Regin boarded the first shuttle to leave the planet that hour, with no intention of looking back. He didn't think he could bear to see what he was leaving behind—to look upon it and know, in his heart, that he could not have it back for the world. It was his world. Gray and bleak and dismal, it was...but to a Cardassian, it was home. It was everything.
He knew of the other planets in the galaxy. Vibrant greens and blues would greet him at every port. This mattered little to him. In fact, it would only serve as a reminder of the things he had forsaken.
No. In my heart, I know that I am doing this for a noble cause. I am doing this to get back what was taken from me!
Other passengers filed in and took their seats around him, a sea of gray Cardassian faces. None smiled. Certainly they were not all unhappy; some of them were, no doubt, born off-world, and as such they would simply be returning to the colony worlds they had come from. Nonetheless, each Cardassian was bound to see the homeworld, Cardassia Prime, at least once in their life. It was, more than any other place, the true home of the Cardassian heart and soul.
When the last passenger was securely in his seat, the great passenger vessel lifted off, reaching for the abysmal heavens which awaited. It rocketed skyward with a minimum of rattles, a testament to the number of light-years behind it, the wear and tear of countless trips through the void. This was cheap travel, but it was the best Regin would get. If he had been smarter, quicker, he could have prevented this. It was the best he deserved.
And so they traveled. First to one colony world where he dared not even leave the vessel's confines, but contented himself to keep a close eye on those who boarded and disembarked alike, for signs of suspicion. Any one of them could be a member of the Obsidian Order. Any of them, at any time, might recognize him and select a subtle method of removing him from the ship, indeed from life, forever.
It seemed an interminable wait, but soon the vessel was sealed and it lifted off again, venturing forth toward the next stop.
At this one he could no longer keep his seat. He rose and paced the aisle until a worrisome stewardess asked him if he needed anything. With the quiet air of a nervous man who was far removed from everything familiar, he said simply “no” and disembarked. He would venture no further than the docking station, and within the station he would do nothing aside from using the toilet facilities before he returned to the ship.
Within the restroom he stopped, leaned against the sink and peered into the sleepless red eyes of his reflection.
What has become of me? He silently inquired of himself as he used the mirror to check around him for spies. This is the life of a vole, checking around every corner, expecting ambush and murder at every place I rest. I had some kind of a life before; now I am reduced to less than nothing. Unwelcome among my own people, with no wife or child save for those they allow me...! Who knows if they're alive! Yet I dare not stop. I dare not.
Several deep breaths and whispered repetitions of this mantra gave him the strength he needed to return to the ship and sit quietly before it took off again. There was one further stop in the colonies, prior to which he requested food and drink, and they were quickly provided. Then they were beyond the borders of Cardassian space, borders which he could envision behind the ship, flaring to life in his mind with a solid nature all too real. Borders which he could never penetrate, never cross, ever again, unless he was very, very lucky.
Naturally, very few passengers remained on the ship at that point, and what few there were appeared to be either dignitaries or vagrants, no one common and respectable who simply wanted to “get away”. That would not happen, after all. No one wished to “get away” from Cardassia!
The stewardess collected his dishes. She eyed him as she approached, and as she loaded the cart she asked him where he was going.
He reacted with a start. “Oh...I...I have been curious about the galaxy. I would like to see how those who are not Cardassian live their lives; rough it, if you will.” He smiled nervously.
She grimaced. “I've heard of adventurers who like to 'rough it', as you say. They typically prefer to visit Mount Gatar or hike in the Habak range...if you leave Cardassia, well, you've no idea what you're in for.” She seemed to disapprove, but he sighed with relief. She believed him.
The man three rows behind him was dressed as a diplomat of some kind. Cardassian diplomats were instructed never to give an inch. Across the way, five rows back sat another man, this one dressed in drab gray and looking for all the world like he didn't care about his destination; Regin gathered that he had suffered some terrible losses in his life, and could not make a life for himself on Cardassia no matter what he did. This caused Regin to feel a terrible pang of reget. How many like him were there out here among the stars? How many forgotten men had been cast off into the wilds of the universe to survive among the animalistic races who dwelled out here? This was no life. Indeed, this was death.
He looked to the diplomat once more. Thought about trying to travel with him. Perhaps he would not ask the wrong questions, but merely allow Regin to serve him for a time within the relatively safe bubble of his fellows?
