Title: Lost in Orbit (4/?)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Enterprise crew
Summary: On a mission to track down a missing delegation party, the Enterprise crew find themselves embroiled in a game of cat and mouse with another ship. When some of Kirk’s crew are captured, the chase turns into a nightmare.
Previous Parts: 1 | 2 | 3

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Part Three

As Leonard McCoy stares down at himself, he releases a mighty puff of air, surveying his new attire with the same dubiousness with which he normally does a transporter or a shuttlecraft.

His companion, however, is positively beaming. “Don’t we look great!”

“No, we look like cutthroats,” McCoy corrects, rubbing a thin leather string serving as a necklace between forefinger and thumb. “Are these teeth?”

“Fake teeth. Much cheaper than the real thing.”

“Barbaric,” the doctor mutters under his breath. He slants a sidelong glance at the junior officer. “Funny, but I don’t remember paying for any of this.” Half-expecting how uncomfortable the lieutenant looks, McCoy waits for the explanation.

“I, uh—I did the purchasing,” Connock admits. At the doctor’s continued staring, he clarifies in more of a murmur, “With my quarterly allowance. Since the ‘Fleet covers the basics of living on a starship and my salary takes care of the rest, I almost never use it. There’s… a lot.”

“An allowance,” Leonard repeats, not quite expressing a question.

Connock nods, his face faintly redder. “From my parents. They insist.”

Leonard raises an eyebrow. “Well, far be it from me to judge parents who want to support a child far away from home.”

The tension in the air lessens somewhat then, as though Connock’s first assumption must have been to expect teasing remarks or, worse, having Leonard ask more prying questions. That makes the doctor wonder how often Connock is judged for receiving supplemental income.

Thinking it better to mind his own business, Leonard frowns deeply at his god-awful outfit, tugging at one of the many metal rings and buckles sewn into his vest. They jingle when he shifts on his feet. The vest itself is a monstrosity, some kind of fleshy hide that molds embarrassingly snug against his torso. Just his luck, he thinks, he won’t be able to take the damn thing off later, and god forbid any undressing that may need to be done in a hurry!

He sighs to draw Connock’s attention to his aggravation and grumps, “I guess this is about as far from Starfleet as we’ll manage.”

“Without looking like Klingons,” Connock adds cheerfully, having forgotten any discomfort.

“Without looking like Klingons,” Leonard agrees sourly. “I just hope you don’t expect me to act the part of… whoever I look like.”

“Don’t worry, sir, you’re still a doctor. Let’s just say you might not be a nice one.”

McCoy cannot help but huff laughingly at that. “Was it my necklace of teeth that gave it away?”

The other fellow laughs too while stowing a communicator under a wide warrior’s belt. After Connock also tucks his phaser into a holster made into the interior of his vest, McCoy takes the hint and does the same. He lingers over his medical tricorder, though, uneasy about its incongruency with the rest of his attire but more disconcerted by the thought of leaving it behind.

Connock seems to accurately read the dismay in his face, for he says, “If somebody asks where you got that, we can just say you stole it.”

Relieved, McCoy nods and adjusts the tricorder’s strap across his chest with a fond pat. After a moment, he decides, “Boy is Jim going to regret missing this part.” On second thought, he adds wryly, “Going undercover is definitely more his style than mine.”

“You’ll do great.”

“Glad one of us believes that, Lieutenant. Now, lead the way since you’re the leader of this merry band of thugs.”

Thanking the shopkeeper, who doesn’t do more than scowl at the men in response, McCoy and Connock exit the shop. Connock rubs his hands together in clear excitement the moment they cross the threshold back into the shopping district’s main thoroughfare.

“What a story this’ll make to the fellas!”

McCoy shakes his head. “Stop grinning, kid. You don’t look mean enough.” He peruses the lane of traffic with a critical eye. “If the Inspector’s men are tracking us, and probably they are, I doubt they’re going to be covert about it.”

“When they figure out we changed our plans, we’re in trouble,” Connock agrees. “But I would give it at least another thirty minutes before someone notices that and reports in. By then, luck willing, we will have Mr. Spock and Lt. Niraula with us.”

“Either way, I expect Brams will try to have us arrested.” McCoy sighs again. “Just what I wanted today. To look like a criminal and get treated like one.”

The younger man turns to him, hesitation threaded into his tone. “Dr. McCoy, once we locate Mr. Spock and Niraula—”

Leonard finishes for him grimly, “—chances are being arrested will be the least of our worries. I’m aware, Lieutenant.”

