After I'd invited him to contribute some fiction for the site, Matthew Pook (nickname "Pookie") waxed enthusiastic about writing something that focused on Parihn, as he has a particular fascination with the Orions. Since I very much wanted to expand upon a number of characters' backgrounds, it seemed an excellent idea.

His style is an interesting one, and he has much more of an inclination towards the type of skullduggery one would expect from the Orions. Thus, I think his story will do quite nicely, and please those who like such slimine–... er, subtlety.

This tale is one in which I've meddled very little, in part because Matthew had little idea where it was going until he was nearly done. While my influence is notable in quite a few places, and a goodly portion of the prose is mine, "Pookie" definitely deserves top billing, and all the accolades I know the story will eventually receive—especially since it's his first piece of fiction.

Look out, people: he's only going to get better.

"Shades of Green"

By Matthew Pook

and Joseph Manno

"You're not happy, are you?"

It was the last thing the young concubine had expected to be asked, especially by the lord's son to whom she currently knelt. Not knowing what answer he expected, she dropped her veiled eyes and continued to work the laces of his boot.

When she didn't respond, he pulled the foot away from her grasp and laughed gently. "You don't trust me enough to answer that question, do you? And why should you?"

She raised her eyes and gave him the only safe answer she knew.

"My lord?" As a slave and concubine—even a greatly favored one—in the household of an Orion noble, it was always safest to be as noncommittal as possible. This was true not only with other slaves and members of the household, but her master's numerous guests as well—like this young man whom she had been charged to entertain that night.

From the moment she'd seen him at the banquet that evening, she'd noticed him. Even though he'd always remained in the background, he was notable—and ever so slightly different. Perhaps it was his especially pale complexion or the way he carried himself; but he was most unlike the other members of the swaggering entourage that had arrived today. She knew what they were: Members of the infamous Orion Syndicate, in service to her master—which meant this one was, also.

He looked down at her and said, "After all, you're a slave and I'm sure you've no reason to put faith in anyone. However, perhaps if I were to gain your trust, you'd accept my proffered sympathies for your situation?"

Still not knowing where this strange person was going with this line of conversation, all she could do was to repeat herself.

"My lord?"

"Please; I'm not a lord. My name is Jerrell and I'm not in any way worthy of—or interested in—such a lofty title. Now, if you'll bring that lamp over here and help me out of these damned boots, I'll not only be grateful, but all will be made perhaps a little clearer.

"Please?" He gave her another smile and she moved to comply with what was not an order, but a request.

It wasn't something she was accustomed to receiving.

When she returned and knelt to help him, he looked at her and said, "Thank you… ah, I'm sorry, but I don't know your name."

"Sh-Shomira. It's Shomira, my-" She quickly stifled what with any other guest would have been the required response—and omission of which would have often meant the application of an agonizer.

"Shomira the seductress. Shomira the Divine." Jerrell shook his head wistfully before going on, "No. Not that name. Your true name, the one your parents gave you. After all, I don't want to talk with the most infamous Orion animal woman in the Congeries. I want to talk with…?"

Instinctively, she knew he really was different. He didn't want to speak to her as Shomira, but as…

…as Parihn.

The name her parents had given her.

The one her master had taken from her.

She gave it to him.

"Thank you, Parihn. Now… the boots?" he grinned almost mischievously.

As she bent to the task, Parihn stole a glance up at Jerrell. She could see that he was far lighter in skin tone than her own atypically verdant green.

His hair was dark, thick and held at the nape of his neck with a gold ring. A chain of that same precious metal lay across his forehead, from which hung a bar that covered the bridge of his nose. His lips were pursed in bemusement and his eyes regarded her with a strange interest. One hand was stretched out on the bed to support his leaning torso as she pulled the Gurskcian leather boots from first one leg, and then the other. She was sure that he wiggled his toes at her as he stretched out his stockinged feet.

It was once those were off, and he'd raised the soles of his feet to her that she let out a gasp.

Now she understood something of his attitude.

"Yes, Parihn, I also have a slave tattoo." Unconsciously, Parihn reached up to the side of her head, where hidden under her hair was the symbol that had marked her as a piece of valuable property for almost a decade.

Jerrell sat up. "And, like yours, it's genetically encoded. But unlike you, I'm no longer a slave. I merely happen to have been born one. My mother is Balthar Gav'reme's concubine, and were it not for the fact that he has no legitimate sons, I would still be a slave. Of course it wouldn't be too difficult for him to make me one again; but right now, I'm useful.

"Do you want to know what it is I do, Parihn?"

The girl, still not sure of this strange young man and his motives, nodded.

"I'm an advisor. I direct our house's attempts to thwart Starfleet Intelligence and other such threats. So, he needs my skills; which is why I'm here—to advise on the business dealings between my house and your master's. I'm sort of his spymaster." He looked at her and smiled, "Why you don't you take a seat? After all, in this room, tonight, you and I are equals."

Parihn moved to sit beside him, but Jerrell waved her away.

"No. You don't understand. I'm not trying to be magnanimous like some men, who think it'll make the slave girl more compliant and loving if she's 'treated' like an equal.

"I don't want you to please me. I don't want you to dance for me, or play the flute like you did earlier.

"In my position, one can have the pick of any woman—and many men, for that matter, if one is so inclined. Would you believe me if I said it becomes so very tedious? If I want a woman, I need the chase; without the game, it bores me. That's why, my dear Parihn, I just want to talk to you."

From her seat opposite him, she ventured her first real response to this so very odd circumstance.

"So, Jerrell," she murmured, "what was it you wanted to talk about?"

"You, Parihn. You… why you're so unhappy and what you want to do about it. Tell me about your life."

So she did. Why, she wasn't sure, but there was something more to Jerrell than she could quite, at the moment, comprehend.

She made a conscious decision, despite the risk, to trust him—to a certain extent.

Anyway, what could she tell him that her master didn't already know? She found herself relating her childhood on Sha'Krel; how when she was eleven, raiders had come and taken her from her parents…

…and that since then she had been trained to please one of her family's bitterest enemies.

When she'd finished, Jerrell shook his head sympathetically.

"I'm sorry. I wish things could have been different for you, avirah."

He'd used the Old Tongue word for "princess."

It was truer than he could have known.

At that moment, her breath caught in her throat, and Parihn wished she'd never told this strange young man anything; doing so had made her remember. Resentment flared, and she snapped, "Why did you have me tell you these things?"

"Because you've been hiding from yourself," he told her gently.

"And how did you know that?" the girl spat furiously. "What are you, a psychologist as well as a spy?"

"I felt it in you when I touched your arm to escort you from the hall."

Parihn was now more mystified than she'd been earlier.

"How could you do that?" she asked, suddenly shy.

"Because I sense these things in others, and it's easier when I touch them."

Parihn pondered a moment before saying, "You're a telepath? You can't be. It's…"

With a slight tilt of the head, he answered, "…'not possible,' because 'white' Orions aren't psionic? Well, I wouldn't be telepathic were it not for my mother. You see, she isn't an Orion.

"She's Betazoid."

Parihn was nonplused and said nothing as Jerrell continued, "And you're quite right: Orions aren't known for such potentials, though I note you seem to possess the gift in some measure. Not enough, perhaps, for genuine telepathy—at least not now—except under unusual circumstances. Perhaps the touch of your mind, though, is part of 'Shomira's' legendary allure.

"And of course, it gives you certain feelings; a sort of intuition about us…" Jerrell pointed to his chest with an open hand as he left the sentence hanging.

"Us...?" Parihn's forehead wrinkled slightly as she pondered at his meaning. "Oh… you mean men." Her expression was almost one of distaste.

Jerrell nodded, amused—but not surprised—at her reaction. "Are you sensing anything now?"

Parihn drew her bare feet up under her, decorative ankle chains tinkling gently, and rested her cheek in the palm of her hand. A look of intense concentration stole over her features as she studied the man on the bed, but he broke it with a shake of his head and a gentle chiding.

"No. Not like that. You'll never learn anything like that.

"Now relax. Don't concentrate… contemplate."

Despite the silliness of the command—no one, after all, really relaxed when ordered to do so—Parihn tried to do as he indicated. There wasn't anything definite to it; one moment she knew nothing about him, and the next…

"I- I can feel something… I-" Her eyes narrowed as she tried to force a clarity that simply wasn't there.

"It won't be like that all of the time, but that's good. It helps, of course, that I'm an actual telepath, but much of the time, with most people, it'll be as if you have an extra, but unconscious sense. You'll just have a feeling and you'll know whatever it is that it's trying to tell you. It could be an advantage to you, at times.

"You've no doubt used the gift before, but recognizing it for what it is and directing it, if you can…" He left the thought unfinished, but Parihn was completing it for him within the privacy of her own mind.

She knew he was right. Parihn had rarely thought all that much about the allure that made others lust after her; how she often seemed to know what it was they wanted of her and what would please them. Of course, whenever that had failed her, she'd always had the years of training in the erotic arts upon which to fall back.

Dwelling upon such matters, though, always brought the truth of her reality to the fore and it was always, always so tempting to succumb to despair, to accept her situation and lose her essential self as she'd seen so many of her fellow concubines do.

Parihn could remember many from the harem: One or two had been animal women like her; most, though, were "white" Orions—even the master couldn't afford more than two or three of her type.

It had been the same for most of them: Slowly, they'd been worn down by the constant sexual demands and emotional disregard that came with being property. Eventually, the "whites" would die of exhaustion, either emotional or physical; whilst the "greens" would lose their sentience—or surrender it—and become animal women in truth, living only for the joy of the dance and the coupling; the light in their eyes forever extinguished.

It was a terrible sight to behold…

…especially when you knew it awaited you.

Parihn gave a sigh; in just a few moments, this young man had gone from stranger to confidant. It was unnerving, but strangely right somehow. Even if his preliminary overtures towards friendship proved ephemeral, he'd given her a valuable insight into her abilities. For that, the young Orion was grateful.

Her expression returned to its cultivated vapidity, but there was a careful craft behind her next question.

"Jerrell," she asked, "would you like to know what my senses told me about you?"

"No." Again that gentle chuckle and a shake of his head, "Why should I? After all, they're your emotions. Who am I to tell you what to feel?"

Parihn watched as the enigmatic stranger prised himself up from the bed and walked into the dark of the room. There was a clink of crystal and the sound of pouring.

"Do you want a drink? I think I have the necessities here for an excellent Saurian Smash."

She gave her assent; and, within moments, Jerrell was handing her a clear glass filled with a slightly greenish fluid. It was, she discovered upon tasting, quite refreshing.

He smiled and noted, "I'm not just a spymaster, you know. I make an excellent barman. You'd be amazed what you learn when someone has a decent drink in front of them."

Parihn thought, That's the first silly observation I've heard from you, Jerrell. I'm a prostitute. Do you imagine you've heard more with your brand of intoxication than I have with mine? For a moment there, you did sound like a typical man.

Rather than voicing that, though, she put it aside and smiled.

"Is that why you have water and I have this?" Parihn pointed to the glass he held.

Jerrell grinned. "No, but that's what your masters will think tomorrow. In truth, I never drink when I'm working, although I do appreciate fine liquor when I'm able—like that which you have." He made a face. "I'd have used a better class of mint than was in the cabinet, though. For someone as connected to the Syndicate as your master is, I'm surprised he didn't import some directly from Earth. This stuff is barely tolerable… it tastes like Vulcan mint, and that shouldn't be inflicted on your worst enemy."

