The Antares Maelstrom

by Greg Cox

  “You heard the woman!” Sulu said loudly. “Stand down!”

  A head popped up from behind the central counter. Mint-green skin and elaborately coiffed orange hair identified the man as a Troyian. “Thank the stars you’re here, Grandle!” he exclaimed. “Stop these barbarians before they wreck my store!”

  “That’s the idea, Naylis.” Grandle jumped off the counter into the fracas, landing between two furious shoppers who were doing their best to batter each other senseless. She shoved them apart, trying to keep them at arm’s length from each other. Her fierce expression would have done an ancient Greek Fury proud. “Get a hold of yourselves! What do you think this is, the twentieth century?”

  More force fields, guarding shelves and displays, crackled as brawlers collided with them. A stack of self-heating rations was knocked over, spilling onto the floor. An irate Tellarite, wielding a steel thermos as a bludgeon, charged at Sulu for no reason in particular. His attack boasted more enthusiasm than finesse, so Sulu deftly employed a judo move to hurl the porcine brawler out of the store into the hallway, only to gape in surprise as a burst of energy jolted the Tellarite as he passed over the threshold. The thermos slipped from his grasp as he collapsed onto the floor.

  “Shoplifting precaution,” Naylis explained, noting Sulu’s confusion. “Nobody leaves without paying.”

  Good to know, Sulu thought. As the security teams pulled more and more people away from the brawl, restraining them as necessary, he headed into the thick of the commotion, hoping to defuse it at its core. His eyes zeroed in on a hooded figure, wearing a poncho-like garment, who appeared to be at the heart of the donnybrook, holding its own against three other brawlers despite being outnumbered. Rapid-fire kicks and punches sent the figure’s opponents reeling. Sulu was impressed even as he saw a problem to be dealt with. The hooded one had serious moves.

  “Whoa there!” He seized the furious fighter from behind. “Let’s just take a moment to chill out here.”

  The fighter struggled to break free, making Sulu wish he knew how to administer a Vulcan nerve pinch. He narrowly avoided an elbow to the gut. An angry voice accosted him.

  “Get your hands off me, you grabby slime devil!”

  He recognized the voice and accent immediately. Startled, he released her.

  “Helena?”

  She spun around to face him. Her hood fell away, revealing the unmistakable features of Helena Savalas. Her striking brown eyes widened.

  “Hikaru?”

  Fond memories surfaced, but the middle of a brawl was no place for reminiscing. One of her opponents barreled at her, intent on mayhem, so she leaned forward, bracing herself against Sulu, as she delivered a solid backward kick to the other brawler’s solar plexus, staggering him. Looking past Sulu, over his shoulder, she calmly alerted him to another threat.

  “Behind you.”

  He appreciated the warning. Spinning around, so that he and Helena were back to back, he found a wild-eyed Saurian swinging a scaly fist at him. Sulu deflected the blow and kicked the reptilian backward.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked Helena.

  “Ferrying a load of would-be miners to Baldur III.” She grabbed a hostile Trill by the arm and swung him into a wall. “You?”

  “Trying to contain disturbances like this.” Sulu drew his phaser and stunned another attacker at short range. “Mind making my day easier . . . for old times’ sake?”

  “Well, since you asked so nicely . . .”

  By now, the combined security forces had largely gotten things under control, having broken up the fights and restrained the most combative participants. Tempers were still running hot, but there was more glowering and muttering than actual bodily harm going on. Split lips and black eyes suggested that there was about to be a run on the infirmary. A Ktarian spit angrily onto the floor. Naylis scowled at the offense, but let it pass.

  “All right, then,” Grandle said, laying down the law. “That’s enough of that. This is a Federation station, not an Orion slave market. Disperse peacefully, if you don’t want to end up in the brig . . . or have your station privileges revoked.”

  Sulu understood why Grandle was giving the brawlers an opportunity to avoid arrest; besides the danger of re-igniting the violence, if they tried to run them all in, they would find the station’s detention facilities already near capacity. Better to just let everyone go their own way. I would have made the same call.

