Gesturing down the corridor they needed to turn, Kirk said, “You’re practically paranoid, you know that, right?”
“Leave the diagnosis to me,” McCoy said, “and I’ll do my damnedest to not do any paper pushing or desk sitting while I’m here.”
Kirk stopped abruptly and glared at McCoy with phasers on heavy stun. “You about finished?”
“Sure.” McCoy wasn’t certain if his skill at opening old wounds was because of his long friendship with Kirk or his medical degree.
Rather than continuing on, they were apparently at their destination. Kirk punched in a code on the door to their right and stood while a scanner glowed into his eye. A computer’s voice responded. “Access granted. Kirk, Admiral James T.”
The door opened to a severe room, the walls of which were lined with white security lockers with only keypads and numbers on their doors, Kirk waited for the door to close behind them before going right to the locker he wanted.
“Why is everything always white here?” McCoy asked.
Kirk ignored the question as he tapped a code into the locker and pulled out what looked like a thick bracelet. “This is the new standard issue communicator.” He demonstrated putting it on his wrist and showing McCoy the activation button, the controls for channel and gain, and the universal translator controls.
“It’s small,” McCoy said.
“And with an increased range of point two A.U. Multiband transceiver, translator, recorder.”
“Thrilling.”
Kirk handed it to him. “Just put it on.”
As McCoy did, he nodded to the rest of the contents of the locker. “What’s all this?”
Kirk pointed to each item in turn. “Med-kit, tricorder, palm phasers.”
“None of this looks like Starfleet issue.”
“It will be,” Kirk said, pocketing one of the small phasers and handing the other to McCoy. “I’ve had these made without insignia or demarcation, and since they’re not standard issue for another two months, no one should recognize them—or us—as being Starfleet.”
“I’m not Starfleet,” McCoy said pointedly. “But you look the part even when you’re in civvies.”
“Well, I don’t intend to act like I’m in Starfleet.”
McCoy smirked. “I’d love to see that.”
“See? Something to look forward to.” The rest of the contents gathered, Kirk closed the locker and gestured toward the door. “We depart at eighteen hundred hours.”
“For Mestiko?”
“Eventually. First we visit the main shipping port in that sector. Indalo Station.”
For someone who wanted to act decidedly non-Starfleet for this mission, Kirk had set a very military tone, other than his civilian clothes. From the time they met, to the tone he took with the dockmaster as they departed, to the commands he said more to himself than anyone else as they made their way quietly toward Indalo in the civilian vessel Kirk had procured for the trip, he was being very by-the-book.
While McCoy was no stranger to nonfleet ships, especially of late, he wondered just how often Kirk had piloted a warp-capable ship that wasn’t a U.S.S. something or one of its shuttles.
“Where’d you get this thing anyway?” McCoy asked, breaking what had been at least a few hours’ silence.
“This old thing?” Kirk asked, glancing up at the dorsal bulkhead and the older toggle controls to his left and right. “I own it.”
“You’re kidding me! This has got to be at least thirty years old.”
“Forty-two.” Kirk patted the console as if it were his hound dog’s head. “It was Sam’s. He left it to me when…” The thought trailed off.
“Yeah.” McCoy had been there when Kirk’s brother Sam was killed on Deneva. That was one wound he was willing to leave closed.
“It was junk when he got it, but spaceworthy. I had it restored when I was promoted. Took it out once or twice, but this seemed like as good a time as any to test it on a long trip.”
“Test?”
“It’s in good shape, Bones. Better than new, I’m sure.”
McCoy looked around. The colors of the bulkheads were rich and lively. It was a pleasure craft. “I’ll say this, it doesn’t look like fleet issue.”
“It’s Andorian, actually. Single merchant ship that was redesigned into a day cruiser, and then back into a merchant-type ship when Sam had it. He would take it to research colonies to set up house before bringing the family along.”
There was another long silence, but not truly an awkward one. Kirk and McCoy had known each other long enough and well enough that they could be alone with their own thoughts, sitting just feet from each other, and a long silence wouldn’t be uncomfortable.
