by Dayton Ward
“Not only do we not answer,” Shepherd added, “but we make it look like there’s no one here anymore.” Her attention now was focused on her console and the rapid-fire sequences of commands she was making to the station’s central computer. “Turn everything off and make like a hole in space.”
Skeptical about what he was hearing, al-Khaled asked, “Can we do that? Shut down everything?” So far as he knew, an operational space station never had faced a situation whereby every onboard system was deactivated, especially if—at the time—said station was populated.
“We may not need everything,” Farber said. “Battery power at minimum levels and only used in those areas that absolutely require it should be enough.”
As the lieutenant and Ghrex set to work assisting Shepherd and Tamishiro, al-Khaled communicated the plan to T’Laen, with the recommendation that the Lovell follow similar protocols. That accomplished, and while doing his best to ignore the pitching and bouncing that were reminiscent of sitting in a small boat on the open ocean, the engineer pitched in with what quickly had become a long list of items to check and verify in preparation for Farber and Shepherd’s unorthodox scheme. Al-Khaled himself drew responsibility for ensuring critical systems such as structural integrity and life support as well as the handful of special environmental habitats for the station’s decidedly nonhumanoid contingent.
“All set,” Farber reported, casting a thumbs-up gesture toward Shepherd, and al-Khaled noted that the brawny engineer’s face appeared to have lost most of it color. Was his friend experiencing motion sickness, a condition perhaps exacerbated by his recent injury?
Hang in there, Isaiah.
Shepherd called out. “We’re ready. Mr. al-Khaled?”
“Standing by,” he replied. “I’ve coded bypasses for sickbay, environmental control, this room, and the escape pods.” Both Shepherd and Farber turned to look at him in response to the last item, and he shrugged. “Just in case.” He felt no need to complete the thought aloud, as everyone in the room knew what was at stake. A failure to arrest the station’s increasingly unstable movements would almost certainly require evacuation.
“Here we go, then,” Shepherd said, reaching to her console once more to key the power-down sequence she had just written. Without saying anything more, she pressed the control to activate the newly authored protocol.
The effect was immediate—on the room’s collection of status monitors, at least. Multicolored lines representing power flow, short-range sensor telemetry, the ebb and flow of stationwide communications—one by one, the graphic representation of these functions morphed from spikes and valleys on their respective charts to flat, dull white lines. Far below the engineering deck, the faint yet still perceptible reverberations from the station’s main power generators faded from perception, and the only clue offered when they finally did power down was the row of indicator messages on the monitor in front of al-Khaled going dormant.
Then the control center was plunged into darkness as primary power faded altogether, and even the comforting buzz of the ventilation system dissipated. Battery-backup illumination activated almost instantly, bathing everything in a warm crimson light that stretched and distorted the shadows now dominating the room. Then auxiliary power kicked in, returning the workstations to life.
“Thrusters are deactivated,” Farber called out a moment later. “We’re still drifting, but at least now we’re not being jerked around all over the place. Just a nice, slow roll.”
“Good thing we’re not orbiting a planet,” al-Khaled replied. Looking to Shepherd, he released a small smile. “Otherwise, your doctor would likely be tending to motion sickness for the rest of the day.”
“What do we do now?” Ghrex asked.
Shepherd shrugged. “Now we wait.”
Al-Khaled knew from T’Laen’s earlier report that it could take as long as eight hours for any kind of response to be detected. Of course, such thinking assumed that the transmission possessed sufficient similarity to the original signal for such predictions to be anywhere close to accurate. What if it was substantially different? What did it mean? Were the originators of the mysterious carrier waves really trying to communicate?
All questions worth pondering, he decided as he executed another diagnostic task, which reported that the structural integrity system showed no fluctuations or other signs of trouble. By all accounts, it should be able to hold its own until attitude thruster control could be restored.
Assuming the field holds, or if this idea even works.
Even as the notion crossed his mind, al-Khaled decided that he really would be better off if he ever could learn to stop harboring such negative thoughts.
Chapter
9
Farber’s arm itched.
Seated in a booth adjacent to the front window inside Tom Walker’s place—one of several bars located in Stars Landing—the engineer could not resist pushing back his left sleeve and scratching at the newly healed section of skin that had been treated by Dr. Fisher. It was not the first time Farber had received treatment for lacerations with a dermal protoplaser, and on each previous occasion he had experienced similar discomfort. In fact, his roommate on the Lovell, Lieutenant Paul LeGere, had teased him without mercy for a week following one particularly nasty—and embarrassing—injury.
Farber had gotten even, of course, and though his method of retribution had not been painful, it had eliminated LeGere’s need for a comb for months afterward.
Glancing about the bar’s interior, the engineer took in the cozy atmosphere permeating the room. All around him, conversations and laughter were the order of the day. Uniforms mingled with all manner of other attire, as members of the station’s Starfleet and civilian complements enjoyed a meal and drink, be it after long duty shifts or following a long journey to the station from some far-off location.
Behind the bar, one employee was stocking the shelves lining the back wall, working to replace bottles of liquor and glassware damaged or destroyed during the station’s recent bout with mechanical difficulty. Other than that, the tavern lent itself to relaxation, with its subdued lighting, dark wood furnishings, tasty cuisine, and a selection of libations from worlds throughout the Federation.
