[Cavan] Reynard, Aralim Reynard pt 3

[Lynzie Austin]

Reynard, Aralim Reynard pt 3

The air in the alcove had changed. The cloying scent of opulence and secrets was now underscored by the sharp, clean odor of antiseptic from Ellie's kit and the electric tang of locked-down fear. The remaining players from that particular game, the Nausicaan, the Ferengi, the Romulan, were isolated islands of tension under the watchful eyes of Security. 

Maim Chalak observed it all from his seat, looking insufferably smug. The self satisfaction was beyond self masturbatory, it was clear as crystal. 

Reynie chose to be the bigger man, bypassing the Bolian and bee-lining straight to his next target: the pasty-looking man in the tuxedo with the glazed expression and exceedingly coiffed hair, standing behind the "Employees Only" signage as if awaiting his next command.

The dealer.

Up close, the man's perfection was unnerving. His hair was a sculpted masterpiece that wouldn't dare be disturbed by a stray breeze. His tuxedo was immaculate, without a single crease out of place. His hands, resting at his sides, were perfectly still. Too still. There was no life in his eyes, just a vacant, polished sheen.

“You,” Reynie said, rather conversationally in his mind. “Let’s have a chat, you and I.”

“How may I be of service, sir?” the Dealer replied. His voice was smooth, but had an uncanniness that left a small shiver up Reynie’s backside. An android. A damned good one to boot. If Reynie was more of a gambler, he would lay money down on it being one of Mudd’s. It moved with a stylized grace, but not that fluid lifelikeness of a Soong bot. 

“Why don’t you tell me down to the last detail what you saw,” Reynie asked. “You can start with when Sloane folded.”

The Dealer’s head tilted a precise five degrees. “The player known as Sloane examined his hole card. His heart rate increased by twelve percent. He released a 0.3 microgram pulse of cortisol. He verbally declared ‘fold’ and pushed his cards toward me.”

Reynie’s eyes narrowed. So that’s what the Dealer was. “I didn’t ask for his vitals. I asked what you saw. Who else in the room reacted when he folded?”

The Dealer was silent for a moment, its processors whirring almost silently. “The player known as The Romulan, Sebaib, exhibited a 5% increase in dermal conductivity. The Ferengi, Plenzo, subvocal murmuring contained the phrase ‘foolish waste.’ The Nausicaan, Gaetz, showed no physiological change.”

“And Chalak?” Reynie pressed. “What did our host do?”

The Dealer’s polished eyes met Reynie’s. “Maim Chalak smiled.”

“Did he now,” Reynie murmured. “And after Sloane left the table. Did anyone else leave? Even for a moment?”

“Negative. All players remained seated for the subsequent hand, which you won.”

“Right. My four of a kind,” Reynie said, a note of pride inadvertently creeping into his voice. It was a damned fortunate hand. 

The Dealer’s head tilted. “A statistical anomaly worthy of note. The probability of you being dealt the Three of Clubs, followed by the Three of Diamonds, Three of Spades, and the Ace of Spades in the configuration presented, with your hole card being the Three of Hearts, was approximately 0.00024%. The odds of Sebaib simultaneously holding a full house, Queens over Tens, were themselves infinitesimal. For both events to occur in direct opposition… the statistical probability is 4.7 x 10^-9.”

Reynie did everything in his power to not appear as slackjawed as he felt. “Slap my ass and call me Cletus,” he mumbled before he cleared his throat and continued. “Does the deck attune itself for the game being played?” 

“My programming prohibits direct manipulation of chance,” the Dealer repeated, his tone unchanged. “However, a psionically resonant deck in a high-stakes, high-emotion environment can create focal points of extreme probability. It did not guarantee your hand. It responds to will. To be needed.”

“What need would that be?”

“​​Your need to prove you still belonged at the table after the psychological assault. Your opponent's need to crush an upstart human. The deck… facilitated a resolution. The math remains, but the variables are not merely cards. They are ambition, fear, and resolve.”

Reynie stared at the unassuming deck on the table. It hadn't felt like luck. It had felt like… inevitability. The pieces slammed together. The killer, the cards, Chalak’s smile… it was all part of the same system. A system that punished failure and rewarded… what? Ruthlessness? 

