‘This is stupid,’ Cassidy grumbled. ‘Do you all hate me? Is this a prank?’

‘Don’t answer that,’ Rosewood muttered as Q’ira stepped back, eyes all innocence.

‘You said you have a recognisable face,’ she protested, pouting. ‘So you can stay aboard, we can alter your face, you can take your chances… or we do this.’ Behind her, amidst the rest of the Rooks on the Dust’s main deck, Nallera smothered a giggle with her hand.

‘I’m not that recognisable!’ said Cassidy. ‘I just said there might be someone I’ve run into before.’

‘If you don’t want us cooking up some facial modifications and you still want to be there,’ began Rosewood, a little more soothingly – he’d have to live with this, after all, ‘then we use other feats of misdirection. Like an accessory that’s all anyone will remember.’

‘Sure,’ said Cassidy, turning to the holographic projection of a mirror Q’ira had summoned. ‘But does it have to be a really big hat?’

Rosewood lifted a finger. ‘With a feather in it.’

Cassidy stared at his reflection. They’d planned roles for the group once they were at the auction – Rosewood and Q’ira taking point, Tiran and Aryn as advisors and attendants, and Nallera and Cassidy as the muscle. Everyone else got to wear colourful, opulent clothing that Q’ira had delighted in picking out for them over the course of a day. Even Nallera, with her allergy to sleeves, had been thrilled at picking through swirling, glittery designs of body paint to decorate her muscular arms. They were envoys of Torrad-Var, Master of the Bleak Shadow. That meant a little pomp and circumstance.

And a really big hat. With a feather in it.

An hour later, the Diamond Dust descended through the thin, sparkling atmosphere of Ilior, the luxury moon gleaming beneath them. Vast, rolling oceans stretched out to the horizons, the azure waters glinting as if sapphires had been sprinkled across the surface. Poor Ferengi terraforming had condemned the world to nothing but oceans, and it had taken decades before the investors moved in. With them came the artificial islands that now rose from the sea. Making them vast enough for serious habitation would have been far too expensive, so instead they were small, targeted, luxurious, each of them a monument to indulgence. Sleek towers, lavish estates, and sprawling casinos littered each, connected by hovering bridges and the buzz of ferries and private boats.

‘There might not be much law here,’ Q’ira mused, feet dangling over the side of the command chair, ‘but they keep their own kind of order.’ She sprang upright. ‘I’m gonna change. Make sure we land properly. The boys know what to do.’ A dismissive hand was waved at the beefcake holograms as she left.

‘We’re about to rub shoulders with the worst of the worst,’ said Cassidy once she was gone. He stood at the fore of the bridge, arms folded as he surveyed the islands growing bigger through the canopy. ‘You think you know scum? You don’t know scum who think they’re untouchable. This isn’t pirates – this is crime lords. Professional mercenary companies. Not just smugglers – war profiteers. People whose power isn’t just the barrel of a gun. Isn’t even just fear. People with influence.’ He turned back to them. ‘Assume you don’t know what you’re getting into.’

Rosewood bit his lip. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘Yes, Boss,’ said Nallera, a bit mechanically. Aryn, who had gone faintly pink, just squeaked.

‘What?’

Tiran bit the bullet. ‘We’re sorry, Hal. But that was all serious and… you’re still wearing the hat.’

He snatched it off as Nallera burst out cackling. ‘Son of a -’

Rosewood beamed as he adjusted the collar of the perfectly tailored suit that was ostentatious even by his standards, with a shimmering emerald pattern whose shifts and changes were part of the fabric, not mere illusion. ‘Just stay out of the way and look menacing, Commander. Leave the schmoozing to me. But I want you close in case you clock anyone you know.’ He turned to the others. ‘Chief, I’ll give you excuses to tour the block. Figure out their security systems best you can, and the equipment people are using. Tiran, likewise, but gauge people – who’s a threat? Aryn, stick close to us, too – you know everything about everything.’ At Cassidy’s look, he paused. ‘Oh. Did you want to give the orders?’

‘It’s my team,’ he rumbled, but waved a hand at the others. ‘Do it.’

Torrad-Var had done his work ahead of time, with the Diamond Dust’s landing rights on Nank’s island already recognised. They swept at low altitude over a cluster of luxury islands, the data feed from the computer explaining the consortium of Ferengi who clustered their resources to make an archipelago of an exclusive resort. Had it not been for the Dust’s trim, a Kaplan would have looked out of place landing on its pad amidst the pleasure yachts and sports shuttles, but Q’ira had the right ship to project the right image: mixing business and pleasure.

She met them at the top of the landing ramp in an outfit that took advantage of every curve, draped in shimmering fabrics that flowed as smoothly as her movements. ‘You all scrub up well, but I’m going to have to outshine you all,’ she said before anyone could bother with a deserved compliment.

Rosewood sauntered over and extended an arm theatrically. ‘You ready for your big entrance?’

‘I was born ready, darling,’ she drawled, and draped her arm around his as if being his gorgeous accessory was in her nature. He wasn’t sure she did much else.

That held up for their arrival. An obsequious Ferengi official greeted them on the pad, bobbing his head as if he’d be tipped for every bow. Immediately they were welcomed as emissaries of Torrad-Var, and while Q’ira smiled and winked as she was recognised, Rosewood found he was the one confirming their arrangements.

