate and exits the store....
It is said that the oldest Andorians have an unparalleled masterly of the the ancient tongue and dialects of the Andorian language, including profanity. That day, the four walls of Thang's Emporium heard every single one of those words as Thang banged his fist against the table in front of him in agony, after having a crate of self-sealing stem bolts on his foot.
The Triton started it's life a simple transport, ferrying goods wherever they were needed. To major Federation worlds and struggling colonies alike for over twenty years. The crew was as diverse as any you could find and, for the most part, they all worked together as an efficient team.
The mission to Nimbus III was a simple one. Bring in some supplies for some of the planet's smaller settlements, go home. Due to the area's reputation, the captain asked for a small escort. Nothing large, but just enough to make someone look elsewhere to cause trouble. The Federation consented and sent a small frigate. That frigate was nothing but expanding gasses and debris now. The Triton's own crew lay where they fell, their murderers occupying their old home.
She floated gracefully among the many other freighters jockeying for a position in the next open approach vector. Only the most ardent observer, however, could tell that the Triton wasn't making any effort to get closer to the planet. She simply drifted among the crowd, waiting for her destiny.
Then the signal came. Suddenly, the stillness was broken. No one noticed the Triton veering slightly away from the others, one simple ship among dozens, but no one could fail to notice the sudden explosion that tore through her. One of the Trition's main engine relays overloaded, causing damage throughout the ship. Traffic controllers on Nimbus III saw the bright blip on their screens and began tracking the vessel as it's orbit rapidly decayed. They began receiving a frantic communication from the previously silent ship.
"To any receiving, this is Captain Brocas of the civilian vessel Triton issuing a distress call on all frequencies. We've been attacked and are experiencing critical systems failures in all areas of the ship. We have lost most primary systems including helm control. We have been boarded, repeat, we have been boarded!"
With some skillful editing, the final words of the Triton's Captain were broadcast to all who could hear. Words of a dead man now used in his killers' schemes.
The Triton continued its descent, rocked by a daisy chain of explosions. She began coming apart as she came closer to the planet, cargo pods and structural components coming loose to disintegrate in the atmosphere, as fuel lines ruptured and exploded.
Rescue crews would find that no one survived the crash. They would find that the entire crew had suffered injuries in line with such a devastating accident. Fortunately, the bridge module would be found relatively intact. The Captain would be found a few meters from his command chair, a point blank phaser blast to his back. Most surprisingly, a charred corpse, half-buried under collapsed bulkheads. It would be found wearing the tattered remains of a shockingly familiar uniform, bearing the rank insignia of a Starfleet Lieutenant Commander. A recently discharged phaser clutched in his hand would be match to the one that killed Captain Brocas. This would prove more damning when an investigation revealed scoring along the engine casing matching patterns consistent with Federation phaser arrays.
Among all of these shocking discoveries, however, there was one thing that would never be seen. No one saw the Klingon Bird of Prey that slipped through the planet's sensor net as the doomed freighter met it's fiery end.
The mission to Nimbus III was a simple one. Bring in some supplies for some of the planet's smaller settlements, go home. Due to the area's reputation, the captain asked for a small escort. Nothing large, but just enough to make someone look elsewhere to cause trouble. The Federation consented and sent a small frigate. That frigate was nothing but expanding gasses and debris now. The Triton's own crew lay where they fell, their murderers occupying their old home.
She floated gracefully among the many other freighters jockeying for a position in the next open approach vector. Only the most ardent observer, however, could tell that the Triton wasn't making any effort to get closer to the planet. She simply drifted among the crowd, waiting for her destiny.
Then the signal came. Suddenly, the stillness was broken. No one noticed the Triton veering slightly away from the others, one simple ship among dozens, but no one could fail to notice the sudden explosion that tore through her. One of the Trition's main engine relays overloaded, causing damage throughout the ship. Traffic controllers on Nimbus III saw the bright blip on their screens and began tracking the vessel as it's orbit rapidly decayed. They began receiving a frantic communication from the previously silent ship.
"To any receiving, this is Captain Brocas of the civilian vessel Triton issuing a distress call on all frequencies. We've been attacked and are experiencing critical systems failures in all areas of the ship. We have lost most primary systems including helm control. We have been boarded, repeat, we have been boarded!"
With some skillful editing, the final words of the Triton's Captain were broadcast to all who could hear. Words of a dead man now used in his killers' schemes.
The Triton continued its descent, rocked by a daisy chain of explosions. She began coming apart as she came closer to the planet, cargo pods and structural components coming loose to disintegrate in the atmosphere, as fuel lines ruptured and exploded.
Rescue crews would find that no one survived the crash. They would find that the entire crew had suffered injuries in line with such a devastating accident. Fortunately, the bridge module would be found relatively intact. The Captain would be found a few meters from his command chair, a point blank phaser blast to his back. Most surprisingly, a charred corpse, half-buried under collapsed bulkheads. It would be found wearing the tattered remains of a shockingly familiar uniform, bearing the rank insignia of a Starfleet Lieutenant Commander. A recently discharged phaser clutched in his hand would be match to the one that killed Captain Brocas. This would prove more damning when an investigation revealed scoring along the engine casing matching patterns consistent with Federation phaser arrays.
Among all of these shocking discoveries, however, there was one thing that would never be seen. No one saw the Klingon Bird of Prey that slipped through the planet's sensor net as the doomed freighter met it's fiery end.
THE UNTRAINED EYE
The way in which sensitive information is handled and relayed has changed so much over the generations. In some ways it has become easier, in just as many ways it has become more difficult.
There are so many options to choose from, but one has to be extremely careful. You could send the information via a subspace transmission. There are downsides to this though. For one, if you send it via a secure network/channel then it is instantly flagged and any government seeing it transmitting might want to tap into it to see what is going on. More egregious than the galactic governments are the hackers. If they manage to intercept, which happens far more often than anyone wants to admit, their usual course of action is to blackmail you... if you're lucky. If you're aren't so lucky then they just take the info you accidently handed them and turn around and sell it to someone who likely won't be all too pleased about your actions.