“Heard from Spock?” McCoy asked after a long while, just because his thoughts had wandered to silence and those who enjoy it far more than he.
Kirk seemed to hold back a sigh. “Not really, no.”
“He’s on Vulcan, I heard.”
“Yes. And otherwise incommunicado.” Kirk played with one of the settings on the console in front of him and McCoy believed that the controls didn’t need fiddling with but that Kirk did it to have something to do. “I’ve talked to his father. He told me Spock could not be reached and to discuss it further would be considered an invasion of Spock’s privacy. I pressed that, and learned that whatever Spock’s involved in isn’t for offworlders’ information.”
“Pleasant man, the ambassador,” McCoy said flatly. “You should’ve talked to Amanda. She wouldn’t stand on Vulcan formality.”
“When Spock wants to contact me, he will.” Kirk was looking blankly at the main viewer, which looked more like a windshield on a large bus but was not a window at all.
“Right.” Here they were, parsecs away from much of anything, the ship didn’t need constant care and feeding, and Kirk was looking out the window at nothing. Damn. I thought about feeding. Now I’m hungry. “You want something to eat?”
Kirk seemed to think about it for a moment and almost reply in the negative, but as if on a whim he turned and smiled. “Sure. I had my yeoman stock the galley. Why don’t you see what’s there?”
When McCoy returned, he had sandwiches and coffee. The coffee was instant and the sandwiches pre-made and wrapped individually. “Like the first astronauts used to eat,” he said as he set Kirk’s to one side and took his own into his lap as he sat.
“The first astronauts ate normal food, just pre-cooked and processed.”
“To coin a phrase, fascinating.” McCoy leaned back and took a sip of the reasonably hot and mostly bitter coffee. “Jim?”
“Doctor?”
“Lighten the hell up.”
Head pivoting quickly toward McCoy, Kirk looked as if he were about to snap something, then he smiled. “You’re right,” he chuckled, as if his funny bone had suddenly been switched on. “I’m sorry.”
McCoy returned the smile. “I should get the medical tricorder and check your vitals. That’s the second time today you’ve told me I was right about something.”
“Do you ever think I’m wrong?” Kirk asked, setting a few buttons on the navigation console and then swiveling to pick up his coffee.
“Constantly.”
“Well, maybe I was when I said you were right.”
“You ruin everything,” McCoy said.
The admiral took a sip, set it back down, and pushed it toward McCoy. “That’s terrible coffee.” Kirk reached for his sandwich but something on one of the scanner screens must have caught his eye because he spun quickly back to the ship’s controls.
“What’s happening?” McCoy asked, unable to avoid noticing that Kirk wasn’t as graceful at the console as perhaps Sulu or some of the other Enterprise helmsmen were.
“We’re being scanned,” Kirk said.
“By whom?”
Kirk shook his head, his gaze shifting from one readout to another. “I can’t tell. We’re still about fifteen minutes from the Indalo system, so it could be them, bu
t I can’t place a source.”
“Why the devil not?” McCoy demanded.
“This isn’t a starship, remember? I had some good scanners installed, but not the best.”
“Well, it might have been a good idea for this trip.”
Kirk sighed. “The whole point of using this ship and not borrowing a Starfleet shuttle is to remain inconspicuous.”
“Well, someone’s curious.”
“I think it was just Indalo. Standard procedure,” Kirk said.
“Now who’s paranoid? You thought it was pirates or something, didn’t you?”
Kirk just frowned and time passed in relative silence, with more tension than either man would have liked. When close enough, Kirk called the dockmaster of Indalo Station and requested—and paid for—docking rights.
“How did you just pay for that?” McCoy asked out of curiosity as they passed the time it would take to be tractor-beamed into the docking ring of the station.
“Credit account of our employer,” Kirk said with a slight smile. “Who just happens to be looking to branch out to this station.”
“And that is?”
“Uhura Enterprises.”
McCoy chuckled and propped his feet up on the lip of the console. “You’re kidding. We’re working for Uhura?”