But no, Regin was not worthy to serve a diplomat. He wondered at his steel nerves—for if a couple members of the Obsidian Order were harmed and a random student was shot in the name of his survival, did he hesitate? Yet here his heart threatened to erupt from his chest, such was the anxiety he felt at the very idea of assisting one of his noblest countrymen!
He simply could not do it.
Hours passed into days, and before long they were docked at an inocuous-looking way station called K-7, a Federation-associated outpost on the border of...everything. He stood and walked down the aisle, careful to allow the other passengers to pass so he could follow behind, though the vagrant glanced back at him from time to time as though he were in a similar predicament.
K-7 was a very sterile place, by all accounts. Many white and off-whites drowned the corridors, while the doors were painted a hideous shade of red. It was fine, though, Regin told himself. Though the décor might make him sick, he resolved to ignore it. His life had been threatened more than once during his adventure, and he would hardly be stalled by the colors of the walls.
He glanced behind him several times as he walked. He couldn't help feeling as though he were being followed. Where was he going? He hadn't the slightest idea. All he knew was that he had to get to somewhere to rest and consider his next move. Living quarters were out of the question with his very significant lack of funds, as were libations, but if nothing else, he could--
--he stopped cold. In his pocket was an ident chip for one “Dalin Garak”, which was him! He located the nearest computer terminal and decided to check and see just what kind of funds Mr. Garak was supposed to have in his account. When the machine finished checking it returned a result which indicated that he did indeed have enough to buy a decent meal and turn in here for the night.
With a jauntier step, now, he went in search of food...
...and came face-to-face with the vagrant from the ship. They were eye-to-eye in a desolate corridor, his fellow Cardassian's face scant inches from his own and breathing deeply upon him, and he felt the press of a weapon in his gut.
“You—what is your name?!” The vagrant madly demanded.
“I—I am—Dalin!” He stammered. “Dalin Garak!”
The vagrant sneered. “Likely story, my friend.” He kept the weapon trained on him and searched him for weapons while Regin looked all around him for a means of defeating this menace.
“May I...” he began, but paused to see if his assailant would object to him speaking. “...may I ask your name?”
“My name is 'Death' to you, Obsidian Trash. Now turn about and walk until I tell you to stop. Do it!”
Dalin turned around. As he trudged slowly forward under pain of death, he tried his hand at escape via the now-uncommon route of truth.
“I'm not of the Order,” he insisted.
“Right,” Death hissed.
“No, believe me, the Order and I have had our disagreements. You and I should travel together. There's protection to be had in pairs.”
“Turn left at this junction. Tell me, friend, what's to make me believe you, eh? You have a perfectly legitimate ident chip, funds to draw from--”
“You might have seen my funds if you'd been watching me long enough. I have barely enough for a week.”
Regin struggled to keep his calm, and he collected himself for his moment.
“Why is it you think you're going to fool me? No one fools me! I've caught on to all your tricks, you scum! You'll die, any Cardassian I see will die, anyone consorting with a Cardassian will die! Don't you think I know what's going on? I've been running from the Order for three years and survived the ordeal! I know what they're up to. Before you know it, every single Cardassian will be under their thumb more completely than ever, and then they'll take over our minds, they'll control how we breed—you wait!”
Regin's breathing and heartbeat escalated with his captor's speech, so that he not only feared more than ever his death would indeed come within seconds, but he also feared that if he remained in his current fugitive position, he would end up very much like this poor, discarded soul!
A thought struck him.
“How do I know that weapon is charged?”
They were directly outside an airlock, mere feet from the controls when Regin innocently made that inquiry. His captor laughed sharply and aimed it at a point over Regin's shoulder, then fired a single blast which blackened the wall next to the airlock door.
It was as much time as Regin needed. He spun around in that instant and grabbed Death by the wrist, wrenching his arm up and out so that he couldn't bring the weapon to bear, and then Regin used his ever-effective head-butt to put the poor fool to rights. With his opponent stunned, he was able to free the blaster from his grasp and fire at his shin, which brought him to his knees with a howl of pain. He stepped back, pointed the weapon at the man's head and said “I'm sorry for this...we could have been allies,” and he fired once more.
The crazed Cardassian fell in a heap at his feet. He set to work doing to the poor lost soul what was going to be done to him, dumping him out the airlock as swiftly as he could to avoid getting caught. He then pocketed the weapon and walked off as nonchalantly as he was able, his entire body wracked with adrenaline.