Yes, they were there for the auction. Yes, they’d love to take in more of the sights. No, they would quarter on their ship – a standard security choice for many guests which suited their mission. With the salty breeze from the ocean curling through the air, and the shimmering lights of Nank’s resort stretching beyond the pad, it almost felt like getting through the dull administration ahead of a holiday.

Except it would all feel like that, at best, and if he got it wrong, they’d be dead.

‘But of course, you can make yourselves comfortable and enjoy the facilities,’ the Ferengi attendant oozed at them. ‘The first bid begins tonight: a series of magnificent art pieces from the Porten Dillig range.’

Rosewood glanced down at Q’ira. ‘Something for your suite on Risa, darling?’ She gave a pointless titter, and he brushed on quickly. ‘We look forward to it.’

With the attendant leading them across the thin bridge from the landing pad to the casino resort, they had to keep up appearances a little longer. It still surprised him when Q’ira leaned up to nuzzle his cheek, sending a stern quiver down to his gut that no pheromone-countering injections could banish.

‘I’m not your trophy wife at the golf club,’ she breathed into his ear, ‘I’m the fancy side-piece you fuck later. You might buy me gems to wear; you don’t plan my interior decorating.’

The bridge lead to a gate where security checks were obfuscated by the gorgeous design of the archway, though it all held the typical Ferengi ostentatious tastes. Gold leaf was everywhere, and Rosewood wondered how dazzling – or blinding – it would be at sunset. They were checked and allowed through, and he wasn’t sure what Nallera had slipped in past the scans, but she looked pleased with herself as they passed through the outer ring of the facility and into the sprawling gardens.

Busy as it was, the air was still relaxed. Rosewood’s idea of high society was good tailoring and good wine, not the cluster of figures assembled to mingle ahead of buying stolen art and technology. Stewards bustled around delivering drinks and canapes, some guests lazed back on loungers in the sun, and for everyone who seemed to be talking business, at least two people looked like they were actually having a holiday.

Even the underworld needed a break, he supposed. But the ocean stretching to the horizon felt like a pond compared to the sea they stepped into of the galaxy’s most dangerous and decadent. They passed a towering Nausicaan warlord in full ceremonial armour, his scarred face twisted in a permanent scowl as he exchanged terse words with a pale-faced Romulan in a crisp suit who clutched his PADD like a weapon. Nearby, a trio of Andorian women sipped from crystal glasses, the insignia stitched into the sashes over their flowing silks proving even a mercenary group could enjoy the finer things in life. An older Bolian magnate chuckled with an Orion man whose skin shone with cybernetic augments, their laughter thick with conspiracy. And amidst them all, what looked to Rosewood like nothing more than the occasionally well-heeled socialite flitted from conversation to conversation. Even if they were what passed for innocent on Ilior, they had to bring the wealth and influence and respect that made this black market operation possible.

A shadow and buzz hummed above, and Rosewood tore his gaze from the crowd to see a floating platform descend. Stood upon it, dressed in flowing robes and with his smile baring sharp teeth to make him look like a hovering creature of the night, was the Ferengi magnate Nank, his eyes set on them.

‘Welcome, welcome!’ he hissed, clasping his hands together. ‘Representatives of Torrad-Var are always welcome. And it is, of course, always a pleasure to see the lovely Q’ira again.’

Rosewood assumed the superior smile that his role demanded: the smug impotence of someone two heartbeats from power but who never had to do the heavy lifting, and gave his introduction in accordance to the cover story they’d arranged with Torrad-Var.

‘And your entourage, of course,’ said Nank with a more dismissive look to the others. ‘A strong showing. It’s good to see you came prepared for… competition.’

‘I’d be disappointed if there were none,’ Rosewood said easily, his arm around Q’ira tightening as he pulled her closer, playing up the role. ‘You’ve put together quite an event, Mister Nank. I hear it’ll be something to remember.’

Nank’s eyes gleamed. ‘Oh, I assure you. It’ll be unforgettable.’ He waved a hand. ‘The first bids will be tonight, 2000 hours. My attendants will make sure you’re familiar with our process here. We use all my own equipment so there can be no silly games.’

‘Of course. I prefer serious games.’

‘Worry not. Those are the only kind worth playing here.’

As they filtered into the crowd, the Rooks splitting where needed to survey the complex, Q’ira’s eyes flickered across the gardens, soaking up the whispered exchanges, the telltale signs of hidden security, the subtle glances between criminals who all but ran whole sectors. She leaned in to Rosewood, voice soft again.

‘That’s Vadrik, from the Kotharan gang. Once caught a guy cheating at a similar auction on Bellamore. Didn’t even flinch before having his goons stuff the poor bastard in a torpedo case and jettison him into space. Alive.’

‘I’ll make a note to not play cards with him,’ Rosewood mused.

‘And that’s Mikal Guras,’ she added, nodding to a human man lounging near the bar, surrounded by muscular bodyguards. ‘High-grade weapons dealer, sells to anyone with enough latinum to pay for his “special orders.” Heard he once sold Klingon disruptor rifles rigged to overload if they overheated… to both sides of the same civil war.’

‘That’s a hell of a model for profit from chaos. People still trade with him after that?’

‘Of course. The two factions? They weren’t the real client.’

Rosewood blew out his cheeks. ‘And no sign of Aestri, yet.’

‘She’ll be here,’ Q’ira assured him. It wasn’t comforting.

‘Plenty of time to get familiar. After all…’ Rosewood reached to pluck a crystal glass from the tray of a passing waiter. ‘She’s clearly not the only threat here.’