  “But she started it!” a spiky male Nausicaan protested, pointing at Helena. A mane of greasy brown hair framed his irate features. A vertical row of thorn-sized horns creased his forehead, giving him an intimidating appearance that didn’t seem to cow Helena one bit.

  “Like hell I did!” she shot back. “You and your brutish cohorts literally yanked that last universal translator unit out of my hands just as I was paying for it, and laughed when I demanded it back.” She reached into her poncho and drew out the item in question: a baton-sized translator. “Who’s laughing now, Tuskface.”

  “You human pestilence—” The Nausicaan lunged for her, but was held back by Ensign Banning, a burly Canadian security officer who had won more than his share of arm-wrestling matches in the Enterprise rec room. Sulu drew his phaser on the Nausicaan for good measure.

  “I don’t care who started it,” Grandle insisted. “I’m ending it. Anybody else got a problem with that?”

  People griped under their breath, but nobody seemed inclined to push their luck. Grandle nodded in satisfaction.

  “That’s more like it.”

  “Excuse me.” Naylis rose to his feet after hiding behind his counter. He was a slight individual who looked to be middle-aged, by Troyian standards. His double-breasted violet tunic had a satiny sheen. A sculpted hairdo rose fin-like on both sides of his scalp, with nary a strand out of place despite the recent violence. His features had a vulpine cast. “Who is going to pay for the damage to my store, not to mention the lost business?”

  Sulu glanced around. Aside from the general disarray, he didn’t see much in the way of actual damage, thanks to the protective force fields shielding much of the merchandise. He assumed that Naylis had activated the shields as soon as the fighting started.

  “File a claim with the station manager,” Grandle advised, “unless you want to press charges against anyone in particular?”

  Naylis mulled it over for a moment, then shook his head. “It’s a shortsighted shopkeeper who jails his own customers.” He looked over the mess and sighed. “I don’t suppose you can loan me some of your people to help clean up?”

  “Sorry,” Grandle said. “We’re security, not maintenance.”

  “Can’t blame a fellow for asking,” Naylis said with a shrug. “In any event, thank you for your timely intervention, Mister Grandle. And you too, Lieutenant Sulu.”

  Sulu was mildly surprised that the shopkeeper knew his name. “You’re well informed.”

  “That’s putting it lightly,” Grandle said. “Naylis probably knows more about what’s going on in this station than I do, most of the time. He can also get his hands on just about anything . . . for the right price.”

  “Legally,” the shopkeeper stressed. “Of course.”

  “Uh-huh,” Grandle said, sounding skeptical. “Anyway, Sulu, I hate to admit it, but you and your people handled themselves well in that ruckus. Probably couldn’t have shut it down as quickly without your help.”

  “That’s why we’re here.” Sulu accepted her olive branch, despite being more than a little distracted by Helena’s unexpected presence. Although most of the disgruntled civilians were making themselves scarce, she lingered a few meters away, clearly waiting for him. He assured himself that the brawl was well and truly over before stepping away from Grandle and Naylis. “If you’ll excuse me, I see an old . . . friend I need to catch up with.”

  “Friend” was not entirely a euphemism. They had certainly parted as friends, even if their history was a bit more complicated than that. He joined her a
s she was tucking her hard-won translator wand back into an interior pocket of her poncho. She looked up as he approached, her face again eliciting many warm and warmer memories. A purple bruise, left over from the brawl, discolored her chin, but otherwise she looked much as he remembered her.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said. “It’s been—what? A couple of years?”

  A chance encounter at the worlds-famous botanical gardens on Arden VI had led to coffee, dinner, and, eventually, one of the best shore leaves ever. Although they each had their own lives and careers, they had always tried to make the most of it on those rare occasions that their paths had crossed.

  “Something like that,” she said. “You’re still with the Enterprise?”

  “Chief helmsman, temporarily reassigned to help things run smoothly despite the sudden increase in traffic.”