“Who carries out the punishment?” Reynie asked.

The Dealer’s head tilted again. “The House always wins, sir.”

He gave the android a final, long look before turning away, the weight of the investigation pressing down on him. He needed to find Ellie. He needed to know if her search had turned up what he now feared.

He found her standing near the main casino floor, her tricorder put away, deep in conversation with two of the security officers who had secured the perimeter. Her expression was grim, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. It was unfortunate that she had seemed to have procured some black cardigan and had it wrapped tightly over her dress. Presumably to be taken more seriously. Honestly, if she wanted to be taken seriously, she could’ve kept walking around in just that red thing. As he approached, the security officers nodded to her and moved off to their posts.

“Raven, what’s the word,” he asked, his voice beginning to sound tired and he didn’t bother hiding it. 

“Word is this place is a slaughterhouse,” Ellie seethed. “I questioned the on-site security detail. The ones who actually patrol the floors, not Chalak's personal thugs. They were... surprisingly chatty once they realized they were answering to Starfleet and not their psychotic boss.”

She stepped into his personal space, dropping her tone low. “People go missing a few times during a solar cycle and no one bats an eye. They said it is not often, but it is regular enough. They do not vanish from the logs, but are written off. ‘Left of their own accord’, ‘settled their debts’, that sort of thing. The security chief told them it's the cost of doing business with high-stakes clients who have powerful enemies.”

“Shit,” Reynie muttered. 

Ellie nodded, she motioned back to the beaded curtain where Chalak was under heavy guard. “That son of a bitch is running a goddamned abattoir under the guise of it being a gamehouse. It is clear that it must not be one killer, it is some sort of twisted version of compliance. This guy has to go, so it is your turn. It is so—”

She was shaking, she was so angry. It took everything in his power to not hold her on the middle of the casino floor, he put his hand on the crook of her elbow. “I know,” he did his best attempt to soothe her. 

She took a sharp breath, her voice dropping to a raw whisper. “He is not just a killer. He is a curator. He collects their secrets, their money, and then he... he disposes of them.”

“He’s sealed in,” Reynie rubbed her arm. “And now, we know how he gets his information… my hunch is that Sloane outlived his usefulness in information and—”

Ellie’s eyes lit up. “That is why the cards were not in his favor.” 

“And you were giving me guff about my hunches,” Reynie winked. 

“Color me wrong, this time,” she beamed. “Now, we need to find out what hand Ferata was dealt.” 

Reynie’s gaze swept back toward the alcove, toward the silent, smug Bolian and the unnervingly perfect Dealer. “The Dealer keeps a record. A perfect, impartial record of every hand, every bet. If Ferata played, it’s in its memory.”

“I'm going to get that log. And you,” he said softly. “ You need to get ready to pull a full forensic sweep on Chalak's private terminal. If he's a curator, I’m willing to wager that he has a catalog. There’s no way that he keeps all that information in his mind alone.”

“Get that hand,” she said with equal softness. “I’ll get the data.” 

Reynie didn’t need any further encouragement, he practically flew across the floor back to the dealer. “The player who went missing before we arrived. His name was Agent Ferata, he may have used a psuedonym—-” Reynie stated, his tone leaving no room for evasion. “I need to know what his final hand was.” 

The Dealer's head rotated with that same, precise whir. His dark eyes gleamed a brilliant shade of amber as it accessed files. “Query acknowledged. Accessing game logs for player designation: Ferata.” 

A moment of silence, filled only by the hum of its internal processors. Then, a holographic projection shimmered to life above the table, displaying a five-card stud hand.

“Player Ferata's final hand,” the Dealer intoned. “Hole card: King of Spades. Up cards: Nine of Clubs, Nine of Diamonds, Two of Hearts, Three of Spades.”

The hand hung in the air. A pair of Nines. A mediocre hand at best. But it was the hole card that made Reynie's blood run cold.

The King of Spades.

He walked away from the Dealer, tapping his hand against his leg before a thought occurred to him. Then he pulled from his jacket his hand held computer and spoke quietly. “Dottie, sugar pie, what does the King of Spades mean?”

