by Peter David
Like an actor assuming a role, Crusher set his jaw and again began looking at things as “Marcus” would. A Starfleet officer might feel uncomfortable about entering a house of prostitution, but Marcus wouldn’t hesitate. Marcus, if he actually existed, would probably be comfortable in this sort of environment.
At the very least, he wouldn’t have a wife and a small son back in Federation space, the thought of whom made him feel guilty. Putting the thought aside, the commander walked forward and flung open the door.
A wave of moist, warm air rushed out to meet him. It was saturated with a variety of alien scents—many of them surprisingly pleasant, some a good deal less so.
Crusher wondered at the high level of humidity in the place, but chalked it up to the idiosyncrasies of the patrons. The same for the soft, cloying music of unknown origin that seemed to waft its way around him. In any case, he had to admit that the ambiance was a welcome change from the rank, hostile environment of The Den.
“Welcome to The House of Comfort,” said a soft, husky voice.
The human turned and saw where it had come from—an attractive female half a head taller than either himself or Tuvok, with a tight-fitting golden gown and skin as purple as the lush carpeting underfoot.
The proprietress? he wondered.
As she moved closer, Crusher got a better view of the golden eyes and thick, indigo hair, the high cheekbones and the full lips. The female lacked a proper nose and had a set of ears three times the size of a human’s, but he didn’t imagine she would have any problem getting someone to buy her a drink at a starbase lounge.
“Do you have a room reserved or is someone waiting for you?” she asked him and Tuvok.
The commander felt the betraying heat of a blush in his face. He hoped the woman would attribute it to the warmth of her establishment, or perhaps a flush of anticipation at the “comforts” to come.
He didn’t speak immediately, wanting to make certain his voice was under control. And when he did speak, he chose his words carefully.
“We’re here to meet someone,” he said. “I was told that a Melacron named Pudris Barrh enjoyed visiting this establishment.”
The alien smiled. “Oh, I see…you’re one of Barrh’s boys,” she remarked with a knowing lilt.
Barrh’s boys? Crusher asked himself. What did she mean by that? He experienced a moment of alarm but kept his composure.
“If you can get past Old Scowly there,” the female continued, “you can join Barrh at his pleasures if you like.” She raised a long, slender arm and pointed to a gilded door to her right.
Standing guard there was one of the biggest, ugliest, most dangerous-looking humanoids it had ever been the commander’s misfortune to see. The moniker “Old Scowly” seemed more than appropriate. The fellow was three meters tall if he was a centimeter.
He only had two arms, but they were heavily muscled and covered with skin so callused that Crusher wondered if a phaser would do it any damage. Twin sets of horns, one at his temples and one protruding from a mouth crowded with yellow teeth, had been sharpened and decorated with carvings the commander had never seen before.
Small, porcine eyes glittered beneath an overhanging brow ridge as Old Scowly turned his oversized head in their direction. Large, round nostrils flared with a grunting sound.
The commander glanced at Tuvok, whose expression—naturally—had not changed an iota since they entered the establishment. Forcing a grin, Crusher swaggered over to Old Scowly and took the bull by the horns—figuratively speaking, of course.
The commander wondered how they would ever get past such a specimen. With an effort, he banished the thought. After all, failure was not one of their options. Inside that room, at his so-called “pleasures,” was the man they needed to see—and see him they would.
“We’re here to meet with Pudris Barrh,” Crusher told Old Scowly.
The behemoth scowled, his lips writhing in a way the human had never seen before. “I do not know you,” he rumbled, his voice both exceptionally deep and exceptionally ominous.
Crusher continued to smile, undaunted. “But you will know me,” he assured the alien. “You see, I’m here to conduct some mutually profitable business with your employer.”
Expertly he flicked a slip of latinum down from his sleeve into his palm. He was getting pretty good at it, too.
“Extremely profitable,” the commander emphasized.
Old Scowly’s face twisted even more. Crusher would not have thought it possible, but there it was.