Even if your transmission isn't hacked or monitored, the simple fact that you are sending a secured message is enough to finish you. Even the best operatives become suspect, even if they don't realize it, and so doing something as shady as this is only going to burn you. You could always send a normal message that's got a hidden code/code words in it. However, if you are suspected and that transmission is monitored, which it will be if someone thinks you are doing something to harm them/their business/their military, then it will be scrutinized and runs the risk of the hidden message being discovered. That's not even taking into account the language barrier. For instance, a Nausicaan getting information from an Andorian's file and then typing it up, or even just saying it in a live transmission, and sending it to a Romulan to read/hear is going to have some major issues. So many translations. Any linguist will tell you that translations sometimes lose the true impact of what is being said, and now doing that two or three or four times over is only going to spew out incomprehensible gibberish. So, to any experienced field operative, transmitting sensitive information by any means is a big no-no. The risks and difficulties are just too high.
Due to the massive amounts of information usually gathered the act of simply having an operative remember the details and verbally relay the information is out of the question. There is also the increased chance of lying for that matter.
Oddly enough, the best way happens to be the old fashioned way. A physical copy of the information is obtained by an operative and personally delivered to a contact. There is still a great deal of risk in this as well; if you get caught with the information on you then chances are it’s the last mistake you'll ever make. Isoliner chips are great but they are a bit too obvious. PADDs are just too big to be discreet. Many "spies" use something akin to an archaic Earth invention, a small thin device that looks like a triangular shaped SD card. They are easily concealed, difficult to detect, and can usually hold about 3 terabytes.
A Ferengi man entered a shady bar on Nimbus III. It was lively tonight, not over packed but good and busy. The Ferengi has worked for the Klingon Empire for the better part of a decade on Nimbus now handling and delivering sensitive information to his handlers. He had a good cover too, used shuttle salesman. Having been here for so long and successfully running a business selling "gently used" pre-owned shuttles while knowing and mingling with so many locals made everyone over look him as a potential "spy." He had the tiny informative device hidden on him right now. It had a ton of detailed information on most of the local gangs, dirty businessmen, known Federation and Romulan operatives, and various other influential individuals and the dirty details of their lives that could be exploited.
The Ferengi sat down at a table with a Ferasian after shaking hands with him. He had been trying to buy a whole lot of outdated Ferasian military shuttles from this guy. They've met before like this but a deal was never made. As the two discussed business a Romulan came over to take their order for drinks. Business talk resumed as the Romulan went off and then returned with the two drinks. Something was wrong though. The Ferengi complained that his drink was way too strong. So, the Romulan took the drink back to the bartender and brought back a different one to the Ferengi. And that's where the game begins.
You know that old game? The one where someone stands on a street corner with a table and swindles you out of your money as you try play his game. He has three cups and a ball. And he's going to cover the ball up with one of the cups and slide the cups around and do little acts of sleight of hand and in the end you're supposed to guess where the ball is. Three cups, one ball. It’s a very difficult game that takes a lot of skill to perform and just as much skill to figure it out. And here are the three cups: a Ferengi, a Ferasian, and a Romulan. The tiny device with information on it is the ball. So, where is the ball right now?
If you guessed the Ferengi, Ferasian, or the Romulan then you are wrong. None of them had the information on them right now. Just like chess and checkers, this game has become more complex and three dimensional over the years. You're busy keeping your eyes on cups A, B, and C, meanwhile you completely missed cups D, E, and F. You didn't see them. You didn't see them because she didn't want you to see them.
The Ferengi had very subtly slipped his tiny technological device into his first mug. It was durable enough to survive. The fact that probably no one suspected the Ferengi of anything combined with the extremely stealthy sleight of hand on his part meant that he was more than likely very safe. So, the Romulan had the device for a moment but didn't even realize it. He handed it to the fat Orion man working the bar and asked for a new one. The Orion dumped the unwanted drink into the slender trough behind and below the counter. There was some clanking from the ice as the cubes slid towards the covered drain. It wasn't until a second glance did the Orion, who we'll just refer to as Mr. O, see the information device. He's the cup D in this game. He casually picked it up and covertly attached it to the bottom of another mug intended for a completely different table.
Mr. O hadn't been on Nimbus as long as the Ferengi, he's only been here since the onset of the current Klingon-Federation war. This is the second establishment he's bartended at. He made friends easily and had a lot of credibility. The more credibility one has the fewer eyes there are watching. It was relatively doubtful any eyes were on Mr. O. Still, he was a paranoid one. Every time he came to work he was sure to make sure the disruptor under the bar was charged and that there weren't any hidden cameras in any corners.
Major Sarlof was a proud Klingon, but times were tough for her. Her "former" Commanding Officer, General Wrot'Ka, currently had no use for science Officers aboard his little Bird of Prey. So, she was here trying to procure illicit narcotics from a crazy looking Andorian so she could turn around and sell the drugs to the desperate Romulan refugees in this sector block. The goal was to destabilize the region even more to allow greater ease of action for the KDF. Or so goes her cover story. Galactic governments have conducted missions like this plenty of times before in the past so it wasn't as if this was going to gain much attention from anyone paying attention. Although her current dossier says otherwise, the Major is still very much under General Wrot'Ka's command.
Major Sarlof and the Andorian received their drinks. The Major, without making it obvious, retrieved the information device from the bottom of the mug and slipped it into a pocket. She's cup E. The two continued to discuss their drug deal and the price it would take to sway the Andorian's morality in helping the KDF ruin Romulan culture.
So, who is cup F? There is a loud, crusty, old, battleax of a Klingon in the corner getting drunk. He’s got wrinkles and he’s got scars, both of which come with a ton of stories. He's laughing out loud and is halfway into a tale of glory he's telling to a small group around him. He occasionally stops talking for a bit to take the time to flash his old school necklace of ketracel white, that he took from dead Jem'Hadar during the Dominion War, to any promiscuously dressed female that walks by. He's Command Sergeant Major Gor’aw. He's almost too obvious. But he's drunk, or at least he wants you to think he is. Though, this type of game is for young people and Command Sergeant Major Gor’aw is too high a rank and too old to be a part of an operation like this... which is exactly why he's a part of an operation like this. He's strictly there as muscle and nothing more, he's there to keep the Major safe. He'll only be doing some killing if things go bad... or maybe he'll do some killing if things go right. It's hard to say, he was a precarious individual after all.
