Torres’s eyes lit up. “Now, that’s more like it!”
Paris glanced around the bar, figuring that darkness really was the universal bid for anonymity. He made a cautious round of the large three-sided room, avoiding the corners and keeping an eye on the shadowed nooks. There was a lot of activity near the rear doorways, apparently leading to private rooms deeper within the walls. He couldn’t see the pointed ceiling, but he had to assume there were recorders and scanners trained on him from up there.
Paris had dragged Neelix into this particular bar after finding out it was known for attracting minor employees of the Hub, as well as various undesirables from within the Houses. This place was more his style than the last few clubs they’d tried—it was an old-fashioned “knock ‘em down and drag ‘em out if they can’t take it” kind of bar. No talent trying to sing or dance on the flimsy stage, only hardworking locals in here. Paris had been able to make a chemical-supply contact in one of the fancy tourist joints, now he was going for dirt on the computer thefts, passing time until the contact confirmed their deal.
As if responding to his thoughts, the receiver chip his contact had given him buzzed against his palm. He slipped into a dark booth, motioning across the room for Neelix to join him.
Paris made sure the plasteel door was securely shut before slipping the receiver chip into the slot. A nasal Tutopan voice informed him, “Your offer has been accepted. Ninety quants of corticosteroids, and three quants of Texteroxide will be delivered via runabout to Voyager, docking pylon BVO-nine-hundred.” A string of code checks followed, and the time of arrival was vague, but Paris agreed, figuring that was as much as anyone was going to get.
The receiver chip was ejected in a smoldering ruin. Paris didn’t bother picking it up, busy reciting the code checks to make sure he remembered them. He’d seen the beaked bums doing a brisk business in salvaging waste chips and returning them for recycling credit. Paris wasn’t reduced to that, not yet. He still had a few credits from the last round of brateel.
The door banged open, and Neelix sang out, “You got it?”
“Shut the door!” Paris jerked the smaller man inside. “You’d make a lousy undercover agent.”
Neelix seemed unphased. “Didn’t the deal come through?”
“It did.” Paris repeated the string of code checks. “Can you remember that?”
Neelix waved a dismissive hand. “No problem. Let’s see… that was `Oovi sentix denar’… or was it “Oovi denar sentix’?”
Paris impatiently repeated the code, with Neelix mumbling it along after him. “It’s our verification to receive the supplies.”
Neelix brought his hands together with a sharp clap, grinning.
“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s get out of here!” He reached into the breast pocket where the small beacon cylinder made a bump.
“They can beam us from here. No one can see.”
Paris stopped him. “We’ve only accomplished one part of our mission.”
“Tuvok told us to arrange for the delivery of the chemicals,” Neelix protested.
“We need to find out more about this rash of computer thefts.
Don’t you want to know why it’s happening? Captain Janeway and Lieutenant Torres could be in danger.”
“Well… when you put it that way,” Neelix agreed grudgingly.
“Good, you stay back and keep an eye on things.” Paris narrowed his eyes. “I saw a Cartel janitor drinking alone. That’s just what we need—if we can get a few minutes’ access to one of their terminals, then we could hack into the computer—” “We can?” Neelix stared at him. “Which one of us is supposed to do that?”
Paris frowned. “Okay, so my plan needs a little work. But you get the idea—at least it will get us access to their files.
You’ve seen what happens when I try to buy docking and manifest information; people run away like we’re spies.” Paris opened the door to the receiver booth. “Just back me up—that’s an order.”
“Sure,” Neelix agreed. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
Paris made another quick survey of the bar—you could never be too sure in a place like this—before sauntering over to the counter. He ignored the turned heads; he’d been getting a lot of attention tonight.
Neelix had it easy—his species had been seen in these parts before—and he slunk off to one side.
Paris exchanged small talk with the tender while she poured his drink.
She was almost pretty, to judge from Tutopan standards, with pale peach-tinged skin and white wispy hair. Her flattened features resembled a stylized mask to his eyes, but the look wasn’t without a certain charm.
He overtipped her. Then he gestured with his chin to the Tutopan wearing the janitor’s signet, slumped at a nearby table. “Looks like a regular in here.”
The slightest backward move revealed her distaste. “What do you want with Tracer?”
“Someone told me Tracer might have what I want.”
