A Very Inconvenient Vulnerability
Posted on 01 Jun 2024 @ 6:02am by Brek - Timeless Treasures Art Gallery
Edited on on 01 Jun 2024 @ 7:13am
Mission:
M4 - Falling Out
Location: O.C - Brek's Quarters
Timeline: MD 4 - Day 26 - Morning
1170 words - 2.3 OF Standard Post Measure
Brek usually preferred not to check his messages before breakfast, for fear of losing his appetite. This morning though, call it flair or boredom (today, dietary considerations oblige, the first meal of the day consisted of a meagre apple and a cup of insipid black tea), he had consulted those messages, and of course his appetite had run away.
The first communication was a curt trio of words from Commander T'Sheng: "Appointment cancelled today." This meant his lucrative opportunity to sell her overpriced jewelry had evaporated. A misfortune, since he possessed trays upon trays of extravagant items: bejeweled beetles adorned with tourmalines and sapphires, dragonflies crafted from moonstone and diamonds, scarabs boasting pink topaz and latinum, praying mantises sculpted from solid gold, and cicadas and butterflies with wings of shimmering turquoise. All for him to keep. What misery!
Ten minutes later, he had summed up the courage to sample his tea, which tasted like dried herbs and hot water. A bit like medicine, really. Bitter and discouraging. Surely, his morning would soon perk up with good news and golden opportunities.
No such luck. Soon after, another message, this time from his old friend Mrs Moreau was delivered with the subtlety of a punch to the gut:
“Brek. Vous êtes con ou quoi?”
Having heard this sentence on several occasions, the Ferengi knew that it meant ‘Are you stupid or what?’ Mrs Moreau was often like that, direct to the point of being brutal. No diplomacy with her. She either spoke her mind or she didn’t, and when she didn’t you wouldn’t hear a word from her for months.
“Good day to you too, Mrs Moreau. What? What have I done this time?” He typed, choosing his favourite stance: that of complete innocence.
The business must be serious because Moreau switched from texting to video call. She filled the screen, resplendent, in a long-sleeved shirt, riding breeches, and boots. In the background, a terran landscape, green upon green, with some horses. Real ones - not just hewmons with long teeth. The view looked idyllic, if you liked the smell of pesticides and manure. The Glorious Countryside.
Moreau shouted something in French to a girl who had just arrived on the scene. Something long and convoluted that didn’t sound too charming. She then returned her attention to him: “Do you really think I sent you a box of chocolates because I like the colours of your eyes?”
“Worse things have happened,” he replied. He took another sip of tea, with the idea it would give him a better countenance. “I've been complimented on their chocolate-y depths on more than one occasion, you know.”
The French woman blinked, which she was prone to do when confronted with what passed for Ferengi humour. “Whatever,” she muttered dismissively. “What did you do with that box of chocolates?”
“What a question? What does anyone do with confections? I ate them.”
“And the box?” She pressed.
“I wasn’t that starved. I refrained from eating it. Let me guess, you sent that box to me by mistake and it was intended for someone else. As often, you’re out of luck, Mrs Moreau. That box is no more. It went to the incinerator.”
“Incroyable.” She sighed. “And to think that you have a four-lobed brain. I have known you to be more insightful.”
Brek shrugged. Although they were friends, and could usually be convinced of helping each other out, what Moreau thought had never had much impact on him.
"There was an isolinear optical chip in that box," she blurted, cutting him off before his witty retort could form. "I figured you'd spot it. Nothing usually slips past you."
He scoffed. “You should have sent vinegar then,” he said. “This way it would have translated your state of mind perfectly, and I would have seen the damn chip. What’s your game? Why conceal intel in a box of chocolates? Who does that??”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? You ruined everything. I should have known you couldn’t be trusted...”
“Trusted with a silly box of chocolates? Of course I cannot. Why didn’t you send a message with it? That would have been reasonable, but of course it’s beyond you. You have to be super clever to the point of being abstruse. Clear as mud, that’s what you are.”
"Are you finished?" she spat, her voice tight.
"Seems that way," he muttered.
"This clandestine method was necessary to avoid drawing attention to the information," she explained.
Tsst... Secretive women. It was bad enough that all Romulans were at it, if Hewmons followed suit, the whole universe would descend into incomprehensible chaos. It would be triple entendres, double meanings, and tergiversations everywhere. Was straightforward communication truly a lost art?
The situation baffled him. "So, you're playing cloak-and-dagger now? I’ll be blunt: The thought is scary.”
"Nothing new, Brek. Everything sends you running for cover," Moreau said with a theatrical sigh. A tense silence hung in the air before she resumed, her voice a hushed whisper, "I've uncovered information that might affect someone close to you. An investigation... seems imminent."
“No one’s ever been close to me, Mrs Moreau. I make sure of that, for my sake, and that of my latinum too.”
“You nonetheless have one very inconvenient vulnerability."
"Vulnerability? Don't be ridiculous. I'm a confirmed bachelor! My life's a desolate wasteland compared to the Great Plains of Splort. Heck, I spend most of my time talking to a holo-assistant. And I can terminate her whenever I want. Hold on, are you suggesting my assistant is compromised?"
A sly smile played on Mrs Moreau's lips, hinting that Brek might be more attached to this holo-character than he cared to admit, which was absolutely not true. "I wasn't aware you indulged in such… distractions," she remarked lightly. Her amusement vanished as she continued in a serious tone, "I'm referring to that persistent ancient relative of yours. It would be in her best interest to lay low for a while. She's attracted unwanted attention."
Brek's posture stiffened. Ara, his grandmother, was clearly in danger. "How did you find this out?" he demanded.
"The chip, hidden in the chocolates," Moreau replied impatiently. "It detailed everything. Make sure who-you-know leaves Federation space for a few months. There is increasing rumour that one retired Cmdr is looking into what happened in ‘94 on Starbase 520. I have said enough and must go now.”
“By all that is precious,” he quickly added. “Not so fast! Send me another box of chocs with a new chip!”
“Do your own unsupervised-knowledge-acquisition, Brek. R. Dis. That's the name you need to chase down.”
The next moment the screen went blank, leaving him with a growing sense of urgency. Should he really act though? Since he was no longer Ara’s favourite grandson, maybe he should just let matters follow their natural course. Action by inaction... Could it pay, or was it too dangerous a game?