The mention of her master startled Parihn.

"But won't he learn all this, anyway? Everyone knows that all the guest rooms are bugged!"

He waved the question away with a flick of his fingers, his expression softening the gesture from dismissive to reassuring.

"Of course they're listening right now—not that they can hear anything. I've had a jamming device going ever since we came in here." He chuckled at her dumbfounded expression. "Oh, they'll be angry, but I'm a spymaster, so what should they expect? Not that they can do anything about it right now… even if they rushed in here to look, not only do they not know what it looks like, they'd have to tussle with Xorc outside."

Parihn remembered the well-dressed, rough-looking, heavily tusked Kaylar that appeared to go everywhere with Jerrell. Even an Orion warrior would think twice before attacking him hand-to-hand… and both phasers and disrupters on low settings were notoriously ineffectual against the Kaylari.

He went on, "And when they ask you about this evening tomorrow, I'm sure you come up with something to tell them. Anyway, I hate to have sleazy voyeurs listening in on my love life."

Parihn stared at him, openmouthed: The girl had become so used to having someone watch while she… performed, she'd forgotten the concept of external privacy almost entirely.

"Not that anything like that is going to happen—tonight, anyway. We may be sleeping together—well, we wouldn't want it to look like just one of us had slept in the bed, would we?—but I think we both deserve a night's decent rest, don't you? I've been working all day and you'll most likely appreciate a night off."

She agreed. Whatever Jerrell's real motives were—and she didn't delude herself that she knew them—the idea she could sleep in the same bed as a man and not have to pleasure him was a novel concept.

"Well, my dear Parihn, I'm not quite ready for bed and we need something to pass a little time." He reached over to his tunic and withdrew a small box from inside, grinning.

"Tell me… do you play poker?"

***

In the morning, Shomira was surprised to find the space beside her in bed empty.

It wasn't like her to sleep in after pleasuring a man. Normally she'd wake precisely when he did; perhaps that was another manifestation of the psionic gift she'd only now begun to explore.

With them, she'd simply know what they preferred: Some enjoyed it if she pretended still to be asleep, as if they'd left her so completely satiated with their skills she hadn't yet regained consciousness; others preferred a last round of pleasure before they rose.

The third type was the one she found most annoying, though: These were the ones who wanted some sort of positive feedback, a veritable critique of their performance. Because she was a courtesan, men seemed to love it when she expressed amazement at their technique—and, ever so shyly, their equipment, as well—and told them that she'd have taken them to her bed even had they not been a paying customer.

Illusions are precious, she thought.

For once, she'd not had to do anything of that sort. Perhaps that in itself had allowed her to sleep through Jerrell's departure.

Of course, her minder didn't know that when she came to awaken her. Lanuda, in her day almost as beautiful and lusted after as Shomira was now, fussed and cursed over her charge.

The young courtesan allowed herself a small grin while surrendering to her ministrations. After all, it had been a long time since a man had allowed Parihn to be herself at all, if truth be told.

The observant matron caught it, and admonished her.

"I don't know what reason you have to smile, girl! Now move or it'll be the agonizer for you. Lord Gorshin has requested your presence at the midday meal and you have to be ready."

The mention of her master's name was more than enough to rouse Parihn from the sheets left strangely unsoiled from the night before. Yet, as the older woman bustled Parihn to her quarters for a round of preparatory primping, she couldn't help but reflect upon the previous evening.

What do I have to smile about? Parihn wondered. Just because one man's taken an interest in me rather than my body? He spent the night with me in the same bed—and did nothing.

His lack of interest was perplexing.

No man had ever been like that... what did it mean? Was his lack of interest real or feigned? In any event, what was he hiding? Did it mean that he was really uninterested in her…?

Well, whatever in truth had motivated him, the fact was that Jerrell had done nothing at all—which was why he wasn't worth her further consideration.

Except…

…he had made her think, truly think about her life and what it held for her: How it would never amount to anything more than being one man's dalliance after another; until all she could think of was the rapture of the dance, the enticement to coupling and finally, surrender to the dark, sweet intoxication of her own carnal urges. This was everything from which her mother and father had wanted to shield her.

Her loving parents had arranged to give her the best education a girl could have; and now, now it was all going to waste. While she was still a concubine, Parihn knew she could never realize any of what they'd dreamed for her… and that hurt.

What angered her was that Jerrell had made her again realize how she felt; and how she had been shuttering those feelings away. Strange as it might have seemed to some, she'd first avoided the pain by throwing herself into the lessons on how to please—and then into their application. Not having to do that for Jerrell had touched something inside her that wasn't quite ready—or willing—to die.

He'd also made her realize just how much she missed her parents and her home; and how she wanted to mourn their deaths. There would be no tears for them, though, until she could be alone… and that might never occur.

When, at lunch, Lord Gorshin commanded her to accompany Jerrell Gav'reme to the pleasure halls on Rigel II, it was all she could do not to scream her defiance.

Instead, she gave him a serene smile and said that she would do so gladly, all the while wishing she could scratch his eyes out.

***

Outside the core worlds themselves, the Rigel system was the most densely populated locale in the Federation, and had the greatest volume of spacefaring traffic. Of the twelve planets within its confines, five were Class M. This was a wonder duplicated nowhere else, thus far, in the known galaxy.

These worlds, though, had very different reputations.

Three were renowned for fairly conventional reasons: Rigel IV was known for its technological prowess as applied to manufacturing; Rigel V had an excellent reputation in the bio-sciences and possessed some of the most advanced medical facilities in the Federation; and Rigel XII still attracted prospectors hoping to strike it rich on her dilithium deposits.

The other two had a fame that was more salubrious: Rigel II was known for its pleasure domes, and for its hedonistically-oriented exports; even more notorious was Rigel VII, the reputed home of the Orion Syndicate—a planet which had, for over a century-and-a-half, steadfastly refused membership in the United Federation of Planets.

To this world came everything of an illicit nature—not to be enjoyed, but profited from. Goods, technology, money, ideas, information and even people were grist for the mill; if credits or latinum could be gotten as a result of its sale, you could find it in one form or another on Rigel VII—or so rumor said.

Rumor also said that Rigel VII's notoriety had gained it the special interest of Starfleet Intelligence.

Not that that had impressed or stopped the Orions: They had been conducting business for ten thousand generations before humanity had mastered fire; and they planned on conducting business when the upstart race that had founded the Federation was a fading memory.

Case in point: The Binarii was a medium-sized freighter of indeterminate age and history, with a moderately clean record—and a long list of former masters.

If you examined the ship's records with an eye for certain types of detail, you might be able to trace its ownership back to certain companies rumored to be fronts for the notorious Orion Syndicate… but it would take you a while.

Its current captain shifted cargo from one world to another—where he would swap it for another set. That was the nature of commerce, after all—as it was that of bad debt, and the choices one had to make to get out of it. That, unfortunately, took a while, too. Time always seemed to be at a premium in the business.

Starfleet Intelligence always made the time, though—which was why SI was taking an extreme interest in the Binarii as it approached the Rigel VII orbital spaceport. While her captain usually took great pains to avoid knowing specifics about the material in his holds—his job was to get it to its destination and receive payment—SI was very interested in knowing precisely what he had aboard.

This, of course, was why there just happened to be a Starfleet vessel on hand to render assistance when the master of the Binarii reported a failure of its starboard power coupling.

Of course, that problem had not been an accident.

The team of six Starfleet Intelligence operatives in boarding suits could have testified to that.

***

The shuttlecraft had already cleared Rigel II port space when the communicator on Jerrell's belt beeped softly. Plucking it from his side, he inserted it into an open outlet under the console. It sounded again, and a voice could be heard throughout the cockpit. Though still recognizably female, it was heavily altered to void any trace of identity.

"Your information was correct. She was the carrier."

Jerrell nodded and replied, "Good. Were you able to reclaim?"

"Negative. The crew got there first and destroyed everything."

Parihn, sitting next to him, didn't know what to make of the guarded conversation between her "escort" and this unknown woman—if woman it even was. The interplay got a little odder, when her companion actually grinned and replied, "Sorry to hear that."

"Agreed. Scans confirm your information, though."

"Good," he nodded. "Glad to be of help. I'll be in touch." With that, Jerrell cut the link and replaced the small device on his belt. He then returned his attention to the shuttle's flight controls; he was humming contentedly, and Parihn was none the wiser—not only as to what was going on, but what Jerrell was planning.

Looking over her shoulder into the rear of the cockpit, it was clear that the Kaylari, Xorc, gave little heed to what was transpiring; he didn't know, or didn't care. From the moment their shuttlecraft had left her master's estates on Rigel VII, Xorc had been nursing a tankard of blue porter—a potent mix of dark Orion red wine fortified with unaged Romulan ale. It was a brew known to floor most "white" Orions, and most Kaylari—eventually.

Xorc though, seemed unaffected by the amount he'd consumed: First the synthehol from the shuttlecraft's replicators and then the real thing while they were on Rigel II. He even managed to look alert. Parihn, knowing that she wasn't going to get an answer from him, turned back to her companion.

Jerrell was already waiting with an answer. "If you're wondering what exactly is going on, let me explain. Simply put, it's a conspiracy."

It wasn't a word with which Parihn was familiar; although she recognized it as Federation Standard, it was not one her mother had taught during her language lessons. Her look of curiosity turned to one of puzzlement. Jerrell grinned knowingly and instructed, "Computer, reference Federation Standard language database; define the term conspiracy."

The computer was silent for a moment before announcing, "Conspiracy (Federation Standard, noun): The offense of conspiring together, or an agreement among conspirators; from the verb to conspire: To join in a plot, or to scheme or act together covertly, often to the detriment of others."

Parihn knew she didn't like what she was hearing and dreaded asking Jerrell the next question.

"And who is this conspiracy directed towards?"

"Your master and mine, Lord Gorshin," he replied with the slyest smile that Parihn had ever seen. She looked at him with wide-eyed horror.

"And now that you know this much, you're part of it too."

For a moment, she gaped at him: He'd killed her, as assuredly as if he'd pulled out a disruptor and blown a hole in her head.

Parihn screamed at him, "You federas!"

It evidently wasn't the reaction either he or Xorc had expected. For a second, they both looked at her, paralyzed with startlement.

Unthinkingly, she took that moment to act. Fuelled by a combination of frustration at her situation, the loss of her parents all those years before and her anger at what he'd gotten her involved in, she hurled herself at him, lashing out in a flurry of fists and artfully maintained, but no less sharp, talons.

Jerrell went down under Parihn's rain of surprisingly well-placed blows and slashes. Knocked to the floor, the hybrid's arms flailed across the console they'd been working so precisely moments before.

An alarm sounded in the cockpit as the shuttlecraft first lurched, and then veered from its intended course. Jerrell—with his assailant clawing at him—rolled away from the seats against a side console, desperately trying to cover far too many vulnerable spots.

In a way, Jerrell was extremely fortunate Parihn was blindly furious; "green" Orions were immensely strong, far moreso than their "white" counterparts. If she'd been thinking about killing him, instead of simply wanting to do so, he probably would have been dead in seconds.

