by Tony Daniel
“I’ll be damned,” said McCoy. “What is it, nanotechnology?”
“That’s what we suspected at first,” Levin replied. “But there is actually a holographic memory process going on. If you use quark imaging, you’ll see it. There are, so help me, a tiny set of positronic instructions for constructing or reconstructing Mister de Bergerac here—might as well think of them as homunculi, because they look like him under the microscope. There they are, precisely situated between the molecules that make up his body, clothing, and equipment. Damage him, or simply take off his gloves, his coat, his boots? It’ll come back.”
“How far does this extend?” McCoy asked. “Could you—pardon me, Mister de Bergerac—could you, for instance, cut him into a dozen pieces. Would each of those pieces remake itself until you had a dozen Cyrano de Bergeracs?”
Both Levin and de Bergerac laughed heartily. “Would that it were so, Doctor McCoy,” said de Bergerac. “But even I might be wary of a world full of swordsmen as good as I am.”
“No, only one of those pieces would remake itself into Mister de Bergerac, but it would create him again completely, even down to his memories,” Levin said.
“Spontaneous re-creation. How?” McCoy asked.
“That’s something I, and the Federation, would really like to discover.”
“I’ll bet,” said McCoy. “Mister de Bergerac, pardon me for asking, but have any of the Excalbians been killed?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” de Bergerac said. “An energy weapon will do the trick. We lost some during our captivity in such a way. Also, that’s why poor Marcel Proust is no more. He became incensed during a card game and attempted to draw a weapon on Bill Hickok. Hickok had equipped himself with a phaser in addition to his Colt 1851 revolver. He swears it was merely for defensive purposes. Nevertheless, he had it, and he had it set on its highest power.” De Bergerac bowed his head and made a tsk-tsk sound. “Of course it was a mistake to draw on Hickok. There wasn’t a trace left of poor Marcel, I’m afraid.”
“Good Lord,” McCoy said. “That’s terrible! Where is Hickok now?”
“In the brig, until we can deliver him to the authorities,” said Levin.
McCoy turned back to de Bergerac. “So your sword practice isn’t practice at all, is it?”
De Bergerac smiled. “We cannot be truly hurt. Decatur and I are quite used to enduring a little pain, and we do go at it rather hard at times.”
“They hack one another’s arms off,” Levin said. “I’ve watched one of those matches. It’s gruesome.”
“All in good fun,” de Bergerac said. “But that blow to my ear. . . well, I’ve always been sensitive there. My father used to cuff me as a boy. He used to beat the hell out of me in general, to tell the truth. But it always started with the cuffing of an ear, a hard blow that marked harder yet to come. When I am injured there the pain . . . brings back memories I would rather avoid.”
“You came to get treatment not because of the injury, but because your completely sliced-off ear reminded you of your unhappy childhood?”
De Bergerac nodded with a look of melancholy. “Exactly, Doctor McCoy,” he answered. “I hope I have not presumed upon our acquaintance by offering up such lurid personal details, but Doctor Levin wished me to provide a complete explanation.”
“Of course not,” McCoy said. “I’m honored that you’d confide in me.”
“The honor is mine, Doctor McCoy. Anyone whom Doctor Levin trusts, I trust likewise,” de Bergerac said. “Doctor Levin has proved time and again to be both a gentleman and a scholar.”
McCoy looked to Levin.
Well, I’ll be damned. The man’s blushing.
“Coming from you, that’s high praise,” Levin said to de Bergerac.
“Completely justified,” de Bergerac replied. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a rematch scheduled with that hot-blooded Decatur. He won’t let well enough alone. As I understand it, that’s what got him killed the first time. We’ve reserved the white exercise room with the self-cleaning walls and absorption tiles for this one. I have a feeling blood will flow copiously.” De Bergerac smiled wickedly, and laid a gloved hand on the finely wrought pommel of his sheathed rapier. “Further, good sirs, I make bold to predict that the blood will be his, and only his, this time.”