“I didn’t want it traced to her, actually,” Kirk said. “So we’re working for her mother.”
Trying to remember past dinners at Uhura’s home, McCoy knitted his brows. “I don’t think I’ve met her mother.”
Docking complete, Kirk rose and ushered McCoy toward the hatchway that connected them to the station. “Picture Uhura in thirty years.”
“Nice woman?”
Kirk tapped at a few controls and with a hiss the door parted and showed a small walkway to the interior dock hatch. “Nice, beautiful, and if she weren’t married I’d camp on her doorstep.”
“Well, we see where Uhura gets her charms,” McCoy said.
They stepped into a long corridor, the end of which met a large gangway that was filled with people. An employee of the station met them, checked in the ship and had Kirk sign something, and asked if there was anything else he could do for them.
Nodding, Kirk replied. “Our employer is looking to rent cargo space and an open permanent dock. Who do we see?”
The employee, an Andorian woman with striking high cheekbones and typical pale blue pallor smiled thinly. “Your deity of choice.”
“Come again?”
“You’ll need a miracle. Everything is rented. But if there’s going to be an opening, Nawaz Mazari is the man to talk to.”
“He’s the dockmaster?” McCoy asked.
“Of course not,” the woman said. “You want the man who knows what actually goes on here, don’t you?”
“Exactly.” Kirk thanked her and he and McCoy headed into the crowd of people going about their business.
“Why don’t we want the dockmaster?” McCoy asked.
“Because we didn’t have to come all the way here to see if they had any openings. That information is available over the subspace infonet. What we need is—”
The doctor nodded, suddenly understanding. “The man who has his finger on the pulse of the station.”
“You’re catching on.”
“I still don’t know why you want me here,” he grumbled. “You could do this yourself.”
“It’ll become clear.” Kirk nudged McCoy in the ribs with his elbow. “Got your med-kit?”
Looking at Kirk sideways, McCoy felt a little knot of worry develop in his stomach. “Yeah. Am I going to need it?”
“One way or another.”
Chapter Three
There were a number of small watering holes on the station, but the most active of them was called, of all things, “Duffy’s Tavern,” and it was where Kirk and McCoy had been told they’d find Nawaz Mazari. When they entered it wasn’t what McCoy had expected. He’d thought it would be some seedy dive. It wasn’t. The walls were painted a lively green, hung with spacescapes. The floor was a polished wood—not something one saw in space stations—and the waitstaff were nicely dressed.
Kirk motioned toward the man who was probably Mazari. He was seated toward the rear, his back to the bar and kitchen beyond, and his eyes toward the entrance. As they approached him, McCoy noticed Kirk was glancing also at the two large men sitting at the small table to the left.
“You’re Mazari?” Kirk asked, once they were close enough.
The man looked up from behind a data slate, his dark eyes thin slices. “You are?” He was human, and his family was probably from Southern Asia originally if his look and name were any indication, but the accent sounded British.
“My name’s Temple,” Kirk told him. “We’re from Uhura Enterprises and—”
“And he is?” Mazari asked, indicating McCoy with the end of his stylus.
McCoy smiled and nodded in Kirk’s direction. “His bodyguard.”
At that Mazari chuckled, but there was little humor in its tenor. He seemed like a man who often laughed, but with more malice than mirth. “Right,” he said. “No doubt.”
The admiral gestured to the empty chairs at Mazari’s table and with a motion he invited them to sit.
They did so, and Kirk began, “My name is Jim Temple, his is Dr. Davis, and we want to buy you a drink.” Kirk motioned for the nearest waiter to bring a round of drinks and then shifted his gaze back to Mazari, but “the man with his finger on the pulse of the station” was looking right at McCoy.
“Doctor, eh?”
“That’s right.” McCoy smiled. “And I prescribe bourbon for what ails you,” he said as the waiter delivered a drink to each man.