Xorc, meanwhile, had been thrown from his chair, the contents of his tankard half-spattered on the opposite wall. The Kaylari, looking less than amused, dragged himself up from the deck and staggered to a nearby console. There, with movements more precise than would be expected from a "lumbering giant," he quickly righted the shuttle and brought it to station-keeping. It was only then that he moved to answer the cries for help that emanated from beneath the screaming whirlwind of green in the cockpit.

Parihn could do little more than elicit a grunt or two as she drove first one elbow and then another into the assailant that grabbed her from behind and above. Then she was hoisted easily into the air, legs kicking wildly as she tried to bring them into contact with her assailant's shins. It was all that she could do, as her arms were now gripped tightly by arms that were not only stronger than hers were, but possessed an unbreakable leverage.

Xorc, determinedly, held her at bay—and it took far more determination than he would have thought to restrain such a slip of a girl—until her flailing slowly ceased.

The green haze cleared from her eyes and Parihn drew in heavy lungfuls of air to replace all that she had burnt in the rage-fuelled attack. Jerrell was staring intently at her, clutching his torn and bleeding cheek with one hand, and holding a hypospray in the other, which he had just pulled away from her neck.

Still pinioned in the strong grip of Xorc, Parihn kicked her legs uselessly and looked at Jerrell aghast. "Why?! Why did you get me involved in this… in your conspiracy?!"

"Our conspiracy, Parihn. Our conspiracy."

Parihn mouthed a silent curse at him. Some part of her noted with satisfaction, though, that he didn't look so insufferably smug decorated with rapidly rising bruises.

He rallied gamely, though.

"As to why I did it, well, did you ever hear the phrase, 'The higher, the fewer'? Well, it's true. Even more so because I'm not fully Orion."

"And because… because I need a friend. You know what I do, Parihn. Do you think it's easy making friends when you're a spy?"

She was nonplused by this sudden change in tactics.

"What about Xorc?"

"Xorc? We've known each other as long as either of us can remember. He gave me protection and I gave him knowledge; who do you think taught him to read? Nobody else would have done that! Xorc is my best friend and I won't hear a word said against him."

Especially not when he's right here, Parihn thought.

"Sometimes, though, I want a companion whose main interests are other than drinking, belching and scratching… and I'm sure you've given up scratching—if not others, at least yourself, with nails like that."

If Xorc made any reaction to these comments, Parihn did not feel it. Jerrell, though, was running the emotional gamut with his appeal. Despite both the kindness he'd shown her and the cruelty of his actions placing her in this position, the feeling she had for him now was pity. He was wretched and lonely—or at least that was the guise he'd currently adopted.

If Jerrell could sense that, he ignored it.

"You're someone I know I can talk to, because under that half-studied, half-imposed veneer of allure and feminine savagery is a mind—and quite a brilliant one, unless I miss my guess. One that can think, and one that, if truth be told, wants to think. Until now, you've not had to do so; but now, because I've put you in danger, you'll have reason to think. If you don't, you're nothing more than an animal—a green Orion animal woman.

"And you'll die one."

It was obvious that he was attempting to persuade her into his allegiance; and she had no idea how to respond. Parihn maintained her silence and watched him carefully, desperately trying to find some mental purchase. Things were moving too quickly, and she needed a moment of silence to compose herself. She willed him to shut up, just for a moment.

This, unfortunately, did not stop his monologue, even as he moved over to the replicator to order himself a cup of Tarkaylian tea before returning to wearily sit in the pilot's seat.

"You see, your master and mine, Lord Gorshin, did something very foolish. The Orion Syndicate has its feelers into every aspect of the Federation and beyond, but we've always been the concern of local law enforcement, not Starfleet. Before now, we neither confirmed our existence nor brought unwarranted attention down upon us. Now we have—or rather Lord Gorshin has—and everything's changed.

"Six months ago he engineered the theft of a whole transport full of Federation heavy phaser coils, suitable for a Type-VIII array. Starfleet was not pleased. That's why SI raided a certain vessel just now. That was what the voice was confirming."

"The ship had the stolen coils aboard?" Parihn asked, her head clearing with the effect of the contents of the hypospray. No, something told her. That would be too easy.

Jerrell sipped his tea and shook his head, somewhat patronizingly. "No, it didn't. Starfleet Intelligence thought it did, because I'd told them. They still think the Binarii was carrying the coils; both SI and our masters, that is."

Perplexed, Parihn asked, "So where are they now?"

"Oh, I had them taken off the Binarii weeks ago and substituted with something else. I left one coil behind so that there would be some convincing debris left for Starfleet Intelligence to sift through after the ship's crew had their cargo destroyed.

"As to where they are now… the buyers are very happy with them."

Jerrell grinned… and Parihn, much to her own surprise, found herself vowing to repay him for what he'd done.

"After all, you can't fund a conspiracy on nothing, can you?"

"Now, are you ready to stop hitting me?" Jerrell said, cocking his head at her. Parihn nodded, for the moment resigned to whatever this man had in mind for her. "Good. Now just one more thing to do before we get you home…"

After a moment's rummaging through the contents of the medical kit, Jerrell pulled out a device that Parihn wasn't familiar with. Despite her glare—which was all that she could do whilst in Xorc's iron grasp—he approached her easily and applied the unknown medical tool to her neck. For a moment she felt a coolness where it touched her skin, then a sharp, stinging sensation, which quickly subsided. Jerrell stepped back and turned away from her, bending over the console.

Not only is he examining whatever he did, but he's also hiding it, Parihn realized.

She voiced her concern. "What did you do to me?"

An absentminded "Hmm?" was the only reply she got, and Parihn had to wait a few moments before Jerrell said anything more; even that, though, was no more than the answer she had already gotten. He looked up at her and then caught the eye of her captor. At some unspoken signal, Parihn found herself being gently lowered to the deck. She stood rubbing at her arms to restore the circulation, waiting still for an explanation.

"I didn't do anything…" he said. That was a lie and both of them knew it. His features took on that slyness she'd already come to hate. It was a look both of pride and of a successful manipulation. Yet as her tormentor passed the device held in a small container to Xorc, who ferreted it deep into his tunic, she could see that Jerrell's knowing look did not mask the expression in his eyes. It was one of sadness and kindness mingled.

"…Well, I didn't do anything that would hurt you, nor anything you need worry about… in spite of what you may believe. Now, I think we both need to freshen ourselves in readiness for our masters to see us, don't you?"

You insufferable bastard, she thought. First you want me to think and then tell me, in essence, "not to worry my pretty little head over it"?

The rest of the return journey to Rigel VII was spent in silence, with Xorc at the conn and Jerrell seeing to the wounds that Parihn had inflicted on his face and chest. She retreated to the shuttle's fresher, where she worked to restore her appearance to the flawless beauty Lord Gorshin demanded.

Only when they had landed did Jerrell say anything more. As they stepped off the shuttle ramp, their expressions were those of two people who had just enjoyed the hedonistic delights of Rigel VII and each other's company—and most emphatically not those of conspirator and pawn, the latter having been at the throat of the former just a hour or so previously.

He leaned over to whisper in her ear, "Don't worry, all will become apparent when the time arises, I promise."

She didn't show any response to his words, but that did not stop him as he continued with a final meaningful comment.

"We already know you can dance, Parihn. Now it's time to see if you can think on your feet, as well."

Oh, don't worry, Jerrell… you'll see just how well soon enough.

***

There are rumors—and then there are rumors. Some are utterly false, whilst others have at least a basis in truth. To an average citizen of the Federation, this is what the Orion Syndicate was: A series of rumours, bearing more than a kernel of fact.

The organization wasn't nearly as overtly dangerous as some law enforcement officers, politicians and members of Starfleet Intelligence claimed; yet it was infinitely more insidious than they could suspect.

Part of the veil surrounding the Syndicate was that one rarely, if ever, encountered anything more than a low-ranking member. Nor were such individuals likely, even in the most extraordinary circumstances, to become sources of information to the detriment of their masters. A code of silence existed between those within the "brotherhood"; all knew that were they to break it, a terrible retribution would be visited upon them and theirs. Maybe not at the time they broke the code, but eventually—and terminally.

This was why the greatest of their secrets still remained so after more than a century.

The Orion Syndicate was not, in fact, in business for itself. It worked for another, far older establishment.

The Congeries.

This was the loose alliance of warlords that had governed the Rigel system and beyond for centuries… before the arrival of the hated humans and their Federation, that is.

These had brought with them an order that many races embraced, and which made it difficult for the Orions to practice business for business' sake, in the purest way: Chaotic; bloody; and without any need for the morals, ethics and standards that so tainted Federation business practices.

To Orion warlords—many of whom claimed descent, whether legitimate or not, from one or another of the numerous Orion imperial dynasties—money was power and power was money. There was no such thing as an unethical method of acquiring either.

Unfortunately, it was no longer as easy to acquire as it had been before the advent of the Federation.

So the warlords, collectively known as the Orion Congeries, retreated behind the veil of a newer threat to the Federation that would help divert attention away from them. This was the Syndicate; and the Syndicate had learned to hide as well. Initially the link between Syndicate and Congeries had been through the establishment of or alliance with existing merchant houses, which became the fronts for the Syndicate's operations. Each hereditary warlord retained strong ties, influence and control over a merchant house—initially, this had meant one; but alliances, mergers and takeovers linked one to another and thence to another warlord. More recently, the Syndicate had begun admitting groups and races outside the Rigel system, each allying themselves with binding oaths and financial commitments—and yet remaining unaware of its actual nature. Thus, the true Orions, unprejudiced in the ways of business, but certainly inclined against those not native to the Rigel star system, remained the Syndicate's true masters.

House Gav'reme was one such traditional merchant house. A front for the Syndicate and maintaining ties to many other member bodies, it answered directly to the Orion warlord, Lord Dakeen Gorshin—and thus to the Orion Congeries.

The head of House Gav'reme, Balthar, had direct blood ties to Lord Gorshin, as well being a vassal to him. Descended from the same family, they were cousins—a common linking factor between the more traditionally minded of the Orion Congeries and Syndicate.

"Well, kinsman, don't you think it's about time you remarried?"

It was a question that Balthar Gav'reme had grown to wearily tolerate as it came up at the irregular meetings at which he reported to Lord Gorshin. At each one, he would relate the doings of his House and its allies over the past few weeks. This involved long meetings with Gorshin and his advisors, who would analyse the Gav'reme data, and collate it for presentation to other members of the Congeries.

After the conclusion of such meetings, he would "relax" with his cousin; and when the conversation did not concern the things which usually occupied an Orion's mind—money, power, gambling, sexual liaisons past, present and future, or other forms of pleasure—it would sometimes turn to matters of family.

"My Lord, in truth, I do not feel ready to consider another marriage. I loved my wife and still mourn for her." Balthar stared down into the goblet of wine as he answered; for this was a lie, and both he and his cousin knew it.

"Gav'reme, walk with me." Gorshin rose from the table and pushed his chair back. He made his way out onto the balcony, where he could catch the warmth of the midday sun.

"You've been widowed for more than a decade now. Yes?"

The Syndicate boss nodded an agreement to the older man. He was taller than Gorshin, and, ironically enough, looked to be the elder; his hair was lightening naturally as opposed to Gorshin's carefully maintained vigorous green.

"It is unseemly that one in your postion should no longer have a proper wife, instead of finding consolation in the arms of that Betazoid concubine of yours—especially after all these years." Though it had been subtle, Balthar noted the disdain in Gorshin's voice when he'd used the word "Betazoid."