“Captain Kirk did tell us to be careful.”

“Kirk can’t hold us to a promise he wouldn’t keep himself.” McCoy breathes deeply and allows the moment’s indignation to pass. “Anyway, you leave Jim to me. If it comes down to it, I’ll take full responsibility.”

Connock starts. “But—that’s not right! Disguising ourselves was my idea.”

“Who’s the senior officer here?” snaps McCoy, then with a roll of his eyes points out, “Where I’m from, we say ‘don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.'”

“But—”

“Argue later,” the doctor insists firmly, “locate our people now.” He lifts his tricorder and adjusts the device’s settings until it emits a continuous whirring noise. “Scanner’s good to go.” With a wide grin, he starts to bounce on the balls of his feet in excitement. “And would you look at that! We already have a signal. There’s a half-Vulcan thatta way.”

Connock follows the direction of McCoy’s finger and grins too. “Thank the stars for half-Vulcans… right, sir?”

McCoy quips, “Let’s not go overboard,” a twinkle in his eyes belying the comment.

Their confidence high and hope restored, McCoy and Connock let the tricorder guide them through the station.

~~~

“Incoming!”

The Enterprise rocks from a blast to the starboard side.

Kirk tightens his grip on the arms of the captain’s chair to keep from being launched out of it. “Ready phaser cannons. Return fire!”

“Firing phaser cannons… now!” the Weapons officer cries.

Sulu calls from the helm, “Shields at 80% and holding, Captain.”

“Mark zero-two point four, Mr. Sulu.” Kirk switches to, “Uhura—”

“Captain, there is no response on any frequency,” Uhura quickly cuts in.

Kirk’s left hand balls into a fist. Radio silence. Of course. Every move the Trenchant has made has been well-calculated. At this point, the Enterprise is working hard to keep the enemy dancing around them, but Kirk can’t help but feel this engagement is an illusion somehow, like they’re no more than two kids in the schoolyard fighting with wooden sticks instead of soldiers wielding deadly swords on the battlefield. And this particular schoolyard bully, he decides, keeps poking at him and his ship as if enough provocation should create an explosive reaction.

“Incoming!” cries Sulu once more.

Jim brings his fist down on his chair. Damn it. What is it the other ship wants?

Under his feet, the bridge shudders from another stronger hit to the starboard side.

“Damage report!” he barks.

From the Science station, filling in for its missing officer, Chekov responds, “Minimal damage to decks seven and eight.”

Sulu supports that with “Shields at 78%,” and then he and Chekov twist in each other’s direction, trading a look across the bridge Kirk doesn’t miss. Their body language is easily readable. Jim isn’t the only one who thinks this is a mock-fight.

Enough, Kirk decides suddenly and slides off his chair to his feet. If there’s one thing a captain should excel at (and Jim firmly believes those who know him very well would agree he’s no exception), it is calling a bluff.

“Lower shields,” he commands.

Every officer on the bridge other than Kirk freezes. If Spock had been there, no doubt his next action would have been to advise against whatever his captain is planning to do. Kirk thinks of that grimly, surprising himself with the acknowledgment that he would rather have to explain himself to his First than have Spock absent from his side.

On the heels of a shocked noise from Mr. Scott at the Engineering station, Sulu is the first to regain composure. The helmsman gives his captain only a brief look of thoughtful consideration before focusing on his console. “Shields down,” he informs Kirk a moment later, calm as ever.

Jim might give Sulu a commendation simply for following orders without causing a ruckus. “Thank you, Mr. Sulu. Now drop us to impulse.”

“Impulse engaged. What now, sir?”

“Come up on her slowly. I want them to see we have no intention of attacking.”

At Kirk’s back, some of the other officers indulge in a second little hitch of breath.

The starship under Kirk has the sensation of drifting. The captain widens his stance and crosses his arms over his chest, his full attention upon the cruiser on the main viewscreen. Around him, the atmosphere of the bridge takes on a hushed quality, the wailing of klaxons fading to the background.

“Chekov, alert me immediately if energy signatures suggest the Trenchant may fire on us again.”

“Aye, Captain,” Chekov says, though a current disbelief still rings clear in his tone. “Sir, the ship appears to be matching our pace. She is slowing down.”

“Try them one more time, Uhura.”

“Hailing the Trenchant now.”

Kirk twists around at the waist after a brief pause in time to see Uhura turn to face him.

“Acknowledgement received, Captain.” The officer adds with softer exasperation, “But audio only.”