“Tracer doesn’t have anything.” Her monotone grated on his ears.
“Will that be all?”
“Yes, thanks.” Paris took a sip of his drink. Neelix had taken a seat near the back, where he could see both the counter and the janitor’s table. His grin looked distinctly nervous.
I don’t like this place, not one bit, Neelix was thinking. There was a lot of movement, as indistinct forms shifted vantage points inside the bar. And there were too many eyes watching him and Paris.
The two of them obviously didn’t fit in, despite the dark industrial-strength coveralls that Tuvok had suggested they wear in order to blend in with the Hub employees.
Neelix snorted. Lot of good that was doing.
Then he saw one of the beaked aliens who infested the dark side of the Hub. It scanned the room until it saw Paris, then jittered up and down in excitement before darting back outside.
As Paris approached the janitor’s table, the beaked hominoid returned with a huge Tutopan following right behind. He looked as if he had just come off duty from construction mining, with his arms and face covered by stains of dark mineral dust.
Neelix quickly stood up, realizing it was one of the Tutopans that Paris had played the strange game with earlier. They were far too interested in Paris to be up to any good.
Paris stopped next to the janitor’s table, holding his drink.
“Hey, Tracer. How about a game?”
Tracer lifted his blank eyes from the holographic display of some version of solitaire. “I don’t know you. In fact, I’ve never seen anything like you.”
“I’m a human, from a planet seventy thousand light-years away.”
“Is that far?” Tracer said absently. “You know, you look sort of like a Crestian, only your eyes and nose are squished together and you don’t have enough hair.”
Paris blinked. “I don’t?”
“Yeah. It’s weird.”
“Gee, thanks.” Paris sat down. Tracer seemed more curious than malicious, so he might as well take that for an introduction. “I bet you see a lot of aliens around here.”
“Not like you. You’re different.”
Paris took a closer look. Tracer’s dogged insistence on the obvious was either due to low brain power or the potent drink that was almost empty in front of him. Then he realized that Tracer didn’t look like the typical Tutopan—his ruddy skin was mottled, ranging from dark reddish brown to white patches. Even in the dim light the discoloration was clear.
Seeing a possible opening, Paris hitched his chair closer. “You don’t know what it’s like, being different,” he confided. “When I walk through a room, anywhere I go, people turn and stare.
When I try to talk to them I can feel them looking at me, not really listening, while they’re thinking how strange I am and wondering how awful it would be to look like me.”
Tracer’s eyes widened, his flat face taking on a pathetic eagerness.
“Yeah… always looking at you. Staying far enough away to keep from getting contaminated…”
“Like they might catch something from me,” Paris finished for him. “As if I’ve got some kind of sickness.”
“Yeah…” Tracer mumbled soddenly into his drink. “Nobody gives you a chance.”
Paris put his hand on Tracer’s arm, ignoring the greasy stains on the worn sleeve. “We just have to face it, Tracer, the universe is filled with idiots.” He lowered his voice. “This Hub is filled with idiots.”
“Tha’s right!” Tracer lifted his glass and downed a swallow.
“Tutopans are vacuum-suckers! Only aliens are worth spit. Even weird-looking aliens like you.”
“That’s right,” Paris echoed agreeably, ignoring the gibe. Maybe he’d be able to use that curse someday—vacuum-suckers. “We’ve got to stick together—” “Hey, spacer!”
Paris shot the big Tutopan an irritated look, hating to break his roll with Tracer. Then he saw Neelix stumbling through the tables, pointing frantically behind him. Paris turned to see one of the beaked humanoids they kept running into—what was his name? Rep. The one who told him about the computer thefts last night.
“I’m talking to you, spacer,” the Tutopan said ominously. “Cheat anyone else at brateel?”
Paris realized he was in the middle of a Situation. “I know you—you’re Bladdyn, right?”
The threatening glare on Bladdyn’s face was answer enough.
Paris’s chair toppled as he stood up. “Relax, big guy. Let’s go where we can talk about this.” Paris grabbed Tracer’s arm, hauling him to his feet. “Come on, buddy.”
Tracer mumbled something in surprise, but followed Paris a few steps before trying to pull free.
“Hey, what’s this got to do with me?”
Neelix pushed the janitor from behind, pressured by Bladdyn breathing down his neck.