  “Really? Has that caused any turbulence?” She massaged her chin. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he quipped back. “And what’s new with you?”

  “First officer and communications specialist aboard the newly rechristened Lucky Strike, a commercial vessel far less impressive than a Constitution-class starship. We’ve been chartered to ferry a load of impatient prospectors to Baldur III, which is a booming business these days.”

  Sulu could believe it. “How long you going to be in this neck of the woods?”

  “Depends on how quickly we can get some minor repairs done and stock up on enough provisions. We’re also hoping to pick up a few more passengers, since we’ve still got room for more.”

  “And every vacancy represents a lost fare?”

  “Bingo,” she said. “Our skipper wants a full ship before we set out. In fact, I suspect he’s out trying to poach some passengers from the competition as we speak.”

  Sulu didn’t like the sound of that. One ship stealing fares from another sounded like another brawl in the making. Still, he refrained from complaining to Helena about it, since he didn’t want to spoil their reunion. Something to share with Grandle instead, he decided. Just to give her a heads-up.

  In the meantime, running into Helena again was a pleasant surprise.

  “I hope you won’t hold it against me,” he said, “if I’m crossing my fingers that the Lucky Strike doesn’t depart too quickly.”

  “Are you kidding? I’d be offended if you weren’t wanting me to stick around for a while.” She casually placed a hand upon his arm. “So, want to get a drink or something?”

  “Sounds good to me,” he answered. “I hear there’s a cozy little bar on Level—”

  His communicator chimed urgently, as did Grandle’s a few meters away. The interruption was as unwelcome as the news Sulu received when he answered the hail. Grandle sprang into action immediately, heading toward Sulu.

  “Break time’s over,” Grandle announced. “Got another disturbance, this time at the customs center on Arm B.”

  “So I hear.” Sulu gave Helena an apologetic look as he lowered his communicator. “Looks like I need to take a rain check on that drink. Duty calls.”

  “Duty has lousy timing,” Helena snarked. “But what are you going to do? Go. We’ll have to catch up another time, if we get a chance.”

  “Thanks,” Sulu said, summoning the rest of his security team. “Try not to start any more brawls until then, okay?”

  She smirked at him. “No promises.”

  “You coming, Sulu?” Grandle called from the hallway.

  “Right behind you.”

  He was already anticipating whatever uproar awaited them, and hoping that there weren’t too many frustrated travelers involved. One free-for-all a shift was already one too many.

  We’re going to need a bigger brig.

  Four

  Baldur III

  “Welcome to Jackpot City,” the mayor said.

  The landing party, which consisted of Kirk, McCoy, and Yeoman Martha Landon, materialized in the town square, where they were greeted by a delegation of community leaders. Kirk’s arm itched where McCoy had administered a tri-ox compound right before they beamed down; Baldur III’s atmosphere was thinner than that found on most M-Class planets, being somewhere between Vulcan’s and Earth’s. It was breathable, but humans could benefit from a boost, just to avoid getting light-headed or short of breath. Kirk took a deep breath of the crisp fall air. So far the injection seemed to be doing the trick.

  “Thank you,” he replied. “We got here as soon as we could.”

  He took in the sights. The once-obscure colony had turned into a sprawling, ramshackle boom town almost overnight. Older buildings made of wood and stone and brick were surrounded by newer structures, including prefabricated steel barracks, several temporary shelters composed of quick-setting thermoconcrete, and more than a few grounded shuttles and spacecraft that had been repurposed as lodgings, trading posts, dance halls, and whatnot. Glancing around, Kirk was amused to see a vintage Kazarite escape pod being used as a sandwich shop. Twilight was falling in this corner of the planet, but the din of new construction continued even as the outdoor lights came on. Throngs of people, sporting the attire of many different worlds, roamed the bustling cobblestone sidewalks while groundcars cruised the streets. An air-truck zipped by overhead. Snow-capped mountains and wooded hills loomed in the distance.

