His deskscreen beeped.
Thankful for the distraction, he tapped the accept button. “Mallory.”
His aide replied from the outer office. “Sir, a Starfleet staff car was stolen in San Francisco and the protectors have the thieves in custody.”
Mallory considered the surreal statement with a sigh. “Sally…you’re telling me this why?”
“According to SCIS, the thieves stole the car with the same security override technique that was used to steal that dilithium from the Academy two weeks ago. The investigators think there’s a chance the ones who stole the car and the ones who stole the dilithium are the same, and they said you’d want to know.”
Mallory had read the analysis of how the dilithium had been stolen. “Whoever hit the Academy isn’t stupid enough to get picked up stealing a car.” Still, he found a stylus and turned on his padd. “But give me the details.”
He began to jot down Sally’s notes.
In his experience, details could lead anywhere.
7
Sam Kirk welcomed the fog and the night. The soft, dark blanket kept the world away. Kept everything else beyond the immediate moment indistinct and unthreatening. At some level, not that he’d ever admit it to anyone, that’s what he needed most: protection from a world he didn’t understand and didn’t want to.
Unfortunately, the price of such security meant lying to the person who’d always protected him best—his brother.
So he maneuvered the stolen car, not his first by any means, through the older sections of the city where he and others like him knew that the old power grids and cables interfered with the sensors of the all-seeing protective satellites whirling past overhead. The electronic shadows he navigated were almost as good as the sheltering cloak of fog and night, because he could pass through undetected and unnoticed, the way he passed through life.
At the main dock, he carefully parked the car between two warehouses, well away from the blue-white spotlights that marked the pathway for the automated cargo handlers that rolled back and forth along the pier. Even in the twenty-third century, it was more energy efficient to ship bulk raw materials and large industrial components by sea. The squat machines loading and unloading the automated ocean freighters didn’t require the pier lights. But they helped keep the handful of human stevedores out of danger as they worked.
And where there were lights there were shadows, and those had become Sam’s home.
He stayed in the car for a few minutes, watching, checking, looking for any minute change in the pattern of the robotic handlers’ actions. Then he opened the window, drew in the rich scent of the sea, listened for human footsteps…Nothing.
The moment he judged it was safe, he snapped open his communicator. “Call the office,” he said quietly.
Almost at once, an artificial voice answered. “Our offices are closed. Please call again.”
“I’ve got a fast delivery to make,” Sam said. The code word “delivery” could stand for almost anything. But the code word “fast” had only one meaning—whatever was being delivered, it was Starfleet issue.
“We’ll be available to accept deliveries on the sixteenth.” The artificial voice clicked off and the call ended.
Keeping its running lights off, Sam started the car again and eased out into the cargo path, putting himself directly between two massive handlers on the search for new containers.
At dock sixteen, a security light shone over a towering section of seamless gray hull. Sam turned off the cargo path and drove steadily forward, into the Pacific Rome, not bothering to slow when the car’s proximity alarm chimed.
A moment later, the car’s windshield rippled with multiplied light and he was through the holographic projection and inside the freighter’s cavernous cargo hold.
The welcoming committee was waiting. Seven of them. Each with a laser rifle almost as big as the small figure who held it, each aiming at Sam.
Sam pressed the door control, and when the door had fully opened, only then did he slowly step out of the vehicle, hands held in the clear.
An amplified voice echoed over the buzzing and grinding noises of power tools working on other deliveries that had preceded Sam’s. “He’s okay. Get started on the car.”
Sam hurriedly stepped back as the children, most around ten or so, swarmed into the stolen Starfleet staff car. He watched it lurch across the metal deck plating toward a mechanic’s bay where two teenagers with industrial ’plasers stood ready to begin disassembling the prize.
Then Sam’s heart jumped a beat as a soft voice spoke behind him. “That’s a pretty little thing.”
Sam fought down his nervousness. He hadn’t heard a single footfall. “Hey, Griff.”
