by Dayton Ward
Gluttony
Revenant
Marc D. Giller
Historian’s Note
This story takes place in early 2380 (ACE) after the fall of the Romulan Star Empire (Star Trek Nemesis) and concurrent with the Enterprise (NCC-1701-E) encountering the former Starship Einstein (Star Trek: The Next Generation—Greater Than the Sum).
In memory of Seenu Rao
“And miles to go . . .”
Intercept
A muffled roar seeped in from the other side of the docking port, the telltale throttling of maneuvering thrusters nudging another vessel alongside Celtic. The sound only seemed to amplify the vastness of space around the ship, at least to Jenna Reed’s senses. A mere two light-days past the way station at New Rigel, the ship was already perched at the outer reaches of Federation territory—a sensible precaution given the nature of this mission, but one that left her feeling troubled nonetheless. Reed would rather have picked the rendezvous point herself, instead of leaving that choice to someone she’d never met. That the man in question made his living as a gridstalker didn’t help matters any, but then it wasn’t her job to make those kinds of decisions. It had been the captain’s call, pure and simple—and the captain always knew what he was doing.
“Relax, Jenna,” Evan Walsh chided, sensing her anxiety. “You’ll make our guest nervous.”
Reed kept staring at the airlock door, hands clasped behind her back as she tried to appear at ease. As long as she had been working under Walsh, she had never mastered her commanding officer’s ability to project a dead calm in the face of so many unknowns. With his weathered features and discerning eyes, the role came naturally to him—unlike Reed, who kept her dark hair cropped short and wore a scowl to hide her youth and inexperience. Why he had chosen her for his first officer was a mystery Walsh had never explained to her—and a question she had never worked up the courage to ask.
“I don’t trust his kind,” Reed said. “They’ll do anything if the price is right.”
Walsh raised an eyebrow. “That’s tough talk, coming from a privateer.”
“There are thieves,” she observed, “and then there are thieves.”
The thrusters reached a loud crescendo, concluding with an impact tremor that caused the deck to lurch slightly beneath their feet. Engine noise quickly bled off into silence, followed by the hiss of pressurizing air. The crewman monitoring the airlock gave the captain a nod as soon as the seal engaged, then retracted the pins that secured the heavy door in place. It rolled over with a loud metallic groan, like a dungeon door that hadn’t been opened for years, ice crystals glinting from where moisture had frozen along the seam. A frigid draft poured out of the docking collar, which sublimated into fog as it came into contact with Celtic’s atmosphere, obscuring the tiny passageway between the two ships.
Reed peered through the mist, searching for signs of movement within. Soon after, a single figure emerged: a man with a slim frame topped by a young face—probably around Reed’s age, though something in his countenance suggested a person much older. He brushed back a shock of auburn hair from his forehead, appraising Reed the same way she appraised him. It wasn’t hard for her to see that he had spent a good portion of his lifetime on the run.
In spite of herself, Reed felt a stab of sympathy for him.
“Permission to come aboard,” he requested.
Walsh stepped forward, assuming a confrontational stance. The stranger automatically stiffened at the sight of authority, though he immediately caught himself and tried to hide it. The captain, however, missed nothing. He kept the pressure on, until the hint of a grin finally crossed his lips—more emotion than he had ever shown in Reed’s presence.
Which made her wonder yet again: Who is this guy?
“Permission granted,” Walsh told the man, greeting him with a firm handshake and a clap on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you again, Nicky.”
“Likewise, Skipper,” the stranger replied, taking in the ramshackle surroundings as Walsh dismissed his crewman. “I can’t believe you still got the old girl flying. The rumors about that deal with the devil must be true.”
“The devil may own my soul,” Walsh said, “but Celtic is all mine.”
“The man knows his priorities,” the stranger said, turning his attention toward Reed. She immediately picked up on his charm, which was an easy concoction that she had seen a hundred times, mostly in characters who operated at the edge of the law. “Then again, he always was good at ducking those Federation trawlers.”