The enormous alien straightened to his full, imposing height. “I serve Barrh for reasons other than profit,” he rumbled.
“Really,” said the commander. He wondered what those reasons could be. Loyalty? Fear? Debt? Unable to figure it out, he shrugged and the latinum disappeared again up his sleeve.
“Whatever you say,” he responded casually, “but I still think Barrh would be interested in seeing me.”
The tiny eyes peered at him.
Ensign Tuvok was not pleased.
He had disapproved of his companion’s flamboyant methods from the outset. The Vulcan had accepted the necessity of their charade in deference to Picard, but it seemed to him that Crusher drew far too much attention to himself and their mission.
Of course, the human was still a youth by the standards of Tuvok’s people. No—less than a youth. An infant. And yet, in the eyes of Starfleet, Crusher was his commanding officer.
His superior.
Inwardly, Tuvok shivered. Humans, he thought.
He had been around them far too long in situations that were far too volatile. He longed for the crystalline stillness of Vulcan’s deep meditation chambers, the tranquility of a walk in a sunwashed, crimson desert, the sense of balance and well-being that enveloped him when he sat down to harmonious meals with his family.
And yet, after so many years, something had pulled inexorably at Tuvok to rejoin Starfleet. Duty had struggled with duty, and no entity living could win such a battle.
He watched with a mounting sense of apprehension as the conversation between Crusher and the guard called Old Scowly unfolded. Clearly, he told himself, the commander’s scheme was leading them into trouble.
Finally, Old Scowly agreed to approach his employer. With some difficulty, he slipped his hulking frame inside the gilded door—whereupon Crusher leaned closer to Tuvok and spoke quickly and quietly.
“I don’t know for certain what kind of establishment this is,” said the commander, “but I can make a pretty good guess.”
“Unfortunately,” the Vulcan whispered back with sincere and undisguised revulsion, “so can I.”
“Still, we may have to go along with it.” Crusher regarded Tuvok. “Would that…pose a problem?”
“Naturally,” the Vulcan replied.
The commander grunted. “I was afraid you would say that.”
“And knowing what I do of human marriage customs,” said Tuvok, “I would imagine it would pose a problem for you as well.”
Crusher looked lost. “Maybe we could just play along for some of it…for the sake of—”
“My master will see you now,” said Old Scowly. He had reappeared before the Vulcan knew it. “You may enter through the changing room, remove your clothes, and join Pudris Barrh at his pleasures.”
Tuvok kept his disgust to himself. His companion maintained control over his expression as well, though the visible darkening of his cheeks seemed to betray him. The Vulcan hoped that Old Scowly was unfamiliar with the physical manifestations of human emotions or, as Crusher might be inclined to phrase it, “the jig” would be “up.”
“Excellent,” Crusher replied heartily. He turned to Tuvok. “Sulak, you’ll accompany me.”
“You will divest yourselves of your weapons as well, of course,” growled Old Scowly.
The commander winked knowingly. “Of course.”
The gilded door opened again and they went inside. As the door closed behind them, the Vulcan saw
that they were in a dressing room of some sort—or more accurately, an un dressing room.
The walls were paneled with dark woods and there were lockers made of the same material. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were a couple of long benches.
Crusher uttered an earthy human phrase with which Tuvok was not unacquainted. “What the hell do we do now?” he sighed.
The Vulcan didn’t answer, of course. The question was clearly a rhetorical one.
Frowning, the commander sat down on one of the benches and began to remove his boots. He didn’t look happy.
As it happened, Tuvok wasn’t happy either. If he didn’t know better, he would have said that the uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach was apprehension. Of course, that was impossible. His control over his emotions was impeccable.
And yet, the sensation remained.
“There must be another way,” said Crusher.
“There is no other way,” the Vulcan told him. “This is the situation in which your plan has placed us.” He knew his words sounded biting, but he didn’t wish any of them back.