“I was beginning to think you forgot about me Aralim. In Cartomancy, ‘the King of Spades indicates a man of bad faith. He is a predator who seeks to use you for his own ends’. (1)“

“That seems more a hamfisted warning than anything,” Reynie muttered, shoving Dottie back into his pocket. 

For the briefest of moments, Reynie paced in a small semi-circle. Reynie then turned back to the Dealer, his tone urgent. “After this hand. After he was dealt the King. What happened to Ferata? Did he leave the table? Was he followed?”

The Dealer’s amber lenses glowed. “Player Ferata folded his hand. He excused himself from the table. He was not followed by any other player.”

“However,” the Dealer added, “he was observed entering a private elevator reserved for Maim Chalak’s personal use. Access requires a biometric key. He did not return.”

“Where does that elevator go?”

“That information is not within my operational parameters. I am aware of its existence and access requirements, but its destination is a classified node within the facility's network.”

Reynie jogged up to Ellie who was rapt in a conversation with the station’s informational tech support jockey, a scrawny human who looked all too thrilled to be helping her. The kid seemed nearly as preoccupied with looking at her legs as he was with nasally explaining all the ways the firewalls worked in the computer systems. 

“You wouldn’t be able to get me onto that elevator of his?” Reynie asked when he was finally noticed. 

The tech, whose nametag read ‘Lyle,’ blinked, tearing his gaze from Ellie. “His private elevator? Oh, man. That’s a whole other beast. It’s on a completely isolated system. No network access at all. It’s like… a digital black hole. You’d need his personal biometric key. It’s hardwired. No backdoors.”

Ellie gave Reynie a look that said, I have already been down this road.

“So we’re stuck,” Reynie said, frustration simmering.

“Well,” Lyle said, a slow, proud grin spreading across his face as he finally looked at Reynie. “I didn’t say that. You can’t hack the elevator. But you can hack the log that tells the elevator who to accept.” He tapped a frantic rhythm on his PADD. “The system that stores and verifies the authorized biometrics does have a network connection for updates. It’s got a crazy firewall, but…” He puffed out his chest slightly. “I’ve been probing it. I think I can get in. I can add your biometric signature to the approved list. You’ll walk right up, it’ll scan you, and the doors will open like you own the place.”

Reynie stared at the kid, a slow, predatory smile cut across his own face. He clapped a hand on Lyle’s shoulder. “Lyle, you magnificent little genius. Do it.”

“On it!” Lyle squeaked, his fingers flying across the PADD.

Ellie leaned close to Reynie, her voice a whisper. “You realize you are about to walk directly into the lair of a man you just accused of being a serial killer, based on the work of a boy who was, until thirty seconds ago, primarily focused on my hemline.”

“The best plans are always a little bit stupid, Raven,” Reynie murmured back, his eyes fixed on the elevator doors across the casino. “It keeps everyone on their toes.”

“Aaaaand… you’re in. You’re now listed as a Tier-1 authorized user. The system thinks you’re his long-lost brother.”

“I don’t see the resemblance, but the universe is a strange place,” Reynie quipped as he squeezed Ellie’s arm.

Making his way back to the elevators; He shot a look at Ellie of a mix of “hold the fort and if this goes sideways, it’s been fun”. The ornate, bronze elevator doors stood as foreboding as the obelisk in a Kubrick film. He could feel the weight of eyes on him. Ellie’s. The security team’s. He was sure Chalak himself was watching from the alcove, though he didn’t turn to check.

He stepped directly in front of the doors. A thin, red laser line scanned him from head to toe.

For a heart-stopping second, nothing happened.

Then, with a soft chime, the bronze doors slid open without a sound, revealing a plush, dimly lit interior. Honestly, did you expect me to have a laser here? C’mon. It’s an elevator in a casino, not the tower of terror. Although, this is another ripe opportunity for me to remind you of the 1998 classic with Steve Guttenberg and Kristen Dunst… now back to my coffee and regular scheduled story. 

Reynie took a deep breath, stepped inside, and turned to face the casino as the doors began to close. He gave a casual, two-fingered salute to the room at large, a final bit of bravado for the audience.

The doors sealed shut with a definitive whoosh, plunging him into silence. The elevator began to descend, smooth and rapid. He was in the tube. There was no going back now. He was on his way to meet the King in his castle. 

