The Devil You Know

[Turris Morran 0]

The Atarxis sun hung high in the grayish sky without a single cloud to block its presence as it baked the cracked, dry sand. The barren planet barely earned its classification as a Class M planet; the air was unbearably hot and dry, hardly suitable to breathe with all the sand kicked up by the people and carts thronging the streets. Most of the buildings were stone, cracking and falling apart; some were only held together by wooden or scrap metal frames dug into the ground. The people looked equally unkempt, and mostly broken with their downturned eyes and their unsteady march through the crowded streets.

 

Morran walked steadily along with the thronging mass, clad in white civilian clothing he had replicated on the shuttle. He certainly stood out among the crowd, and the large heavy pack he carried over his shoulder only strengthened his appearance as a wealthy individual. More than once he had to snarl at a street urchin or footpad who got too close. Snarling of course wasn’t all that difficult for Morran, considering where he was and what he was about.

 

“Look at these people, Turris. They need your help." A soft voice came from behind him. He resisted the urge to look back, keeping his eyes fixated on his path as she went on. “You can help them come to a more peaceful existence, lead them into a better future. Their leaders are the ones that force them to live in this squalor.”

 

“I don’t want any part of that,” Turris mumbled in reply. It was getting more and more difficult again to ignore her. However, the disgusted look on her face was probably mirrored in his own features.

 

“Think about it! You could be in control of one of the most strategic planets in this sector,” she continued, dodging a few children as they ran past giggling. “Why do you think the Federation hasn’t taken the planet? Or the Klingons? Because they need these people, they need the smugglers and the mercenaries to do their dirty work over the border…”

 

Morran stopped midstep and turned on his heel. “I don’t want any part of this place, or you! Now just shut up!” She looked almost as astonished as the haggard man standing next to her, though he looked more frightened.

 

Turris turned his gaze towards the man, who lowered his eyes and hurried off in the other direction through the crowd. Morran never noticed the blade the man was carrying, intended for his back. Turning again, he continued down the road, enjoying the relative silence. It was long before he found his destination.

 

The sign hanging outside the bar was written in Klingon, but the picture painted on it matched the description he had been given, to a T. There couldn’t possibly be two establishments in this quadrant, let alone on this planet, with a sign that depicted a half-naked Klingon woman riding what looked like a giant winged lizard whilst holding an overflowing tankard. Morran stood there examining the sign for a few moments, imagining the possible translation of the bar’s name, but was soon interrupted when he was shoved off the street and the milling throng moved occupied the space where he was standing.

 

He spared a few curses out towards the crowd, though they probably never reached the ears of his assailant. Sighing, he slung his pack over his shoulder, its contents clinking together as he made his way over to the bar.

 

A few eyes followed him as he strolled across the dirt floor, though most of the glances were for the leather sack. The bartender took a particular interest as Morran took a seat, but was satisfied to continue washing the bar while Turris scanned the room. For a drinking establishment, the bar was fairly quiet and reserved, and the majority of the patrons’ faces were focused into their glasses or mugs. Most of the seats were empty, and the tables that were taken were occupied by one particular race; a few Klingons sat laughing, wiping foam from their beards and slapping one another on their backs, while across the room sat a group of humans, enjoying a companionable silence.

 

“Can I help you?” the bartender asked, setting a mug filled with some foul-smelling spirit on the bar in front of him. Morran eyed him warily before pushing the glass away and leaning over the bar to speak quietly.

 

“I’m looking for Sir’al. Do you know where I can find her?” he asked quietly, watching the bartender's eyes.

 

“Who? Tirol? I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by the name,” the bartender replied, with only a tinge of apprehension on his voice. Then he grinned; his eyes straying to Morran’s pack as Turris inconspicuously produced a small bar of gold-pressed latinum and set it on the bar.

 

“No, no. Her name is Sir’al.” Morran said slowly, drawing out the syllables. He pushed the ingot across the bar, and the tender picked it up and eyed it with glee.

 

“Ohh, Sir’al. Yeah, I’ve seen her, but I’m not really sure where she is,” the barkeep replied, eyeing Morran with a sly expression. His grin disappeared quickly, however, as Morran’s features turned to a snarl and he grasped the man's collar tightly. Then it was Morran’s turn to grin, as he procured two more ingots from his sack and waved them in front of the barkeep’s eyes.

 

Snatching them from his hand, the tender pointed to a curtained room in the corner of the bar. “Now, friend, no need to get upset. You can find her there, but beware, she doesn’t much like visitors.”

 

Morran nodded, securing the flap on his sack and standing. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he said, eyeing the glass the bartender had set out for him. Picking it up, he raised it to his nose and sniffed it, immediately pushing it away with a look of disgust. “Warnog. Gah.”

 

His gaze turned the private room, and, taking a deep breath, he headed towards it with a look of purpose.

 

Time seemed to slow for a moment as she approached him, rising from a table with one of the human cliques. “You heard him, love. She doesn’t want your company. Why don’t you forget this foolishness before you get yourself killed?” She swayed across the floor to him taking the glass from his hand and emptying half of it while staring into his eyes. She seemed to notice something in him as he looked away.