"Not that I begrudge a man, married or not, his little solace," he continued, "but he should have a natural wife. After all, you should be able to find a worthy alliance and perhaps even a pretty catch at that, mmm?"

Were Gorshin to have looked at his cousin and subordinate in that moment, he would have caught the fleeting look of irritation—and resentment—directed at him.

It passed as quickly as it came, however, and Balthar replied quietly, "You're probably right, cousin."

"It would do your daughter some good, after all, to have the influence of a proper mother, mmm?"

Balthar nodded sagely and considered the eldest of his children. Cressia was the result of the marriage between himself and Kurisi, itself the final touch in an alliance between House Gav'reme and House Rosch'a. Despite their attempts, there had been no son and heir produced; and the relationship had been loveless until her death fifteen years before. Long before that he had indeed found "solace"—and eventually, love—in the arms of a Betazoid woman taken in a pirate raid. She had eventually come to accept her situation and had given him the son he wanted.

Gorshin, heedless, continued, "And, ah, of course, you should think about preparing her for marriage, mmm? Enough of her being a pirate captain, I think. Hardly a suitable case for an alliance and if you won't, ah, produce an heir, then perhaps she will, mmm?"

It was more than Gorshin had ever ventured to say on this matter, although it was not the first time he had raised it with Balthar—who wondered what had caused this sudden intensification of interest in his family.

"And, ah, that son of yours may have his uses, but of course, he'd hardly be suitable as an heir, mmm?"

Balthar carefully thought about his son, the younger of his two children. Jerrell's character and upbringing were totally different to that of his half-sister. Cresscia had had everything she'd wanted and had been as pampered as a princess; but without her's mother's influence, he truly had not known how to raise her correctly. She had spurned all the attempts at friendship proffered by his concubine and now-all-but partner, Tulesa. In Cresscia's eyes—and in those of many of his fellow Orions—Tulesa was a slave, and a non-Orion one at that. Cresscia had been spoiled, and was now wilful, spiteful… and from all the reports of her ship's crew, not a little vicious.

Jerrell, the son of a concubine, had been raised a slave: First in his father's kitchens; and then later aboard an Orion blockade runner. Balthar smiled. It was there that Jerrell had met and befriended the Kaylari who now accompanied his son everywhere. A year after his wife had died, Balthar had deemed it a long enough period of mourning so that he could at least acknowledge Jerrell as his son, if not make him his heir. That would never happen, not if he wished the alliance with House Rosch'a to remain strong.

Much to Cresscia's resentment, Jerrell was set to learning the methods of the Syndicate alongside her. It was much the worse for him when she found he was better at them than she was and could apply some of the practical lessons that he had learnt aboard a raider. To keep them apart, Jerrell was apprenticed to his intelligence advisor, Saran. With that worthy now too ill to travel—but too valuably crafty to simply eliminate—it was Jerrell that came with his father on such excursions.

Where Cresscia was sly, but openly vindictive, there was a reserve to Jerrell that only a slave's upbringing could teach. He'd shown a promising mind that had proven useful as an intelligence agent for the House of Gav'reme. Guests to the house seemed to take note of his charm as well, and he always seemed to have the pick of the women.

That, Balthar thought, seems my son's only outward fault, though no doubt there are others. At least it shows his mother's influence, and for that he is all the more vulnerable.

Not knowing how exactly he should proceed with the conversation, Balthar took a deferential line. "Were it not for my advisor Saran's infirmities, then I would not have to have brought my son along to deliver the latest reports and analyses. If his presence warrants your displeasure, kinsman, then I can only proffer my sincerest apologies…"

"Nonsense, nonsense, cousin," Gorshin replied, waving his half-empty glass at Balthar in a conciliatory fashion. "And, ah, as I said, I'm sure that your son has his uses, mmm?… and one must trust to your judgement, of course. Otherwise, you would not have had him trained as Saran's replacement, mmm?"

Balthar nodded. "Exactly so, my Lord."

"And he does seem to be doing excellent work, or so my advisor tells. Kassir says his analysis of current Starfleet Intelligence operations in this system proved most illuminating.

"And he seems to have, ah, taken to Shomira, don't you think? A fitting reward for his services, I think, and ah, even an incentive… as long as he doesn't become too attached, mmm, Balthar?" Gorshin's tone suddenly took on a harder edge. "After all, we can't have our tools becoming attached. That might negate their usefulness, mmm?"

Gorshin's voice softened as he thought about the prize he held—the most famous green Orion woman in all of the Congeries—and he smiled. "But then who wouldn't be able to resist her charm, mmm? She could make a Vulcan renounce logic, and a saint renounce his god. Perhaps you, Balthar, should take the time to enjoy her company; she's a good Orion woman at the very least, mmm?" Gorshin's chuckle was deep and hearty at his own suggestion, moreso because of the discomfort that he knew he was causing his cousin. The laughter rumbled to a halt and Gorshin took a mouthful of wine, before continuing.

"Ah Balthar, I know how you feel about that Betazoid woman of yours, so I shall not barb you further by offering a night in the arms of Shomira… and the delights that only she can bring you. After all, that would be mostly uncousinly behavior, would it not, mmm?"

The target of Dakeen Gorshin's mirth took it in stony silence, knowing that he would incur his cousin's ire were he to complain. Instead, Balthar smiled weakly and turned to his own goblet to hide his feelings.

"Now with the matter of your son settled, we still need to arrange something for your daughter, Cresscia, mmm?"

Balthar put his goblet down, resting it on the parapet of the balcony. "Indeed, my Lord. Although I have given the matter some thought, I would greatly appreciate your own perspectives."

Gorshin nodded. "I shall be, ah, delighted to share them with you. The ties between us are strong, are they not? Well, it seems that if you are not prepared to marry, then your daughter should be. And, ah, who better a marriage prospect than myself, mmm?

"Cousins we, ah, may be, but there has not been a union between our families in some three generations. What do you think, mmm, Balthar?"

The vassal considered his overlord's suggestion. True, there had not been a marriage between members of House Gav'reme and the Gorshin Congery for over fifty years. Such were not unknown, and were implemented in order to strengthen the ties between leading members of the Syndicate and their allied Congeries. Further it could mean that the existing conundrum of who would succeed him upon his death be solved—were Cresscia to provide a suitable heir, that is.

This particular marriage, though, was not without its problems—such as his daughter.

"Well, my dear cousin, I believe that it would be a union befitting our status. There may be, however, complications. The daughter might not be as agreeable as her father."

Gorshin nodded sagely. "I'm sure that, ah, I can persuade her to our position upon this matter, mmm?" He grinned broadly at his younger kinsman, who was prevented from replying by the entrance of one of Gorshin's aides. The man slipped into the room and having caught the eye of his Lord, approached and bent to whisper in his ear. Balthar did not hear the message, but from Gorshin's response he knew it could only be bad news.

"What?!" the older man roared, a thunderous look upon his face. The functionary barely had time to step back in trepidation before his master had risen from his chair and grabbed him by the throat. Gorshin forced him back until he was bent backwards over the edge of the balcony. Already frightened, the aide felt the coldness of his Lord's favourite obsidian blade pressed against his cheek. Still angry, Gorshin whispered at the prone man, his voice full of venomous spittle.

"Say that again…"

Balthar rose quickly, but not quickly enough for the aide to be held fast. He went to his master's side and tried to ease the pressure being placed upon the unfortunate messenger.

"My lord!" he yelled. "Let the man speak."

Gorshin's head snapped round at Balthar's entreatied words, his eyes still wide with wild fury. Then, the look passed and he eased himself off the aide—much to the man's relief—flung his knife down, and snatched up his goblet. He drained its contents… then reached for the jug.

Very bad news.

The bearer of such infuriating tidings, now free, rolled and slipped off the parapet, almost falling to the floor as he regained his breath. When he stood, it was a nervousness that drenched his anxious words: "My Lord, what are your instructions?"

Gorshin turned; both Balthar and the aide could see the pent-up anger that filled their master's pores. He contemplated for a moment.

"Bring me more wine… no, don't. We need to think and the last thing we need is more wine. Now get out and summon Kassir… I want him in my presence within five minutes…

"…or I'll have both your head and his!"

***

"The preliminary lab report confirms your suspicions, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

Placing the datapad on his desk, Commodore Jonathan Nalonge regarded the young officer before him and wondered whether it was all he was going to get out of her.

"So, Lieutenant, where do you think we should go from here?"

Artemesia Gallas, snapping smartly to attention, framed a reply as her commanding officer rose and walked over to the replicator.

"Tea, Earl Grey, hot, with a slice of lemon in a bone china cup."

Although she didn't show it, she felt just a little pleased that her misgivings about the Binarii had been correct. The raid on the vessel had been too easy; it hadn't felt quite right, almost as if they'd been meant to find the stolen phaser coils. Initial scans of the wreckage had confirmed the presence of appropriate debris, but subsequent analysis had shown that there wasn't enough to account for the entire cargo.

By the time Commodore Nalonge had returned to his seat and was looking at her expectedly, she had an answer. "I suggest we review the data we have again, and begin a search for the remaining coils, sir."

Nalonge looked over Gallas. She was of an average height and build, with jet black hair and an olive complexion. Were it not for her aquiline nose, Gallas might have been beautiful. Instead, she was… intriguing.

Lieutenant, he thought, you may be rather adept at hiding it, but you're too damned smug for your own good; and you can't conceal it behind that generic reply. It's not what I got you here for.

"All right, let's go over what we do know."

"Yes, sir." Gallas took the seat to which Nalonge, with a pudgy hand, was motioning her. He was in his early fifties, greying; and it was clear that his transfer from the Intelligence Directorate to Administration was being kind neither to his waistline nor his stress levels.

"Three months ago, unknown operatives arranged and executed the… acquisition of eight sealed parcels—each containing a number of Type-VIII phaser coils. Despite SI's best efforts, we couldn't determine who was responsible, although we were able to apprehend several Federation citizens who'd aided in the execution of the operation.

"Profiling presented a number of potentials who could have carried out the theft, and the appropriate bureaus were notified."

Gallas knew that from the way Nalonge was rubbing his eyes that she was going over old ground, and realized she'd better cut to the point where she became involved.

"Two weeks ago I was working undercover as the master of a free trader, and was visiting the Last Call, a bar in the Rigel VII freeport. After circulating the room, I left the bar and returned to my ship. When I got there I found that a package had been delivered by persons unknown."

"Inside the package was a communications device. Analysis showed that it was keyed to operate to a set genetic pattern, which I had to enter prior to activation. As far as I was able to determine, the device represented no threat, but I submitted it to the labs."

Nalonge nodded and said, "Wise move, Lieutenant. Let's go over that first conversation. Computer, play back the record of Gallas Operations Log, Stardate 49723."

There was an audible beep and then the nearly undetectable hiss of the playback beginning. It was silent but for the sound of consoles being operated and then a singular beep. Moments passed… Then Gallas' voice could be heard to say tentatively, "Hello…?"

Nothing happened and she could be heard to sigh. Then another voice was heard; heavily modulated, female, but without any other identifying sounds.

"To whom am I speaking?"

"I might ask the same question. After all, you must have delivered the device to me!"

"Ah, greetings, Lieutenant Gallas. I'm glad it's you. It could have been so embarassing, not to say a waste of my time, were I talking to someone else."

There was a sense of convincing—though false—puzzlement in Gallas's voice as she replied: "Lieutenant Gallas? I think you have the wrong person."