Kirk nods once, unsurprised. This enemy is clearly a bully and a coward—or has a very strong reason to hide his identity, which only makes Jim more suspicious about this already unusual situation. “Accept the transmission.”

Though somewhat mechanized by the relay between ships, the voice retains a taunting quality. “Enterprise, do you concede victory as ours?”

Kirk smiles thinly, raising his voice. “I concede only that this battle is boring. I have better ways to expend my ship’s resources than playing a game of slap-sticks with a captain who’s afraid to show himself.” He barrels on arrogantly, “Since you claimed to be Clan, I assumed you would be worth my time and effort—clearly a miscalculation on my part.”

Someone chokes. Jim thinks it might be Scotty.

“Jim,” Kirk can hear a voice that sounds too much like McCoy’s hissing in his ear, “what in god’s name are you doing?”

Doing some poking of the proverbial bear of my own, he thinks wryly. Yes, Bones definitely would be having a fit right about now.

But still, it’s not right. None of this is. Maybe the itch at the back of Jim’s neck comes from anxiety. Maybe. Yet Kirk is certain that dancing around with this Clan idiot is doing his people back on Rel-7 no favors. They need him there, so the sooner he figures out the Trenchant‘s ploy, the sooner he returns to where he should be.

He swallows frustration. “Uhura, their reply—?”

“Captain, visual incoming.”

Jim closes his eyes briefly in thanks, then drops his arms to his sides and squares his shoulders. “On screen, Lieutenant.”

On the viewer, the Trenchant‘s commander can only be described, as McCoy might say, ‘fit to be tied.’ The deepened color in his face only enhances an already furious scowl. Oh yes, Jim has achieved something at least. He’s pissed the Clansman off.

“You dare to call me a coward!”

Kirk smothers a grin. “Then why don’t you offer me a real challenge?”

The commander snarls.

“So,” Jim surmises, letting smugness coat his words, “since you cannot accept a challenge, then tell me who gave you the order to waste my time.”

“Your insinuation is absurd. All Clan know how unworthy Starfleet—”

“I have no patience for lies,” Kirk cuts in. Raising an imperious hand, which he knows Uhura will recognize as a signal to stall, rather than fulfill, his next order. “Kill the channel, Lieutenant. We’re done here.”

On the viewscreen, the Trenchant‘s captain jerks forward. “No!”

Kirk mocks, “No? But I say differently… unless you have a way to change my mind?”

“You’ll have your challenge, Captain Kirk of the Enterprise,” the other man states angrily, fixing a hard stare upon them all, “but make no mistake, you will come to regret it right before you die.”

“Overdramatic,” mutters Chekov.

Kirk would find that amusing if he wasn’t so busy working on the rest of his plan.

“Sounds good to me,” Jim says flippantly and signals Uhura to end the transmission. Then he falls back into his chair with an abrupt little ‘oof’. Noticing the way his crew is staring at him, he admits wryly, “This next part may be tricky.”

Chekov bursts out, “Keptin, the Trenchant is preparing to fire!”

“Shields!” Jim orders. “Evasive maneuvers, Mr. Sulu. Get us out of range.” He draws a breath. “Then go to warp quickly—heading, Rel-7. We’re going to outrun them.”

No one questions why; his bridge crewmen simply go to work, and furiously at that.

Jim sinks back in his chair slightly, swallowing hard.

The Trenchant will give pursuit, he is certain of it. The gamble he isn’t certain about will be if anyone from Rel-7 steps in to help them fight off their attacker. If not, then that will be a kind of answer itself.

An answer Jim Kirk has to have to the question preying upon him: are the Rel-7 authorities responsible for the Trenchant‘s sudden engagement of the Enterprise?

~~~

Simply put, Lt. Niraula does not feel good. His body must be having some trouble shaking off the effects of the stunning, although as a security officer he is trained to recognize any signs of complications and this general malaise doesn’t quite fit the description. Under normal circumstances, he would admit to someone (preferably another officer of the same rank) that he could use a moment to recover. But here he is, stuck in a bad situation that might get worse in an instant if he isn’t vigilant, and also faced with a commanding officer who shows no indication of slowing down in his methodical, almost relentless inspection of container after container in the cargo hold. Niraula would hate to admit his need to rest only to have Mr. Spock look at him with no surprise, perhaps even a hint of disdain. A human, after all, has not the same indomitable stamina as a Vulcan. Tyee has heard these types of remarks come from Mr. Spock in the past, although most often directed to Captain Kirk or Dr. McCoy, who seem to have an amused tolerance for Vulcan arrogance.