I could get used to this place, Farber thought.
He was reaching for the pint of beer situated near his left hand when a shadow flickered in his peripheral vision, followed by a hint of Starfleet gold. Looking up, Farber saw the face of Captain Okagawa.
“Good evening, sir,” the engineer said, attempting to rise to his feet before Okagawa waved him back to his seat.
“At ease, Lieutenant,” the captain said as he slid into the booth across from him. “I was just on my way to meet Commander zh’Rhun for dinner when I saw you through the window. We’re eating at Manón’s, if you’re interested.” Smiling, he added, “Commodore Reyes tells me the food is exquisite.”
Shaking his head, Farber replied, “I took a look in there earlier, sir. Not really my kind of place.” He indicated their surroundings with a wave of his hand. “This is more my style.”
“Fair enough.” Pointing to Farber’s left arm, Okagawa asked, “How’s the wing?”
Pulling his sleeve back into place, Farber replied, “Coming along nicely, sir. For a passing shot, it was a pretty nasty cut, but I’ll be fine.” Frowning, he asked, “How are things shaping up after that last bout of malfunctions?”
“Repairs are under way,” the captain said. “Burnouts and overloads all over the station. Some sections are still without power as the priority repairs are addressed first, things like that. Nothing critical, but I hear some of the folks living in the apartment complexes aren’t too happy.” Rubbing his chin, he added, “As for the carrier wave, that idea you and Lieutenant Shepherd came up with seems to have worked. It stopped transmitting a little over eight hours after everything was shut down, just like the first time around.”
Farber nodded. He had read Lieutenant T’Laen’s report on
the latest version of the signal, including her theory that whatever had transmitted it was performing the equivalent of a confirmation with regard to the first signal. As the station had not communicated anything resembling the reply, the originator of the carrier wave seemed to have lost interest.
For now, at any rate. It had been almost ten hours since full power had been restored to the station, and the mysterious transmission had not returned. There was no way to know if it ever would, or if it would be even more powerful—and damaging—than it had to this point. That, it seemed, would be a puzzle for Vanguard’s crew to solve.
“Any word about casualties?” Farber asked.
Leaning against the booth’s high seatback, Okagawa said, “Seems we got lucky this time. A few broken bones, some bruises and cuts like yours. Nothing that won’t heal.”
“A shame we can’t say the same about Lieutenant Ballard, or Ensign Malhotra,” Farber said, releasing a tired sigh as he reached for his mug and took a long pull of his beer. He grimaced as he swallowed the brew, which seemed suddenly to have lost its enticing flavor.
Okagawa said, “Everyone has done a fine job helping out the station’s crew with their various troubles, Isaiah, but I have to say I’m particularly impressed with your work since we got here. I know it hasn’t been easy with the…added difficulties.”
“You mean my being a material witness in two murder investigations?” Farber asked. “It’s been weighing on my mind a bit, sir, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Well,” Okagawa said, “you’ll be happy to know there’s some news on that front. The knives recovered from the cargo bay where you were attacked appear to be the same type of blade as that used to kill the ensign. That’s the report from the station’s CMO, at any rate.”
His brow furrowing, Farber said, “So, whoever attacked us likely killed Malhotra, and was probably at least involved in planting those transmitters.”
“Not a certainty, but it’s definitely a working theory,” Okagawa replied. “Search parties found four more of those transmitters, but they’re being left in place for now until a way can be figured out to circumvent the self-destruct mechanism.” Sighing, he added, “As for the transmissions themselves, so far all Commander T’Prynn has been able to determine is that they were routed from different points on the station to various ships that either were embarked at the station or passing in close proximity, including that Orion ship that’s still docked.”
His eyes widening in surprise, Farber said, “I can’t believe Commodore Reyes hasn’t torn that ship apart yet.”
Okagawa shook his head. “Not that simple, I’m afraid. Given the open nature of that gaming facility and other…unsavory activities taking place aboard that tub at any hour of the day, anyone could have been on the other end of the communication. There’s no hard proof linking it to the owner of the ship, which is pretty much par for the course when it comes to Orions.”
“That’s an understatement, sir.” Though Farber himself had never had cause to cross paths with any members of the Orion Syndicate, he had heard stories of the sorts of activities for which they were known—slave trading, black marketeering, arms dealing, and so on. One of their infamous hallmarks was their ability to maintain deniability of their involvement in various illicit enterprises, particularly if it involved operating beneath the notice of the various sovereign governments within and bordering Federation space. Though the Orions claimed to be a neutral body when it came to the ever-changing political landscape, they had a habit of turning up wherever it seemed to be to their advantage.
If the captain of the Orion vessel docked at Vanguard indeed was involved in the string of thefts, infiltration of the station’s communications system, and the deaths of Ballard and Malhotra, it meant that he was an especially cunning sort, but also bold almost to the arrogant extreme to carry out such acts and schemes right under the collective noses of more than a thousand Starfleet personnel.