There was a small eatery on this deck. A man behind the bar...was it a man, though? His skin was a soft pinkish color, his face gaunt and his nose long, and he possessed none of the ridges particular to a Cardassian. Nor did he have the telltale ears of a Romulan, which marked him as...something else. Then there were women serving the few customers who sat here, looking for all the world like they didn't know what in the world to do with themselves.
Forgotten men. All of them, forgotten men. Well, I'm one of them now. I might as well play the part. I see they're all sitting by themselves. I suppose that's the way of it.
He took a solitary seat at a table off in the corner and waited for service. In the meantime, several stout men with very large ears and multi-bulbed heads strode into the room, looking this way and that with teeth that were either naturally pointed or had been sharpened rather brutally. They were truly a disgusting race to behold, though they walked as though they belonged. There was the certain air of a chip on their shoulders, as though they bore a natural distrust for other species, or their surroundings. Which it was, Regin couldn't tell. He kept an eye on them as they approached the bar, and he noted that the barkeep's reaction to them was a pleasant one, albeit guarded.
The barkeep smiled.
“DaiMon Gor, welcome back,” he said cautiously, certain to keep his voice level but jovial. “I must say, those little animals you sold me a while back have sold very well. That Cyrano Jones tried to sell them here, but he can't match your prices, Gor. Tell me, how do you manage it?”
DaiMon Gor's voice was raspy and nasal, but strong, and he enunciated very clearly for someone with pointed teeth, in a choppy cadence. He leaned across the bar and spoke in a stage whisper.
“DaiMon Gor knows where to get things,” was all he said at first. After a pause--for suspense?--he continued. “If there's merchandise to be acquired, sold or delivered, people of the Alpha Quadrant know they can rely on...DaiMon Gor.” He shrugged and moved his hands idly through the air as though casually relating to a close colleague instead of advertising his business to one and all. “Fair prices, trustworthy service and all goods intact. This is DaiMon Gor's motto. Now! Give my crew and I drinks, and we will talk about our next deal.”
The barkeep furnished them with drinks immediately. Regin couldn't help but watch the DaiMon—who seemed to prefer to speak about himself in third person—with a beady eye. He smelled mischief on the DaiMon, but knew better than to say so. At least he could rest assured that the DaiMon was not in the Obsidian Order. Could he be bought by them? Perhaps.
But Gor fixed his own, literally beady eyes back on Regin with a scowl. “What is it you want, alien?”
Regin composed himself immediately and resumed an intense interest in the table beneath him.
“I'm sorry, nothing.”
The DaiMon took a couple steps in his direction. “You want something, yes? Allow DaiMon Gor to get it for you.” He placed his fingertips solemnly on his chest. “DaiMon Gor will serve you at a good price, stranger.”
Regin looked up contritely. “No, I need nothing, DaiMon.”
But Gor was not having it. He took slow, measured steps all the way to Regin's table and had the audacity to sit down. His crew, in the meantime, pointedly ignored the exchange, intent on their drinks.
“The DaiMon can see you have something on your mind,” Gor whispered. “He feels nothing but sorrow for those creatures of the universe who are lost and alone. You wish...companionship?”
Regin's reply was husky and filled with sorrow. “Not in the way you're referring to.”
Gor held up his hands, palms outward, as if to deflect any negativity directed at him. “DaiMon Gor would not presume to label you as a man of low moral standing,” he assured Regin. “DaiMon Gor himself is a respectable businessman, and he seeks nothing but to please good customers.”
Regin nearly cried when he sensed how low he had gone. Yet he gave his lip a hard bite to stem his sobs and resolutely looked up into Gor's eyes.
“There's but one thing I need. I seek employment. I have nothing and no one, and I desperately want that to change.”
“Say no more, my friend!” Gor thumped him heartily on the shoulder as he stood up. “Barkeep! A drink for this man!”
“No, really, that isn't--”
“The DaiMon insists, my friend. You do not refuse an offer from DaiMon Gor unless you are a masoch--are you a masochist?” There was the gleam of a potential opportunity in Gor's eyes, but when Regin merely shook his head in reply, the DaiMon seemed to maintain his spirits, and then he passed the spirits of his people to Regin. Regin took one tentative sip and couldn't refrain from making a face.
“What is it?” he asked neutrally.
“It is snail juice,” Gor replied, equally neutral, but he still smiled with avaricious beneficence on Regin.