Well, does it really matter if Mr. Spock touts his superiority to a subordinate like Niraula? Lesser ranking officers have. But true to Tyee’s prideful nature, he decides to do the opposite of what he needs and instead hints that, if needed, he is capable of continuing the search for evidence on his own.

The third time Niraula drops such a hint (with far less tact than the prior two times), Mr. Spock places aside a handful of sealed opaque packets labeled as freeze-dried delicacies in order to cock his head in Niraula’s direction.

“You are offering to relieve me. Why?”

“I wouldn’t be so presumptuous,” mutters Tyee, momentarily forgetting about acute Vulcan hearing.

“Thoughtfulness is never presumptuous, Lt. Niraula. I am merely inquiring after your reasoning.”

Niraula is suddenly grateful that Mr. Spock is not in a position to read his expression. Guilt washes over him and, with it, the reminder that he shouldn’t think poorly of someone else in light of his own shortcomings. “I apologize, Mr. Spock,” he says quickly. “You don’t need a break. I understand.”

Spock falls briefly, oddly silent. Then he suggests, “We should both consider a period of rest.”

Niraula almost stammers in his surprise. “Sir—I didn’t mean that—”

“Rest would not be unwelcome,” insists the commander, re-stacking the food packets into the container in front of him before resealing it and casually taking a seat there.

At Spock’s expectant blink, Niraula snaps his mouth shut on a tiny “Um.” Feeling like his self-flagellation has been circumvented somehow, he follows Spock’s example and retreats to a stack of containers.

For a long moment, the two men stare at one another. Then the First Officer breaks the silence with “Perhaps during this respite, we could discuss the strategy of our escape. In the event an expedited retreat becomes necessary, it would be prudent to be coordinated in our efforts.”

Some of the lethargy leaves Niraula at the suggestion, for planning an escape route is second nature to a man with a career in Security. “I have an idea or two.”

“Very good.” The Vulcan folds his hands in his lap that looks suspiciously like a pose of meditation. “Proceed.”

Niraula gladly does.

It occurs to Tyee later that another superior might have lashed out at him for his (admittedly insolent) offer, dismissed it entirely, or let him take on the burden of the search alone as punishment. Commander Spock did none of those things. His superior accepted the offer at face-value whether or not it was genuine and, moreover, employed a solution that benefited them both without embarrassing either. That is the action of a person who comprehends that, at times, people are prone to making illogical requests, such as suggesting a break when in fact the one who suggests the break needs it most. It speaks to an uncanny insight that Niraula assumed a Vulcan would not have.

Who is Spock really? he begins to wonder then.