  “Soon as you could beats the alternative, in my book,” Mayor Margery Poho said. She was heavyset, bordering on chubby, with an easy smile, shrewd brown eyes, and graying dark hair. Creases around her eyes and mouth gave her face extra character. Casual attire indicated a preference for comfort and durability over pomp. A rumpled overcoat protected her from the elements. “We’re glad of any help we can get from the Federation.”

  “Within reason,” an elderly member of the delegation muttered. He eyed the landing party warily. Appearing to be in his seventies, the man had a bushy walrus mustache, a ruddy complexion, and leathery features that suggested a lifetime of exposure to wind and sun, despite the wide-brimmed hat currently keeping his head covered. He walked with a cane, but showed no sign of infirmity. “And only up to a point.”

  Kirk wondered what his issue was.

  “Allow me to introduce two of my most valued advisors.” Poho indicated the old man with the cane. “This is Boyd Cahill. His family was among the original settlers on Baldur III.”

  “And don’t you forget it,” he said. “And with no help from the Federation, I might add.”

  Poho introduced her other advisor: a tall, rangy man clad in a faded burgundy jumpsuit. Long, unruly brown tresses escaped a tightly wound gray bandana. “And this is Navvan, who has emerged as a spokesman for our newer citizens.”

  He dipped his head. “Welcome.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Kirk said. “Excuse me, but you’re a Troglyte, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Many of my fellow miners have migrated to Baldur III in search of greater opportunities . . . and less prejudice against our people.”

  Kirk couldn’t blame them. Back on their homeworld of Ardana, the so-called Troglytes had labored in the zenite mines, scorned and exploited by an elite class of cultured aristocrats. Kirk liked to think that the miners’ situation was improving, thanks in some small part to his own intervention a few years ago, but he also knew that it was unrealistic to expect generations of prejudice and discrimination to be overcome easily.

  “And is the label ‘Troglyte’ still acceptable to you?” Kirk said.

  “We are reclaiming the name, defining it not as a slur but as something to be proud of,” Navvan said. “There is no shame in laboring deep beneath the surface. We only insist on doing so for ourselves, not to benefit those who despise us.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” McCoy said. “From what little I saw of Ardana.”

  “Before or after the Federation meddled in its internal affairs?” Cahill said. “No offense, Navvan. I get that your people got a raw deal there, which you were dealing with on your own terms even befo
re Starfleet stuck their nose into your business.”

  Kirk chose to confront the man’s attitude head-on.

  “You have a problem with Starfleet and the Federation, Mister Cahill?”

  “Not at all,” the man said. “Long as they keep their distance.”

  Poho sighed.

  “You have to understand, Captain, that Baldur III has always been an independent colony, founded in part by people who wanted to forge a new life away from the Earth and its allies. There’s some concern that our recent windfall might make Baldur III more attractive to the Federation, which has largely let us be until now.”

  Kirk valued her honesty.

  “I won’t lie,” he replied in kind. “The Federation would be happy to have Baldur III join the UFP, and there’s a case to be made that this would be to our mutual advantage, but the choice as always is yours.”

  “I knew it,” Cahill harrumphed. “Starfleet’s so-called aid is just a ploy to get their hands on our pergium. Once they get their foot in the door, we’ll never be rid of them.” He shrugged at the landing party. “Nothing personal.”

  “That’s not the case at all,” Kirk said. “We’re here at your invitation.”

  “For now,” Cahill said ominously. “But what happens when it’s time for you to leave?”

  “Hush, Boyd.” Poho rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a crank. This is no way to greet our guests.” Changing the subject, she turned the collar of her overcoat against a chilly breeze. “Hope you don’t mind beaming down to the square instead of directly to my office. I wanted to show off Jackpot City: past, present, and future.”

  She gestured broadly at the nascent metropolis, before calling their attention to the tall wooden building facing the square. Upright wooden logs supported the roof of the portico shielding the front door. Windows looked to be genuine glass instead of transparent aluminum. A clock tower, complete with a traditional analog clock face, topped the venerable-looking structure.