All these players were playing a difficult game and they were each being extremely crafty at it. None of them looked at each other, acknowledged each other, or spoke to each other. Hopefully, if things went as well as they were appearing to go, all of them would have an uneventful night.
To be continued...
The way in which sensitive information is handled and relayed has changed so much over the generations. In some ways it has become easier, in just as many ways it has become more difficult.
There are so many options to choose from, but one has to be extremely careful. You could send the information via a subspace transmission. There are downsides to this though. For one, if you send it via a secure network/channel then it is instantly flagged and any government seeing it transmitting might want to tap into it to see what is going on. More egregious than the galactic governments are the hackers. If they manage to intercept, which happens far more often than anyone wants to admit, their usual course of action is to blackmail you... if you're lucky. If you're aren't so lucky then they just take the info you accidently handed them and turn around and sell it to someone who likely won't be all too pleased about your actions.
Even if your transmission isn't hacked or monitored, the simple fact that you are sending a secured message is enough to finish you. Even the best operatives become suspect, even if they don't realize it, and so doing something as shady as this is only going to burn you. You could always send a normal message that's got a hidden code/code words in it. However, if you are suspected and that transmission is monitored, which it will be if someone thinks you are doing something to harm them/their business/their military, then it will be scrutinized and runs the risk of the hidden message being discovered. That's not even taking into account the language barrier. For instance, a Nausicaan getting information from an Andorian's file and then typing it up, or even just saying it in a live transmission, and sending it to a Romulan to read/hear is going to have some major issues. So many translations. Any linguist will tell you that translations sometimes lose the true impact of what is being said, and now doing that two or three or four times over is only going to spew out incomprehensible gibberish. So, to any experienced field operative, transmitting sensitive information by any means is a big no-no. The risks and difficulties are just too high.
Due to the massive amounts of information usually gathered the act of simply having an operative remember the details and verbally relay the information is out of the question. There is also the increased chance of lying for that matter.
Oddly enough, the best way happens to be the old fashioned way. A physical copy of the information is obtained by an operative and personally delivered to a contact. There is still a great deal of risk in this as well; if you get caught with the information on you then chances are it’s the last mistake you'll ever make. Isoliner chips are great but they are a bit too obvious. PADDs are just too big to be discreet. Many "spies" use something akin to an archaic Earth invention, a small thin device that looks like a triangular shaped SD card. They are easily concealed, difficult to detect, and can usually hold about 3 terabytes.
A Ferengi man entered a shady bar on Nimbus III. It was lively tonight, not over packed but good and busy. The Ferengi has worked for the Klingon Empire for the better part of a decade on Nimbus now handling and delivering sensitive information to his handlers. He had a good cover too, used shuttle salesman. Having been here for so long and successfully running a business selling "gently used" pre-owned shuttles while knowing and mingling with so many locals made everyone over look him as a potential "spy." He had the tiny informative device hidden on him right now. It had a ton of detailed information on most of the local gangs, dirty businessmen, known Federation and Romulan operatives, and various other influential individuals and the dirty details of their lives that could be exploited.
The Ferengi sat down at a table with a Ferasian after shaking hands with him. He had been trying to buy a whole lot of outdated Ferasian military shuttles from this guy. They've met before like this but a deal was never made. As the two discussed business a Romulan came over to take their order for drinks. Business talk resumed as the Romulan went off and then returned with the two drinks. Something was wrong though. The Ferengi complained that his drink was way too strong. So, the Romulan took the drink back to the bartender and brought back a different one to the Ferengi. And that's where the game begins.
You know that old game? The one where someone stands on a street corner with a table and swindles you out of your money as you try play his game. He has three cups and a ball. And he's going to cover the ball up with one of the cups and slide the cups around and do little acts of sleight of hand and in the end you're supposed to guess where the ball is. Three cups, one ball. It’s a very difficult game that takes a lot of skill to perform and just as much skill to figure it out. And here are the three cups: a Ferengi, a Ferasian, and a Romulan. The tiny device with information on it is the ball. So, where is the ball right now?
If you guessed the Ferengi, Ferasian, or the Romulan then you are wrong. None of them had the information on them right now. Just like chess and checkers, this game has become more complex and three dimensional over the years. You're busy keeping your eyes on cups A, B, and C, meanwhile you completely missed cups D, E, and F. You didn't see them. You didn't see them because she didn't want you to see them.
The Ferengi had very subtly slipped his tiny technological device into his first mug. It was durable enough to survive. The fact that probably no one suspected the Ferengi of anything combined with the extremely stealthy sleight of hand on his part meant that he was more than likely very safe. So, the Romulan had the device for a moment but didn't even realize it. He handed it to the fat Orion man working the bar and asked for a new one. The Orion dumped the unwanted drink into the slender trough behind and below the counter. There was some clanking from the ice as the cubes slid towards the covered drain. It wasn't until a second glance did the Orion, who we'll just refer to as Mr. O, see the information device. He's the cup D in this game. He casually picked it up and covertly attached it to the bottom of another mug intended for a completely different table.
Mr. O hadn't been on Nimbus as long as the Ferengi, he's only been here since the onset of the current Klingon-Federation war. This is the second establishment he's bartended at. He made friends easily and had a lot of credibility. The more credibility one has the fewer eyes there are watching. It was relatively doubtful any eyes were on Mr. O. Still, he was a paranoid one. Every time he came to work he was sure to make sure the disruptor under the bar was charged and that there weren't any hidden cameras in any corners.
Major Sarlof was a proud Klingon, but times were tough for her. Her "former" Commanding Officer, General Wrot'Ka, currently had no use for science Officers aboard his little Bird of Prey. So, she was here trying to procure illicit narcotics from a crazy looking Andorian so she could turn around and sell the drugs to the desperate Romulan refugees in this sector block. The goal was to destabilize the region even more to allow greater ease of action for the KDF. Or so goes her cover story. Galactic governments have conducted missions like this plenty of times before in the past so it wasn't as if this was going to gain much attention from anyone paying attention. Although her current dossier says otherwise, the Major is still very much under General Wrot'Ka's command.