“You ought to know,” Reed fired back, her tone heavy with insinuation. “From what the captain told me, you have the undivided attention of every section spook in the quadrant.”
“I thought my reputation went beyond borders,” he said, hitching a travel bag over his shoulder. His tone was cocky, in a way Reed might have found endearing years ago—but not so much now. “Maybe I’m slipping.”
“For all our sakes, I hope not.”
His eyes shifted back to the captain.
“Jenna Reed,” Walsh informed him, “my second in command.”
“I’m Vector,” the man said to her, as if he needed no introduction.
Reed gave him a hard stare. “The skipper called you Nicky.”
“That’s my name off the grid.”
“We’re not on the grid. You got a last name, or am I supposed to guess?”
He balked at telling her. Walsh didn’t give him a choice.
“Locarno,” he said. “Satisfied?”
“That remains to be seen,” Reed told him, as Walsh started leading them forward. Locarno made a point of positioning himself next to the captain as they walked through the cramped corridor, forcing her to stay on their six as she continued. “Right now, I’m more interested in finding out if you’re worth the price we paid.”
“She’s a real pit bull,” Locarno said, directing his remarks at the captain. “Is she always like this, or do I warrant special treatment?”
“Reed keeps me honest,” Walsh said, a slight jab in his voice. “She looks out for me—and she looks out for my crew. Pay attention and you might learn something.”
“I had my fill of camaraderie at the Presidio,” Locarno snapped, and from there he was detached and professional. “So what do you want first—the good news or the bad news?”
“Surprise me.”
“The good news is that I was able to confirm the intel you gave me. A Bolian transport accidentally intercepted it while they were making a run past the Castis system.” Locarno slipped an isolinear chip out of his pocket, tossing it over his shoulder to Reed. “That’s all the raw data I was able to extract out of their embassy subnets. They managed to pick out some anomalous signal in the vicinity of the Korso Spanse, repeating at semiregular intervals.”
“A ship?” Reed asked.
“Maybe,” Locarno said. “The whole region acts like a sensor trap, so it could be anything in there. Only thing for sure is that it’s stationary—only the Bolians couldn’t get a precise fix because of all the electrostatic interference. They just tagged it and filed a request for general assistance when they made it back to base. That was twelve days ago.”
Walsh’s eyes narrowed. “Did they get Starfleet involved?”
“That’s where the bad news comes in,” Locarno said, as the three of them stopped near a ladder that led up to the command deck. “The Bolian High Command is pretty tight with Starfleet, so it didn’t take long for this bit of news to move up the chain. Like clockwork, they ordered one of their ships to take a closer look during the next scheduled patrol.”
Reed took a deep breath. She didn’t like where this was headed.
“How long do we have before they get there?”
“They’ve already been,” Locarno said. “Thirty-six hours ago, to be exact.”
Walsh shook his head and muttered quietly. “Son of a bitch.”
Reed wasn’t nearly as calm. Locarno had just informed them that the mission was a
ll but dead—and that the time and money they had sunk chasing rumors of some missing vessel were wasted. “Unbelievable,” she seethed, circling around the ladder so she could get into his face. “You knew this whole thing was a bust, but you still dragged us all the way out here. Why put us at that kind of risk?”
“Because I needed to make sure.”
“About what?”
“That you were serious about this.”
“What’s the point, Nicky?” Walsh asked, siding with his first officer. “If the Feds have located that ship, then we’re as good as done. We won’t be able to get anywhere near her, much less pick her apart for salvage.”
“Only if the Feds know what they have.”
That last comment stopped both Reed and Walsh cold. They exchanged an uneasy look, then turned back to find Locarno maintaining that calculated veneer of his. Reed had no doubt that he was playing them, the way a gridstalker played everyone—controlling the information and raising the stakes. If it had been up to her, she would have folded right there and walked away from the table.
But the captain, as always, wanted to stay in the game.