*****

Weeks before the first drop pod fell, the Cardassian Central Command had greenlit the operation. They called it The Kessler Trap. (2) A few, carefully leaked distress calls from Veridian III, mentioning the cultural treasure of the Athenaeum. Just enough to prick the conscience of the Federation and ensure Starfleet would feel honor-bound to send a meaningful force. They wanted a battalion. A single ship could be swatted away. A battalion required a larger support fleet, more targets, more chaos.

When the Starfleet task force arrived, commanded by the noble but utterly predictable Admiral Connors, they found a Cardassian fleet of seemingly equal strength holding position just outside weapons range. A classic stalemate. A feint.

While the admirals exchanged terse hails, the true weapon was already in motion. From the system's asteroid belt, three automated seeder ships, little more than engines and cargo holds, began their final burn. They did not target the Starfleet vessels. Instead, they flew a pre-programmed course, releasing their payload into a perfect shell around Veridian III.

Thousands of Caltrop smart-mines, each the size of a dinner plate, deployed silent, stealth-coated nets. They were proximity-based, designed not to destroy, but to maim and multiply. When triggered, they would detonate into a cloud of hyper-velocity shrapnel, turning a single ship into a cloud of new, deadly projectiles. Among them drifted the Anvil penetrators, dense, dumb tungsten rods, ten meters long. These were the sledgehammers. An impact from one wouldn't just damage a ship; it would vaporize entire sections, creating a massive secondary debris field.

The Trap was sprung the moment Admiral Connors gave the order: "All units, forward to defensive positions. Prepare for orbital drop support."

The lead ship, the USS Courage, was the first to trigger the cascade. A single Caltrop detonated against its shields. The shrapnel cloud, traveling at orbital velocity, struck two Anvil rods and three other mines. The resulting chain reaction was both instantaneous and self-sustaining. The Courage was gone in seconds, its wreckage becoming the first wave of a new, artificial asteroid belt.

Admiral Connors’s voice, tight with horror, crackled over the fleet-wide comm before it was jammed: "It's a trap! All ships, fall back! The orbit is—"

The channel dissolved into static. The Kessler Zone was alive, a churning, chaotic blender of metal and fire. Any large ship attempting to enter would only feed the storm. The Cardassian fleet watched, impassively, from a safe distance. They hadn't fired a single shot.

Their objective was achieved. The Starfleet fleet was caged, forced to watch from the outside. The Marines on the surface were utterly, completely alone. The 9th Orbital Drop Battalion’s valiant insertion into that maelstrom wasn't a counter-punch. It was a desperate, sacrificial move, sending men and women to die in a trap that had already been closed. They weren't dropping into a battle. They were dropping into a tomb the Cardassians had built around a planet.

On the ground, weeks into the siege, the Hellhounds were no longer just surviving—they were hunting. But the Kessler Trap kept giving, its deadly gifts still raining down.

Reynard led Ghost Pack through the remains of the Veridian Central Transport Hub. Their target: a Cardassian relay node using the Hub's old comms array. Smoke and dust had replaced the air long ago, he had wondered if his lungs would ever recover. 

“Jabber, you in position?” Reynard whispered into his comm.

“Solid. I have a clean line of sight. No patrols on the upper gantries.”

“Copy. Chen, Stavros, with me. We go on my mark.”

They moved like shadows through the cavernous space, past the husks of burned-out ground-cars. They were ten meters from the relay node when the world exploded.

It wasn't a phaser blast. It was a deep, groaning crunch from above, followed by a shriek of tearing metal. A multi-ton section of a ship's primary hull—a piece of debris that had finally lost its unstable orbit—punched through the station's roof. The impact was deafening. Chunks of plasti-steel and concrete hailed down. Reynard was thrown off his feet, his head cracking against a console. Dazed, he looked up through the dust.

The relay node was crushed. So was the entire section where Jabber had been setting up.

"Jabber! Report!" he barked into the comm, pushing himself up. Static.

Then he saw it. A jagged, spear-like strut, part of the debris, had sheared off and pinned his leg to the deck. He felt no pain yet, just a terrifying pressure and the warm, instant soak of blood filling his boot.

"Sir!" Chen was at his side in a moment, her face pale.