Eleven
“The problem is, how do we get any closer to that structure?” Sulu said. “We’re close enough to know we’ve found something, but too far to really understand what’s going on here.”
Chekov nodded and smiled in what he’d been told by more than one person—many of them females—was a shrewd and boyish way. He didn’t mind the implied patronizing attitude. That smile had gotten him through sticky situations more than once. Of course, his friend Sulu was immune to any charm other than Chekov’s reasoning ability. He’d have to convince the helmsman with logic.
Well, I’ve been around Mister Spock long enough to know how to do that, Chekov thought.
“We suspect these L’rah’hane are slavers,” Chekov said. “We don’t know where they’re getting them, but it has to be from some worlds hidden by the nebula. Worlds unknown to the Federation.”
“True. And any subspace communication from this sector that might be intercepted is drowned by the space-time anomalies created by the nebula, as well.”
“But that will cut both ways,” Chekov said. “They won’t know who we are either. Or what kind of technology we possess.”
“Are you suggesting we just waltz in there and request permission to scan them?” asked Sulu incredulously.
“Not at all, my friend,” Chekov said. Then he explained to Sulu what he had in mind.
* * *
“Unknown craft, identify, identify.”
“Comrades, comrades, do not fire on us! We bring a great prize! We have looted the interlopers. They thought to take us prisoners, make us slaves, but it is we who have turned the tables on them. Now they are our slaves.”
“Identify immediately!”
“The S.S. Scottybuilt! We bring the crew with us as prisoners, as slaves for sale! Fine, healthy slaves with knowledge of starflight. We demand top value for these.”
“Scottybuilt, there is no record of your existence in the database. You will hold for scan or be destroyed!”
“Of course the craft is not in your database, fools. We stole it from those on the other side of the nebula!”
“This cannot be verified.”
“Yes, it can,” said Chekov. “Stand by for transmission.”
Chekov turned to Sulu, who knelt beside him. Both had donned manacles on wrists and feet and knelt in the main hold. They’d had to get creative with the rations to create the look of fresh blood. But with some liberal application of sauce and crushed “lunches,” Chekov had to admit that he and Sulu did a plausible imitation of two beings who had had the hell beaten out of them.
“All right, now’s the time to gaze up in agony and despair,” Chekov whispered to Sulu. Sulu got himself ready—he was a frighteningly good actor—and then the lieutenant activated the interior visual. For a few moments, their images as prisoners in chains went out over the subspace feed.
The shuttlecraft drew closer and closer to the main habitat.
When Sulu figured that they’d seen enough, he cut the feed and nodded to Chekov. “These two we will put on the market block first, even before we arrive!” he said. “Opening bids will start at—”
“Fifty alons!” came a voice over the subspace frequency.
“Seventy-five!” said another.
The bidding continued. The shuttlecraft drew closer and closer.
“Almost within range for complete reading,” Sulu said.
Chekov pressed the communicator button. Now was the time to do some serious bargaining. Fortunately this ability flowed naturally in his Russian blood. Chekov was fairly certain that the art of bargaining was a Russian invention, first practiced by old King Rurik on his travels along the Dnieper River.
>
“Eighty-five alons? Do you wish to starve us? We risked our lives to bring these top quality goods, and all I hear is seventy-five.” Chekov raised his voice in feigned anger. He had to admit he was enjoying getting into the act. “We demand one hundred fifty!”
“Robbery!”
“Do you wish to leave myself and my concubines destitute!”
“Unthinkable! Those are retail prices! One hundred is as high as a reasonable wholesaler can go and still turn a profit!”
Chekov turned to Sulu, who shook his head. Not quite in scan range yet.
“One hundred fifty and we will throw in the craft itself,” Chekov countered. “Here, take another look at the merchandise, and see what a bargain we are offering!” He turned to Sulu and mouthed, “Ready?” Sulu nodded and activated the feed once more.
More agony. This time Sulu let out a low, loud moan for good measure.
“One twenty-five and no higher!”
“One forty, and you are stealing bread from my mouth!”
