The Antares Maelstrom

by Greg Cox

  The crowd was much bigger too. The club was packed with prospectors, both homegrown and otherwise, eager to unwind, along with plenty of busy workers—hosts, bartenders, servers, and dealers—ready to relieve them of any excess credits. The Pergium Palace, which, contrary to its name, was not actually made of pergium, was just one of several happening new watering holes that had sprung up in the wake of the colony’s newfound prosperity, none of which came as any surprise to Uhura, who appreciated the importance of downtime. All mining and no play didn’t sound healthy to her.

  “Somewhere beyond the stars, beyond Antares . . .”

  Enthusiastic cheers, whistles, and applause greeted the final chorus of her song. Gratified by the audience’s response, she took a bow and descended a short ramp to the carpeted red floor, ceding the stage to the next hopeful performer. Her mouth was dry and she felt a bit out of breath, even though she’d heard that the Palace pumped extra oxygen into the air to keep its clientele hale and in high spirits, the extravagance paid for by the steady stream of credits flowing into the club’s coffers everywhere she looked. Automated assayers, scattered through the premises, converted small quantities of ore into credits, to be spent on food, drinks, gambling, and recreation, not necessarily in that order. Uhura suspected that the real fortunes to be found on Baldur III these days came from making money off the miners instead of actually mining.

  Probably safer and easier too.

  Her red Starfleet uniform matched the Palace’s vibrant carpet, tablecloths, and trimmings. Compliments on her singing trailed her as she scoped out the scene with a strategic eye. Although she appeared to be on leave, and had every intention of enjoying herself, she was actually on a mission for Captain Kirk, who had assigned her the task of taking the temperature of the colony by mingling with its residents in a more relaxed, less formal setting than, say, an administrative meeting or briefing. He wanted the real scoop from the ground, not just the “official” story. And if, in the process, she boosted the Enterprise’s standing in the community by launching a bit of a charm offensive . . . well, public relations were a form of communications, after all.

  Hailing frequencies open, she thought. Let’s make some new friends.

  Booths and tables radiated outward from the stage in concentric circles, tiered so that most folks had a good view of the entertainment, which currently consisted of a slightly intoxicated prospector who was trying, with distinctly mixed results, to wow the audience by combining juggling with Edosian hula dancing. Uhura averted her eyes and checked out the crowd instead. The majority of those present looked Baldurian to her, but there were a decent percentage of new arrivals as well. Her fellow crew members, easily spotted thanks to their bright red, blue, and gold uniforms, were also well represented, socializing with the civilians in the interest of winning their trust. Lieutenant Frank Hamm waved at Uhura from a nearby table, where he appeared to be the life of the party. She returned the greeting with a smile, but did not join him. She was not here to hang out with her friends and colleagues from the Enterprise; she wanted to get to know the people of the planet—and to let them get to know her.

  So where best to go about it?

  She wove through the crowd, looking for a nice mix of locals to engage with. There was some self-segregation going on, with Andorians sitting with Andorians, and Troglytes sitting with Troglytes, and so on, but not as much as one might fear, the convivial atmosphere encouraging folks to interact with each other. If there was not infinite diversity in infinite combinations, there was at least reasonable diversity to a promising degree. Smiling, she headed in the general direction of the bar.

  “Brava! Brava! The songbird herself!”

  A deep, jovial voice called out to her, coming from a grinning stranger who appeared to be holding court in a crowded booth up ahead. He was an older fellow of Falstaffian proportions, who looked a bit like her favorite uncle back in Mombasa. An embroidered silk caftan screamed both money and style. He had one arm draped over the shoulder of an attractive younger man sitting next to him. Yep, she thought. Just like Uncle.

  “Why, thank you,” Uhura replied. “That’s one of my favorite songs.”

  “I can see why,” he said. “Your voice complements it exquisitely.” He beckoned her toward the booth. “Would you care to join us for a drink or two?”

  She considered his invitation. Although his attire suggested that he was a native Baldurian, she noted with approval that he had both locals and newcomers in his party. No Starfleet personnel yet, however. Just what the captain ordered.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  She looked in vain for an open space.

  “Squeeze over, everyone,” the man exhorted his companions. “Make room for the lovely chanteuse.”

  Uhura managed to squeeze into the booth across from her fan.

  “Nyota Uhura,” she introduced herself, omitting her rank to better blend in with civilians. “Thanks for having me.”

  “The pleasure is all ours. Oskar Thackery,” he offered in return. “And this handsome lad is Rixon.”