Major Sarlof and the Andorian received their drinks. The Major, without making it obvious, retrieved the information device from the bottom of the mug and slipped it into a pocket. She's cup E. The two continued to discuss their drug deal and the price it would take to sway the Andorian's morality in helping the KDF ruin Romulan culture.
So, who is cup F? There is a loud, crusty, old, battleax of a Klingon in the corner getting drunk. He’s got wrinkles and he’s got scars, both of which come with a ton of stories. He's laughing out loud and is halfway into a tale of glory he's telling to a small group around him. He occasionally stops talking for a bit to take the time to flash his old school necklace of ketracel white, that he took from dead Jem'Hadar during the Dominion War, to any promiscuously dressed female that walks by. He's Command Sergeant Major Gor’aw. He's almost too obvious. But he's drunk, or at least he wants you to think he is. Though, this type of game is for young people and Command Sergeant Major Gor’aw is too high a rank and too old to be a part of an operation like this... which is exactly why he's a part of an operation like this. He's strictly there as muscle and nothing more, he's there to keep the Major safe. He'll only be doing some killing if things go bad... or maybe he'll do some killing if things go right. It's hard to say, he was a precarious individual after all.
All these players were playing a difficult game and they were each being extremely crafty at it. None of them looked at each other, acknowledged each other, or spoke to each other. Hopefully, if things went as well as they were appearing to go, all of them would have an uneventful night.
To be continued...
THREE CAN KEEP A SECRET IF TWO ARE DEAD
Night time in a desert can get cold. The wind starts blowing, lack of clouds to trap the heat in, and once your body is exposed to boiling temperatures then feeling air on your skin that is a normal for you suddenly feels freezing. Had Major Sarlof been a Human instead of Klingon then she'd have goose bumps right now. It wasn't just the cool air blowing on her bare legs and mostly exposed torso, it was the unsettling silence combined the frequent odd quiet noise.
The Klingon woman had left the bar just moments ago. She and the tweaked out Andorian had come to a deal on the drugs, even though she could care less about them as they were not her true objective, and she promptly left. Her hotel room was only half a kelicam away but it was dark out and a few hours past midnight. She walked alone, or at least she hoped she was alone. She made subtle attempts to look over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't being followed. Things can get tricky though, there's still a moderate amount of people walking the streets and alleyways right now. Discovering one person following you on foot is easy enough as she took an indirect route back to the hotel, but if it was a small team keeping an eye on her than it would be almost impossible to tell.
The information she had tucked away on her wasn't likely to be anything ground breaking or news worthy. It was probably just your standard fare Intel report with a dozen, give or take, stolen files. Sure, those contained in the report wouldn't appreciate the information about them. Gangs and business men certainly wouldn't like finding the intimate details of their life on file such as regular activities, patterns of habit, contacts, supply routes, and so on. Other government agents absolutely would kill to prevent their own information from being viewed. But there weren't government secrets (save for maybe information on a couple spies and agents) on this device and no one claimed jurisdiction over Nimbus III so any information on it that revealed criminal activity wouldn't result in any punishment. So, the number of people that would consider this to be critical information, other than the KDF, would be pretty small. The Major hoped that meant very few people gave enough of a damn to take the time to figure her out. They had been extremely careful though, so chances are if anyone even realized this information had been obtained then the odds are they have no idea who possessed it right now.
The information may not seem like much, but it was exactly what the High Command had tasked Strike Force: Kargas to gather. It was to be used to gain leverage over some and find ways to win over the hearts and minds of others in order to increase Klingon influence over this region.
Sarlof could hear someone speaking loudly around the next corner. She had to go there though. During the day she had conducted a reconnaissance of the area and planned her route, if she didn't make this turn she runs the risk of walking into an unfamiliar area with no chance of getting back on track right away. CSM Gor'aw wasn't far away. He had left almost an hour before her, but he was stumbling through the streets "drunk." He had a preplanned route that mirrored the Major's and would allow him to run and render aid should there be any issues. He wasn't protecting her because she’s a woman, it’s the fact that no one has a reason to suspect Gor'aw of anything whereas the Major has had to talk to specific people on the planet and may have gained someone’s attention. If she doesn't turn here then Gor'aw will have no idea where she is. Opposing operatives love when their targets get lost.
As she rounded the corner she saw the street was mostly empty. A few beggars, a handful of prostitutes, a couple people just walking along to another location, and the sporadic individuals having a conversation. There was something very odd though. On top of a small cargo box stood a Reman who was speaking loudly to no in particular. He looked as if he had a rough life, probably one of extreme poverty. As Sarlof got closer she could see that the Reman had scars across his face and was missing his eyes. The scars were most noticeable where his eyes should be. It looked as if someone, or something, had clawed out his eyes.
"Heed my words!" He called out but no one other than the Major paid attention to him. "The skies will burn and the ground will tremble from the force of his power. The life that we know will be vanquished!" His head turned in different direction as he sent his words outward for anyone to hear. His arms and hands moved about in an angered and dramatic fashion.
Given his incoherent ramblings, the Major wondered if he suffered some debilitating mental illness. Maybe he tore out his own eyes in a fit of madness. Still, the Klingon woman found herself slowing down to listen.
"Brothers and sisters, listen to me. The dead tyrant lives! He wears a new mask... a mask of nobility. But make no mistake; the face of evil resides behind the mask." Major Sarlof slowly stopped a few meters away as she continued to listen. She gave a quick glance around and saw that she was the only one paying any attention to the Reman. The Reman didn't seem to know she was there as his motions continued and her steps were light. "This false King seeks to expand his Kingdom and cast a shadow on us all. Our future's end is now! Spit out from the deepest bowels of all the hells, this undead tyrant will impose his will on us all. Those who stand will fall... those who kneel will be crushed!"
Naturally Sarlof instantly associated his words with General Wrot'Ka. Wrot'Ka was considered a tyrant by many, he was made King, more accurately Emperor, of an entire planet, he was always looking to expand the Empire, and he was declared dead for over a year. His survival and return defied all logic.