The answer, at the very least, is that Mr. Spock is not the person Tyee Niraula believed him to be.

~~~

Rom tugs at his earlobe, trying to soothe an odd itch there.

Dr. McCoy observes, “You must be on someone’s mind.”

“Is that a thing?” he wonders.

“In the South it is.”

The pair has been drawn into another overly populated section of the port, and based on the characters hustling in and out of the shops and bars, this area is mainly patroned by the rowdy and the lawless. At one point, a drunken bystander had wedged his way between Connock and McCoy and tried to steer them towards a hole-in-the-wall establishment with promises of an evening they would never forget. Connock had peeled the fellow off McCoy with a very firm, slightly threatening negative response. But only after McCoy added with an insane grin, “Nice teeth,” did their interloper abandon them in a hurry.

Rom likes McCoy a lot. But he also worries that McCoy might like his role as a rogue healer a little too much.

Mr. Spock and Niraula don’t seem to be here, because the tricorder is insistent that they move on. Rom simply has to hurry them along before they are provoked into an actual confrontation with someone.

Unfortunately trying to navigate their path means Connock assumes McCoy will stay close and focused on their mission—an assumption he realizes was a false belief from the beginning once he glances sideways and discovers he’s lost Dr. McCoy. For a heart-stopping moment, all Rom can think is that he will be on waste-collecting duty for the rest of his Starfleet career after Captain Kirk gets ahold of him.

Then he spies a familiar brown-haired head bobbing along the thoroughfare and breaks into a run with a howl of “Doctor!”

Connock catches up to McCoy at the fringe of an unruly, noisy crowd. He grabs McCoy’s arm, jerking the man off course, and almost gets clobbered with the doctor’s fist for his effort.

“They’re fighting!” McCoy snaps furiously. “Let me go!”

Rom does no such thing, instead swinging McCoy to the other side of him so that he can at least peer ahead and see what has caught the doctor’s attention. What he makes out beyond the laughing, shouting onlookers is a pair of men grappling on the floor. “Not our business,” Connock decides immediately. If they get involved in that, any attempt at inconspicuousness is over.

McCoy pulls his arm out of Connock’s grip. “Like hell! There’s blood on the floor.”

Oh, Rom can see that.

McCoy’s nostrils flare for a second, and then he explains as if Connock is too slow to understand, “Blood means at least one of those idiots needs medical attention.”

“With respect, sir, you are not supposed to be the kind of doctor who cares.”

McCoy responds with a long moment of silence and uncomfortable staring. Then, all at once, the man curses under his breath and looks away.

Taking this as a good sign—or a sign of sanity—Connock gently tugs McCoy back in the direction they were originally going. People flow around them in the opposite direction, squishing themselves into the audience to get a good view of the violent brawl.

“Sorry,” Rom says in a hushed voice, once the jeers and laughter of the bloodthirsty crowd fade enough to make it easy to be heard. “I know you only want to help.”

“Kind of my job,” grunts his companion with unhappy resignation. “Although I am frequently told my martyr complex prevents me from acknowledging obvious risks like exposure or death.” The doctor sighs, then, and mutters, “You did the right thing, Lieutenant.”

So why doesn’t Rom feel that way? He sighs too. “I’m really sorry, Dr. McCoy.”

“Enough with the apologies. Besides, someone will come along and break up that fight.” The hint of anxiety in McCoy’s tone says he doesn’t necessarily believe that.

“The port security will,” Rom claims firmly. “And while they’re busy doing that, we’ll get out of here and locate our crew.”

McCoy curses again, this time more soundly, and picks up his tricorder. “Damn it! Spock! How could I have—”

The doctor stops abruptly, nearly making Connock stumble. With apprehension, Connock considers McCoy’s intense stare at the tricorder. “What is it?”

“They’re here.”

Rom looks around. “Where?”

“Right here,” McCoy says, bemused, raising his head to stare at Connock. “The signal is stronger in this spot than anywhere else I’ve seen.”

Rom has to think about that for only a second. “They’re below decks.”

McCoy blinks. “What?”

Excitement rushes through him. “There would be storage compartments on the lower levels! Probably the engine room too.”

“I’ll be damned,” states the doctor. “Well, let’s get going!”

The excitement dissipates as quickly as it came. “We can’t,” Rom determines flatly. “Doctor… We would never make it past security.”

“We’re not turning back,” insists McCoy.

Rom agrees, “Of course not. Never. But we need a good plan.”

The doctor plucks at his outfit, exasperated. “What’s the point of this then?”

An idea pops into Connock’s head. “What an excellent idea! That could work.”

McCoy looks at him like he has grown a second head. “What idea?”

Rom grins. “You said you wanted to help somebody. So punch me.”

“Mr. Connock, I don’t think you understand the concept of ‘help.'”

“Sure I do! Punch me, and then drag me over to the nearest security guard station. I should need help, right?”

“Oh,” McCoy says after a moment, “that kind of help.” He lets the tricorder drop back to his side and cracks his knuckles, pausing to ask, “Are you sure, Lieutenant?”

“Positive.” Connock tilts his chin invitingly. “Just don’t tell the captain.”

“Jim’s done far worse and, god forbid, he might commend you for this,” comes McCoy’s retort. Then he orders, “Hold still,” and clocks Connock square on the chin.

It turns out that getting punched by Dr. McCoy is the best and worst idea Rom has ever had in his life. When McCoy leans over him and asks how many fingers he is holding up, Rom decides muzzily, “I want that commendation.”

~~~

Men in crisp uniforms elbow their way through the throngs of people, clearly having little sway on the present company despite their badges and stripes signifying them as Rel-7’s esteemed security. At long last, one of the guards takes offense at his incremental progress and jabs the burly civilian in his path with a stunner. The man’s shriek and subsequent writhing upon the floor makes room for the rest of his team.