  “Hi,” his companion said rather languidly. His enticing green complexion suggested an Orion somewhere in his family tree. “Nice song.”

  “And as for the rest of these miscreants,” Thackery continued, “I’m far too lazy to rattle off all their names. You’ll pick them up as we go, I’m sure.”

  “Not to worry,” Uhura assured him.

  “You must be thirsty after that magnificent rendition,” Thackery said. “Allow me to get you a drink.” He called out to a teenage server a few tables away. “Flossi, my dear! We have a parched singer in need of your services!”

  “Brake your thrusters, you demanding old reprobate,” Flossi shot back lightly. “You’re flush enough these days you can afford a little patience.”

  Thackery chuckled in response.

  “Don’t let her fool you. It’s obvious I’m her favorite customer.”

  “That’s what they all say.” Flossi finished up at the other table before strolling over to the booth with exaggerated leisure. A blond beehive hairdo, a short turquoise skirt, and knee-high boots indicated that the latest styles had made it to Baldur III despite its remote location on the wrong side of the Maelstrom. “What can I do for you, Oskar?”

  “Another round of drinks, if you please.” He glanced at Uhura. “What’s your poison, Nyota?”

  Her throat craved something soothing. “Just some warm tea, with a squirt of honey if that’s possible.”

  “Nothing stronger?” Thackery asked. “Surely you’re not on duty?”

  Not exactly, she thought. “Tea with honey is easier on my vocal cords.”

  “Can’t argue with that. A true artist takes care of her instrument.” He turned back toward Flossi. “One buttermint tea with honey, please. On my tab.”

  “Um, speaking of tea . . .”

  Rixon called the server over and whispered something in her ear. Flossi looked sideways at Uhura, thinking something over, before nodding. “I’ll be right back with your orders.”

  Uhura was pretty sure she knew what that exchange was about. She had been briefed regarding nabbia and its effects with reference to Mister Spock’s mission to Yurnos. I’m going to go out on a limb, she thought, and guess that the Palace serves a tea that isn’t listed on the menu.

  Apparently nabbia use was indeed pervasive; something to report to the captain the next time she saw him, not that she intended to bust anyone’s chops over a contraband beverage tonight. She was here to listen and learn, not judge.

  “So,” Thackery said. “Tell us about yourself, Nyota.”

  “Oh, my uniform speaks for itself. You all know what brings me to Baldur III.” She deflected the query back toward her host. “I’m more interested in hearing your story. Looks like you’re doing well for yourself these days.”

  “I cannot lie,” he said. “Fortune has been kind. Mere months ago, I was barely eking out a living as a fungus farmer, cultivating specialty mu
shrooms while moonlighting as a notary to keep the wolf from the door. Then it turns out that my humble cabin is sitting on top of a king’s ransom in pergium and, voilà, no more spores and fertilizer for me. And the best part is, I don’t even have to dig up the ore myself. I just lease the mining rights out to interested parties and collect an equitable share of the profits.”

  “Some people get all the luck,” a woman sitting next to Uhura groused. A sour expression made her look older than her years. Loose brown hair hung down to her somewhat bony shoulders. A khaki coverall clothed her frame. “We haven’t all struck it rich, you know. Haven’t found enough pergium on my property to power a small household fabricator.”

  “Take heart, Levity,” Thackery consoled her. “Your ship may still come in. But don’t think that I take my good fortune for granted. Rest assured, I’m more than grateful for the way the fates have smiled on me.”

  “Long as you keep picking up the tab,” said Levity, whose name seemed at odds with her attitude. “Can’t complain about that.”

  Flossi returned with their orders.

  “Your prompt service impresses as always.” Thackery produced a small metal canister from beneath his jacket and shook a pellet-sized nugget of pergium onto the table. “Don’t forget your tip.”

  Flossi unclipped a microassayer from her belt and scanned the nugget. She whistled at the results before pocketing the tip. “Seventy-nine percent pure. Thanks, Oskar. You’re not so bad sometimes.”

  “Music to my ears,” he replied. “Just keep the libations coming.”

  Uhura observed Rixon enjoying his tea, although she tried not to be too obvious about it. “This is quite the establishment,” she said of the Palace. “It always been this hopping?”

  “Hardly!” Thackery said. “Before the boom times, Baldur III had no nightlife to speak of, aside from a handful of rustic taverns. This place was barely half the size it is now and nowhere near as lively. We called it Pioneer’s Pavilion, and it mostly hosted the occasional dance, swap meet, holiday social, wedding, funeral, or community potluck. Maybe, if you were lucky, you could get a decent card game going upstairs.” He mimed a yawn, before gesturing expansively at the teeming club surrounding them. “Now look at us! Jackpot City is livelier than Argelius on a Friday night.”