“What are you getting at, Nicky?”
“Starfleet protocols are very specific,” Locarno answered. “Patrol craft are only authorized to make a detailed sweep. The full analysis gets done back at starbase—after which some admiral decides whether to assign a ship to investigate.” He paused for a moment, allowing the significance of what he had just said to sink in. “All we need to do is get at that data before they have a chance to see it.”
“And just how are we supposed to do that?” Reed asked.
“Turn your sensors at two-one-zero, mark five,” Locarno told them. “The solution should be moving into range right about now.”
Reed felt a tingle of dread, which she tried to suppress in the captain’s presence. Going over to the nearest intercom, she hailed the bridge three decks above. “This is Reed,” she said, trying to sound like she was in control. “Tactical, are you showing any contacts port side aft?”
“Tactical, aye,” came a harried response. “Single contact, one-point-seven-two milliparsecs distant following a parallel course—” The report then abruptly stopped, a gap filled with the rising din of other voices jabbering at each other across the bridge. “Belay that, Jenna. Contact is now altering course to intercept.”
“Estimate arrival.”
“Less than two minutes.”
Walsh drilled into Locarno with a molten stare before hauling himself up the ladder. “Bridge, this is the captain!” he shouted, with Reed in tow close behind him. “Fire up the engines, Mister Thayer. We’re getting out of here.”
Like the rest of the ship, Celtic’s bridge was a patchwork of alien technologies thrown together in a functional way, with little or no thought given to aesthetics. Her tactical console, scavenged from a wrecked Klingon battle cruiser, packed the rearmost section, while engineering ran on the starboard side through a console that came off a Vulcan long-range probe. The conn and ops were of Ferengi design, bought for next to nothing on the Orion black market, above which hung a forward viewscreen that dominated the crowded space like some exotic Cardassian painting. The only common thread among these disparate pieces was their highly illegal origins, which came by way of Celtic’s numerous raids throughout the quadrant. Over countless refits and retrofits, the captain had used every scrap he could find to transform his ship from an old cargo hauler into something of a legend—one of the few privateers still operating in Federation space.
The crew, for their part, manned those stations and performed their duties with an almost clairvoyant interaction, honed from years of trusting each other and no one else. From the moment the captain opened the hatch, he merged with that shared purpose, asserting command with his mere presence. “Status!” he ordered as he made his way down to the center seat, leaving Reed behind to keep an eye on Locarno.
Chris Thayer, the young man manning the conn, answered in a shaky voice but handled his console with steady hands. “Warp drive coming online. Calculating an escape trajectory now.”
“Do we have identification on that contact?”
“Positive ID,” came the reply from tactical. There, a woman named Rayna Massey maintained a cool watch over the limited weapons and sensors Celtic had available. “Federation starship, Nova class. We’ve been made, Skipper.”
“One-half impulse power—prepare for evasive maneuvers.” Walsh then swiveled his chair around to look at Locarno. The rest of the crew followed his stare, acutely aware of the interloper now in their midst. Several of them reached for their sidearms, ready to draw if the captain authorized it. Reed did the same, wrapping her hand around the blade in her own pocket—though she doubted she had the stomach to use the thing.
“Did you do this?’ Walsh demanded.
“I knew the patrol route,” Locarno said matter-of-factly. “All I did was make sure we’d be in a position for them to see us.”
“Impulse ready,” Thayer interjected. “At your command, Skipper.”
Walsh kept his eyes locked on Locarno. Reed saw hesitation there, if only for a second.
“For God’s sake, Nicky. Why?”
Locarno didn’t flinch. “I haven’t sold you out, Evan. Trust me.”
Seconds passed. A proximity alarm sounded, piercing the bridge with a harbinger scream.
“Ten seconds to intercept,” Massey warned. “It’s now or never, Captain.”
Walsh broke off, swinging his chair forward.
“Initiate evasive.”