Regin forced himself to smile back, chose not to comment on the drink, and he slugged it down as fast as he could. It gave him a terrible shudder which he endured quietly, and then Gor sat down again.
“Now, to business.”
“Yes...” Regin was still hesitant, but the showy Gor seemed like he might not be so disreputable after all. An incorrigible, selfish opportunist, yes, but nothing more dangerous than that.
“Gor has not seen your race before. What are you called?”
“I am a Cardassian.”
“Ah...” Gor smiled with recognition. “Gor has heard of your people. We are Ferengi.”
When Regin didn't show any sign of familiarity with the name of Gor's race, Gor's smile seemed to widen, and he continued. “We are a noble people, proud of our honorable interactions with the wider universe.”
Regin glanced to the barkeep for confirmation, but he seemed suddenly preoccupied with wiping down the back counter.
“A Ferengi seeks to enrich his life through...service...to others. Wherever there is a center of commerce you will find a Ferengi, extolling all of the natural virtues inherent in the art of exchange. We would be pleased to have you on our noble vessel, if you are interested in serving with us.”
The other Ferengi whispered amongst themselves, but Regin could hear none of what was said. The situation made him uneasy, yet he could not say no. How long would he remain on this station, after all, and watch one vessel after another depart without him? Surely his novice naivete could root him to the spot indefinitely if he gave into every moment in which he experienced a fear of the unknown. Of course the Ferengi were more barbaric than they wanted him to think—they all were, these outsiders. He was alone among them here, except for the diplomat, who doubtless had protection above and beyond what Regin could dream of. This was Regin's life now, among these scoundrels. Still, Gor talked a good talk, and Regin could do nothing but agree.
“I suppose it's the best choice I've got.”
Gor laughed obnoxiously. “Very good!” He then reached into his tunic and produced a padd, which he dropped onto the table. “Sign here!”
Regin picked up the padd to consult the details of what he was getting himself into, while Gor folded his arms and stared at him. He looked up at Gor, who would have been raising his eyebrows in anticipation at this point if he had any, and then back down at the padd, which seemed straightforward enough, even if it was long. Incredibly long. He eventually decided it might be better to skim through it, but even then it seemed to stretch on and on and on. DaiMon Gor began to whistle as he tried to read it, and “The DaiMon” was clearly tone-deaf. Or was he? Regin flicked his eyes over Gor's enormous ears, and then peeked at the page count, and...
“Okay, alright,” he put it down with a clatter. There were two hundred and eighty-five pages in total, each of them bearing a heading prefaced with the words “In accordance with Rule of Acquisition #” and then the same number as the page. He shook his head with frustration and put his thumb to the padd.
Gor beamed with joy and clapped his hands briskly before retrieving his document and returning it to his vest. “Good, good!” As he rose to return to the rest of his crew, Regin stopped him with a question.
“Don't I get a copy?”
Gor turned to leave, but glanced back at him, and his bearing was completely different all of a sudden...his expression was much darker. “We ship out at 0600 tomorrow. Be there or you'll be dragged from your quarters and docked ten percent of your pay for a month.”
“But...”
Gor walked away.
Regin didn't even know if he could leave the establishment! At least they hadn't threatened to kill him. But would he be worth more as labor to these Ferengi, or as a bounty? The odds that the Order would find him, he told himself, had to be slim all the way out here, in this seedy underworld. They had to be. But he couldn't be sure. He had no way of knowing. Perhaps they had been following that other Cardassian, and now that his body was adrift in space around the station, they would arrive like bloodhounds to take him home—or murder him here!
How quickly a man's life can change. So that one moment I respect the Order and would sooner die than run, the next I find out what I'm truly made of. Am I scum like these Ferengi, or am I better? Is this scum? After all, it seems to be there's not so much to be afraid of out here, as far as intelligence organizations who watch your every move. Though if there were, perhaps that contract would never have existed. Perhaps I could trust my transactions to be square and level. I'm a product of Cardassia, make no mistake. I wouldn't have taken this life if it had been offered to me. I was a clothier, and in the end, it was stable. Now...
He stood and exited the eatery without a word. He had a single padd on which was a copy of “The Never-Ending Sacrifice”. When he acquired quarters, he immediately sat on the bed and took it out, tabbing his way all the way to the back, where rested a hidden image file: a picture of his wife and daughter, many light-years away from him, farther than he ever thought they would be. Then he used the padd to set an alarm for himself and left it on the nightstand, placed the blaster beneath his pillow and tried to fall asleep.