The Reman lowered himself to his knees on the box as he clasped his hands before him in a begging pose. "I beg you. I beg all of you! Repent now. Beg for forgiveness for all your wrong doings. He with the bald head and crown of bones will conquer all. Your damnation in this life is a certainty so long as the undead ruler lives, but ask forgiveness for your ill deeds and save yourself from eternal suffering in the next life!"
Sarlof shook her head. A Klingons afterlife is not determined by such things. Besides, she just realized that these words could probably be applied to any number of individuals and aren't necessarily about General Wrot'Ka. She remembered that just recently there was a powerful Orion gang leader that found himself in a good deal of trouble on this planet recently. Moreover, this Orion was often referred to as undead or undying, and he was bald. Remembering this she quickly shook the Reman's words off and turned to continue walking.
Before she could take a single step the Reman's arm snapped outwards and his finger pointed right at the Major. His head quickly turned as he shouted in a scathing voice, "Pawn! You're a Pawn in the King's game. He will sacrifice you for victory! Sacrifice! SACRIFICE!"
Major Sarlof was visibly disturbed at the words. She didn't think the Remain knew she was there. And now she couldn't help but believe his words were about the General. Her frozen stance was broken free as, up ahead, she saw the "drunken" CSM Gor'aw stumble out from an alleyway while singing. He was obviously looking for the Major; he must have realized she hadn't completed her next turn onto another street. She didn't realize she had allowed this much time to pass.
She finished her route and entered her hotel room. The room was pitch black. She turned on the lights before the doors slid shut behind her. Right in front of her, crouched behind the far bed, was Colonel Bur with a Klingon Disruptor Rifle aimed right at her. She stepped forward and the door closed. As they did, the Colonel relaxed his pose and stood up. He asked, "Get it?"
"Got it." She responded as she pulled out the device and flaunted it with a toothy smile. She walked over to her bag on a different bed and pulled out a small laptop sized computer and opened it up. As the device powered up she kicked off her boots and sat on the bed cross legged. She positioned herself so only she could see the screen. General Wrot'Ka had authorized only her to view the contents of the information to assure it was what they wanted. Clearly Colonel Bur wasn't pleased that he wasn't the one approved to view it, but he had complete trust in the General and would follow his orders to the letter.
Sarlof was mostly skimming the information while Bur had out his kit and was sharpening his bat'leth. They both heard the door unlock. The Colonel quickly snatched up his rifle while Sarlof dove for her bag and pulled out a Disruptor Pistol. As the door slid open Command Sergeant Major Gor’aw backed into the room while facing the hall. He held his mek'leth in his hand as it dripped with blood. As he backed in he casually pressed the button and closed the door and locked it.
"What happened?" The Colonel asked while his eyes looked at the blood soaked mek'leth.
CSM Gor’aw looked confused. "Huh?" He grunted as he began wiping the blade off on his pant leg leaving his thigh moist with blood.
"The... your mek'leth. What happened?" Sarlof asked in an agitated voice.
"Oh. Oh!" The CSM cleared his throat, "There was a Starfleet spy outside the hotel. He was posing as a homeless beggar."
The Major and Colonel shared a curious look before Bur finally asked, "How do you know he was a spy for Starfleet?"
Gor’aw was stretching when he heard the question and froze in the awkward pose with a flabbergasted look on his face as his upper lip curled. He looked at his fellow Klingon as if the Colonel was an idiot, "Because he was Human."
Sarlof scoffed at the remark. "You think every Human is in Starfleet."
The Command Sergeant Major resumed stretching as he muttered, "Aren't they?" He moved over to his belongings and set up a cot to sleep on as the other two resumed their activities.
As Major Sarlof continued to skim through the extensive amounts of information there was something that caught her eye. She delved deeper into the file and discovered it to be a hit contract. It was an agreement to kill for money. Reading who the target was nearly knocked her off the bed. General Wrot'Ka. The price offered for the General's head was 625,300 pieces of Gold Pressed Latnium. That was a lot. Of course the names of who wanted this done and who was being paid for it wasn't listed. It wasn't uncommon for there to be assassination attempts on senior officers in the KDF, but this price was way more than anything she had ever heard of before. Assassinations were a sad common place dirty tactic used by some Klingon Houses, but they rarely were made on the Head of the House. It’s true that the House of Wrot'Ka only contained the General himself and Lady Karana, but there were many who had sworn allegiance to Wrot'Ka. There was the bulk of Strike Force: Kargas which would likely hunt down those responsible... not to mention an entire planet that looks upon Wrot'Ka as a near deity (see the IC story "Crusade"), whose inhabitants are currently assimilating into Imperial culture, that would avenge his death. It would spark a House war. Not to mention the High Command would likely dissolve any House convicted of such a cowardly attack. This was a powder keg; it was too incendiary to come from another house. What if it came from Lady Karana? What if it’s from another member of the Strike Force? It might even come from one of those damned Romulans they've allowed to assist Kargas.
Sarlof wasn't sure what to do. She was under strict orders to keep her mouth shut about any information contained on this device. She was only to speak to General Wrot'Ka about it and the device itself had to be delivered to Klingon Intelligence. But what about when there is information on here that shows a clear and present danger to a General in the Klingon Defense Force? She couldn't contact the General via subspace without the risk of compromising the Empire's mission here. To compound matters, they wouldn't have a chance to rendezvous with General Wrot'Ka for another three weeks. What would happen to her if General Wrot'Ka is assassinated and she never warned anyone? Death penalty probably. And if she spoke about this information, disobeying her direct orders from the General, to either of her fellow warriors in an attempt to get them to all head back to Klingon space as soon as possible it is perfectly possible that her punishment could be as severe as death as she would be running the risk of ruining the entire mission. Death wasn't the main concern for Major Sarlof, she's a Klingon. What did bother her was the possibility of letting her General and Empire down. She was going to be forced to keep quiet for now.
For some reason her mind suddenly snapped back to the Reman she saw earlier. Perhaps someone had heard his words, believed he was speaking about Wrot'Ka, and took his words to heart and had decided to action on it.