Thayer punched his console, and Celtic began to shudder. Her spaceframe groaned under the stress of increased power, the thrum of her impulse engines quickly building as stars on the main viewscreen set into motion. Reed kept her eyes fixed on that point, willing the ship to accelerate faster—until a single, impossibly bright flash consumed the blackness of the void directly ahead, making her and the others shield their eyes before the inevitable explosion that followed. Celtic’s deck heaved against the blast, which knocked her off course and sent her into a tight spin.
Thayer held on to the controls, bleeding off speed before shearing forces tore the ship apart. Peering through the haze of spent plasma outside, Reed could see that they had swung almost completely about, and instead of an empty starfield, they now faced the ominous shape of an approaching Federation starship. It spat more fire from its forward phaser banks, which crossed just in front of Celtic’s bow and cut off that avenue of escape. Thayer forced the ship to a dead stop to avoid being pulverized.
“Merchant vessel, this is Starship Norfolk,” a crackling voice boomed on the overhead speaker. “You have been identified as a privateer operating illegally in Federation space. Heave to and prepare to be boarded.”
Walsh shot a glance back at Massey.
“They’ve got phasers and torpedoes locked, Captain,” she said. “I have a firing solution, but they’ll cut us to pieces before we can get off the first round.”
“Mister Thayer?”
“They’ve just activated their tractor beam,” the conn reported back, as a white glow seeped across the viewscreen and took firm hold of the ship. “Directional controls are frozen, Skipper. We’re locked tight.”
One at a time, the bridge crew turned toward their captain. Their faces already registered defeat, but still held out a glimmer of hope that Walsh had some trick to get them out of this.
“Merchant vessel,” Norfolk hailed again, even more belligerent than before. “You will respond immediately or be declared hostile.”
Walsh slowly got up from his chair and composed himself. He then walked to the back of the bridge, where Reed held Locarno by the arm as if he were her prisoner—for all the good it did. Whatever he had planned, Locarno was in complete control—a fact recognized by the captain, who could only lean in and quietly make the last threat he had to make.
“I’m going to trust you,” he intoned, pulling out a hand phaser. “But if you cr
oss me, you won’t live long enough to see the inside of a prison. Are we clear?”
Locarno nodded. “Clear as it gets.”
“What do you need?”
“A console.”
Walsh scowled, but he had no choice but to give in. He jerked a thumb toward the vacant engineering station. Reed took Locarno there, hovering over him as he took a seat and retrieved a small electronic device from his bag.
“What’s that?” Reed prodded.
“A little something I’ve been cooking up. Good a time as any to see if it works.” Locarno affixed the device to the translucent panel as he engaged its variable interface, then routed communications through the station. “Acknowledge their hail using subspace frequency two-seven-seven-five-seven-point-one,” he told the captain. “Audio only—and keep them talking as long as you can.”
“Subspace?” Walsh asked. “At this range?”
“Just tell them conventional communications are out. They’ll accept the transmission.” Locarno then returned his attention to the console, while Walsh opened up a channel to the other vessel. As the gridstalker anticipated, Norfolk’s captain was more inclined to start a dialogue than a firefight. The subspace link quickly appeared as a graphic on the engineering display—a nice, wide pipeline between the two ships that Locarno began to fill with covert data streams, sneaking bytes back and forth using whatever free space he could find. “Subspace provides greater bandwidth than standard radio,” he explained to Reed, as his hands worked the panel in a blur of purpose and motion. “Makes it easier to bury a stealth carrier in the signal.”
Reed looked on, fascinated. “What are you trying to do?”
“Build a virtual remote,” Locarno said, changing the display yet again. Pixels arranged themselves in random formations, gathering form and function under his guidance. “Since I can’t access their computer core locally, I have to make a console of my own—and this,” he finished, as the display completed itself, “is the easiest way in.”
Reed could hardly believe it. Appearing right in front of her, on Celtic’s engineering station, was a gateway into Norfolk’s Library Computer Access and Retrieval System.
