I considered the stale, regulated smell of the air in a spacecraft, a smell that typically strikes but quickly fades as nasal passages dry out, neutralizing the act of breathing to a point that wrings every bit of satisfaction from it. Then I thought of the unnatural, chaotic smell of the air in a gambling establishment, with its attempts at creating a pleasant atmosphere for patrons through timed wafts of deodorizing fragrances that ultimately mask only a portion of ambient body odors, breath vapors, and whatever else might be exuded from the individuals surrounding every table and viewscreen in the place.
And then I took another breath of the smell where I sat on the recreation deck of the Omari-Ekon. Too heavy to be scrubbed clean and too desperate to be ignored, the atmosphere seemed almost foggy with spiced smoke from pipes filled with narcotics, flowery perfumes used nearly to saturation point, and unsavory aromas existing in that range of human olfaction that made it impossible to distinguish whether they emanated from a steaming platter of saucy food or from the unwashed individual consuming it. I did not want to think too long about how effectively it would permeate the fibers of the jacket, shirt, and slacks I chose to wear that night.
Combining that with a lighting scheme that alternated between sporadic spotlights and bursts of strobing white light, and the pervasive thumping that seemingly set every song to the same rhythmic time, it was not an environment to which I willingly exposed myself.
Yet there I was at a side table, watching my fellow patrons with a curiosity that admittedly was high enough to overrule my nostrils’ desires to relocate. If nothing else could be said about the Omari-Ekon, the Orion merchantman craft certainly had the ability to draw a varied crowd. Besides the requisite emerald-skinned Orions, all wearing outfits of a flashy gold lamé that accentuated the rich hue of their skin, members of a dozen or more races—some of which I could not even identify—comprised the population of the gaming area. While I waited in view of the main entrance, and a chance to see Amity enter the place, I let my gaze wander about the main floor. To one side, a Tellarite waved his arms and complained loudly about his meal to the waitstaff and then who knew what else. A pair of Edosians—or perhaps Triexians or some other tripedal race—wandered around, craning their oblong heads over the crowds at several tables before deciding to place a bet at what approximated a roulette wheel, from what I could see of it. I spotted a Zaranite walking past my table and I envied him the breathing apparatus he wore to be able to survive in these particular environs. I wondered whether it was efficient enough to filter out the airborne horrors of the place. Then again, I had no clue as to whether he might ultimately prefer the ship’s relatively polluted atmosphere. Maybe for a Zaranite, this place feels like home.
From the looks of the gamblers and diners filling the place, I gathered that the majority of them were merely visitors to the station rather than personnel. From the looks of their attire—soiled jumpsuits and the like—many were laborers of some variety and had probably been aboard some of the civilian supply ships docked at the station before coming here for whatever recreation they sought. In my few times aboard the vessel, I rarely if ever spied someone I recognized from my daily dealings aboard Vanguard. And if civilians from the station were that infrequent, Starfleet personnel were even more infrequent. Evidently, even Commodore Reyes’ removal from command was not enough to tempt crew members into ignoring his standing orders against paying a visit to the Omari-Ekon.
I let my attention become transfixed by the Edosians once again. Evidently, they had found some success at the gaming table because the pair tipped their heads up and engaged in an ululating bleat of a cheer, then began some sort of choreographed victory dance together that appeared intricate and involved, at least to someone with only four limbs, such as myself. Just as I began to sense a pattern to their movements, I heard a voice next to me rise above the din.
“Hey, can I get you something to drink?”
Recognizing the words as Amity’s, I spoke while keeping my eyes on the dancers a moment longer. “Just sit down. I’m sure a server will be by here in a moment.”
“Sir, can I get your order?” I felt a tug at the tail of my jacket.
Not understanding her impatience, I turned to look at Amity and saw her standing next to the table—in an outfit identical to that worn by the females working in the gaming area. I could not hold back my first response. I laughed. “Now that’s an odd coincidence to show up in that outfit, of all nights.”