She slowly looked up from her portable console. Her jaw had dropped and she realized she was holding her breath this whole time as the thoughts raced through her head. She tried to act normal. Sarlof looked at her two fellow warriors. Bur was still sharpening his bat'leth and hadn't noticed the shocked look on her face. Gor’aw lay on his back on the cot and was playing away with his PADD (likely playing "Angry Targs"®). Neither of them had a clue what Major Sarlof had just uncovered... or did they?
To be continued...
Night time in a desert can get cold. The wind starts blowing, lack of clouds to trap the heat in, and once your body is exposed to boiling temperatures then feeling air on your skin that is a normal for you suddenly feels freezing. Had Major Sarlof been a Human instead of Klingon then she'd have goose bumps right now. It wasn't just the cool air blowing on her bare legs and mostly exposed torso, it was the unsettling silence combined the frequent odd quiet noise.
The Klingon woman had left the bar just moments ago. She and the tweaked out Andorian had come to a deal on the drugs, even though she could care less about them as they were not her true objective, and she promptly left. Her hotel room was only half a kelicam away but it was dark out and a few hours past midnight. She walked alone, or at least she hoped she was alone. She made subtle attempts to look over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't being followed. Things can get tricky though, there's still a moderate amount of people walking the streets and alleyways right now. Discovering one person following you on foot is easy enough as she took an indirect route back to the hotel, but if it was a small team keeping an eye on her than it would be almost impossible to tell.
The information she had tucked away on her wasn't likely to be anything ground breaking or news worthy. It was probably just your standard fare Intel report with a dozen, give or take, stolen files. Sure, those contained in the report wouldn't appreciate the information about them. Gangs and business men certainly wouldn't like finding the intimate details of their life on file such as regular activities, patterns of habit, contacts, supply routes, and so on. Other government agents absolutely would kill to prevent their own information from being viewed. But there weren't government secrets (save for maybe information on a couple spies and agents) on this device and no one claimed jurisdiction over Nimbus III so any information on it that revealed criminal activity wouldn't result in any punishment. So, the number of people that would consider this to be critical information, other than the KDF, would be pretty small. The Major hoped that meant very few people gave enough of a damn to take the time to figure her out. They had been extremely careful though, so chances are if anyone even realized this information had been obtained then the odds are they have no idea who possessed it right now.
The information may not seem like much, but it was exactly what the High Command had tasked Strike Force: Kargas to gather. It was to be used to gain leverage over some and find ways to win over the hearts and minds of others in order to increase Klingon influence over this region.
Sarlof could hear someone speaking loudly around the next corner. She had to go there though. During the day she had conducted a reconnaissance of the area and planned her route, if she didn't make this turn she runs the risk of walking into an unfamiliar area with no chance of getting back on track right away. CSM Gor'aw wasn't far away. He had left almost an hour before her, but he was stumbling through the streets "drunk." He had a preplanned route that mirrored the Major's and would allow him to run and render aid should there be any issues. He wasn't protecting her because she’s a woman, it’s the fact that no one has a reason to suspect Gor'aw of anything whereas the Major has had to talk to specific people on the planet and may have gained someone’s attention. If she doesn't turn here then Gor'aw will have no idea where she is. Opposing operatives love when their targets get lost.
As she rounded the corner she saw the street was mostly empty. A few beggars, a handful of prostitutes, a couple people just walking along to another location, and the sporadic individuals having a conversation. There was something very odd though. On top of a small cargo box stood a Reman who was speaking loudly to no in particular. He looked as if he had a rough life, probably one of extreme poverty. As Sarlof got closer she could see that the Reman had scars across his face and was missing his eyes. The scars were most noticeable where his eyes should be. It looked as if someone, or something, had clawed out his eyes.
"Heed my words!" He called out but no one other than the Major paid attention to him. "The skies will burn and the ground will tremble from the force of his power. The life that we know will be vanquished!" His head turned in different direction as he sent his words outward for anyone to hear. His arms and hands moved about in an angered and dramatic fashion.
Given his incoherent ramblings, the Major wondered if he suffered some debilitating mental illness. Maybe he tore out his own eyes in a fit of madness. Still, the Klingon woman found herself slowing down to listen.
"Brothers and sisters, listen to me. The dead tyrant lives! He wears a new mask... a mask of nobility. But make no mistake; the face of evil resides behind the mask." Major Sarlof slowly stopped a few meters away as she continued to listen. She gave a quick glance around and saw that she was the only one paying any attention to the Reman. The Reman didn't seem to know she was there as his motions continued and her steps were light. "This false King seeks to expand his Kingdom and cast a shadow on us all. Our future's end is now! Spit out from the deepest bowels of all the hells, this undead tyrant will impose his will on us all. Those who stand will fall... those who kneel will be crushed!"
Naturally Sarlof instantly associated his words with General Wrot'Ka. Wrot'Ka was considered a tyrant by many, he was made King, more accurately Emperor, of an entire planet, he was always looking to expand the Empire, and he was declared dead for over a year. His survival and return defied all logic.
The Reman lowered himself to his knees on the box as he clasped his hands before him in a begging pose. "I beg you. I beg all of you! Repent now. Beg for forgiveness for all your wrong doings. He with the bald head and crown of bones will conquer all. Your damnation in this life is a certainty so long as the undead ruler lives, but ask forgiveness for your ill deeds and save yourself from eternal suffering in the next life!"
Sarlof shook her head. A Klingons afterlife is not determined by such things. Besides, she just realized that these words could probably be applied to any number of individuals and aren't necessarily about General Wrot'Ka. She remembered that just recently there was a powerful Orion gang leader that found himself in a good deal of trouble on this planet recently. Moreover, this Orion was often referred to as undead or undying, and he was bald. Remembering this she quickly shook the Reman's words off and turned to continue walking.
Before she could take a single step the Reman's arm snapped outwards and his finger pointed right at the Major. His head quickly turned as he shouted in a scathing voice, "Pawn! You're a Pawn in the King's game. He will sacrifice you for victory! Sacrifice! SACRIFICE!"
Major Sarlof was visibly disturbed at the words. She didn't think the Remain knew she was there. And now she couldn't help but believe his words were about the General. Her frozen stance was broken free as, up ahead, she saw the "drunken" CSM Gor'aw stumble out from an alleyway while singing. He was obviously looking for the Major; he must have realized she hadn't completed her next turn onto another street. She didn't realize she had allowed this much time to pass.