They propel from the crowd and fan out into a half-circle around the two brutes staggering toward each other, dripping blood and no doubt exhausted but equally determined not to be the loser of their fight. One of them pauses to observe the newly arrived guards and looks almost relieved—and pays for that moment of inattention with a jab to the belly. Grunting, he drops to his knees and clutches at his abdomen.

The opponent shouts his victory and enjoys the uproarious response of the audience, laughing with them.

A cool voice, buoyed by disgust, precedes the dark-haired woman who appears behind the guards. “Shoot them both.”

“You heard the Inspector!” The leader of the security team whips out his firearm and aims for the foolish victor still crowing.

Within moments, both fighters are senseless to their surroundings. The spectators scatter, recognizing the danger to themselves. Some flee in any random direction; others stroll away grousing about the abrupt end to the day’s entertainment. In the end, the guards are left to heave their unconscious burdens upright and manhandle the men toward the nearest detention center for detainment and arrest.

“Report this incident to the Chief Inspector,” the female inspector orders her men.

“Affirmative!”

After the team disperses, she remains behind, arms crossed, to survey the bystanders returning to their interrupted meals and errands within the thoroughfare. When someone approaches her from behind, coming to stand at her side, her expression remains neutral.

“Inspector Rima, how long has it been?”

“Not long enough, Captain,” Rima replies, turning to face the man. “You engineered this?”

“But of course.” Moor bares his teeth in the pretense of a smile. “It’s not a difficult task to start a fight, you understand. The creatures here are highly uncouth and easily provoked.”

“Manipulated, you mean,” she corrects. “Well, your ploy worked. You have my attention—or was it Weyland you wanted?” She studies his gaze briefly, answering her own question. “No, obviously you know about Weyland. So what is that you want from me?”

“The answer isn’t a simple one, I’m afraid.”

“Cut the bullshit, Mortifier.” Rima leans toward him, lowering her voice. “I know enough to ruin you.”

Moor’s gaze darkens. “I can say the same.”

“So, shall we continue this pissing contest or come to the point?” demands the inspector coldly.

The Revenant‘s captain draws back with an odd hum under his breath, tugging at the cuffs of his plain uniform. Then he stops, seeming to catch himself in his distraction, and his smile turns rueful. “You are tougher than I remember, Rima. I like that. The point is I need a favor. And keep in mind I risk much by coming here to ask for it.”

“What favor?” the woman questions warily.

“An introduction,” Moor says in his benignest tone, “to a man named James Tiberius Kirk.”

Rima’s expression flickers with uncertainty, then. “The captain of the Enterprise.”

Moor glances away, catching the eye of his subcommander lingering at a distance from over the inspector’s shoulder and nods imperceptibly. The subcommander stiffens, then drops his gaze and slinks off with a nervous air.

“How do you know Captain Kirk?” Rima is asking.

“I don’t,” counters Moor. “That would be the problem. There is such high regard for Kirk that I feel I should meet the man in person.”

“You’re insane. He will have you thrown in the brig.”

“Ah, but he won’t meet me, Inspector. Not the Clan Lord, that is.”

Rima firms her mouth. “Whatever trouble you’re after, Captain, keep it off Rel-7. We’ve had our fill of the likes of you.”

“I wish I could,” Moor croons, closing the distance between them, “but you must understand one crucial fact, my dear: without my influence, your precious Rel-7 would have never risen beyond the pathetic little waystation it was, hosting every kind of depraved and soulless scum from this galaxy. I am the reason Rel-7 matters to anyone.”

“That may be true, but clearly we’re surviving without you.”

Moor grabs her by the neck at the same moment she shoves her firearm into his stomach. After a long second of staring each other down, Moor’s hand retreats from her throat, and he steps back.

“I want to speak with Kirk,” he says again.

“And then you’ll leave,” she finishes.

He nods his assent. “You have my word.”

Rima tucks her weapon back into her holster. “It can be done but not immediately. Kirk isn’t here. He will return, however. I will provide you with a time and location for the introduction. And that is all I am willing to do. I have my own to protect here, Clan Lord.”

Moor bows slightly from the waist. “Many thanks, dear Inspector.”

Rima snorts her opinion of his gratitude and wordlessly watches the Master of Trappers stride away.

Related Posts:

• Lost in Orbit (3/?) – from January 11, 2018
• Lost in Orbit (2/?) – from November 22, 2017
• Lost in Orbit (1/?) – from November 4, 2017

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