He knew of the other planets in the galaxy. Vibrant greens and blues would greet him at every port. This mattered little to him. In fact, it would only serve as a reminder of the things he had forsaken.
No. In my heart, I know that I am doing this for a noble cause. I am doing this to get back what was taken from me!
Other passengers filed in and took their seats around him, a sea of gray Cardassian faces. None smiled. Certainly they were not all unhappy; some of them were, no doubt, born off-world, and as such they would simply be returning to the colony worlds they had come from. Nonetheless, each Cardassian was bound to see the homeworld, Cardassia Prime, at least once in their life. It was, more than any other place, the true home of the Cardassian heart and soul.
When the last passenger was securely in his seat, the great passenger vessel lifted off, reaching for the abysmal heavens which awaited. It rocketed skyward with a minimum of rattles, a testament to the number of light-years behind it, the wear and tear of countless trips through the void. This was cheap travel, but it was the best Regin would get. If he had been smarter, quicker, he could have prevented this. It was the best he deserved.
And so they traveled. First to one colony world where he dared not even leave the vessel's confines, but contented himself to keep a close eye on those who boarded and disembarked alike, for signs of suspicion. Any one of them could be a member of the Obsidian Order. Any of them, at any time, might recognize him and select a subtle method of removing him from the ship, indeed from life, forever.
It seemed an interminable wait, but soon the vessel was sealed and it lifted off again, venturing forth toward the next stop.
At this one he could no longer keep his seat. He rose and paced the aisle until a worrisome stewardess asked him if he needed anything. With the quiet air of a nervous man who was far removed from everything familiar, he said simply “no” and disembarked. He would venture no further than the docking station, and within the station he would do nothing aside from using the toilet facilities before he returned to the ship.
Within the restroom he stopped, leaned against the sink and peered into the sleepless red eyes of his reflection.
What has become of me? He silently inquired of himself as he used the mirror to check around him for spies. This is the life of a vole, checking around every corner, expecting ambush and murder at every place I rest. I had some kind of a life before; now I am reduced to less than nothing. Unwelcome among my own people, with no wife or child save for those they allow me...! Who knows if they're alive! Yet I dare not stop. I dare not.
Several deep breaths and whispered repetitions of this mantra gave him the strength he needed to return to the ship and sit quietly before it took off again. There was one further stop in the colonies, prior to which he requested food and drink, and they were quickly provided. Then they were beyond the borders of Cardassian space, borders which he could envision behind the ship, flaring to life in his mind with a solid nature all too real. Borders which he could never penetrate, never cross, ever again, unless he was very, very lucky.
Naturally, very few passengers remained on the ship at that point, and what few there were appeared to be either dignitaries or vagrants, no one common and respectable who simply wanted to “get away”. That would not happen, after all. No one wished to “get away” from Cardassia!
The stewardess collected his dishes. She eyed him as she approached, and as she loaded the cart she asked him where he was going.
He reacted with a start. “Oh...I...I have been curious about the galaxy. I would like to see how those who are not Cardassian live their lives; rough it, if you will.” He smiled nervously.
She grimaced. “I've heard of adventurers who like to 'rough it', as you say. They typically prefer to visit Mount Gatar or hike in the Habak range...if you leave Cardassia, well, you've no idea what you're in for.” She seemed to disapprove, but he sighed with relief. She believed him.
The man three rows behind him was dressed as a diplomat of some kind. Cardassian diplomats were instructed never to give an inch. Across the way, five rows back sat another man, this one dressed in drab gray and looking for all the world like he didn't care about his destination; Regin gathered that he had suffered some terrible losses in his life, and could not make a life for himself on Cardassia no matter what he did. This caused Regin to feel a terrible pang of reget. How many like him were there out here among the stars? How many forgotten men had been cast off into the wilds of the universe to survive among the animalistic races who dwelled out here? This was no life. Indeed, this was death.
He looked to the diplomat once more. Thought about trying to travel with him. Perhaps he would not ask the wrong questions, but merely allow Regin to serve him for a time within the relatively safe bubble of his fellows?
But no, Regin was not worthy to serve a diplomat. He wondered at his steel nerves—for if a couple members of the Obsidian Order were harmed and a random student was shot in the name of his survival, did he hesitate? Yet here his heart threatened to erupt from his chest, such was the anxiety he felt at the very idea of assisting one of his noblest countrymen!
