Rebecca cleared her throat and leaned forward, folding her hands together as she rested them on the conference table. “Mr. Hasara, I have beef that I need moved. I can get other things as well. Luxuries people will pay for. Pay at a premium because the replicator cannot create them or do them justice.”
She paused, studying Hasara carefully, controlling her breathing so as not to give anything away.
“I do not have a merchant license, nor do I want one. I have no interest in opening a store or a restaurant, and, if I am being honest, I have no interest in working with you on the retail side.” Her mouth tightened slightly. “You have your grubby little fingers in everything around here, and I am afraid that arrangement would eventually leave one of us dead.”
She glanced at Sinai as she said it. If she were a betting woman, Sinai would be the first to fall. Hasara would not get his hands dirty when he could have someone else do it for him. Rebecca was not sure how she felt about that. On the one hand, it created plausible deniability with the authorities and projected power. On the other hand, it was a little cowardly. Still, that was the risk you accepted when you chose to operate in the greyer margins of society.
Hasara laughed. “My reputation continues to surprise and delight me, especially when I get to see and hear firsthand. My hands may appear to be grubby, but that money finances control. Control of the wheel in the lower decks here, and some control of the chaos of the rimward. You knew Ambrose Harris. He had an influence on those he encountered.”
“I knew Captain Harris by reputation only,” Rebecca said, shifting her weight and a slight shrug. “An influence on you?”
The Cardassian’s smooth smile faded. “He did, Rebecca Talon. A change I do not regret.” He sat back in the chair, eyeing her in silence. “That chip on your shoulder from your Starfleet career hasn’t healed, even in your retirement. We all have our things we carry. I carry the memories of the bloody deeds of my previous life. What I take from that weight is to use it as motivation to right the wrongs I can.”
Sinai broke her silence. “We’re all misfits trying to balance life’s credit sheet. We still get our hands dirty, and plenty of blood gets spilled.” She regarded Milo with a quiet stare before sliding back to Rebecca. “We’re trying to keep the good ones alive, and put the bad ones out of business. Permanently.”
Hasara chuckled dryly at Sinai. “What my associate is trying to say – we can move anything you like and get you a profit. We can get you a piece of the action when you’re ready. I run plenty of freelance contracts with all kinds of paperwork to bury and busy anybody who comes looking. I can move some here on station to transports that come to trade and ship it back home. You’ll need Rachel Harris and Harris Transport to run some routes to get your name and products out there.”
“I’m too old to be seeking a ‘piece of the action—'”
“But, we can handle it if and when it presents itself,” Milo added.
Rebecca glanced at her husband and smirked.
Hasara’s sly grin returned. “I’ll take you at your word about being too old. For now.”
Rebecca pulled a PADD from the inner pocket of her jacket. Without even looking at Hasara, she texted the device with a series of electronic trills. Seconds later, a transporter hummed, and a plate appeared, holding a steak, a baked potato beside a yeasty roll, steam curling into the station air. Next to it was a plate of strawberry shortcake, the strawberries bright red and dripping with sweet syrup.
“It won’t make you rich,” Milo said, “but folks are going to come for this.”
“Look at it that way,” Rebecca said, sliding the plate toward him. “It will draw people into your orbit to exploit.”
A quiet smile formed on Hasara’s lips. “Now, you’re speaking my language.”