The human ran his hands through his thick, dark hair. “Damn it,” he said, “if Beverly ever…”
“Finds out about this?” the ensign suggested.
Frowning, Crusher nodded. “But as you say, there’s no other option open to us. I guess we’ll just deal with whatever comes as best we can.” He grunted. “The things we do for king and country.”
Tuvok looked at him. “We do not pay homage to a king, nor does Starfleet ally itself with any provincial governments,” he pointed out as he unstrapped his weapons belt.
Crusher darted an amused glance at him. “I’m glad you’re along for the ride, Ensign.”
This was not a ride, but a mission. Nonetheless, the Vulcan saw no point in correcting his companion at this juncture.
He remained silent while he and Crusher disrobed. It was not a particularly pleasant experience for Tuvok.
Vulcans, after all, were intensely private people and he was no exception. While it was illogical to be ashamed of the way one’s body happened to have formed, neither was Tuvok in the habit of divesting himself of his clothing at the drop of an invitation.
He went through a quick mental exercise to quiet his unusually charged thoughts and reestablish calm. It helped, though not as much as the ensign would have liked.
When both he and Crusher had finished undressing, they glanced at each other’s face—carefully avoiding the possibility of glancing elsewhere. The commander cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said, “let’s go.” Then he crossed the room and opened the door in the far wall.
Steam rushed out and enveloped them, and for a moment Tuvok couldn’t see. Then he made out some shapes in the warm mist and realized what he and Crusher could expect there. A wave of relief washed over him.
The House of Comfort was not a house of prostitution, the Vulcan told himself. It was a bathhouse.
The man he presumed was Pudris Barrh was lounging in a steaming pool of what appeared to be green slime. However, as the Melacron shifted his position in the pool, it became obvious that it was merely water that had been treated with something—Tuvok couldn’t be certain what.
When the air cleared for a moment—a byproduct of their entrance—the Vulcan was able to get a better look at their host. He was rather corpulent for a Melacron, it seemed, and more pale-looking than most.
As thick, sludgy ripples made their slow way outward from Barrh’s generous torso, he waved to Tuvok and Crusher. “Please, gentlemen, join me. We’ve not met yet, but there are few better places to get to know someone than in The House of Comfort!”
Barrh threw back his head and laughed loudly at his joke. The commander laughed as well.
“No weapons, of course,” the Melacron told them, wagging a chubby forefinger in their direction. “No distractions of any kind. Just good fellowship, engaging conversation, and business.”
“Of course,” Crusher responded.
He and Tuvok exchanged a quick glance. Taking a deep breath, the human walked up the carpeted stairs and placed first one foot, then the other, into the hot, liquid muck.
The ensign had little choice but to follow suit. He assured himself, as he sank up to his chest in the thick, surprisingly pleasant-smelling stuff, that there was really no logical reason T’Pel ever had to become acquainted with this misadventure.
Besides, he reflected, there was quite a good chance that the majority of his and Crusher’s actions would be classified. He had to confess that he found some comfort in the prospect.
“Now,” said Barrh, surveying them with slitted eyes, “my associate says you have something profitable to offer me?”
“That’s our hope,” said the human. He let the liquid lap at his chin for a moment before continuing. “My name is Marcus. I’m told by someone who should know that you’re the rider of one Bin Nedrach.”
The Melacron rumbled deep in his throat. Casually, Tuvok lifted his arms out of the water and placed them on the back of the tub, just in case he had to reach for Barrh quickly.
“If you had come a few weeks ago,” said the Melacron, “you would have been right. I am no longer the bastard’s rider.”
“Problem?” Crusher was almost cheerful.
“You could say that,” Barrh replied with a note of bitterness in his voice. “We had a little…disagreement over a commission. I don’t keep steeds I can’t control, Marcus. Surely you understand that?”
Crusher nodded. “Naturally. Still, it’s a pity.”
“But he’s not the only steed in my stable,” their host continued. “I’ve several who will—”
The commander affected a look of disappointment and shook his head. “No, I’m afraid it’s a special job. It’s got to be Nedrach.”