He simply could not do it.
Hours passed into days, and before long they were docked at an inocuous-looking way station called K-7, a Federation-associated outpost on the border of...everything. He stood and walked down the aisle, careful to allow the other passengers to pass so he could follow behind, though the vagrant glanced back at him from time to time as though he were in a similar predicament.
K-7 was a very sterile place, by all accounts. Many white and off-whites drowned the corridors, while the doors were painted a hideous shade of red. It was fine, though, Regin told himself. Though the décor might make him sick, he resolved to ignore it. His life had been threatened more than once during his adventure, and he would hardly be stalled by the colors of the walls.
He glanced behind him several times as he walked. He couldn't help feeling as though he were being followed. Where was he going? He hadn't the slightest idea. All he knew was that he had to get to somewhere to rest and consider his next move. Living quarters were out of the question with his very significant lack of funds, as were libations, but if nothing else, he could--
--he stopped cold. In his pocket was an ident chip for one “Dalin Garak”, which was him! He located the nearest computer terminal and decided to check and see just what kind of funds Mr. Garak was supposed to have in his account. When the machine finished checking it returned a result which indicated that he did indeed have enough to buy a decent meal and turn in here for the night.
With a jauntier step, now, he went in search of food...
...and came face-to-face with the vagrant from the ship. They were eye-to-eye in a desolate corridor, his fellow Cardassian's face scant inches from his own and breathing deeply upon him, and he felt the press of a weapon in his gut.
“You—what is your name?!” The vagrant madly demanded.
“I—I am—Dalin!” He stammered. “Dalin Garak!”
The vagrant sneered. “Likely story, my friend.” He kept the weapon trained on him and searched him for weapons while Regin looked all around him for a means of defeating this menace.
“May I...” he began, but paused to see if his assailant would object to him speaking. “...may I ask your name?”
“My name is 'Death' to you, Obsidian Trash. Now turn about and walk until I tell you to stop. Do it!”
Dalin turned around. As he trudged slowly forward under pain of death, he tried his hand at escape via the now-uncommon route of truth.
“I'm not of the Order,” he insisted.
“Right,” Death hissed.
“No, believe me, the Order and I have had our disagreements. You and I should travel together. There's protection to be had in pairs.”
“Turn left at this junction. Tell me, friend, what's to make me believe you, eh? You have a perfectly legitimate ident chip, funds to draw from--”
“You might have seen my funds if you'd been watching me long enough. I have barely enough for a week.”
Regin struggled to keep his calm, and he collected himself for his moment.
“Why is it you think you're going to fool me? No one fools me! I've caught on to all your tricks, you scum! You'll die, any Cardassian I see will die, anyone consorting with a Cardassian will die! Don't you think I know what's going on? I've been running from the Order for three years and survived the ordeal! I know what they're up to. Before you know it, every single Cardassian will be under their thumb more completely than ever, and then they'll take over our minds, they'll control how we breed—you wait!”
Regin's breathing and heartbeat escalated with his captor's speech, so that he not only feared more than ever his death would indeed come within seconds, but he also feared that if he remained in his current fugitive position, he would end up very much like this poor, discarded soul!
A thought struck him.
“How do I know that weapon is charged?”
They were directly outside an airlock, mere feet from the controls when Regin innocently made that inquiry. His captor laughed sharply and aimed it at a point over Regin's shoulder, then fired a single blast which blackened the wall next to the airlock door.
It was as much time as Regin needed. He spun around in that instant and grabbed Death by the wrist, wrenching his arm up and out so that he couldn't bring the weapon to bear, and then Regin used his ever-effective head-butt to put the poor fool to rights. With his opponent stunned, he was able to free the blaster from his grasp and fire at his shin, which brought him to his knees with a howl of pain. He stepped back, pointed the weapon at the man's head and said “I'm sorry for this...we could have been allies,” and he fired once more.
The crazed Cardassian fell in a heap at his feet. He set to work doing to the poor lost soul what was going to be done to him, dumping him out the airlock as swiftly as he could to avoid getting caught. He then pocketed the weapon and walked off as nonchalantly as he was able, his entire body wracked with adrenaline.