Griffyn was Sam’s age, just out of his teen years, but that was all he and Sam had in common. Griffyn was tall and lean, and wore drab, utilitarian clothes more suited to deep-space freighters than Earth, with pockets everywhere and a hand laser on his belt. He’d told Sam he was running this operation for “other interests,” and who those interests were, Sam didn’t know or care to know. He didn’t like coming here—even more, he detested himself for needing to come here. But Earth had long ago eradicated the conditions that fueled easy crime. The only large-scale organizations that remained were invariably from off-world, and most often from outside the Federation. Sam didn’t require any more detail than that.
Griffyn now ignored him as he usually did, his attention focused instead on the newly arrived car. One body panel was already off it, clattering on the deck. “How the hell did you manage to steal a fleet car?”
“Security override,” Sam bluffed. “Nonessential vehicles have a reduced encryption set. Ten million possible keys, tops.”
Griffyn hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt and turned to study Sam.
He nodded toward the car. “How many emitters?”
“Four.”
“Let’s hope they’re working. Looks banged up.” Griffyn smiled at Sam, as if daring him to continue lying.
Sam capitulated quickly. Any conversation with Griffyn was a minefield. He’d never been able to find a pattern to what set the guy off. Probably no one could.
“Jimmy was driving. Did a fancy dive and hard landing.”
Now Griffyn looked at him with eyes that were ice blue and unreadable. “Your little brother. He figured out the override.”
“Yeah. He’s good at stuff like that. Always building things.”
“So you used some kind of override that got you into the car, let you drive it, but you still ended up being chased.”
Sam looked down at the deck, couldn’t hold Griffyn’s gaze. “When Jimmy was driving, yeah. But…you should’ve seen him. He got away from the protectors, then the satellites.” Sam chanced looking up to judge Griffyn’s actual mood and failed. “All I had to do was drive here through the sensor shadows.”
“So…not a lot of risk for you. Easy job.”
Sam felt sick, knew what Griffyn was going to do. But it was too late. “Naw. Not really, I guess.”
Griffyn scratched his cheek, then reached into his leather jacket, pulled out a credit wafer. “So this should cover it.”
Sam took the wafer, squeezed it to read the balance. It was worse than he thought. “Two hundred…?”
“Problem?”
Sam was desperate enough to plead. “Griff, it’s worth at least a thousand. It’s Starfleet!”
But Griffyn didn’t even acknowledge Sam’s foolhardy attempt at argument. He’d turned his attention back to the staff car, by now a picked-over carcass with only one seat remaining bolted in place, all mechanisms exposed and being disassembled.
“It’s worth ten thousand to me,” he said offhandedly.
Sam’s mind reeled at the thought of what ten thousand credits could buy him out of.
Griffyn laughed as two of his followers swore at each other when a crackling gout of sparks sprayed up from one of the emitter conduits. He cupped his hands to his mouth to shout over
the noise of the hold. “Hey, idiots! Cut the current before you ’plase it!”
The young teenager in charge of the disassembly crew waved back in acknowledgment, then cuffed the boy who’d done the damage. The child took the blow like a beaten dog, without fighting back.
Sam understood. There was no way to win with Griffyn in charge.
But still…two hundred credits for something worth ten thousand?
“So what do you say, Griff? I really need the credits.” As soon as he’d spoken, Sam knew he’d messed up again. Never reveal a weakness. That’s what his brother was always telling him. And in a negotiation, never let the other side know what you really want. Jimmy was always reading books about strategy and tactics and famous battles, but Sam had never been able to remember and act upon his brother’s lessons, no matter how many times he heard them.
Griffyn’s pale eyes were cold. “I pay for labor, I get paid for parts. You don’t know who to sell the parts to. And you sure as hell didn’t invest a lot of labor to get me the car. I figure what you did is worth…oh, let’s say, a cee-wafer. So the way I look at it, giving you two cees, I’m being generous. How would you look at it, Georgie?”