Barrh shifted his considerable bulk in the water. “Then you might as well enjoy the soak, friend Marcus. You’re out of luck.”
Crusher chuckled and fixed the Melacron with a look—alerting Tuvok that they were in for more of the same nonsense displayed at The Den. He felt the familiar sensation of disapproval stir within him. Humans were irksome, no question about it.
“No, I don’t think we are out of luck,” the commander told Barrh.
The Melacron looked at him. “What do you mean?”
Crusher shrugged. “Someone’s got to be riding Nedrach. Who would let a steed of that caliber go unsaddled for long?” He leaned toward Barrh. “I’m willing to bet you can tell me who that someone is.”
The Melacron laughed out loud at Crusher’s brazen behavior. Tuvok thought of Old Scowly, standing just behind the gilded door, ready to burst in at a moment’s notice. It would be bad enough for them to be shown the door, he reflected. To be shown the door without the benefit of their clothing would be even less acceptable.
“It is obvious to me, friend Marcus,” said Barrh, and this time there was a distinct edge to his words, “you don’t place much value on your life or the life of your friend, or you wouldn’t be threatening a fellow who handles assassins for a living.”
Crusher fell still for a moment. He smiled easily, but his eyes had gone quite hard and cold.
“It is obvious to me, friend Barrh,” he replied, “that you don’t place too much value on your life either, or else you wouldn’t be threatening a man with the wealth to hire assassins in Nedrach’s price range…not to mention the precaution of a Vulcan bodyguard.”
Tuvok was startled by the comment and the sudden hard look Barrh gave him, but he played along with the commander’s charade. He tilted his head and cast a sidelong look at the Melacron. Let Barrh make of the gesture what he will, he thought.
The Melacron looked from the Vulcan to the human and back again, his eyes sharp and alert. Finally, he sighed.
“Bin Nedrach has caused me sufficient irritation,” he said. “He’s not worth ruining a good, hot soak over.”
Crusher nodded. “That’s the spirit.”
>
“The fellow you want,” Barrh continued, “is Bidrik Onaggh. He’s a Benniari. He runs a dance hall on the other side of the city—just the thing to entertain a gentleman after spending some time at The House of Comfort.”
“Onaggh is Nedrach’s rider?” the commander inquired.
“No,” said the Melacron. “But he speaks with him from time to time. He’ll know more about Nedrach’s whereabouts right now than anyone.”
Tuvok was surprised to hear that a Benniari was involved with crime on this depressing planet. The Benniari were known for their culture and gentleness, after all.
Then again, he reminded himself, even a Vulcan occasionally forsook logic and turned to unsavory pursuits. Given that, Barrh’s revelation wasn’t necessarily all that surprising.
Crusher rose from the pool. Green slime clung to his body for a moment, then oozed off and plopped back into the clogged bath water. As he reached for a large towel on a nearby wall rack, he said, “Thanks, friend Barrh.” Wrapping the towel around him, he turned around slowly to meet the Melacron’s gaze. “Of course, if you’ve lied to us, we’ll be back.”
“Naturally,” said Barrh.
The commander gave his host a perfunctory smile, tucked the loose end of the towel into the area around his waist, and nodded brusquely to Tuvok. However, the Vulcan hesitated for a fraction of a second before he followed Crusher out of the pool, and therefore saw what the human did not: a subtle change in their host’s expression.
It had started out as affable as when they entered. But for a moment, it was clearly filled with scorn.
Making note of it, Tuvok rose, secured another towel and wrapped it about himself, then trailed Crusher out of the room. Before long, he found himself back in the dressing facility—and relieved to be there indeed.
To his dismay, the commander seemed inordinately pleased with himself. “We got what we came for,” he crowed, discarding his towel and reaching for his clothing. “Now it’s on to the dance hall.”
“I wonder,” the Vulcan replied stiffly. “You shamed our host—and he appears to be a proud man.”