“Okay.” Mazari accepted the prescription and polished off the drink by slugging it down swiftly and then snapping the glass back to the small, round table. “Have at it. But it’s going to take more than one of these to grease me slick enough to buy you two as anything but amateurs.”
“That obvious?” Kirk smiled sheepishly.
Mazari nodded and waved over the waiter again. “I’ll have another.” He motioned to Kirk. “His tab.”
“Truth?” Kirk shrugged as if assenting to everything Mazari suspected.
Another dark chuckle echoed around the edges of Mazari’s thin mouth. “If you can fake that, sure.”
“We really do work for a shipping concern. Uhura Enterprises. Or did, until we were let go last week.”
Mock-frowning, Mazari was mostly looking at his data slate and likely only half paying attention to Kirk now. “That’s a pity. Sacked before your time, to be sure.”
“Worse than that, we got caught stealing. They can’t prove it, but we all know it, and they’re cutting their losses—and us.”
“I may cry,” Mazari said. “Drivel does make my eyes water so.”
“He’s not buying this,” McCoy said, matter-of-factly.
“No, he’s not.” Kirk leaned over. “Okay, buy this, mister. I need to transport cargo to Mestiko. It can’t go through customs or inspections, either here or at their destination. And I’m willing to pay. A lot.”
“You’d have to,” Mazari said. “That’s a hot system.”
“How hot?” McCoy asked.
“Nova hot,” Mazari said. “Starfleet ships’re all over the Mestiko system. And you know Starfleet is always crawling up everyone’s arse about contraband to their pet project planets.”
The way Mazari emphasized “know” made McCoy wonder if he was more on to them than even they suspected.
“What will it take?” Kirk asked, leaning forward as if a juicy deal was just about to be completed.
Mazari stared at them, seemingly at both simultaneously. “Who are you two?”
Kirk smiled that Cheshire cat smile he had. “If you make enough money, do you really care?”
Lips twisted in what could be called a snarl, Mazari shook his head slowly. “I don’t like your smell,” he told Kirk.
“Gee, I shower
ed this morning. Is it my cologne?” Kirk’s tone was suddenly annoyed and McCoy knew they’d dead-ended on their first foray.
“You reek of authority,” Mazari said, absentmindedly fingering the rim of his empty glass with a finger. “If I had to place it I’d say you either work for the Federation or are being paid to work for them.”
“I’m not Starfleet Security—”
“I don’t care who you are, Mr. Temple. Our business is finished.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Kirk said, and poked a finger toward, but not touching, Mazari’s chest. “There’s an opportunity here, and you’re missing it.”
“Just another bad day at the office, then.” Mazari’s eyes shifted to the two men at the nearby table that Kirk had been sure to keep an eye on. Now, they rose. “Good-bye, gentlemen.”
One man grabbed McCoy and pulled him from his seat. The other just stood, waiting for Kirk to rise. An interesting show of respect for a thug. “Get up.”
Kirk rose, slowly, then pushed his chair under the small table. For a moment McCoy thought he might lift the chair up and ram it into someone’s neck.
“Show them out, quietly,” Mazari said, and McCoy hoped that wasn’t code for “Show them out an airlock.”
Mazari’s muscle walked Kirk and McCoy to the door of the drinking establishment and pushed them both out. McCoy stumbled a bit but didn’t fall, and Kirk made sure he held his stance like a wall.
One of the men looked back at Mazari for a moment, then pushed Kirk down a side corridor that probably led to the back of the pub for deliveries and maintenance.
“Let’s take a walk,” the man said to Kirk, then to his comrade: “Watch that one.” He was bigger than Kirk, and a bit taller. His brown curly hair was cut close until most of the curl couldn’t be seen except a bit on the top. He looked more powerful than Kirk, and if he hurt people for a living, he was perhaps more skilled.
“Jim—” McCoy began after them but was pulled back by the other guard.
As soon as Kirk and the other man were away from prying eyes, the fight began. Kirk sensed the first blow—a right cross—ducked it, and pushed into the bigger man’s chest, elbowing his solar plexus.
Shadows of the Indignant Page 2