"Please, Lieutenant. I know who you are. Let's not play those irritatingly unnecessary games of denial here. I know that you're a member of Starfleet Intelligence currently attached to the Orion Bureau, based on the spacedock orbiting Rigel IV. You're pretending to be the daughter of the operators of a privately owned merchant vessel; actually, you're a covert operations officer with Rapid Response training. Do you really think I'm doing this to waste our time?"

Gallas let out a slight though audible sigh. "All right, whomever you are, your intelligence is interesting, but let's cut to the chase. What do you want?"

"Actually Lieutenant, right now it's about what you want. But we'll come to that in due course. First, I'm going to do something to build a sense of trust between us. Since we're both recording this, I'll say it only once. The Orion Bureau currently has Lieutenant Andrew Sproxton working undercover as Michael 'Mickey' Lawrence. He's gotten as far as he's going to get. He should retire… now… before someone does it for him."

"Are you threatening this man?" Gallas voice was slightly harder edged.

"No, Lieutenant," was the slightly exasperated answer. "I'm trying to save the funeral expenses… both yours and ours. Whilst Lieutenant Sproxton does not work for us, Mr. Lawrence does, and if one of our employees happens to retire, we always see them right in the end. It's only a matter of honour."

"I wasn't aware that your kind had any honour." So far neither side of the converation had mentioned the Syndicate by name.

"Now, now, Artemesia, there's no need for that. Some may not have such a thing as a sense of honour, but I am trying to save a young man's life here. When you've seen to his extraction, visit the Last Call again and we'll celebrate Sproxton's new lease on life. Or, if you don't get him out, we'll commiserate.

"Goodbye for now."

Again there were a number of beeps and the faint sound of a hiss as the recording came to a sudden end.

Nalonge looked over at Gallas and told her, "As per your recommendation, the Bureau… removed Lieutenant Sproxton from his current assignment. It's something we were considering anyway; the operation had seen little success so far." He sighed.

"And that's the problem we have in penetrating the Syndicate. It doesn't help if we have someone like your contact playing games and knowing so much about our operations."

"Yes, sir," was Gallas' only comment, as she shifted slightly in her seat and watched the commodore drain his tea.

"At any rate, Lieutenant, what did you do once we extracted Sproxton?"

"I followed up on the contact's suggestion and re-visited the Last Call. Nothing happened until I actually returned to the ship—where there was another package for me."

"This was the one with the bottle of ouzo, correct?"

"Yes, sir. It would appear that the contact waited for me to visit the Last Call and then subsequently made their little drop. Once I was underway, the communications device beeped and we had our second conversation."

Nalonge told the computer to play it.

After another brief delay, the dialogue began.

Again Gallas spoke first. "Thank you for the celebratory spirits."

"Please. Think nothing of it. I thought it suitable given your background—if that's not too presumptuous. It was a little difficult to get ahold of, so I hope you'll find it worth my efforts. I'm glad Sproxton's going to live and will enjoy his reassignment to the Tholian Bureau. Now, time is short, so I'll get down to business.

"Just over two months ago the Federation lost a shipload of Type-VIII phaser coils. So far you've been unable to determine who did the…" the voice paused as if to savour the first use of a new word,"…'dastardly' deed. Right now, I suggest you concentrate on getting them back. The best thing I can do is give you the name of the vessel that will be carrying them. That and the fact that it will be entering this system within the next few weeks."

"And what do you want in return?" Gallas sounded perplexed.

"All in good time, Lieutenant. As I've already said, time is short. The name of the ship is the Binarii. That should be enough to go on, and I'm sure that with your training you'll think of what to do next. Contact me on the following frequency once it's done. Goodbye for now."

Nalonge found himself disliking the man intensely; despite the "help" he provided, his tone was nothing less than one of insufferable condescenion.

"What's your analysis of this contact?"

"Well, sir, from the amount he knows, he's obviously well connected with the Syndicate. He's very sure of himself and I would suggest that he's a games player. We can't be sure what type he's playing yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if he left the remains of a coil aboard the Binarii for us to find and knew that we would know that it wasn't going to be enough to convince us we'd succeeded. We're being strung along quite effectively."

"You refer to this contact as a 'he,' Lieutenant. Admittedly he could be heavily disguising his voice, I grant you, but what makes you think he's male?"

"Well, sir…" She considered her answer carefully. It was not something she liked to discuss. "To be blunt, Commodore—intuition. He choose me as a contact out of several possibilities; I am the only female undercover Starfleet Intelligence operative in this system; both packages that were delivered to my ship were wrapped as gifts and with the last one, that bottle of ouzo, it was almost as if he was trying to seduce me. He fancies himself intriguing… and irresistable to women, unless I miss my guess."

"Okay; let's put him down as a 'he' for the moment. Now what's your next move?"

"I need to make a more personal contact with him again. I can't be sure how useful he'll prove, but he seems to want to play fair—at least as far as it serves his purposes."

Nalonge nodded. "Very well. Carry on. I've already spoken with Admiral Pook—she's pleased with the raid on the Binarii."

Gallas stood to leave.

"One more thing, Lieutenant."

She turned back to him. Nalonge reached into a drawer below his desk and produced the bottle of ouzo. "Admiral Pook told me that this doesn't equate to a bribe… and since no one here in the office likes this particular libation, we thought you'd best have it."

"Thank you, sir," she replied, somewhat sheepishly, "but to be honest… I can't stand the stuff, either."

***

"The Binarii! Starfleet has the Binarii and her cargo! All those months of work wasted! Wasted, I tell you!" Gorshin's rage had not subsided. His immediate audience knew better than to respond until they were questioned directly; and when they did, they'd better have an answer that pleased—or at least mollified—the furious noble. Standing at the far end of the conference room by the balcony, Gorshin swung back and stabbed a finger at the man he had called for.

"Well, Kassir, what do you propose to do about it, mmm?"

Gorshin's intelligence advisor was quick to answer. "It is a simple matter, my—"

"Is it, Kassir? Explain or I will have you fed to that Nausicaan you call a bodygaurd!"

"As I was saying, my Lord, it is a simple matter…" Gorshin's eyebrows steepled in irritation and Kassir hurried to give his advice, "…of determining who was responsible for the leak. For that is the cause of our problem. With your permission, I shall investigate."

"You have it! Anything you need, name it. I want whomever was responsible at my feet—and soon, Kassir, soon. Understand?"

"Of course, my Lord. I shall need to investigate all of those who had knowledge of the operation."

Kassir added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, that does include Balthar and his son…"

Gorshin's distracted nod was the only answer he received.

It was also the only answer he wanted.

***

Parihn sighed. She was looking into the face of a traitor.

Her questions were legion: Why had Jerrell placed her in this position? What was his intent? What was that sample he had taken from her earlier that afternoon? As she pondered these, Parihn unconciously rubbed at the spot on her neck where he had pressed the device.

She weighed her options. She could just tell Lord Gorshin—perhaps when they were alone together later. Yet what—and, more importantly, where—would that get her? Perhaps the praise of Gorshin, most definitely the death of Jerrell, and then… exactly what Jerrell promised her. The slide into the arms of green Orion animal woman urges.

Everything that her parents had never desired for her.

Which was why she neither could nor would go to Gorshin and confess everything. It was foolish of her to believe that she could truly gain anything from such an action. After all, what did she owe either him or his House? Absolutely nothing, except a blade in his back as he watched his ill-gotten empire—or which she was a part—aflame. It was the least that she owed him for what he inflicted upon both her and her parents; and perhaps, just perhaps, Jerrell's plans might grant her that opportunity.

Of course, that had been his plan: He'd known she'd consider all her options, and decide to continue down this treacherous path with him, the better to perhaps gain an opportunity for revenge—and, unlikely though it seemed, liberty.

Yet could she trust a man whose actions could lead to his own death—not to mention hers? Then again, he was placing a great deal of trust in her—almost as much as he expected her to place in him.

She was fairly confident he'd erred in one place, though… despite his smugly superior attitude, he'd forgotten—immersed in his own role as the master manipulator he thought he was—that Gorshin, would, even if she were a traitor, in all likelihood do nothing to her. All pretension aside, she was Shomira the Divine, and had bolstered both the confidence and the coffers of his House with her incredible performances—both on stage and off. He'd keep her alive, even as he roasted Jerrell and flayed the flesh from his bones… because he was, after all, an Orion; and an Orion did not throw away property that could still prove to be immensely valuable.

Thus, she was safer than Jerrell knew… even if she threw the dice and gambled on him.

Somehow, though, she knew that whatever Jerrell's true motives were, they were at least tinged with a compassion that meant—or at least implied—he would try and see to her safety in the end. Parihn knew that she would likely never see such concern again while she remained who—and what—she was.

She realized, though, that ultimately, Jerrell was concerned for Jerrell more than anyone or anything else—and that if it came down to a choice between her and him, well…

…she wouldn't hold her breath waiting for help then.

That was what made the decision for her.

By the time she had, there was already a knock on her door.

She wasn't surprised to see that it was her fellow "conspirator." He slipped into her room.

"Where are my guards?" Parihn asked, though she was only slightly curious; Gorshin generally kept her under lock and key when she wasn't performing in one way or another.

"A little latinum goes a long way with Orions," he grinned. "It's not as if you're a virgin, after all, or I'm going to wear you out."

Her eyes narrowed, and he backpedalled quickly.

"I'm sorry; I meant that in reference to the guards' perception of you, not how you really are."

Parihn nodded after a moment, and then asked, wearily, "What do you want from me now?"

"Gorshin's flunkies are on their way. He knows about the seizure of the Binarii and he wants answers. So I'm here to quickly coach you in exactly what you'll say…"

"What makes you think he'll be interested in what I have to say about the capture of a ship that someone in my position—such as it is—has no reason to know anything about or have even heard of?"

"Good points." Jerrell moved towards her.

"But right now, I don't have the time to explain it to you. You just have to trust me," he finished, in an attempt to be stern and commanding.

It didn't really work for him.

"No, I don't have to do anything," she snapped back at him. It brought him up short.

"So far that's all you've asked me to do, and, besides some vague commentary about my latent psionic abilities, I've heard nothing from you that is to my benefit. So answer my question, and then tell me what I have to gain from all of this. You solicited my aid; I didn't come to you. So treat me as an equal and not like I'm at your feet on a leash!"

Jerrell took a step back, eyebrows raised and head cocked. He smiled sheepishly.

"All right, but we need to run through this quickly. Firstly, Gorshin won't be interested in what you say, but Kassir, his intelligence advisor, will be. Gorshin thinks of you only as Shomira, but will take note of anything that Kassir puts before him. Kassir is interested in you because you've spent time with me; and he's interested in me because I'm a potential rival and because I'm the most recent addition to the small circle that know of the Binarii and its illicit cargo. Right now, I'm an unknown quantity, so he wants as much information to work with as possible before he moves on me. And since he can't go directly to my family, that means you.

"Clear enough?"

Parihn nodded in response, biting her tongue. His self-centerdness was really quite remarkable. It was a personality trait of most thieves. They believed both that the universe owed them a living, and that they were the most important person in that universe.

"As to the rewards should our conspiracy bear fruit…"

Now he had her full attention.

"…we both stand to gain from the fall of Gorshin. My father will take his place; I can't see the Congeries objecting when they come to see the consequences of stealing phaser coils from the Federation. Gorshin's demise will cool Starfleet's ardor and make my contact in SI a rising star. Perhaps then I can change the Syndicate from within.