 

“You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?” she asked, the knuckles on her hand turning white as she grasped the glass tighter, dropping it to the floor. “Forget her! She cannot love you like I do!”

 

“Get out of my way!” he yelled, and she was gone. Two Klingons stood in front of him instead, guarding the curtained entrance to the private room, looking down at the dented tankard laying on the floor and the spilled warnog on their boots. They looked up at him, showing their teeth and producing a throaty growl. One had just reached out to grab his shoulder when the beaded curtain slid to the side and a young Vulcan woman stepped out.

 

Young, perhaps, did not describe her well. Morran could never seem to place a proper age on Vulcans; as young as they often looked, they always had a look of knowing in their eyes only one with a lifetime of experiences could possess. She was certainly attractive, in an exotic sort of way. Unlike many Vulcan women he had met her hair was long, with only a hint of her pointed ears appearing from behind her brown locks. Her clothing was sheer and clinging, and Morran found himself imagining her in some rather inappropriate situations.

 

She stepped forward, laying a hand on her Klingon guard’s arm as she looked Morran up and down. “A human Starfleet officer, wearing civilian clothing and carrying a heavy bag. Somewhat suspicious looking, and acting very..." She paused for a moment as she approached him, taking his chin and drawing his face up to look into her eyes, “peculiar.” She turned, pushing aside the curtain and motioning for him to enter. “I was told I could be expecting your company. Do join us.”

 

Morran eyed the two Klingons at his side and slowly moved forward, only to be pushed along into the room by the brutish attendants. One of them tore the sack from his shoulder, throwing it on a large desk that sat in the center of the room, while the other directed him, rather forcefully, to sit. Morran through the arm off his shoulder and growled at the one who had taken his belongings, but he sat obediently, lounging back in his chair, addressing the Vulcan woman.

 

“I heard this magnificent joke some time ago, and I heard that you rather enjoy a bit of humor.”

She eyed him surreptitiously, taking a seat across from him at the desk and opening the bag in front of her. “You heard wrong, I’m sure.”

 

“Oh, but you simply must hear this one! An old man is sitting on a park bench when suddenly he exclaims ‘5,1, 4, 1, 3! I’m done!’. Another man walking by as he says this looks over and asks the old man, ‘My, you look exhausted. What have you been doing?’ to which the old man replies, ‘I’ve just finished reciting the entire decimal equivalent of pi backwards!” Morran looked between his companions with a bemused expression, noticing bewilderment on the Klingons’ faces and the rather unamused look the joke had produced from the Vulcan. A few moments passed before he burst into raucous laughter, slapping the table in front of him.

“He’s a madman,” one of the Klingons snarled, crossing his arms in front of him, as Morran’s laughter slowed to spats of giggling and he wiped his eyes.

 

“That would seem to be the case, considering that he ventured through the streets carrying this much wealth in these times,” the Vulcan woman said dryly as she spilled the contents of his sack onto the desk. Fifty or so bars of gold-pressed latinum glinted there, and the Klingons eyed it greedily. “And just what were you hoping to buy with this?”

 

Morran wiped a few tears from his cheek as he sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “I always wondered how you Vulcans ever got past the concept of the paradox. I make it a habit of telling that joke to every Vulcan I meet, and to be perfectly honest I almost always expect your heads to explode.” Morran paused for a moment, waving a finger in the air and looking up. “Well, there’s one I haven’t told it to yet, but no matter.” Morran leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and resting his chin in his upturned hands. “You are quite the paradox, my dear Sir’al. A Vulcan mercenary! Who would have thought of it? Whatever happened to the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few?”

 

Sir’al stood, pouring a glass of water from a bar across the room. “Spock’s philosophies are quite admirable, but incomplete, I must say. Indeed, what is good for the many is also good for the individual, yet that holds true only in a perfect universe.” Sitting back down at the desk, she set two glasses of water in front of them, on either side of the pile of latinum. “But here, one must also come to the logical conclusion that also what is good for the individual is also good for the many.” She paused, sipping from her glass and setting it gently back down in front of her. “I can only assume that you did not come here to discuss Vulcan philosophy, and you have not answered my question.”

 

“I require your services.” Morran stated simply, eyeing his glass before taking a sip from it himself. It was cool and clear, and it felt crisp as it ran down his dry throat. He tilted the glass back further, emptying the its contents entirely. “A very good friend of mine spoke very highly of you; he said you were one who could get things done quietly, and without asking questions.”

 

“I see.” The Vulcan replied coolly, folding her hands in front of her. “And what might this friend be called?”

 

“Robert Locke.”

 

Sir’al quirked an eyebrow, tapping her fingers together. “Ahh, yes. The human scientist, I do recall him. A very disagreeable man if I may say so.” She eyed Morran once more before she began stacking the latinum back into the empty sack. “I’m afraid we’re not interested in your offer. My suggestion is that you leave, return to your Admiral and tell them we are not interested in dealing with him further.”

 

Morran grabbed her wrist, and looked into her eyes, a sincere and purposeful look playing across his features. “I have Genevieve. I have the key to Enlightenment, the key to the 'Admiral’s’ ultimate downfall.”

 

The Vulcan’s eyebrow quirked again, and she leaned forward before quietly uttering, “Go on.”