There was a small eatery on this deck. A man behind the bar...was it a man, though? His skin was a soft pinkish color, his face gaunt and his nose long, and he possessed none of the ridges particular to a Cardassian. Nor did he have the telltale ears of a Romulan, which marked him as...something else. Then there were women serving the few customers who sat here, looking for all the world like they didn't know what in the world to do with themselves.
Forgotten men. All of them, forgotten men. Well, I'm one of them now. I might as well play the part. I see they're all sitting by themselves. I suppose that's the way of it.
He took a solitary seat at a table off in the corner and waited for service. In the meantime, several stout men with very large ears and multi-bulbed heads strode into the room, looking this way and that with teeth that were either naturally pointed or had been sharpened rather brutally. They were truly a disgusting race to behold, though they walked as though they belonged. There was the certain air of a chip on their shoulders, as though they bore a natural distrust for other species, or their surroundings. Which it was, Regin couldn't tell. He kept an eye on them as they approached the bar, and he noted that the barkeep's reaction to them was a pleasant one, albeit guarded.
The barkeep smiled.
“DaiMon Gor, welcome back,” he said cautiously, certain to keep his voice level but jovial. “I must say, those little animals you sold me a while back have sold very well. That Cyrano Jones tried to sell them here, but he can't match your prices, Gor. Tell me, how do you manage it?”
DaiMon Gor's voice was raspy and nasal, but strong, and he enunciated very clearly for someone with pointed teeth, in a choppy cadence. He leaned across the bar and spoke in a stage whisper.
“DaiMon Gor knows where to get things,” was all he said at first. After a pause--for suspense?--he continued. “If there's merchandise to be acquired, sold or delivered, people of the Alpha Quadrant know they can rely on...DaiMon Gor.” He shrugged and moved his hands idly through the air as though casually relating to a close colleague instead of advertising his business to one and all. “Fair prices, trustworthy service and all goods intact. This is DaiMon Gor's motto. Now! Give my crew and I drinks, and we will talk about our next deal.”
The barkeep furnished them with drinks immediately. Regin couldn't help but watch the DaiMon—who seemed to prefer to speak about himself in third person—with a beady eye. He smelled mischief on the DaiMon, but knew better than to say so. At least he could rest assured that the DaiMon was not in the Obsidian Order. Could he be bought by them? Perhaps.
But Gor fixed his own, literally beady eyes back on Regin with a scowl. “What is it you want, alien?”
Regin composed himself immediately and resumed an intense interest in the table beneath him.
“I'm sorry, nothing.”
The DaiMon took a couple steps in his direction. “You want something, yes? Allow DaiMon Gor to get it for you.” He placed his fingertips solemnly on his chest. “DaiMon Gor will serve you at a good price, stranger.”
Regin looked up contritely. “No, I need nothing, DaiMon.”
But Gor was not having it. He took slow, measured steps all the way to Regin's table and had the audacity to sit down. His crew, in the meantime, pointedly ignored the exchange, intent on their drinks.
“The DaiMon can see you have something on your mind,” Gor whispered. “He feels nothing but sorrow for those creatures of the universe who are lost and alone. You wish...companionship?”
Regin's reply was husky and filled with sorrow. “Not in the way you're referring to.”
Gor held up his hands, palms outward, as if to deflect any negativity directed at him. “DaiMon Gor would not presume to label you as a man of low moral standing,” he assured Regin. “DaiMon Gor himself is a respectable businessman, and he seeks nothing but to please good customers.”
Regin nearly cried when he sensed how low he had gone. Yet he gave his lip a hard bite to stem his sobs and resolutely looked up into Gor's eyes.
“There's but one thing I need. I seek employment. I have nothing and no one, and I desperately want that to change.”
“Say no more, my friend!” Gor thumped him heartily on the shoulder as he stood up. “Barkeep! A drink for this man!”
“No, really, that isn't--”
“The DaiMon insists, my friend. You do not refuse an offer from DaiMon Gor unless you are a masoch--are you a masochist?” There was the gleam of a potential opportunity in Gor's eyes, but when Regin merely shook his head in reply, the DaiMon seemed to maintain his spirits, and then he passed the spirits of his people to Regin. Regin took one tentative sip and couldn't refrain from making a face.
“What is it?” he asked neutrally.
“It is snail juice,” Gor replied, equally neutral, but he still smiled with avaricious beneficence on Regin.
Regin forced himself to smile back, chose not to comment on the drink, and he slugged it down as fast as he could. It gave him a terrible shudder which he endured quietly, and then Gor sat down again.