"And if change comes to pass, you'll be the first to reap the benefits." Jerrell smiled at her.

"How so?" Parihn prompted, wishing that he would get to the point. After all, it was he who'd said that there was little time before the arrival of Kassir and his associates.

Let's see if he has the nerve to promise the only thing that would matter to me, she thought.

"Simply, your freedom." Jerrell grinned broadly at her surprised expression—not realizing that nature of that shock, of course.

Now, the question: Was Jerrell merely dangling her desire in front of her, hoping for cooperation, or would the young thief really try to deliver once he had what he needed?

Understandably, freedom was something she had harboured a hope for since her abduction, but never really expected to gain. After all, what master would ever grant a green animal woman her freedom? Wherever trade took Orion vessels, their distinctiveness meant that they were the most prized of status symbols—and the most valuable property. Their incomparable allure meant their reputation had spread far beyond the neutrality of Orion space—and across the reaches of the galaxy.

"No master would willing to give up an animal woman. Especially… especially one as prized as I am. Even if I could be free, I'd always be a slave to the urges… the needs that accompany what I am."

Jerrell looked at her, and his expression was the oddest admixture of pity, sympathy and lust she'd ever before seen.

"I'm sorry about that. I literally am," he replied. "It must be the Betazoid in me, and the fact that I've been a slave as well.

"There must be a solution to your problem. There isn't much known about your particular… condition. Orion warlords and merchant princes have kept your kind steeped in mystical tradition and leering rumor the better to keep you a valuable commodity."

"Why did you take that sample on board the shuttle?" Parihn demanded. "What do you intend to do with it?"

"It's just a little of your DNA and pheremonal essence," he shrugged non-committally. "You won't miss it."

"Stop being evasive and answer the question you're asked."

"Very well," he replied curtly. It was obvious he was annoyed that his charm didn't work on her the way it obviously did on most women.

Too bad for you, Parihn thought. I've seen—and been had by, she ruefully acknowledged—every type of man imaginable, Jerrell; and you're not quite as beautiful and charming as you think you are. Almost, she admitted, but not quite.

Instead of answering, he returned to the original subject—as she'd thought he would.

"My father can't be responsible—or even vaguely culpable— in Gorshin's downfall. I need the resources that Starfleet Intelligence can impose to unseat him; and whilst I have established a certain level of trust between us, I think a face-to-face meeting is in order if I want their aid. That's why you'll be there to handle that."

"Doing your dirty work for you, Jerrell? Don't you think I'm a little conspicuous for that?"

He nodded. "True, but you're also the only person besides my mother who won't, if tempted by enough latinum or given the opportunity, betray me to Gorshin. It's your best chance: My mother and I have persauded my father as to the dangers in continuing to traffic in slaves; and once he has supplanted Gorshin, he won't have need of you.

"Of course, that doesn't mean you have to leave once you're free."

Jerrell left the suggestion hanging… but before Parihn had the time to even consider a response to his proposition, there was a series of gentle but rapid knocks at her door. Crossing over to it, Jerrell opened it a crack. From the few grunts of softly whispered conversation, Parihn recognised the sound of the Kaylari tongue. Then the door closed and Jerrell turned back to her. "That was Xorc. He says that Kassir and his cohorts are on the move. I have to leave and I need to know what your decision is; you don't have any more time."

Parihn looked at him, realising that Jerrell was her best option if she hoped to escape. It wasn't a pleasant feeling; after all, he was using her far more than she was him, and she had no guarantees he'd eventually fulfill his side of the bargain.

Yet what she stood to gain was at least worth the risk.

"All right, I'll help you," she told him.

"I knew you would," he said with a wry grin that told her he believed he'd once again manipulated the situation masterfully. She forced back the desire to hit him… and then was alarmed as she found herself suppressing even more base an urge.

Oh, no, she thought. It's starting again.

"Get out."

He saw her expression, and did.

She had little time before Kassir and Bok knocked on her door, but as she composed herself as best she could for their arrival, she came to a sudden realization.

If she couldn't exert a control that had escaped her on more than one occasion, she might never have a chance to do so again.

***

"And what was it that you talked about with Jerrell?"

Kassir rested his clasped hands upon the plain white table. Parihn sat quietly opposite him, in the other plain white chair—in the plain white room. Indeed, the occupants were the only items of color here.

She stared blankly at her interrogator.

This, she thought, was where her decision to co-conspire with Jerrell would be put to the test. She wished, though, that the test had not come quite so soon.

"Things," she answered off-handedly, and smiled vapidly.

It would be best, she decided, to assume the part expected of her—a rather moronic, green Orion animal woman. She raised her hand to the side of her face and began to play with her hair in a distracted manner. She smiled at the man across from her, and used her desires to keep herself from thinking too much.

"What sort of 'things'?" Kassir calmly asked. She is, he thought, very attractive—incredibly desirable.

Just as her mother had been.

That memory brought a pursed smile to his lips. The thought of how he'd enjoyed her warmed his heart. It was such a pity that Shomira the Divine couldn't be his in the same way.

But then, Lord Gorshin knew his spymaster's tastes all too well—and had warned him to indulge them with Shomira would earn him a death by slow torture at the hands of the men Kassir himself had trained.

Even he shuddered at the thought of that.

Shomira cast her eyes down with ever so slight a flutter and looked away from him. Her tiny smile was one of remembrance, Kassir decided. He wondered what it was she didn't want to divulge; could it be as simple as that half-breed Quayn's prowess between the sheets, or was it something else? Knowing that he could not touch her in order to gain the information he wanted was so exasperating!

Parihn felt movement behind her and turned her head to look—straight into the face of a Nausicaan staring down at her with his arm raised to strike.

"Bok!"

The Nausicaan's arm was stilled by the sound of his master's soft question. The horrid creature looked up and over to Kassir. With the attention of her potential attacker drawn there, Parihn also turned back to look. Kassir had not moved, except to gently shake his head and Parihn felt Bok move away from her. Her interrogator's attention switched back to her and he gave her a small smile.

"You see, it would give my erstwhile bodyguard here," Kassir indicated Bok behind her, "no little pleasure to apply some persuasion in his own brutal style. Sometimes, I am forced to indulge him…"

Kassir let the statement hang and watched Shomira's eyes grew large. He considered her and mused at the delightful possibilities were he to allow Bok to pursue such a course of action. It would be a pleasure to savor, especially with the knowledge that he could replay the recording that was being made over and over again in the privacy of his quarters.

"So, what was it, my dear, that you talked about with Jerrell?"

Her attention now fully focused on Kassir and his questions; Parihn began to answer as best as Shomira knew how. She told him how Jerrell had talked about little but himself in the past day or so—what he did, how good he was at it, his accomplishments with other women, how attractive she was, how attractive he was and the like. In doing so, she was drawing upon the myriad experiences of Shomira in pleasuring men at her master's orders, mixing in a little what she knew about Jerrell and a little of what she sensed about him. It was an elaboration that Shomira found easy to pull off, but from behind that mask, Parihn instead found it wearisome, as if she was calling upon suppressed and distasteful memories.

Which, indeed, she was.

Gamely answering each of her interrogator's questions, Parihn felt a darkness beginning to encroach upon the outermost edges of her senses. It was not something that she could see, taste, smell, or even hear, but a combination of them all. It was a rankness and a pressure upon her at the same time at the furthermost limits of what she could sense…

…directly in front of her.

This was what Jerrell had told her about, she realized. That small measure of the gift was working to tell her something about the man in front of her—about Kassir. It was if flakes of ash were alighting upon her tongue. There was something inherently distasteful about her questioner and she didn't want to ever find out what it was…

For a moment, she caught a vision of something he was remembering: She saw her mother, and Kassir.

Parihn suddenly knew with terrible certainty to whom she'd been given in the hours after House Vaerth had fallen.

Ironically enough, she'd been slipping towards a sensual fugue, before becoming aware of his pulsing malignance. Kassir would have been furious to know that his horrific presence had probably saved her from confessing all she knew in a frenzy of sexual tension.

As it was, he was so repellent, she was able to use him to retain a precarious equilibrium.

But it was a very close thing.

"Bok! Find out who that is." Kassir looked at his bodyguard and thumbed towards the door behind him. Then he returned to looking at her and smiled. There was something not a little reptilian about that smile. "Now, we seem to be progressing quite well with these questions, don't we Shomira? I'm pleased with your candor."

"Thank you, my lord. I seek only to please." Shomira cocked her head and beamed at the thin Orion. Parihn though, had her attention on the door to the interrogation room, upon which she realised someone had knocked while her "gift" had been giving her more than she had wanted to know about Kassir. Bok had left the room and still not returned.

Concentrating upon Kassir, she softly batted her eyelashes at him. He was, Parihn knew, very taken with Shomira and if she could distract him with her incomparable wiles, then feigned answers would more easily believed.

But both their concentrations were broken by a crash outside of the room. Parihn was startled a little, but Kassir reacted by jumping to his feet and knocking his chair to one side. There was a look of annoyance upon his face, as if he had been forced to interupt something most pleasurable. As he went to the door, he already had a small disruptor pistol in his hand, which he had drawn from inside the left sleeve of his slightly voluminous shirt. He pulled the door open.

Parihn let out a small gasp. In the corridor she could see two figures grappling with each other, could clearly hear the sound of their heated grunting. On the floor were the remnants of broken fixtures—broken when the two had smashed them in their struggle.

It was Bok and Xorc; the latter had the advantage, and used his foe to prevent giving Kassir a clear shot with his disruptor. This though, caused no hesitation upon the chief interrogator's part, and he fired several blasts. Beyond heavy grunts, there was no response from Bok. Nausicaans, it seemed, could shrug off light disruptor blasts as easily as could Kaylari…

The old torturer bent slightly over his weapon, re-adjusting the settings.

He never got the chance to fire.

"Hello, Kassir." Reflexively, the older man's head snapped up as he heard his name. His reward was to see a grinning Jerrell… and then his fist.

Kassir staggered back, dropping the disruptor and clutching his face.

Parihn was surprised as her would be rescuer shook his hand in pain. He grimaced, and muttered, "Ow… that hurt!", through clenched teeth. His tone was indignant; evidently he was just realizing that throwing a punch in a real fight wasn't quite the same as knocking someone out in a holovid.

Jerrell's pained hesitation was enough for Kassir, who despite the blood streaming from his mouth and nose, leapt forward and clawed twice at Jerrell's own face. The hybrid stumbled back in to the corridor, allowing Kassir to close, and attempt to throttle him. Jerrell reached up and grasped his foe's arms, trying desperately to ease the pressure upon his neck.

Suddenly Jerrell seemed to stiffen, and his eyes widened in horror. Parihn could see that something was wrong with him; he seemed almost paralyzed with fear and his grip on Kassir's wrists had drastically weakened. He grabbed feebly at the older man's hands, but was gradually losing the struggle…

Calmly, Parihn picked up the chair she'd been sitting in, stepped behind Kassir—and clubbed him over the head with it.

Gurgling, the old man crumpled into Jerrell, who shoved him off in revulsion and watched in silence as his writhing slowly subsided into the stillness of unconsciousness.

"Jerrell, are you all right?"