Griffyn had deliberately and tauntingly used the name that Sam had left behind when he fled the family farm and the unwanted life that George Joseph Kirk had mapped out for his older son. Sam’s brother and his new friends called him by his middle name, the one that was his alone.
Sam grasped at the last straw left to him. “How about…maybe something for Jimmy? For what he did?”
“You’re still negotiating with me?”
Sam’s pulse fluttered. Would Griffyn take back the credit wafer?
Griffyn stuck his lower lip out, thoughtful. “Tell you what. You bring Jimmy by and…I will take care of him. He’s a talented kid. Made an override to boost fleet goods. I could use him.”
Sam took in the scene in the cargo hold, the huge chamber stacked with disassembled vehicles and stolen freight and armed children willing to do anything for their leader. For all that he despised himself for his weakness and his fear, Sam had his limits. He would never—ever—do anything to bring Jimmy into this life.
He shook his head. “This isn’t for him.”
Griffyn looked into Sam’s soul, testing him. Pulled out another credit wafer. “Are you sure? From what you’ve told me, I don’t think your brother’s found his calling. So maybe I can help.”
Sam shook his head again.
Griffyn’s only reply was to squeeze the credit wafer he held out so Sam could read the balance. Then he placed it in Sam’s hand.
One thousand credits.
“It’s not for the car,” Griffyn said. “It’s an advance. For arranging an introduction.”
Sam stared at him, frozen. The thousand-credit wafer burned into his flesh.
Griffyn leaned forward, made it clear.
“Either give me all my credits back, or bring your brother to me. Your call. What’s it going to be, Georgie?”
Sam already knew his answer.
8
On the far side of the Garden of Venus, there was a parking lot, and it was there that the official vehicles had gathered: three from the San Francisco Protective Services and one unmarked car with diplomatic codes on its ID plates.
Kirk and the Vulcan, joined at the wrist by a pair of inductance cuffs, stood by one of the SFPS cars. No one was paying attention to them, but both were aware that alarms would shriek if either of them moved more than two meters from the car.
Kirk raised his left hand, forcing the Vulcan’s right hand up as well. He eyed the glowing blue stripes that pulsed around the metal bands encircling each of their wrists. “Don’t suppose you know any good Vulcanian tricks for getting out of these.”
“Vulcan,” his companion said. “And an escape attempt would be illogical.”
“But it might be fun.”
The Vulcan stared at Kirk and Kirk finally had to grin at the young alien’s expression of total incomprehension.
“Kidding,” Kirk said. “But really, do you want to go to prison?”
The Vulcan blinked. “Earth has no prisons.”
“You really aren’t from around here, are you?”
“Do I look like I am ‘from around here’?”
Kirk gave him the once-over. “That wrap of yours hasn’t been in style for a couple of centuries, but with all that hair covering your ears, yeah, you could be one of us.”
Kirk watched as the Vulcan seemed to shudder at his assessment, but then again, who really knew how alien minds saw things?
“Anyway,” Kirk continued, “Central Bureau of Penology, Stockholm. You’ve heard of Stockholm?”
“Founded in the thirteenth century of Earth’s Common Era. Population of 3,487,612 as of the census of 2348. Home of the Karolinska Institute which decides the winners of your Nobel and Zee-Magnees Prizes.”
“Wow. I can’t believe you know that.”
“You mentioned a Central Bureau of Penology.”
“Right.” Kirk studied him a moment longer, wondering if there was some attempt at alien humor here. “Mostly, it runs all the off-world prisons. You get it? They ship prisoners off-world so they can say, ‘No prisons here on Earth.’ But they do have this big detention facility there. For retraining, rehabilitation.”
“Logical.”
“That’s a big thing for you, huh?”
“Rehabilitation?”
Kirk rolled his eyes. “Logic.”
“Logic is the basis of modern Vulcan society.”
Kirk waited expectantly.
The Vulcan gave him a questioning look. “You disagree?”