“Shall I just bring you a beer, sir?” Amity opened her eyes wide and nodded slightly, just enough for me to catch on that she needed me to agree to the request. I nodded back and she wheeled around on a heel and walked into the crowd. While I had no clue as to why she might be impersonating a server, I could not fault her effort at successfully blending into the situation. She cut a very fine form in the outfit, from the fullness of her bikini top to the curve she added to the sarong-style short skirt that exposed a very large portion of her ebony legs. I tried to rationalize my ogling as a professional appreciation for her undercover efforts, but stopped when enough guilt had made its way to the forefront of my mind.
She returned a few moments later carrying a tray laden with a bottle and a clear, empty glass. “I’ll pour this for you,” she said, setting the glass onto my tabletop then scooping the bottle off the tray, which she then deftly tucked under her arm.
“Okay, I get that you’ve done this kind of work before. Want to join me now?”
“I’m working,” she said in a softer voice as she poured.
“Wait . . . you mean you’re employed here?”
“Have been for a few weeks now.”
“Seriously?”
“We’ll talk specifics later. I have to keep moving. Did you bring your recorder?”
“Recording devices are strictly prohibited at gaming establishments,” I said. “I was searched at the door after being asked specifically whether I had any communication devices on me at all.”
“I understand all of that,” she said. “Did you bring your recorder?”
“Of course I did. What, do you think this is my first time here?”
“The next time I come back, have your drink finished and be ready to follow me.”
Amity left before I could agree to whatever plan she might have had up her sleeve—or up her nonsleeve, in accordance with her current state of dress. I took a long swig of my drink, which tasted no different than an ale served in my faraway Scotland, and tried to imagine what Amity must have accomplished to land a job aboard the Omari-Ekon. I hoped she had had the wherewithal to provide identity documents that did not reveal her true identity nor anything that might lead her new employers to her actual past ones. On the other hand, I imagined that many of the people working aboard the ship came to the job with some hope of escaping whatever previous lives they may have led. Perhaps the Orions had an appreciation for such situations and accounted for them. There must be some measure of honor among thieves, after all, I thought, or no criminal organization would be capable of functioning. Regardless of any level of honor or respect among the ship’s employees, I at least understood that taking a job under Ganz, the Orion merchant-prince that commanded the ship, was risky business at best. I hoped Amity had a clear appreciation for that as well.
Wanting to be at the ready, I made quick work of downing my beer. Not long after, I saw Amity’s figure cutting around and sometimes through the clusters of gamblers milling about the floor. When she reached me, she said loudly enough to be heard over the din, “Sir, it’s easier if I just show you to the toilet facilities.”
“I understand,” I said, and followed her back through the crowd. She moved rather quickly on much higher heeled shoes than I had seen her wearing previously, but not so fast that I could not match her pace. With a few more zigzags around patrons, we reached a pair of doors situated in the ship’s bulkhead. Amity grabbed the arm of my jacket to pull herself into me.
“He went in there. I hope he’s still finishing,” she said. “Human male, about your height. Blond hair. Reddish leather coat over a light-colored shirt.”
“Okay. And?”
“Record him so we can identify him. He’s Starfleet.”
“And that’s an issue because . . . ?”
“Because he doesn’t want anyone in here to know,” Amity said before releasing the grip on my arm. In a louder voice, she said, “Oh, you’re welcome, sir,” and left my side.
I walked into the bathroom, squinting as my eyes reacted to the brighter light that shone from the doorway. I passed a grouping of wall-mounted sinks and rounded the corner into the bathroom proper, which turned out to be larger than I had expected. The Orions could not be faulted for a lack of hospitality, as it appeared from the variety of accommodations that they had accounted for a wide range of biological needs, albeit chiefly humanoid ones. Wall stations featured differently shaped basins at various heights as well as flexible hoses with connector nozzles for those in atmospheric suits. Stalls appeared to be of various sizes, with labels on each door to indicate which ones were best equipped for which races. It all struck me as very efficiently handled—not to mention that the bathroom actually smelled better than the majority of the gaming deck.