Paris murmured, “It’s an opportunity you won’t want to miss—” “You cheated me,” Bladdyn hissed past Neelix, shaking a fat fist at Paris.
“A whole night’s worth of R and R.”
“We can work this out,” Paris said soothingly, hoping he’d make the last few steps to the receiver booth before Bladdyn blew up.
“I’ll show you!” Bladdyn’s flat face wrinkled at the nose.
Paris wasn’t sure what was coming next—more threats or a maniacal rage that would leave him pulp on the floor of the bar.
He didn’t wait to find out. He thrust his hand into Neelix’s pocket, snatching the beacon cylinder and ripping his coverall in the process.
Neelix was thrown off balance, stumbling in front of Bladdyn and giving Paris time to shove Tracer into a receiver booth. Paris dove in on top of him, kicking the door closed as he activated both beacons. Before the lock could hit, he dropped one of the beacons down Tracer’s neck, trying to keep the door closed against Bladdyn’s pounding.
As he dematerialized, he hoped Neelix had the presence of mind to get out of the bar while Bladdyn was busy trying to figure out where he had disappeared.
Paris and Tracer materialized on the transporter platform.
Paris smiled at Tala, the Bajoran ensign at the console, glad to see a familiar face again. He had never noticed how cute those nose ridges were, until he’d been inundated with flat Tutopans.
“Good thing the transporter works through those gravity bases.”
“Where’s Neelix?” Tala asked.
“He’ll be along,” Paris said shortly.
“Who’s that?” she asked next, pointing to Tracer.
Tracer shuffled to the edge of the platform, his eyes bleary and his mouth pursed into a tiny round opening. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Sit down,” Paris told him, hoping it was a false alarm. “Before you fall down.”
Tracer had trouble lowering himself. Then his feet shot out from under him, and he landed hard on his rear end. “I mus’ be ripsy, I keep passing out. Where am I?”
“You came with me to my ship,” Paris told him. “Don’t you remember the expressway ride?”
Tracer swayed slightly, obviously trying to think. “Lean back, and close your eyes for a minute.”
Tracer immediately did as he was told, as Paris went to the transporter console. “Do you have a map of the Hub?”
“Yes, Tuvok recorded a three-dimensional diagram while he and the captain were in the Hub.” Tala called it up before he had to ask.
“I need to go there,” he indicated. “Keep an eye on Tracer here, and I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t forget to report to Tuvok!” she called as the door slid shut behind him.
After putting out an all-points bulletin on the open tricorder channel, Paris finally located Harry Kim in the computer monitor room. The ensign was scraping blue gel off the walls. “Nice job you got, there, Harry.”
Kim frowned up at him. “Don’t ask what I was doing this morning, you don’t want to know.”
“I’ve got something that will cheer you up,” Paris told him.
“Oh, yeah?” Kim asked. “I hope it’s the anesthetic.”
“It’s on the way. Which reminds me, do you have a tricorder?”
Harry climbed up from the core, handing over his tricorder.
Paris recited the code checks into it before he forgot them.
“We’ll have to get this to Chakotay. He’ll need it when the runabout arrives with the chemicals.”
“It better get here soon—” “Stop complaining, Harry.” Paris gave him a little shove.
“You’re coming with me to the Hub.”
“Me?” Now the kid was looking sharp. “Why?”
“I need some computer help. Come on.”
“Now?” Kim glanced around. “We’re barely keeping the ODN going as it is.”
“I’m trying to get our processor back,” Paris tempted him. “But if you prefer this…”
Kim wiped his hands on a rag. “I’m coming.”
When they reached the transporter room, Tracer was softly snoring on the steps of the platform. Paris glanced at Tala, who shrugged in return. “He hasn’t moved.”
“Who’s that?” Kim asked.
Paris shook Tracer, waking him up as he pulled the janitor. to his feet. “A local contact who’s willing to get us into an office with a computer terminal. But we’ve got to get back before he starts sobering up.”
Kim examined the sodden, snorting Tutopan. “You brought him through the transporter?”
“He’s drunk—he won’t remember a thing.” Paris positioned Tracer in a wilting heap on a disk. “Let’s go.”
“I need clearance from Tuvok,” the Bajoran protested.
“It’s all clear,” Paris said, definitely and without qualification.
Tala’s hand hovered over the controls as he ordered, “Transport, Ensign.”