Chapter Text
Part Four (Cont’d)
Zesh hadn’t had the pleasure of being formally introduced to Sa’Loq. But he didn’t need to be on first name terms to see which side he was on. The pistol pointed at his stomach rather gave that away.
The Ferengi didn’t have a weapon of his own. So once again, he had to fall back on his ability to negotiate.
“L—Listen,” he stammered, his hands raised up to the heavens, “Before you kill me, and have that unspeakable act on your conscience for the rest of your life, you may want to consider that I was just the victim of a very loud explosion, which has almost certainly caused irreparable damage to my auditory cortex. In fact, I’m positive it ruptured my tympanic artery, which given our remote location means inoperable internal bleeding. So, really, w—when you think about it, I’m already dead.”
His adversary didn’t seem overly sold on the negotiation. Zesh felt his legs turning to jelly.
“You know, off-worlder,” Sa-Loq grunted, “Toxis wants you rounded up and brought back in. But maybe I’ll just tell him this was self-defence…”
Sa-Loq cocked his pistol. Zesh licked his parched lips and opened his mouth again. Both men were surprised to hear the angry roar that emanated out.
Except the sound hadn’t come from Zesh.
Instead, just as Sa’Loq went to pull the trigger, the banshee-like form of a crazed Vulcan in a garish Hawaiian shirt raced in as if from nowhere and tackled the gangly Nimbosian to the ground in a flurry of screams and limbs. The force of the collision was powerful enough to send the loaded pistol skittering across the dirt, out of reach of both of them.
Instead of grabbing the freshly liberated weapon, Zesh found himself watching in shock as Sunek, seemingly powered by some sort of primal rage, grappled with Sa’Loq for dear life.
Even though his opponent had him beaten in terms of height and weight, the Vulcan seemed to be making up for it with sheer energy, and despite the humid early evening conditions on the ranch, he was soon on top.
Sunek, for his part, was barely thinking about what he was doing. As soon as he had turned the corner and seen Sa’Loq’s weapon pointed at Zesh, he had acted on instinct. An instant flare of passionate anguish had rushed up from deep inside, and the next thing he knew, he was wrestling the man in the choking dirt.
He was still running off that fulminating anger as he fired a couple of punches into the midriff of Sa’Loq with enough force to clear the air from his body.
Sunek would have been the first to admit that he wasn’t a natural fighter. In fact, he was probably the least capable of the entire Bounty crew. Still, right here and now, that didn’t seem to matter. He managed to sit up in the dirt, straddling his opponent. Sa’Loq’s desperate attempts to parry the blows that rained down from above became weaker and weaker.
And each time a punch landed, it was accompanied by a growl of guttural fury from the depths of Sunek’s heart.
So consuming was his anger that it didn’t even register with him when the Nimbosian succumbed to unconsciousness from the force of the beating. That he was now merely thumping his fists down onto the bloodied face of a man who could no longer fight back.
He was still running on frenzied autopilot as he reached into the back pocket of his trousers and withdrew the small whittling knife he’d been working with earlier. The one he had already got a feel for as a weapon during his impromptu melee attack on the wooden handrail of the homestead.
Without a second thought, he thumbed the sharp blade out of the housing and raised it above his head, a murderous glint in his eyes.
“Sunek!”
Zesh’s hand grabbed his arm with enough force to stop him in his tracks.
“I think you got him,” the Ferengi added, the sarcasm in his tone disguising the deeper shock that he was feeling from what he had just witnessed.
And suddenly, the rage subsided inside Sunek. Replaced by a feeling of horror at what he had done. He dropped the knife and hurriedly clambered off Sa’Loq’s unmoving body, scrambling backwards through the dirt on his hands and knees, trying to get away from the bruised and bloodied face of the man he had just attacked as he took in ragged lungfuls of warm air, panting from exertion.
Zesh awkwardly leaned down and checked the unconscious Sa’Loq for a pulse. Despite the aching in his tired lungs, Sunek suddenly found himself holding his breath.
“Is he—?”
Zesh stood back up and wiped the second-hand blood off his hand with his pocket square, before looking back at the Vulcan in the dirt. “He’ll live.”
The Ferengi helped Sunek back to his feet, who only now took his eyes off his victim to look down at his bloodied and ragged knuckles, the skin worn raw by the force he had used.
“I thought you Vulcans just did that nerve pinch of yours?” Zesh added as they hastily walked away from the scene of the fight.
It didn’t happen often, but Sunek found that he didn’t have anything to say. He didn’t know what he could say.
