He also feared he might simply throw up all over the room.

Rising up from the pile of multicolored cushions and pillows covering the dais, Ganz maneuvered himself into a sitting position, resting his bare green feet on the polished deck plate less than two meters from Quinn’s own dingy boots.

“You don’t look well, Quinn,” the Orion said, his voice low and ominous. “You need to start taking better care of yourself. All that drinking is going to kill you one day.”

Quinn, of course, held no misconceptions that Ganz was at all interested in his health. “I plan to cut down later today,” he replied. “I figure that’s when I’ll run out of money.” Looking around the lavishly appointed chamber, he added, “What can I do for you, Ganz? I don’t mean to sound like I’m rushing, but I’ve got a charter this morning. I’m leaving in less than an hour. I’ll be gone for two weeks.”

“I know all about your itinerary,” Ganz said, his thick brow furrowing. “I’ve got a change in your schedule.”

Quinn knew better than to protest, but he still could not help the resigned sigh that escaped his lips. He braced for whatever retribution his minor loss of bearing might bring, but Ganz merely shook his head.

“Don’t worry,” the Orion said, “I’ve already made arrangements to ensure your shipment gets where it needs to go. Zett will give you all the details when we’re finished here, but suffice it to say that your so-called employment with Starfleet provides a nice cover should I need you, so it’s in my best interest to ensure you don’t do anything which might make them decide to terminate your services.” Shrugging, he added, “Of course, this extra effort on my part comes with a price. I figure sixty percent of your fee from the station quartermaster should be sufficient to cover my end.”

Naturally,Quinn thought, this time taking pains to suppress any reaction to Ganz’s words. Why can’t I just die from alcohol poisoning like other drunks?

As if on cue, a bell rang from somewhere down on the gambling deck, announcing another lucky winner at one of the table games. At least somebody was having some good fortune this morning.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

Ganz nodded, obviously pleased with the way the conversation was going. “I need you to leave on schedule. After you rendezvous with one of my ships to transfer your cargo for that Federation colony, you’ll head to the Yerad system and retrieve an employee of mine.”

A few salient factoids about that system managed to work their way up from the depths of Quinn’s liquor-deadened and sleep-deprived memory. “Aren’t they under Klingon control?” With the Federation and Klingon Empire each taking pronounced interest in the Taurus Reach in recent weeks, the region had seen a sharp upswing in ship traffic, particularly from the Klingons. Based on what he had gleaned from gossip overheard in various places around the station, the Klingons were sending numerous ships into the area, hopping from system to system and planting the flag of the empire on a number of worlds. While most of those planets were reportedly uninhabited, a few were known to contain sentient populations, which the Klingons had “conquered.”

Ganz nodded. “More or less. The Klingons staked a claim, but they’re interested in the dilithium mines on one of the outer planets. They’re leaving Yerad III alone, at least for now.”

“For now?” Quinn repeated. “Ganz, you’re a smart man. Surely you’re following the…how should I put it? The chaotic political climate in that region?”

Fixing him with a stern glare, the Orion paused for several seconds before one thick yet impeccably groomed eyebrow arched upward. “Do I present the appearance of someone who follows politics, Mr. Quinn?”

Good point,Quinn conceded, as a faint yet noxious odor—one he recognized as a more exotic blend of Rigelian tobacco no doubt being enjoyed by someone on the gambling deck—drifted past his nostrils. A brief wave of nausea washed over him, and he wondered once again if he might escape the Omari-Ekonwith the contents of his stomach.

Reaching to a small table set to the right of the dais, Ganz retrieved a sizable mug with a flared base that seemed small and fragile in his massive hand. After taking a large gulp of the mug’s contents, he said, “What I do know is that there’s no way to be sure when the Klingons might adjust their priorities, so I need to take a few steps to protect my business interests. You understand. Right, Quinn?”

Yerad III was not unknown to the privateer. The planet was located within a system outside the actual boundaries of the Taurus Reach, but close enough that the Klingons had deemed it a good strategic point for ship servicing operations as well as the dilithium mining Ganz had mentioned. Essentially a third-rate imitator of Risa or Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet with its numerous self-styled resorts, spas and other destinations of questionable morality, the remote world also was home to a loose collection of assorted nefarious characters who preferred to blend in with the comings and goings of the planet’s uncounted visitors. Away from the prying eyes of Federation or other law-enforcement entities, the planet’s teeming underworld took advantage of the isolated location to carry out all manner of questionable activities.

“So,” Quinn said, hating where this conversation was going. “You want me to go to Yerad III and get your…?”

“One of my accountants,” Ganz finished for him. “He safeguards a substantial portion of my…financial records and other information related to several of my various business activities. Bring him to me along with all of his data files. He knows someone’s coming to get him, so he should be ready when you get there.” He leaned forward, his expression growing even more menacing. “No matter what happens, those files have to make it here. You understand what I’m saying, Mr. Quinn?”

Doing his best to maintain an even keel as he listened to the details of his coming assignment, Quinn affected what he hoped appeared to be a genuine smile. “Perfectly. Does this bookkeeper have a name?”

“I’m sure he does,” Ganz replied without hesitation. Turning to Zett, he asked, “What’s the bookkeeper’s name?”

“Sakud Armnoj,” the Nalori replied. “He’s a Zakdorn.”

A Zakdorn?Quinn only barely prevented himself from visibly flinching at the thought. His few encounters with members of that perpetually fussy, pretentious species had almost always ended with him wishing for a blunt object of some kind and five minutes without any witnesses. Performing the mental calculations for the voyage to and from Yerad III did little to raise his already plummeting morale. Almost a week with a Zakdorn. If I’m lucky, we’ll get blown to hell by a passing Klingon ship, or maybe I can just fly into a star.

“Any other questions?” Ganz asked.

Figuring he had nothing to lose, Quinn replied, “I don’t suppose this little errand—assuming that I get this bookkeeper of yours back here safe and sound—makes us even, does it?”

“No,” Ganz replied. “Not even close.”

Of course.

After a failed assignment last month to Ravanar IV, during which he had lost a very valuable piece of technology that Ganz had sent him to retrieve, the Orion had seen fit to place Quinn into perpetual servitude as payment for the blunder. Further, the item turned out to be a component for a Starfleet sensor screen in use on the planet, and Ganz’s displeasure at Quinn’s inability to obtain it was but one consequence of that botched task.

Your actions led to the loss of a starship and the deaths of hundreds of Starfleet personnel, Mr. Quinn.

The accusation, levied by Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn during his first clandestine meeting with her, deep in the bowels of the station, still rang in his ears. In a manner of speaking, she was correct. The U.S.S. Bombayhad been dispatched to Ravanar IV with a replacement component for the sensor screen he had incapacitated, and shortly thereafter had fallen victim to ambush by Tholian vessels. T’Prynn had used that information to press him into service for her own purposes, none of which she felt inclined to share with Quinn, leaving him with the burden of attempting to serve two masters who appeared to have more in common than either would ever readily admit.