NELINO QUAFINA WAS TRYING to be pleasant and focus on the conversation, but he was somewhat distracted by the pistol pressed against the back of his head. “If I might pose a quick question,” he said. “Is this quite necessary?”

“It gives me a feeling of security,” said Ihazs, a soft-spoken but palpably dangerous Takaran who served as the Orion Syndicate’s top boss on Deneva.

After making Quafina wait three days for a meeting, Ihazs and his “entourage” had finally arrived at the door to the Antedean’s hotel suite. Seconds later, Ihazs’s twin Balduk enforcers had pinned Quafina facedown on the floor.

One of the Balduks kneeled on the gangly official’s back, while the other kept the barrel of his weapon snugly against Quafina’s skull, just beneath his rearmost cranial fin.

Reclining comfortably on the front room’s plush sofa, Ihazs folded his hands across his trim abdomen and said, “Now…where were we?”

“I was asking you for an off-the-books shipping contract.”

“So close. Try again.”

It was hard for Quafina to be certain he heard the Balduks correctly over their heavy mouth-breathing, but it sounded like they were snorting with painfully suppressed laughter.

Intuiting from the context of his predicament what he was expected to say, he offered, “I was asking if I might be allowed to absurdly overpay you for an off-the-books shipping contract.”

“Much better,” Ihazs said. “No.”

That was not the answer Quafina had expected.

“Why not?”

“I have a substantial list of grievances,” Ihazs said. “Do you want to hear them all?”

“Could you summarize them? I am on a tight schedule.”

Annoyed silence was Ihazs’s response for a moment; then he stretched his arms behind his head and crossed his ankles. “All right, then, the short version. We went out of our way to do you a favor, and we don’t feel you’ve reciprocated in kind.”

“That was seven years ago,” Quafina said, his words garbled by his face being pushed into the carpet. “And five years ago the syndicate helped Dominion agents try to assassinate the Klingon ambassador to Farius Prime. I would say we are even.”

Ihazs rolled his eyes. “You shouldn’t take things like that so personally. It was just business. And besides, he lived.”

“I see. I accuse you of duplicity, and your defense is incompetence. How inspiring.”

Ihazs sat up and sharpened his tone. “Let me spell it out for you, Mr. Secretary. We don’t want our ships getting hassled anymore in the core sectors.”

“That can be arranged,” said the Antedean, who only just now noticed that the hotel-room carpet smelled like detergent.

“Tell the trade commission to stop pressing the Ferengi government to release our banking records.”

“Of course,” Quafina said. “I am sure the Federation Charter guarantees your right to launder money.”

“And we want some breathing room on Bajor.”

“Only fair,” Quafina said. “After all, we promised Bajor a major increase in crime when they signed up.”

Quafina knew he’d have to redeem a great many favors to comply with Ihazs’s terms without sparking a major political controversy. But the stakes were high enough that he knew President Zife and his chief of staff, Koll Azernal, would back whatever deal he had to make to get this job done.

“All right,” Ihazs said. He motioned to his Balduk strongmen. “Gol, Tuung.” The knee that had been putting a near-permanent kink in Quafina’s spine lifted, and he felt the tip of the pistol pull away from his silvery-gray scales before he heard the weapon slide back into its holster.

Slowly, Quafina pushed himself up to his knees; then he stood up and tried to pretend he still had a shred of dignity.

“Let’s talk money,” Ihazs said, making some random gesticulations with his hands. Quafina had known since the day he’d first met the man seven years ago that he was that kind of talker, always afraid his words wouldn’t reach his audience unless he fanned them along and poked them forward.

“Half up front, half when all cargo is safely delivered.”

Ihazs brushed Quafina’s words aside. “Half of how much?”

“Ten thousand bricks of gold-pressed latinum now. Another ten thousand after I confirm all my cargo is safely delivered.”

The wide-eyed, stupid expression on the Takaran’s face was Quafina’s reward for having kissed the floor for the past five minutes. After several seconds, he grew impatient waiting for Ihazs to respond. “Shall I interpret your slack-jawed silence as an indication that my terms are acceptable?”

Ihazs nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Good. Have a ship and crew ready to fly within the hour. The cargo is ready to travel.”

The moment the Antedean asked Captain Trenigar whether the Caedera was fast enough to reach Tezel-Oroko in twelve days, Erovan M’Rill had known a tirade was on its way.

Grabbing the awkwardly tall fish-man by the folds of his shimmering blue robes, Trenigar shouted, “Are you calling my ship slow?” The bellowing Nausicaan’s voice rebounded inside the Caedera’s empty main cargo bay. “This is the fastest ship in the sector! I should rip out your eyes and feed them to you!”

M’Rill knew the captain’s claim wasn’t true. The Caedera was more than fast enough to make the forty-nine-light-year jaunt from Deneva to the Klingon border and have a few days to spare, but there were certainly any number of military vessels that could do it faster. Unlike the pompous icthyoid, however, the young Caitian was smart enough not to say that to his captain, whose temper was atrocious, even for a Nausicaan.

Ihazs, the Orion Syndicate boss, was standing next to the Antedean. With exaggerated courtesy, he said to the captain, “It’s bad form to kill the client, Trenigar.”

The captain grunted at Ihazs. “Did he pay yet?”

“The deposit, yes,” Ihazs said.

“Then what do you care?”

“I humbly retract my inquiry,” said the Antedean, who hung limply in the captain’s grasp. The enormous Nausicaan let go of him. The client collected himself, then reached under his robes.

Trenigar was the first one to draw his pistol and aim it into the fish-man’s face. M’Rill leaped forward and pressed his saw-toothed knife against the Antedean’s throat a fraction of a second later. Behind the fish-man, First Officer Olaz R’Lash and Chief Engineer Nolram leveled their disruptor rifles.

Ihazs held up his hands. “Stop! Put your weapons down!”

Nobody moved. M’Rill’s fuzzy gray tail twitched nervously. His knife slid under the fish-man’s neck scales and drew blood.

“If he dies,” Ihazs said, “you all die with him.”

A low growl rumbled in Trenigar’s throat. Slowly, M’Rill withdrew his blade from the Antedean’s throat, then sheathed the weapon. The other Caedera personnel lowered their guns.

With exaggerated caution, the gangly icthyoid pulled his hand clear of his robe. He was holding a small padd. Handing it to the captain, he said, “These are the ships I have instructed to rendezvous with your vessel, and the coordinates where they will meet you.” Trenigar scanned the information on the tiny screen as the client continued. “Once you transfer the cargo and their payment, transmit to the freighter crews the beam-down coordinates for their final deliveries.”

“When do we get the cargo?”

“As soon as you can beam it up,” Ihazs said.

The Antedean pointed at the display device in Trenigar’s hand. “The release authorization is in there.”

“Good,” Trenigar said. He turned and handed the padd to R’Lash. “Beam it up and get us moving.” Looking at Ihazs and the client, he added, “A pleasure doing business, as always. Now get off my ship. We have work to do.”