“No. I just wasn’t sure you could give an answer that short.”
“I could expand upon it.”
“I have no doubt.”
The alien’s shoulders moved in what looked like a shrug, but he didn’t say anything else.
Not wishing to encourage his fellow detainee to change his mind, Kirk shifted his attention to the four SFPS officers who appeared to be in heated discussion with the two Vulcan consular agents by the next car, about ten meters away and out of earshot. The way they kept gesturing at the two apprehended youths, it didn’t look good.
“You ever been in trouble like this before?” Kirk asked. He kept his gaze on the adults, trying to read their intentions.
“I am not in trouble now.”
Kirk laughed. “Really? How do you define trouble on your planet?”
“They are interested only in the person or persons who apparently stole a Starfleet staff car. Since I did not steal a Starfleet staff car, I am not a person of interest.”
Kirk gave the Vulcan a sideways glance. “How do you know about the staff car?”
“That is what they are discussing.”
“You can hear what they’re saying?”
His companion regarded the group of officers, human and Vulcan. “The ranking SFPS officer claims that at least two, and possibly three young people are responsible for the staff car theft.”
“Well, those ears are definitely good for something.”
“Furthermore,” the Vulcan said as if Kirk hadn’t spoken, “Agent Kest, the senior of the two consular agents, makes the point that there is no logical motive for me to steal a staff car. He also states that I have diplomatic immunity, so any attempt to charge me with any crime is moot.”
“Moot,” Kirk said. “So if that’s such a logical argument, why haven’t the SFPS let you go?”
“I have found humans to be argumentative.”
Kirk couldn’t resist. “No, we’re not.”
“Yes, you…” The Vulcan hesitated, raised an eyebrow. “Kidding?”
“You catch on fast,” Kirk smiled approvingly.
From the dense fog above, a landing searchlight produced a glowing cone that played over the parking lot until it locked onto an empty patch of pavement. Slowly, another Starfleet car descended into view.
It was dif
ferent from the one Kirk had used for his demonstration. This new vehicle was dark blue with a red pinstripe and arrow running its length, as if someone thought it was a starship. On the aft fuselage, stark white letters spelled out the bad news: Starfleet Criminal Investigative Service. Kirk had never seen one of their cars before. If anyone had asked, he would’ve said they were responsible for starbase security. He hadn’t even known they operated on Earth.
Kirk watched as two formidable women in civilian clothes got out of the car, looked over at him with expressions as blank as the Vulcan agents’, then joined the SFPS officers and consular agents.
“Any idea what they’re saying?” Kirk asked.
“Not a great deal. It seems they want to search us.”
Kirk brightened. Finally, something was going right.
The two SCIS agents were leading the others toward the two teenagers. Kirk stood up, straightened his jacket, prompting another brief tug-of-war with his fellow prisoner.
“Evening,” the senior woman said. She and her partner each held up their official IDs and switched them on—Special Agents Gilfillan and Rickard.
“Ma’am,” Kirk said with a warm smile of utmost sincerity. “I’m sure hoping Starfleet can clear up this mess and—”
“Save it, mister,” Gilfillan said. She nodded at her partner, who opened the case of the tricorder she carried over her shoulder and pulled its sensor wand from her jacket. Kirk had read the manuals and dreamed about what he could accomplish with one.
The Vulcan cleared his throat. “In the interests of efficiency, I must inform you that I am protected by full diplomatic immunity.”
“Good for you,” Rickard said without conviction. She aimed the sensor wand at Kirk, then the alien, made adjustments to the tricorder’s main unit, then took a second set of readings. Kirk couldn’t see the device’s display screen, but he found himself relaxing, confident of what it would show.
Sure enough, Rickard shared her readings with her boss.
Kirk liked the fact that Special Agent Gilfillan didn’t look surprised.
She walked up to the Vulcan, made him shift uncomfortably as she patted down his cloak, then reached into an interior pocket.
Collision Course Page 4