He waved her away, gasping out, "I— I'll be fine." He looked around to see what had happened to Xorc. The Kaylari was still standing, having pulled a bloodied short hafted axe from the body of the now obviously dead Bok. He looked back at his friend, grinned tuskily at his success, quickly crossed to Jerrell and helped him to his feet. Jerrell quickly gave him some instructions before turning back to Parihn.

"Go with Xorc. He'll take you to a shuttle, and I'll join you momentarily. There are one or two tasks here to complete."

He thought she'd be no trouble, but instead she asked, "Are you planning on killing him?"

Jerrell looked startled. "No! I don't believe in killing, if I can at all avoid it."

"Fine." Parihn nodded grimly, and turned away; Jerrell belatedly realized she was looking for the disruptor Kassir had dropped moments before. Before she could reach it, though, Xorc—with a speed surprising in one of his bulk—stepped over, bent and scooped it up.

She glanced at Kassir again. Jerrell shook his head in warning, and gestured to Xorc—who adjusted the disruptor's setting back to stun and pointed it at the young Orion girl.

Wordlessly, expressionlessly, she spun on her heel and left the room. Xorc, looking none too pleased with either of his companions, followed.

Jerrell moved slowly over to Kassir's dead form. Kneeling beside him, Jerrell lifted his left arm out from the body, allowing the shirt sleeve to fall back to the elbow— and exposing the wrist and a bracelet upon which hung several pieces of jewelry.

His expression changed to one of concentration. He pulled the dark silk sash that Kassir was wearing from around his waist, and with the upright arm resting against his shoulder, folded the sash into a thick wad. It was with this that he deftly whipped the bracelet from the wrist. Only then did he let Kassir's arm flop back down.

Standing, the young hybrid gingerly wrapped the jewelry and slipped it into his tunic. He gave Kassir one last disdainful look.

"I can't say I blame her for wanting you dead," he mentioned to no one in particular. "But allowing you to live is better vengeance; no one will want your services when they see what happened to your last charge, Kassir."

Jerrell shooked his head, chuckling bitterly.

"Or, I should say, what's about to happen."

***

When Jerrell had come aboard the shuttle and Parihn had asked where he was taking her, the last thing she had expected him to say was, "For a drink."

But then if that was the case, the Last Call was not her first choice of drinking establishment. Deep within the depths of the huge Rigel VII orbital freeport, it was dark, smoky and as salubrious as any stop-off point for scum and villainy from across the sector, and beyond, would want—and still within hailing distance of Federation space.

Before going in, Jerrell had handed her a heavy, hooded, dark-green cloak.

"What about my…?" she began.

"…pheremones?" he finished. At her nod, he explained, "The cloak possesses an intricate filtering system. Unless you get very excited, it should prevent anyone else from becoming aroused in your presence."

This time, she conceded his cleverness with a nod.

To Xorc he gave a single package: The data Starfleet Intelligence would require in order to give the military assistance he needed; she would, he explained, know when it would be required. Inside she'd be meeting with the human female who was the same member of Starfleet Intelligence she'd heard over subspace.

Parihn eyed him and guessed, "I suppose she's pretty? I can't see you dealing with someone who wasn't."

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, my dear." At her rolled eyes, he chuckled, and added, "Just kidding. The job wouldn't be fun if there weren't some perks. Anyway, all the other members of the local bureau are male, and they're hardly my type. Plus, part of the pleaure in pulling off this coup is that when Starfleet strikes, they'll be directed by a woman, which will give no little annoyance to the Congeries." Parihn knew from his answer that whatever had distressed Jerrell earlier had passed and his unsual good—though often irritating—humor had returned. He quickly finished briefing her on what she should know when it came to the forthcoming meeting, and then he was gone, leaving her in the quiet but strangely reassuring company of Xorc. Reassuring, perhaps, because Kaylari were different enough, biologically speaking, to be wildly uninterested in her as anything but a charge to be protected.

Xorc had escorted her into the recesses of the Last Call, their passage across the floor causing little stir amongst the bar's patrons, engrossed as they were in their own nefarious affairs. Parihn glanced at the only strong source of light in the room, the bar itself. It was no surprise that she was on personal terms with the Orion serving behind the counter, although Jerrell had changed into grubbier clothing and no longer wore the headband. He was though, actually working, which made for a change from the air of indolence that he normally affected for himself.

The booth Xorc lead her to was not empty, but neither of its soon to be former occupants were inebriated enough to want a battle with the imposing Kaylari. A member of the staff approached quickly and took their order. To Parihn, it was not an entirely comfortable place to be, but the Kaylari's presence allayed her nervousness a little. Except for the arrival of their order, nothing happened for several minutes… so she started a little when Xorc laid a heavy, hairy hand quite softly on her arm. He indicated a figure which had just waylayed a waitress and was now moving their way. Jerrell had been right; it was a human female. In Parihn's eyes she was strangely dark-skinned for a member of that species, with attractive features that helped compensate for a hawklike nose. She slid into the u-shaped booth and Parihn slipped further round closer to Xorc, giving her room.

Artemesia Gallas looked them over. She surmised that the Kaylari was a bodyguard—he could be nothing else, after all—and that the cloaked figure, now retreated into its folds, was her contact. She could not be sure just yet as to his or her gender.

Neither side spoke until after a drink was delivered for the new arrival. Parihn broke the silence and said, "You requested a personal meeting; what was it you wanted?"

Gallas cocked her head. The voice beneath the cloak was natural, not modulated as it had been on the communicater. Could it be that her intuition was wrong and her new source really was a woman? When the hood of the cloak was folded back just enough, revealing to her alone the face of a green Orion animal woman, she was more than a little surprised. She avoided gaping—but not by much.

Parihn wondered idly if the small amount of pleasure she'd gained in causing her surprised reaction was what Jerrell felt when he had pulled such tricks upon her.

Gallas decided to be as direct as the question had been in giving her answer. "Trust. So far you've saved a colleague's life and put us on the trail of some stolen merchandise, but we've yet to hear what it is that you want from all of this."

"What if I were to offer you more of what you want?" Parihn turned the intelligence officer's question around. She looked at Xorc, who delved into his jacket and withdrew the data package that Jerrell had given them. He placed it on the table before the human.

"So?" Gallas looked at the cube between them and she knew that she was still being played. "What's on this?"

"Information." Parihn replied. "Information about those that stole your merchandise. Act quickly on the proof you have there and I think you'll be able to give those responsible enough of an incentive not to try again—to say nothing of those interested in such merchandise who have yet to act against you."

"I'll need to check the data first."
"Be my guest."

Gallas took a data-reader from a large pocket and inserted the data cube she was being offered. The quick scan of the contents was enough to whet her interest. To her eyes this looked to be genuine information about the Syndicate. She turned the device off and regarded the informant. It was the first time that she had ever met a green Orion animal woman and there was something quite fascinating about her. Artemesia wasn't particularly inclined to those of her own gender—but she would certainly have made an exception in this woman's case.

The stories about them are true, she thought. Kyrie eleison; this one must be worth her mass in pure latinum.

"So far, so good. This information looks to be potentially useful. But that still leaves the question of what you people want from all of this?"

Parihn's smile faded and she deliberately said nothing at first.

Finally, she offered, "That can be discussed later."

Artemesia considered the options available and debated quickly to herself if the risk of staking her future on the contents of the data cube she had just been given was worth it. Now that her source was in front of her it seemed that it was. This was not another move in the game they had been playing; such a woman could never be involved in the covert operations of her masters, unless it was in the bedroom.

Gallas felt a little sympathy, a bit of lust, and a hint of curiosity.

"I can't promise that the Federation will grant you what you want, but I will promise you that I will try to persaude them to do so."

Parihn nodded. It was enough for the moment. Now to play the last card down on the table. She told Gallas, "You'll need to act quickly on this information. I'm sure that my coming here and speaking to you will have been noticed. They won't be certain of my identity, because of the cloak, but you've been marked by my people for months, no doubt." She looked around as if to illustrate the possibility that the three of them had been watched throughout their meeting. Gallas was not so melodramatic, otherwise she would have been failing her instructors at the academy. Yes, there was someone observing the booth—one of the Orions serving behind the bar. He was being quite surreptitious about it, but he was watching them as he attended to each of the waiting staff and customers as they came to the counter.

Gallas' eyes flicked from the Orion woman to the Orion male behind the bar and back. He appeared to be doing his best not to look at their booth and was now talking to another member of staff behind the bar. She watched him put down the towel that every barman seemed to carry and then disappear through a backdoor. Could it be that she was being overly careful?

There was no such thing in her profession.

There was something else; Artemisia could feel something on the edge of her consciousness—something almost telepathic. The woman was pleading with her eyes, and flicking them towards the Kaylari, who sat in stolid silence and regarded his drink was singular enthusism—when he wasn't staring at her, that is.

Suddenly she realized what was happening; the woman didn't even feel free to speak in front of her "bodyguard."

Christi Eleison. What a life, thought Gallas. No thanks.

In a sudden rush of sympathy, she held her hand out across the table. Her counterpart, surprised, nevertheless took it—careful to keep the cloak concealing her all too green hand.

"I hope you do get what you want," Artemesia said.

Gallas stood to go and the two women exchanged smiles. Both hoped that their not entirely mutual plans would be successful, but both knew that there was still much to organize. What exactly, and by whom would be their main focus for the next few hours.

Alone again, Parihn and Xorc both nursed drinks for almost twenty minutes. It was then that Jerrell joined them at their table. This time he did have something quite alcoholic and he looked tired. She asked him what his plans were now and he replied that all they could now was wait until the good Lieutenant Gallas made her move.

"I expect she'll be busy organising and executing a raid on a certain household on Rigel II. After all, the information you gave her only has a limited usefulness. Security there should have discovered Kassir missing by now and be in a heightened state of alertness. Of course, he won't be telling anyone what happened after your little performance.

"Gorshin will know that you, I and Kassir are missing. He won't know why, though; I wiped the recording Kassir was making of your interrogation. For all Gorshin knows, you've up and eloped with that bastard half-breed whelp, his chief interrogator—-or both." Jerrell smiled ruefully at the joke.

"Once the good Lieutenant Gallas has sprung into action, we have just one more thing to do…"

"Which is?" Parihn asked.

"Go back and deal with Gorshin."

***

From the cockpit of the shuttle, a mere two hours later, Parihn could see a column of smoke rising from the estate she had known as home for the past five years. Spiralling up, it marred Rigel II's salmon colored sky, drawing the attention of all to its source.

As their shuttlecraft had approached Rigel II, Orbital Control had ordered them into a holding pattern. Jerrell was having none of it. He hailed them and announced, rather imperiously, "I'm transmitting a priority permission to proceed now. Authenticate and confirm… immediately."

There was a series of beeps from the communications panel before Control sullenly told them they could proceed on their approach. He dipped her nose planetward, and remarked thinly, "That's one of the advantages of being connected to a member of the Orion Congeries. You gain a certain influence—even if it is the influence of a Congery about to fall."

The shuttle dropped rapidly to a perilously low altitude—Jerrell, even in this situation, couldn't resist showing off his skills—and began its approach to Lord Gorshin's estate. It was a rougher flight than Parihn was accustomed to, and she held onto her seat. Behind her, Xorc seemed unaffected as he checked over several weapons and made preparations for the task ahead of them.