"Don't... don't just stand there," Reynard grunted, his vision swimming. "Get a medkit and a laser cutter. And find Jabber."

The pain arrived then, a white-hot fire that raced up his nervous system. As Chen worked to cut him free, he clenched his jaw, his knuckles white on his rifle. He could hear the distant, methodical crunch of Cardassian boots. They'd have heard the impact.

Stavros's voice came over the comm, tight. “Jabber's alive. Concussed, but alive. The debris missed him by a meter.”

Lucky. Unlike him.

Chen finally freed his leg. The wound was a deep, ugly gash along his calf, muscle and tendon visible. It wasn't a heroic wound from a Cardassian disruptor. It was a random, ignoble injury from a dead ship in a dead orbit. Those flyboy assholes up there didn’t seem to be holding ground for anything.

As she slapped a coagulant bandage on it, the world seemed to tilt. A wave of nausea washed over him. He knew this was more than a leg wound. The head injury from the impact was making everything foggy.

“New orders,” he forced out, his voice slurring slightly. “Stavros, you have the Pack. Get Jabber and fall back to the secondary rally point. Chen, you're with me. We’ll be the diversion.”

“Sir, you can't walk—”

“If I can drag myself, I can shoot. Hell, I can hobble," He locked eyes with her, cutting through all the pain for the moment. He had no intention of getting out of here. That much was obvious, but he wanted them to. “That's all we need. You have your orders.”

He used his rifle as a crutch, leaning heavily on Chen as they moved away from the others, making noise, drawing the approaching Cardassians towards them. It was a delaying action.

Reynard braced himself against a console. Awaiting the onslaught of oncoming grey armor. 

*****

The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a stark contrast to the opulent casino above. Reynie stepped out into a cold, climate-controlled vault. 

The room was a mausoleum. Neatly arranged in stasis fields were the bodies of missing players, each with a playing card displayed at their feet. He saw Sloane, the King of Hearts still on his chest. Despite Reynie knowing damned good and well there was a body upstairs being processed, there he was. 

And in the center, a man in a black suit and green tie, Agent Ferata, with the King of Spades.

Nearly 52 of these vaults lined the wall that Reynie could count. “One for each card. This is insane that we didn’t get called before… ”

A soft, synthesized voice echoed. “Welcome, Captain.”

Reynie turned. In the center of the room stood another Dealer, its amber lenses fixed on him. “Let me take a crack at this, Chalak is a patsy and you let him think he’s the big cheese around here?”

“You are correct,” he continued. “The House always wins. I am the House. Maim Chalak is merely the face, the curator for the living. I am the curator for the final collection.”

Its articulated hand gestured to the grisly gallery. “Each represents a failure of will, a fold at the critical moment. They are my masterpiece. And you, Captain... you have been most interesting to observe.”

The Dealer took a step forward. “Your four of a kind showed such... potent will. You refused to fold. You are a worthy addition.”

“Oh that’s rich, you’re not the first trying to get my fine ass for your personal collection,” Reynie bragged, using sleight of hand to push the comms on his wrist. “Certainly not the last, but alas the buck stops here. I am one of a kind, limited edition. I do see the appeal, I do. Unfortunately, that aversion to death thing we mortals have and all that.” 

The android looked at him with a tilt of the head. “Your bravado is a predictable defense mechanism. It will be fascinating to preserve it in stasis.”

“That’s where you’re wrong Johnny 5; can I call you Johnny 5? Well, I need to call you something. You collect things that fold. That break. I don’t break. I bend, I adapt, and I cheat.” He gestured around the macabre gallery. “You’ve been playing a single, rigid game this whole time. But the game just changed. And you don’t even know the rules yet.”

“The reference is identified. A flawed, sentimental cinematic automaton. An insult. Noted.” His amber lenses brightened. “You speak of a new game. Elaborate.”

“The game is called ‘52 Card Pick Up’,” Ellie whispered, holding a phaser rifle to the nape of the Dealer’s neck. “You are about to find out how much it sucks.” 

Reynie patted the android cheek. “See, I told you I cheat.”  footnotes:  1: https://cardarium.com/king-of-spades-meaning-in-cartomancy-and-tarot/  2: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kessler_syndrome