She finished her route and entered her hotel room. The room was pitch black. She turned on the lights before the doors slid shut behind her. Right in front of her, crouched behind the far bed, was Colonel Bur with a Klingon Disruptor Rifle aimed right at her. She stepped forward and the door closed. As they did, the Colonel relaxed his pose and stood up. He asked, "Get it?"
"Got it." She responded as she pulled out the device and flaunted it with a toothy smile. She walked over to her bag on a different bed and pulled out a small laptop sized computer and opened it up. As the device powered up she kicked off her boots and sat on the bed cross legged. She positioned herself so only she could see the screen. General Wrot'Ka had authorized only her to view the contents of the information to assure it was what they wanted. Clearly Colonel Bur wasn't pleased that he wasn't the one approved to view it, but he had complete trust in the General and would follow his orders to the letter.
Sarlof was mostly skimming the information while Bur had out his kit and was sharpening his bat'leth. They both heard the door unlock. The Colonel quickly snatched up his rifle while Sarlof dove for her bag and pulled out a Disruptor Pistol. As the door slid open Command Sergeant Major Gor’aw backed into the room while facing the hall. He held his mek'leth in his hand as it dripped with blood. As he backed in he casually pressed the button and closed the door and locked it.
"What happened?" The Colonel asked while his eyes looked at the blood soaked mek'leth.
CSM Gor’aw looked confused. "Huh?" He grunted as he began wiping the blade off on his pant leg leaving his thigh moist with blood.
"The... your mek'leth. What happened?" Sarlof asked in an agitated voice.
"Oh. Oh!" The CSM cleared his throat, "There was a Starfleet spy outside the hotel. He was posing as a homeless beggar."
The Major and Colonel shared a curious look before Bur finally asked, "How do you know he was a spy for Starfleet?"
Gor’aw was stretching when he heard the question and froze in the awkward pose with a flabbergasted look on his face as his upper lip curled. He looked at his fellow Klingon as if the Colonel was an idiot, "Because he was Human."
Sarlof scoffed at the remark. "You think every Human is in Starfleet."
The Command Sergeant Major resumed stretching as he muttered, "Aren't they?" He moved over to his belongings and set up a cot to sleep on as the other two resumed their activities.
As Major Sarlof continued to skim through the extensive amounts of information there was something that caught her eye. She delved deeper into the file and discovered it to be a hit contract. It was an agreement to kill for money. Reading who the target was nearly knocked her off the bed. General Wrot'Ka. The price offered for the General's head was 625,300 pieces of Gold Pressed Latnium. That was a lot. Of course the names of who wanted this done and who was being paid for it wasn't listed. It wasn't uncommon for there to be assassination attempts on senior officers in the KDF, but this price was way more than anything she had ever heard of before. Assassinations were a sad common place dirty tactic used by some Klingon Houses, but they rarely were made on the Head of the House. It’s true that the House of Wrot'Ka only contained the General himself and Lady Karana, but there were many who had sworn allegiance to Wrot'Ka. There was the bulk of Strike Force: Kargas which would likely hunt down those responsible... not to mention an entire planet that looks upon Wrot'Ka as a near deity (see the IC story "Crusade"), whose inhabitants are currently assimilating into Imperial culture, that would avenge his death. It would spark a House war. Not to mention the High Command would likely dissolve any House convicted of such a cowardly attack. This was a powder keg; it was too incendiary to come from another house. What if it came from Lady Karana? What if it’s from another member of the Strike Force? It might even come from one of those damned Romulans they've allowed to assist Kargas.
Sarlof wasn't sure what to do. She was under strict orders to keep her mouth shut about any information contained on this device. She was only to speak to General Wrot'Ka about it and the device itself had to be delivered to Klingon Intelligence. But what about when there is information on here that shows a clear and present danger to a General in the Klingon Defense Force? She couldn't contact the General via subspace without the risk of compromising the Empire's mission here. To compound matters, they wouldn't have a chance to rendezvous with General Wrot'Ka for another three weeks. What would happen to her if General Wrot'Ka is assassinated and she never warned anyone? Death penalty probably. And if she spoke about this information, disobeying her direct orders from the General, to either of her fellow warriors in an attempt to get them to all head back to Klingon space as soon as possible it is perfectly possible that her punishment could be as severe as death as she would be running the risk of ruining the entire mission. Death wasn't the main concern for Major Sarlof, she's a Klingon. What did bother her was the possibility of letting her General and Empire down. She was going to be forced to keep quiet for now.
For some reason her mind suddenly snapped back to the Reman she saw earlier. Perhaps someone had heard his words, believed he was speaking about Wrot'Ka, and took his words to heart and had decided to action on it.
She slowly looked up from her portable console. Her jaw had dropped and she realized she was holding her breath this whole time as the thoughts raced through her head. She tried to act normal. Sarlof looked at her two fellow warriors. Bur was still sharpening his bat'leth and hadn't noticed the shocked look on her face. Gor’aw lay on his back on the cot and was playing away with his PADD (likely playing "Angry Targs"®). Neither of them had a clue what Major Sarlof had just uncovered... or did they?
To be continued...
R'zhen's hand snapped down to his side like a lightning strike as he felt a subtle caress inside his cloak. The beggar child's slim arm nearly snapped at the sudden assault, his wide-eyed stare locked on the fearsome visage glaring down at him from under the dark hood. "Not for you, boy. Go." R'zhen watched the boy flee until he disappeared back into the crowd. He checked to ensure the dagger the boy had nearly discovered was undisturbed before continuing on his way.
A short time later, R'zhen found himself in an alley alongside an old rundown apartment building. The alley was empty save a lone vagrant sleeping in a pile of rags further within.
Another cloaked figure stepped from the crowd to lean against the wall. "My men are in position," said the shrouded Klingon Major, "let's find these contacts of yours."
The pair turned deeper into the ally, drunken oaths to imagined gods spilling from the vagrant as they passed. As they disappeared into the back door of the building, dozens of eyes turned outward to ensure they were not disturbed.