A pneumatic rush of water sounded from one of the stalls, and I turned toward the wall-mounted fixture closest to me. I fumbled around a bit not only to appear as if I had been tending to my own needs but also to position my recorder as surreptitiously as possible. Just as I thumbed the switch to begin recording, a stall door opened and out came a man fitting Amity’s general description.
I spun and acknowledged him with a silent nod of my head. As we walked to the hand basins, I got far enough ahead of him to position myself where I wanted. I moved my hands near the spigot to trigger a flow of water but immersed only one hand in a way I hoped was not obvious, then turned away from the basin. Holding my hands in front of me as I turned afforded me what I hoped was the best vantage point for the recorder’s lens, which was positioned between my wrist and shirt cuff.
And the man turned to me full on, smiled, and said, “Enjoy your night.”
“Same to you, sir, and good luck on the games,” I answered as he left. And that was that. In that moment, I was a little surprised it had gone so smoothly. Unless I had totally missed the mark on the recorder’s position, I had captured more than enough to be able to determine just who the man was. And then, inspiration struck. If I could get that image so easily, I wondered whether I had a bit of good fortune operating on my side that evening.
I took off my jacket, draped it over my arm to carry it out, and left the bathroom. I paused for a moment as my eyes readjusted to the much darker gambling deck, then made my way through the crowd, spinning myself as I bobbed and weaved in an attempt to sweep my recorder’s lens across as many of them as I possibly could. Not that I expected to net the images of a great number of evildoers who just happened to be aboard the ship that night, but if I chanced across something that might prove helpful, I would be glad I had taken the risk.
Rather than press my luck any further, I made my way straight for the gangway off the ship. The two Orions guarding the entrance appeared to me to be the same pair of green-skinned hulks I had passed to get into the place, so I had some hope that I might pass them quietly and quickly. The sounds of my footsteps were enough to prompt one of them to turn and look my way. As I approached, the guard turned his back to the side of the gangway, which seemed like a token gesture at best as the space he created was barely enough for me to slide through. But slide I did, with the hope of not making a scene.
“Have a good night, gentlemen. If you’ll pardon me,” I said, shimmying my way between them. As I made it past and bounced into my stride, I felt a tug of resistance that snatched my jacket from my grasp. I turned to see my jacket collar snagged against the handle of a dagger tucked in the guard’s belt, but I could not stop my forward inertia quickly enough to provide the slack that might have loosened it. My arm was tugged straight and my jacket fell to the floor in a heap at the sandal-clad feet of the larger of the two guards.
And I realized I no longer felt the pressure of my recorder wedged into my shirtsleeve.
Hoping a look of wide-eyed shock was not more pronounced than it ought to have been, I immediately crouched down to scoop up my jacket with a burst of nervous laughter. “Och! Sorry about that, gentlemen.” I grabbed the jacket and held it in a wadded ball to my chest, hoping the dislodged recorder might have been caught up in the folds of its fabric, while making sure to offer quick apologetic smiles to each of the massively muscled guards. My heart thumping in my chest loudly enough to ring in my ears, I turned and headed down the gangway once more.
“You dropped something, sir.”
At the baritone sound of the voice behind me, I quelled an immediate and unbidden urge to rush headlong down the gangway. Despite my greatest hopes, my rational mind grasped I had no chance of escaping the Orions regardless of how far I may have made it into the station and, more important, into sovereign territory of the Federation.
“Oh, thank you,” I said as I trembled a bit and turned back to see what he might have found.
The guard held a folded piece of paper in his meaty green fist.
“Ah,” I said, exhaling a breath that until then I had not realized I had held. “Old theater program. Shows you the last time I wore this coat.”
“Enjoy your night, sir,” the guard said.
“I will, thanks,” I said, hoping I had turned out of view before the beads of sweat I sensed were forming on my brow became visible. As nonchalantly as possible, I hugged my coat while patting down my right sleeve . . . until I found my recorder had slid down closer to my elbow.