They closed on the plume of smoke and could see that a firefight had broken out around two non-descript shuttles that had landed in the grounds of the estate. Their own vehicle zipped over the grounds and the estate's shuttle pad at the rear, then they were again outside the grounds. Jerrell was bringing it into land beside some smaller residences dotting the forested landscape.

Once down Parihn lurched to her feet, clutching her stomach. She excused herself, while Jerrell and Xorc made their final checks, and made her way to the shuttle's fresher. In truth, she was only slightly queasy, but it was as good a chance as any to distract her male conspirators.

After steeling herself for a moment for what she wanted to do once inside the estate, she stepped back out into the rear compartment of the shuttle, to find both Xorc and Jerrell armed to the teeth. The latter looked at her and asked, "Are you all right, Parihn?"

She nodded, "The flight down was a little rougher than I expected. Give me a few minutes and I'll be well enough to go with you."

Jerrell shook his head. "Sorry, but Xorc and I have to go right now. If we don't, Starfleet will get to Gorshin before we do and we don't want that. In addition, I can't have you killing him; he's mine."

Parihn noted an aprehension in his voice and realised that he didn't want to do what he had to do. "You're not looking forward to killing him, are you?"

"No," he grimaced. "It goes against everything my mother taught me, but it's necessary for all of us. Well, for the Syndicate. And since his downfall is my plan, I should be the one to topple him personally from his highest seat."

"I'm sorry that you have to do that. I really am. If it will help, there's a secret entrance that comes up close to my quarters in the west wing. It's primary use is to get me out in the event of an attack. I'm invaluable property, remember?"
Jerrell nodded, his veneer of insufferability back in place. "Thanks, but I know about it and was planning to use it. Now you're sure that you'll be all right here?"

"Yes; I'll lock the hatch behind you." She smiled at him reassuringly; then turned, a desperate expression on her face, and ran for the fresher, hand over her mouth.

With that Jerrell chuckled and they left.

The instant the door closed behind them, Parihn reemerged from her "nausea" and headed for the weapons locker. She considered a number of options—then chose none of them.

Moments later, she left the shuttle, making for the other secret entrance, of which the smug Jerrell knew nothing—the one that went very close to Gorshin's private quarters. With Jerrell and Xorc coming in from the other end, she knew she had time to get there first…

…and exact the vengeance she craved.

"Shomira!?"

Gorshin's expression upon seeing his prized concubine at the door to his quarters was one of delighted surprise—as if he'd found something he thought lost to him. He lowered the disruptor pistol he had trained on her and grinned.

"Master?" Parihn purred her words as only Shomira could and all but slithered her way towards the man who had done more to make her miserable than any other. He was the one who had engineered the raid upon her homeworld, had caused the death of her parents and enslaved her to the most base of her own biological drives; and she despised him for it.

For now, though, she let the desire she had for him, for any man, serve her.

"Ahhh, Shomira my sweet. I thought you gone, I thought you lost to that bastard slave Betazoid." He slipped his weapon into his belt and put down the contents of the safe he had been shoving into a bag. It was clear Lord Gorshin knew it was time to leave.

She paused her progress towards him, lowering her eyes and drawing her arms into herself as seductively as she knew how. She shook her head and raised her eyes to him. "No, Master. I would never do that. He took me despite my wanting to stay, but I escaped and have returned to you…"

"I am so happy for it, mmmm?" He held out his arm towards her and said, "Come to me, my bewitching Shomira, and we will leave this treachery together. I have allies and monies enough to see to our safety…"

Parihn forced herself into his arms for one last time. She drew herself close to him for one last time. She moved her face to nuzzle in the crook of his neck for one last time. She raised her hand to stroke his cheek for one last time. She took in the combined, repulsive stench of his perfume and his own odour for one last time. She could sense, even smell, fear emanating from him…

"Ah Shomira, I've missed you so…" He looked down and stroked her hair. "Did you miss me too, mmm?"

Parihn looked back up at him, directly into his eyes, giving him the most loving, adoring look that her instructors had trained Shomira to employ. Gorshin was all but melting into her. As her hand reached the top of her stroking of his cheek, just above the cheekbone, she tensed it and with the deliberation of hatred held in check for too long, drew her nails, deeply, slowly, agonizingly across her master's cheek to the corner of his mouth.

He looked at her in painful surprise, thinking at first that it was love-play, that in her overwhelming heat she'd gotten carried away. "Shomira?"

When he felt her hands around his throat, though, he realized that play-time was over.

"You're supposed to be a warlord, you pig," she whispered contemptuously, "and you don't even remember the first rule of battle: If an enemy has superior strength, never let her close with you."

"Did you really think that I would want to stay?" Parihn spat at him, even as she increased the pressure upon his windpipe. Gorshin flailed ineffectually, remembering only now, in his death throes, the incredible strength of an Orion animal woman in her lust and anger. "With you gone, Shomira will be just as dead! I despise everything that you've done, everything you've made me do, made me become, made me feel. Your death will never make up for that—let alone the suffering of my parents, whose feet you aren't worthy to clean."

He was almost gone.

"…but, by the gods, I was born and raised a princess…" Parihn clamped down, and felt something give. When she released him, he dropped to the floor like a broken marionette.

"…and by royal decree, I sentence you to death."

***

"What do you plan on doing with your life, now that you're free?"

This was a moment Parihn had been anticipating, and dreading. She'd considered simply attempting to slip away in the euphoria over the fall of House Gorshin—while Jerrell and Xorc were in the throes of drunken, ecstatic excess, that is.

Vaerth Parihn was through running, though—either away, or into the recesses of her own mind and sensations. If she started down the wrong path now, it would be too easy to follow it for the rest of her life.

Besides, she owed him the truth.

"First, I think I want to go home. I want to say goodbye."

"That would be Sha'Krel, on Rigel IV, correct?"

Carefully, Parihn nodded. Jerrell had obviously done a little research on her in the time since she'd met him only a few days ago. She found that flattering, disturbing and predictable all at once. In his way, he was as obsessed with her as many of the others who'd thrown away fortunes for a few weeks with her. He'd just gone about it in a way that brought him profit.

That in itself made him extraordinary.

Unfortunately for him, it didn't make him desirable—not to her.

"Xorc and I don't spend a lot of time on Rigel IV—it's not exactly exciting—but we'll take you. You can spend all the time you need before we plan our next move."

It was time to clarify their relationship.

"'We,' Jerrell?" she echoed, and stood to face him. Even the normally stolid Xorc looked up from his blue porter; he could sense a fateful confrontation imminent.

"Explain your definition of 'we'—please."

His air of self-assurance deflated momentarily, but he determinedly reestablished his insufferable smile and replied, "Well, we make quite a team, the three of us. I think we should consider a more permanent arrangement."

Parihn folded her arms. "You're being intentionally vague, Jerrell; I've put that type of talk behind me. Are you saying you want a sexual relationship with me?"

For the first time she could remember, he looked speechless; she wagered he'd planned out an entire campaign over the next few days to win her genuine love and devotion.

She wasn't exactly adhering to his schedule, though.

"I wouldn't have put it so coldly," he admitted, "but… it's not as if we have to hide our mutual attraction any longer. We're a perfect match, you and I. As a famous man once said, 'This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'"

She'd started this conversation with the intention of being gentle, but she was slowly losing her temper.

Parihn felt the power of her anger; instead of resisting it, though, she let it take partial hold.

"'A beautiful friendship,' eh? A friendship based on whatever you happen to want at any particular moment? A friendship based on keeping me in line through a combination of bio-chemical manipulation and my gratitude? Will you be having Xorc hold me down so that you can consummate this friendship of ours?!"

Crack! She delivered a sharp slap. Jerrell recoiled and clutched at his stinging cheek.

Slowly, emphatically, she told him, "All I owe you for my freedom is my thanks—and nothing more. I certainly don't owe you my… friendship. I'm not inclined to give that to anyone for a long time to come. If you weren't thinking with that thing between your legs, you'd understand: This is not a happy ending for me, Jerrell. My parents are still dead. I was still a whore for almost a decade. I still have nothing!"

For the first time, she saw him genuinely dismayed. He looked like a little boy whose hug had been rejected.

"Did you ever think that I was trying to offer you something, Parihn, so that you wouldn't, as you said, 'have nothing'? You'd have a place to start—a few friends you could trust not to sell you back into the slavery you just escaped from." His expression grew angry.

"What will you do? Where will you go that someone won't try to make you his or her own? No offense, I know you're bright, but eventually someone will succeed, and you'll end up on your back again…" his voice trailed off as he realized what he'd just done.

Parihn saw that Jerrell regretted it the moment he'd said it…

…but it wasn't something you could unsay.

Even Xorc looked stunned. Gently, he shook his head in dismay and disapproval; his companion didn't catch it, but she did.

With a tremendous effort, Vaerth Parihn managed not to hurl herself at Jerrell, as she'd done a few days ago.

She sighed.

"That's precisely it. You do like me. You do want me. You'd probably even cherish and value me… but it would always be with the idea that I couldn't quite do it myself, without your help. I can't live that way… I won't live that way.

"Even if I'm only free for a week, a day, or an hour, it'll be my time. I'll not be a slave again—either to another, or my own impulses. I swear by my mother and father, Jerrell, I'm a free woman—and will remain so until I'm a dead woman."

Carefully, she watched his expression. What would he do?

Everything she'd said was true; she'd spoken from her heart of hearts, and he respected that.

However, it didn't change his own honest opinion that without a patron, a protector, she'd be dead or in chains again within a month at the outside.

Some part of him, though, countered, But whether you believe she can win through to her own life, doesn't she deserve that chance, if she wants it?

He knew the answer was "Yes."

And who can say? he thought. I don't know everything. Maybe she'll surprise me.

Though he still believed them to be the perfect match, Jerrell nodded.

"I'd never try to hold you against your will, Parihn. We'll take you wherever you like… immediately."

She'd never know what it cost him to say that.

Parihn smiled at him gently, genuinely. She knew what it cost him to say that—but couldn't let him know she knew.

"You won't have to do a thing," she told him, then walked over to the shuttle's transporter, and programmed a set of coordinates.

Before activating the device, though, she ran to where Xorc was sitting, hugged him briefly, and planted a kiss on his cheek

"You're such a sweet beast. Keep him out of trouble."

The Kaylari nodded, and hugged her back—ever so carefully. Then, to her surprise, for the first time he spoke. It was just to her, right by her ear—where Jerrell would neither see nor hear it.

"You will be Parihn, now. That is good."

His voice was deep and rumbling, like an impulse engine at rest. To her, he sounded wonderful.

When she approached Jerrell again, he held out a small object.

"I'd planned on giving you this—eventually. Now is as good a time as any."

It was a ring. She almost refused it, knowing what such a thing could mean; then, she took a longer look, and her eyes widened in shock.

"That's my mother's ring…! Where did you get that?!"

That smugly satisfied smile was back; this time, though, she didn't begrudge it to him.

"That's my secret. All you need to know is that it's now yours."

A final squeeze of his hand, and she strode back to the transporter, setting it for a ten-second delay and activating it. She took her place on the pad, and looked at her would-be hero.

"Shomira would have loved you, Jerrell... Parihn, though, thanks you for her life."

***

Strangely, Artemesia Gallas knew who it would be when she opened the door of the safe house—the safe house whose address she'd given to the slave girl when they'd briefly touched.

She was correct. A cloaked, hooded figure with a familiar voice asked her, "Do you think the Federation has room for one more?"

Gallas smiled.

"We'll make room."