In the alley, the vagrant rolled over in his feigned sleep. His rags wrapped around a dirty human face, hiding the crisp military haircut. One pair of sharp eyes still looking inward as the door fell shut.
A short time later, R'zhen found himself in an alley alongside an old rundown apartment building. The alley was empty save a lone vagrant sleeping in a pile of rags further within.
Another cloaked figure stepped from the crowd to lean against the wall. "My men are in position," said the shrouded Klingon Major, "let's find these contacts of yours."
The pair turned deeper into the ally, drunken oaths to imagined gods spilling from the vagrant as they passed. As they disappeared into the back door of the building, dozens of eyes turned outward to ensure they were not disturbed.
In the alley, the vagrant rolled over in his feigned sleep. His rags wrapped around a dirty human face, hiding the crisp military haircut. One pair of sharp eyes still looking inward as the door fell shut.
"Turning a blind eye..."- Old Human saying.
E'sen arrives to Mug's Used Tricorders an hour late, yet she does not see her contact. She covers her face with her hood and pretends to examen the various wares. While browsing she reaches into her pocket and turns on the homing device she was given, just briefly, then tucks it away again. E'sen is a Vulcan consort to many senior level Federation diplomats, although many who know of her, call her by other names; names which are less than polite for a woman of her particular skills.
K'minty swiftly enters and grabs E'sen by the arm as they walk together down the 3rd aisle and stop in front of a large crate with heavy discounted tricorders. They begin to speak with a series of hand gestures. To most, this archaic form of talking is a completely unknown language, only linguists and scholars are familiar with the ancient Human language.
"You're late....you know I don't like to be kept waiting."
"I apologize, you fully know well that it's hard to get civilian transport onto this planet, only pirates and brigands come here and the few civilians that are here are trying to get out, not in."
K'minty snarls, "I've heard enough. Give me your status report."
E'sen puts her hand into her cloak and produces a padd and hands it to him. "It's all there, schedules of meetings and locations for all Federation diplomats on Vulcan and Trill. I've also become to make some contacts with some diplomats on Earth. A Trill console is taking me to a ball being held at the Praetor hotel in Vienna next month. Several of the aforementioned contacts will be there."
K'minty grins, "Klingon Intelligence will be pleased with this information, you must..." Mug accidentally walks into their conversation and receives a cold and long stare by K'minty.
"Must be other aisle..." Mug quickly walks away, fully knowing the consequences of staying where he is not wanted. Mug is a one eyed Pakled and owner of Mug's Used Tricorders. Well accustomed to the fact that his store is used for clandestine meetings due to the fact that almost no ones shops there, in return for this privacy, his "customers" pay him in wares and latnium. On a planet where anyone with enough latnium can find out anything about anyone, Mug's "customers" are aware of the value such a store provides in terms of privacy.
K'minty resumes, "You must make these contacts at once, our previous agent was caught by Starfleet Intelligence and the Empire demands we have agents within the Federation at all times. While there may be whispers of a peace looming in the future, the Klingon Empire must always be ready to defend itself from it's friends and it's enemies."
"Very well, I expect my payment to be delivered to the usual account." K'minty nods. "And I'll require a 2410 Nexa Shuttle type S."
K'minty's eyes widen, "You what?! I am not the Nagus, ask your lovers to lavish you with gifts, not the Empire."
E'sen smirks, "K'men has already approved the request, I was only informing you as a formality."
K'minty's ears perk up upon hearing the name of K'men and hisses at E'sen. "Get out of my sight, the next civilian transport leaves the spaceport in an hour."
E'sen nods, "Live long and prosper."
E'sen arrives to Mug's Used Tricorders an hour late, yet she does not see her contact. She covers her face with her hood and pretends to examen the various wares. While browsing she reaches into her pocket and turns on the homing device she was given, just briefly, then tucks it away again. E'sen is a Vulcan consort to many senior level Federation diplomats, although many who know of her, call her by other names; names which are less than polite for a woman of her particular skills.
K'minty swiftly enters and grabs E'sen by the arm as they walk together down the 3rd aisle and stop in front of a large crate with heavy discounted tricorders. They begin to speak with a series of hand gestures. To most, this archaic form of talking is a completely unknown language, only linguists and scholars are familiar with the ancient Human language.
"You're late....you know I don't like to be kept waiting."
"I apologize, you fully know well that it's hard to get civilian transport onto this planet, only pirates and brigands come here and the few civilians that are here are trying to get out, not in."
K'minty snarls, "I've heard enough. Give me your status report."
E'sen puts her hand into her cloak and produces a padd and hands it to him. "It's all there, schedules of meetings and locations for all Federation diplomats on Vulcan and Trill. I've also become to make some contacts with some diplomats on Earth. A Trill console is taking me to a ball being held at the Praetor hotel in Vienna next month. Several of the aforementioned contacts will be there."
K'minty grins, "Klingon Intelligence will be pleased with this information, you must..." Mug accidentally walks into their conversation and receives a cold and long stare by K'minty.
"Must be other aisle..." Mug quickly walks away, fully knowing the consequences of staying where he is not wanted. Mug is a one eyed Pakled and owner of Mug's Used Tricorders. Well accustomed to the fact that his store is used for clandestine meetings due to the fact that almost no ones shops there, in return for this privacy, his "customers" pay him in wares and latnium. On a planet where anyone with enough latnium can find out anything about anyone, Mug's "customers" are aware of the value such a store provides in terms of privacy.
K'minty resumes, "You must make these contacts at once, our previous agent was caught by Starfleet Intelligence and the Empire demands we have agents within the Federation at all times. While there may be whispers of a peace looming in the future, the Klingon Empire must always be ready to defend itself from it's friends and it's enemies."
"Very well, I expect my payment to be delivered to the usual account." K'minty nods. "And I'll require a 2410 Nexa Shuttle type S."
K'minty's eyes widen, "You what?! I am not the Nagus, ask your lovers to lavish you with gifts, not the Empire."
E'sen smirks, "K'men has already approved the request, I was only informing you as a formality."
K'minty's ears perk up upon hearing the name of K'men and hisses at E'sen. "Get out of my sight, the next civilian transport leaves the spaceport in an hour."
E'sen nods, "Live long and prosper."