“Now, to business.”
“Yes...” Regin was still hesitant, but the showy Gor seemed like he might not be so disreputable after all. An incorrigible, selfish opportunist, yes, but nothing more dangerous than that.
“Gor has not seen your race before. What are you called?”
“I am a Cardassian.”
“Ah...” Gor smiled with recognition. “Gor has heard of your people. We are Ferengi.”
When Regin didn't show any sign of familiarity with the name of Gor's race, Gor's smile seemed to widen, and he continued. “We are a noble people, proud of our honorable interactions with the wider universe.”
Regin glanced to the barkeep for confirmation, but he seemed suddenly preoccupied with wiping down the back counter.
“A Ferengi seeks to enrich his life through...service...to others. Wherever there is a center of commerce you will find a Ferengi, extolling all of the natural virtues inherent in the art of exchange. We would be pleased to have you on our noble vessel, if you are interested in serving with us.”
The other Ferengi whispered amongst themselves, but Regin could hear none of what was said. The situation made him uneasy, yet he could not say no. How long would he remain on this station, after all, and watch one vessel after another depart without him? Surely his novice naivete could root him to the spot indefinitely if he gave into every moment in which he experienced a fear of the unknown. Of course the Ferengi were more barbaric than they wanted him to think—they all were, these outsiders. He was alone among them here, except for the diplomat, who doubtless had protection above and beyond what Regin could dream of. This was Regin's life now, among these scoundrels. Still, Gor talked a good talk, and Regin could do nothing but agree.
“I suppose it's the best choice I've got.”
Gor laughed obnoxiously. “Very good!” He then reached into his tunic and produced a padd, which he dropped onto the table. “Sign here!”
Regin picked up the padd to consult the details of what he was getting himself into, while Gor folded his arms and stared at him. He looked up at Gor, who would have been raising his eyebrows in anticipation at this point if he had any, and then back down at the padd, which seemed straightforward enough, even if it was long. Incredibly long. He eventually decided it might be better to skim through it, but even then it seemed to stretch on and on and on. DaiMon Gor began to whistle as he tried to read it, and “The DaiMon” was clearly tone-deaf. Or was he? Regin flicked his eyes over Gor's enormous ears, and then peeked at the page count, and...
“Okay, alright,” he put it down with a clatter. There were two hundred and eighty-five pages in total, each of them bearing a heading prefaced with the words “In accordance with Rule of Acquisition #” and then the same number as the page. He shook his head with frustration and put his thumb to the padd.
Gor beamed with joy and clapped his hands briskly before retrieving his document and returning it to his vest. “Good, good!” As he rose to return to the rest of his crew, Regin stopped him with a question.
“Don't I get a copy?”
Gor turned to leave, but glanced back at him, and his bearing was completely different all of a sudden...his expression was much darker. “We ship out at 0600 tomorrow. Be there or you'll be dragged from your quarters and docked ten percent of your pay for a month.”
“But...”
Gor walked away.
Regin didn't even know if he could leave the establishment! At least they hadn't threatened to kill him. But would he be worth more as labor to these Ferengi, or as a bounty? The odds that the Order would find him, he told himself, had to be slim all the way out here, in this seedy underworld. They had to be. But he couldn't be sure. He had no way of knowing. Perhaps they had been following that other Cardassian, and now that his body was adrift in space around the station, they would arrive like bloodhounds to take him home—or murder him here!
How quickly a man's life can change. So that one moment I respect the Order and would sooner die than run, the next I find out what I'm truly made of. Am I scum like these Ferengi, or am I better? Is this scum? After all, it seems to be there's not so much to be afraid of out here, as far as intelligence organizations who watch your every move. Though if there were, perhaps that contract would never have existed. Perhaps I could trust my transactions to be square and level. I'm a product of Cardassia, make no mistake. I wouldn't have taken this life if it had been offered to me. I was a clothier, and in the end, it was stable. Now...
He stood and exited the eatery without a word. He had a single padd on which was a copy of “The Never-Ending Sacrifice”. When he acquired quarters, he immediately sat on the bed and took it out, tabbing his way all the way to the back, where rested a hidden image file: a picture of his wife and daughter, many light-years away from him, farther than he ever thought they would be. Then he used the padd to set an alarm for himself and left it on the nightstand, placed the blaster beneath his pillow and tried to fall asleep.