Rising from his seat, Okagawa said, “Well, I don’t wish to keep Commander zh’Rhun waiting. You know how she can be when she doesn’t eat.” He smiled at his own joke, though Farber watched it fade as the captain caught sight of something outside the window. “Speaking of Orions, there’s something you don’t see every day.” He nodded in that direction, and Farber turned to see what had captured his attention.
It was an Orion man, standing near the entrance to another bar next to an Arcturian male. They appeared to be engaged in conversation, though each of them also was dividing his attention to the comings and goings of various passersby—paying particular attention to the female variety. Tall and slender, the Orion was dressed in a long tan robe that all but concealed everything below his neck. He gestured and pointed with his left hand, his movements slow and subtle, and everything about his body language suggested to Farber that he was doing his level best to remain inconspicuous, all while failing rather badly at the attempt.
“I recognize him,” Okagawa said. “From a picture, anyway. Commander T’Prynn told us about him after zh’Rhun’s little altercation aboard the Orion ship. His name’s Jaeq. Hired muscle, supposedly.”
As Farber watched the Orion and his associate continuing their conversation, the door to the bar abruptly swung outward, pushed open by a staggering, obviously inebriated Tellarite dressed in the dark coveralls of a merchant freighter crew member. The door did not swing with any great degree of force or speed, and when it struck Jaeq in the right arm it did so only lightly.
Despite that, he flinched, and Farber felt the small hairs rise on the back of his neck. With narrowing eyes, the engineer watched as the Orion grimaced in obvious pain as he reached for his shoulder, his right arm hanging limp at his side.
“Call security,” Farber said as he bolted from his seat and navigated his way out of the bar, ignoring Okagawa’s confused reaction to the sudden request. Without trying to appear too anxious, the engineer made his way across the thoroughfare between buildings in this part of Stars Landing’s entertainment district.
He had almost crossed the concourse when Jaeq noticed him, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Though Jaeq managed to school his features, Farber was sure he caught a hint of recognition on the Orion’s face.
I’ll be damned.
“Excuse me,” the engineer said as he stepped closer, smiling. “Do you have the time?”
Confusion crossed the Orion’s face, just enough for Farber to close the remaining distance. In one quick motion, he reached out and gripped the other man’s right shoulder, and another expression of pain lanced across Jaeq’s features.
“Still tender?” Farber hissed through gritted teeth. There was no mistaking the look of concern and growing panic on the Orion’s face. “I thought we’d finish what we started down in the cargo bay.”
His lips peeling back in a snarl that revealed stark white teeth, Jaeq pushed away and lashed out with his other arm, his fist aiming for Farber’s head. Though the engineer ducked to one side and avoided all but a glancing blow, it was enough to make him move aside and give the Orion an opening. Jaeq kicked with his left leg, catching Farber in the stomach and sending him tumbling to the floor.
People around him scattered as they became aware of the altercation developing in their midst even as Farber pulled himself to his feet. Looking up, he was in time to see the Orion plunging into the throng of people milling about on the concourse.
“Stop him!” Farber shouted even as he set off in pursuit, his eyes tracking the bobbing and weaving of Jaeq’s green head as he ran through the crowd. The lieutenant was only dimly aware of Okagawa’s voice behind him, shouting that security was on the way. There might have been something about not chasing after the Orion, but he ignored it.
He ran as fast as his legs would push him, trying to close the gap Jaeq had opened up between them. The Orion was grabbing at people as he passed them, pushing past them and sometimes tugging them to the deck. Farber tried to dodge the living obstacles, but one misstep sent him stumbl
ing to avoid a fallen Rigelian woman. As he regained his balance and renewed the chase, he was in time to see Jaeq disappear around a corner of the building at the end of the faux street comprising this section of the district.
Setting off again, Farber dashed down the concourse until he made it to the end of the lane. He rounded the bend and found himself looking at what essentially was a portion of Stars Landing’s support facilities: warehouse doors and back entrances to the buildings comprising the restaurants, clubs, and other venues for this area of the esplanade. He counted thirteen doors of varying sizes, some open, some not. A few people were standing around, some of them sporting perplexed expressions while others appeared to be oblivious to what might have just happened.
And no sign of Jaeq.
Instead, Farber’s eyes came to rest on the rumpled tan robe lying on the ground ten meters ahead of him.
Stealth suit.
“Damn it!”
Remembering the conversation with al-Khaled and Lieutenant Jackson in the cargo bay after the earlier altercation with Jaeq, Farber slammed a fist against the façade of the building. If the Orion had still been wearing the black garment underneath his robe, he likely had all he required to avoid being tracked by the internal sensors in this part of the station.
So intense was his mounting anger that Farber did not hear his communicator until it signaled a second time for attention. Retrieving the unit from his waistband, he flipped it open and pressed the activation control.
“Farber here,” he said, pushing the words out between rapid breaths.
“Where the hell are you?” the voice of Okagawa yelled from the communicator’s speaker grille.
“It was him, Captain,” Farber replied. “The one who attacked me and al-Khaled. He killed Ballard and probably Malhotra, too. He got away.”
Okagawa said, “Security’s alerted, Isaiah. Don’t worry, he won’t get far. In fact, there’s really only one place he can go.”