Because he wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened.
* * * * *
“It’s over, Toxis. You lost.”
Jirel tried to keep all traces of cockiness out of his voice as he stared the outlaw down and the shadows grew longer across the ranch. He was only partially successful.
“But listen,” he continued, “I’m a nice guy. You can leave Prosperity County. And you’ll have my word that nobody’ll follow you.”
Toxis didn’t move. Both of his hands hung down near his holstered pistols. He managed a slight grunt of amusement. “You really don’t understand how things work here, do you, stranger?” he said, “See, Toxis doesn’t lose.”
Now he did move, taking a step to his right. Jirel matched his movement. The two men slowly circled each other, Jirel doing his best to ignore the embarrassing clink of his spurs with every step he took.
After a few more steps, Toxis stopped. Jirel did the same. It didn’t take the Trill long to see what that little manoeuvre had been for. The setting sun was now in his eyeline, and Toxis had moved around so that his view was unimpeded.
Should have seen that one coming, he thought to himself with a rueful grimace.
Instinctively, he moved his hands a little closer to his own pistols, as he stared through the reddening sky at his adversary. “Everyone’s got to lose one day,” he quipped back across the distance between them, “Guess today’s that day for you.”
Toxis was unmoved. His only response was to send a familiar glob of tobacco down onto the ground next to his foot, without taking his eyes off the Trill.
A slight gust of wind blew a slither of dust across the expanse between them. But it did little to quell the heat of the moment.
Jirel was sure that Toxis’s hands were now resting on his pistols.
“You know, you’ve been talking pretty smart ever since I met you,” Toxis offered back, “And I’ve really been looking forward to wiping that dumb smile off your face.”
“Bigger men than you have tried,” Jirel called back, entirely truthfully.
In the distance, the sound of gunfire elsewhere in the ranch grew ever more sporadic. Each man ignored it, keeping their focus on each other.
Jirel felt his own hand twitch over his pistols.
He couldn’t help but recall the times he’d practised his quick draw in front of the mirror as a kid. And also a few times in his cabin on the Bounty since they had started their journey to Nimbus III. He was just a tiny bit disappointed that it wasn’t actually high noon.
Unfortunately for Jirel, he had once again entirely confused holosuite programs with reality. Because, while most of the scene he was in was straight out of the old Westerns he had excitedly watched as a dorky child back on Earth, Toxis wasn’t.
Toxis was no programmed character, or connoisseur of old Earth culture and the rules of the final showdown. He was from the Planet of Galactic Peace.
Which meant that, as Jirel continued to soak in the scene, Toxis felt no compulsion to stand on any further ceremony.
Before the Trill in the cowboy hat had time to fully contemplate what was happening, he saw Toxis draw a pistol. And he heard the gunshot.
Jirel had never been shot by a projectile weapon before.
He’d been on the wrong end of just about every other sort of weaponry. He’d been burned by disruptor fire, stunned by phasers, been slashed and stabbed by more bladed weapons than he cared to remember and been punched more times than a Terrellian boxer. But this was new. So he had no idea what it was supposed to feel like.
Still, he was pretty sure it was supposed to feel like something.
On the other side of the shoot-out, Toxis stood stock-still, outlined by the encroaching sunset, with a serene look on his gaunt face.
A split second before he’d pulled the trigger and finished off the irritating off-worlder for good, he’d felt something. Something he immediately realised he should have picked up on before, but that it was now too late to do anything about.
He’d felt a tingling on the back of his neck.
Now, as the pain from the pellet slowly engulfed his torso, and his eyes began to glaze over, he heard the scratch of footsteps in the sand behind him. He didn’t bother to turn around.
“Huh,” he grunted, with a slightly weakened voice, “It’s you.”
And with that, he fell to the ground, leaving Jirel staring across at where Bri’tor had emerged from behind one of the nearby buildings, holding a gently hissing pistol. The Trill watched on as the bartender walked over to where Toxis had fallen and stared down at the man that he had feared for so long.
“Yep,” Bri’tor grunted, “It’s me. And…that was for my brother.”
Toxis didn’t reply. He’d never reply to anything ever again.
Jirel quickly walked over to where Bri’tor stood. The bartender acknowledged him as he approached with a simple nod.
“How the hell did you know we were here?” the Trill asked.
Bri’tor gestured down at Jirel’s feet with the barrel of his gun.
“Heard your boots.”
Jirel looked down at his spurs, and made a mental note to miss out that part of the story when he told the others later.