“Initiating complete scan,” Sulu whispered.
“The craft, and one hundred for the tall, beautiful one. Sell the short one elsewhere.”
Chekov shook his head in disbelief. Sulu! They wanted to purchase Sulu and not him. He felt an irrational flush of jealousy rise inside himself.
Hey, that’s not fair! I’m strong and good-looking! thought Chekov. I may be a bit on the short side, but I’d make as fine a slave as Sulu!
He glanced over at Sulu, who was slyly smiling.
“What are we going to do with the little one? He’ll have to be spaced. They sell as a pair, or not at all.”
“One thirty-five for both, then.”
“One thirty-five. Do I hear one hundred forty? Come on, what a deal!”
Subspace silence.
“One thirty-nine? No?”
“Unidentified craft, you have been acquired as a target. Stand off immediately.”
“One thirty-five going once!”
More silence.
“Unknown craft, you are in weapons lock.”
“Going twice!”
“Scan complete,” Sulu whispered.
“Sold, for one hundred thirty-five alons! We take all forms of payment, but prefer dilithium quantum credits when possible.”
“Weapons activated. All other craft advised to stand clear.”
Chekov veered hard to starboard just as the station defenses began to fire. Photonic bursts exploded in the space the shuttlecraft had just occupied.
The one-hundred-eight-degree arc was brutal, and something for which no inertial compensation could correct. He felt the blood physically push toward one side of his body. For a moment, black spots swam before his eyes.
But then the turn was achieved. Another explosion not far off their stern. And to the side, other ships, L’rah’hane and otherwise, were converging on them.
“I’ve laid in the course. Get us out of here, Pavel,” Sulu said.
“Working on it.”
He pushed the throttle all the way forward, saw a red warning light, and overrode it. They streaked ahead.
“Feeding new telemetry,” Sulu said. “It’s going to be tight.”
“Just like threading a needle,” Chekov replied.
“When have you ever threaded a needle?”
“Never,” said Chekov. “Something my grandmother used to say. Needles were invented in Russia you know.”
“Right. Probably by your grandmother.”
The small window in the debris field seemed to zoom toward them, but they were, in actuality, zooming toward it.
Behind them now, several torpedoes were gaining on the shuttlecraft.
Chekov pushed the engines to the red line. He kept computer control on, but any extreme movement he made would manually override the autopilot.
Closer to the hole in the debris. Closer.
It’s reconfigured slightly. We’re not going to—
As fast as thought, Chekov sent the shuttlecraft into a barrel roll. They entered the window.
BAM!
A shudder rippled through the entire craft.
“Contact on port nacelle,” Sulu said. “Scanning for damage!”
They were through the debris and into relatively clear space.
Chekov eased back, the engines stopped protesting, and the cabin quieted.
“Damage contained,” Sulu said with a sigh of relief. “We still have eighty percent.”
Suddenly Chekov remembered. “The torpedoes . . .”
Sulu chuckled. “Scans indicate they were all destroyed trying to thread your grandmother’s needle, it seems.”
Chekov nodded. “Good old Grandmother.”
“I’ll proceed with full analysis,” Sulu said. “Get us out of here, Ensign Chekov?”
“With pleasure, Lieutenant Sulu,” Chekov replied. He called up the subspace marker “bread crumbs” he and Sulu had dropped on the way in. He could only hope they wouldn’t be followed.
Near the edge of the nebula, Sulu sat back, a look of satisfaction on his tranquil face. “The captain’s going to be interested in this.”
“What have you found?” Chekov asked.
“It’s not a habitat or even a space station, Pavel,” Sulu replied. “It’s a warehouse. Its name translates as ‘Haversack.’ The computer has matched the configuration with archaeological records. That’s a fully operational Hradrian robotized supply depot. According to the database, it’s a vessel that is known to have been defended by multiple weapon emplacements and crewed by robots and slaves. The robots were the overseers, it’s believed.”
“A ghost of the past.”