Mustering a smile, he looked back up at Bri’tor. “Well, thanks. I guess I owe—”
He stopped himself, glancing around at the ranch and smiling ruefully.
“I guess I owe you one.”
* * * * *
By the time Jirel and Bri’tor made it back to the centre of Goodlife Ranch, the battle was well and truly over. The remaining stragglers in Toxis’s gang that had made it to the end had found themselves entirely outnumbered and outgunned, and had taken off on their horses even before hearing of their boss’s untimely demise.
And so the two of them returned to find that an atmosphere of quiet celebration had descended on the scene.
After sharing a respectful nod, they parted ways. Bri’tor rushed over to embrace Kitaxis, who was looking over several injured townsfolk as best she could with help from Natasha, while Jirel headed to where Klath, Denella, Sunek and Zesh had gathered, in the shade of the main homestead. As soon as he got to them, he was accosted by Denella, who gave him a relieved hug.
“You’re an idiot,” she said.
“I know.”
“We were victorious,” Klath added with a hearty tone, entirely unnecessarily.
“I know that as well. Everyone ok?”
For some reason, the only person that didn’t acknowledge him was Sunek, who seemed preoccupied with something else. Before Jirel could enquire any further about what the matter was, Natasha joined them.
“I think we all made it,” she said, gesturing back to the injured townsfolk, “A fair few injuries and wounds, but we’ve patched them all up.”
“Thank you all,” Zesh sighed in relief as he patted his brow with a fresh pocket square, “Now, with Toxis gone and the pump repaired, all we need to do is wait for my buyer. He should be here in another—”
“Nope.”
Zesh was stopped in his tracks by Jirel’s comment. The others looked equally perplexed. Jirel sighed deeply, then continued.
“We can’t do that, Zesh. We can’t go through with the sale.”
His comment was met by a sea of confused faces, and one distinctly miffed Ferengi. “After all we’ve just been through,” Zesh retorted, “We most certainly can!”
“No,” Jirel shook his head, glancing at the woman standing next to him, “Natasha was right. We can’t just make a profit off these people, Zesh. Not now. They just risked their lives to help us out down here—”
“We all just risked our lives!” the Ferengi fired back, “Do you have any idea how many guns I’ve had pointed at me today?”
But Jirel’s mind was made up. He didn’t exactly like the way that it was made up, but it was made up nevertheless. “I’m serious,” he persisted, “If we do this, we’re no better than the guys we just drove out of town. We’re just another gang sweeping into Prosperity County, taking what we want, and leaving them with nothing. Can you honestly say that doesn’t bother you?”
“Yes,” Zesh said with an irritated glare.
“Well,” Jirel replied with a defeated shrug, “Turns out it bothers me.”
“Good,” Natasha nodded, “Cos it bothers me as well.”
To the surprise of everyone, Klath stepped over to where the two defiant Bounty crew members stood in opposition to the Ferengi, joining in with their impromptu protest. “These people fought well,” he boomed, “It would not be honourable for us to take advantage of their courage for our own means.”
Zesh rolled his eyes. He could see where this was going.
“Well, I guess I’m with these guys,” Denella chimed in, as she stepped over to the group, “This isn’t how I wanna make my fortune.”
Everyone, including Zesh, turned their attention to Sunek. The Vulcan had been entirely passive so far, still troubled by and struggling to process what he had just done during the fight for the ranch.
But, seeing that everyone’s attention was on him, Sunek did what he did best, and buried his own troubles deep down inside himself in order to reassert his usual cheeky demeanour.
He allowed a comforting grin to spread across his face.
“I can see my crewmates are being incredibly stupid, even by their own standards,” he said, “And I’m totally onboard with it.”
He bounded over to join the others. Zesh stared at the united group like they’d just trashed his own Attainment Ceremony.
“Come on, Zesh,” Jirel pressed, “You got the place for free. It’s not like you’re losing anything.”
“Except for all the latinum that Markalian was gonna give you,” Sunek added, now entirely back to his old self.
Zesh sighed and shook his head, throwing his hands up in resignation. He was as defeated as Toxis’s gang had been. “Why,” he said miserably, “Why are you being like this? I mean, you really don’t have to be like this, you know? You’re not Starfleet!”
Jirel adjusted his hat, running his hand across the brim to position it at just the right angle.
“No, we’re not,” he drawled, “We’re the good guys.”
The others rolled their eyes more thoroughly than ever before. Zesh tutted miserably.
“This,” he grumbled at the Trill, “This is why you’ll never make a profit.”
End of Part Four