“I’ll say. Not only that, I’ve finished an analysis of the subspace chatter in the vicinity. I was busy collecting it while you held that inspired slave auction of yours.”
“And?”
“The L’rah’hane are massing for another raid on Zeta Gibraltar. From there they plan to raid further into Federation territory.”
“What are they waiting for?”
“Two more ships are set to arrive, but that’s going to take a while. Apparently they’ve been called in from quite far away. Where, I don’t know. But they’re bigger ships that the pirates believe can take on the Enterprise. ‘Dreadnoughts,’ they are calling them. Not sure what that means in their parlance, but apparently the L’rah’hane dare not attack without them. Must be something formidable, because they’ve seen what the Enterprise can do.”
“This doesn’t sound like typical pirates to me,” Chekov said. “Usually they are after easy pickings and avoid well-defended places and powerful opponents.”
“I have a feeling it’s the Hradrians, or whoever is supplying all that Hradrian technology to the L’rah’hane, who are pulling the strings,” Sulu said. “We’ve got to get this information back to the Enterprise.”
The adrenaline surge was beginning to dilute in Chekov’s system, and he felt a wave of tiredness pass over him. No time for that, he told himself. Besides, he knew his own limits, and this was nothing that a cup of coffee wouldn’t take care of, at least for the short term.
But he longed to be home, back on the Enterprise.
Suddenly a red light blinked on the console in front of Sulu. He didn’t need Sulu to tell him what it was.
Nacelle malfunction.
Sulu’s hands flew over sensor controls and he rapidly isolated the cause. “We’ve taken a hit. The dilithium matrix has been breached.”
“Can we repair it?”
“No,” said Sulu. He flipped another toggle, examined a scope. “But we can stabilize it.
Chekov looked at his own controls. “Speed dropping,” he said. “Warp two. Warp one-point-five. Warp one.” Chekov tried acceleration control. There was no response. “Nothing I can do.”
Sulu looked up from his sensor. “I sealed it. Warp core stabilized.”
“So at least we won’t blow up,” Chekhov said. He checked his power gauge. “Power levels stabilizing.”<
br />
“Are we falling out of warp?”
“Negative. We are fluctuating, but maintaining approximately . . . warp factor one.”
“Not good,” Sulu said. “We need to get back to Zeta Gibraltar with our sensor records.”
“You’re telling me,” Chekov replied. “At least we can send the highlights via subspace radio.” He reached over to flip a switch that would do just that.
Only it didn’t work. An amber warning light nearby told the story. It only came on when there was damage to the communications array.
“I spoke too soon,” Chekov said. He shook his head. “Now we can’t even warn them.”
“If we maintain this speed, when will we get there?” Sulu asked.
Chekov called up his estimated time of arrival indicator. “Estimated time of arrival at Zeta Gibraltar system in . . .” Chekov groaned. “Five standard weeks.”
“We have enough stores to make it, provided this velocity remains stable.”
“Great,” Chekov said. “On the positive side, we will live. On the negative side, we may not get there until the pirates have already arrived.”
“Are you prepared to spend five weeks in this tub?”
“I guess I have to be.”
“Maybe you can finally beat me at poker,” Sulu said.
“Maybe you can finally beat me at chess.”
Sulu sat back in his chair and sighed. “This is going to be interesting. But we’ll have to think of a contest in which we both can participate equally.”
“I will try to think of something,” Chekov said. “I have plenty of time.”
Sulu sighed. “Ahead, warp factor one, Mister Chekov.”
“Aye, sir.”
“At least we’re homeward bound.”
“Yes,” Chekov answered. “Very slowly.”
* * *
Montgomery Scott was not one given to hero worship. As much as he admired his captain, he reckoned he could withstand a few pokes at his commanding officer from some ignorant Romulan or Klingon yokel. The only matter not up for debate or challenge was the greatness of the vessel his captain commanded, the Enterprise. To slur her was to ask for a punch in the nose (or whatever other protuberance a species might have) from her chief engineer, Montgomery Scott.