  “I don’t know.” Levity nursed some fizzy blue concoction, which didn’t seem to be lifting her mood any. “My dad keeps saying things were better before the boom. Quieter, less hectic.”

  Thackery shrugged. “More boring, you mean.”

  “And then there’s all the new people,” Levity said. “Maybe too many.” She glanced at Uhura. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  Uhura didn’t take it personally. She sat back and listened attentively. This was just the kind of chatter she’d been hoping to tune in to.

  “Beats the old days,” Thackery insisted, “when all you ever saw was the same old faces, week after week, year after year. You could go ages without ever meeting anyone new, whereas nowadays we have a genuine Starfleet officer sitting at our very table.”

  “Happy to oblige,” Uhura said. “Meeting new people and visiting new worlds is my job description.”

  “You’re a breath of fresh air!” Thackery said effusively. “Reminding us that the universe is far bigger than this one little planet.”

  “That’s what they tell me,” Uhura replied, as Flossi returned to clear away some empty cups and plates. “Can’t wait to find out for myself.”

  Uhura took advantage of the moment to get the young server’s perspective. “What do you think of the recent changes, Flossi?”

  “Oh, I’m making out like a bandit,” she said, “and putting most of it away, unlike some big spenders I could name.” She smirked at Thackery. “I’m saving up to see the galaxy, and not just on a viewscreen. No way am I going to stay glued to this gravity well for my whole life. I want to experience everything the quadrant has to offer, from the ruins of Camus II to the dragons on Berengaria VII.”

  “The dragons are definitely worth checking out,” Uhura said. “My advice, go in springtime just as the babies are hatching.”

  Flossi gaped at Uhura. “You’ve actually been there?”

  “Once or twice.” Uhura was pleased to discover that, contrary to initial reports, not all of the original Baldurians had chips on their shoulders regarding new arrivals and the rapid changes to the colony. “You ever consider applying to Starfleet?” she asked Flossi.

  “Is that even possible?” the teenager asked. “Considering we’re not part of the Federation?”

  “Definitely. There’s probably some extra paperwork involved, but that’s all. Why, I had a Betazoid roommate back at Academy.”

  “Not that it matters,” Levity said. “The Feds are going to gobble us up soon enough.”

  “You think?” Rixon asked. The tea seemed to have perked him up some.

  “Bound to happen eventually,” Thackery said with a shrug.

  “And that doesn’t bother you?” Levity replied. “Baldur III losing its independence and becoming just another cookie-cutter Federation planet? No different than hundreds or thousands of others?”

  Uhura felt compelled to speak up.

  “Joining the Federation doesn’t mean sacrificing your individual culture or the character of your community. The UFP isn’t about homogeneity or conformity; it’s about a wide variety of spacefaring civilizations, each with their own distinctive ways and customs and beliefs, working together in harmony and cooperation. I mean, look at how different Vulcans are from Tellarites, or humans from Kelpiens. Trust me, I’ve been to Andor and Izar, and the local cultures there are nothing alike. Why, even back on Earth, you would never confuse New Orleans with Baghdad or Havana, even though the planet has been unified for centuries. The only thing most Federation worlds really have in common is a shared commitment to peace, progress, and the Prime Directive.”

  She hadn’t intended to make a speech, but she felt strongly about the subject.

  “Well, you’d have to say that, wouldn’t you?” Levity replied. “You’re Starfleet. Starfleet and the UFP are pretty much the same thing.”

  “That’s a common misconception,” Uhura began, “but actually—”

  “No more politics, please!” Thackery placed his hands over his ears. “This is a nightclub, not town hall. I hereby decree that any talk of politics be banished from earshot. Tonight is for fun and frivolity and good company.”

  Levity scowled. “Well, I was just saying—”

  “Hush,” he said. “Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

  “No problem.” Uhura leaned toward Flossi and quietly addressed her. “Feel free to ask me about Starfleet some other time.”

  “Thanks,” the server said. “I may take you up on that.”

  An excruciating aria from the stage, where a new performer was hitting notes that possibly only a Caitian could hear, elicited hisses and boos. Uhura felt sorry for both the singer and the audience. She spotted a few customers heading for the exits.

  “Our ears are going to need soothing after this infernal caterwauling,” Thackery said, wincing. He looked to Uhura. “Perhaps you can redeem the night by treating us to an encore?”

  She judged that she was definitely making inroads when it came to ingratiating herself with the locals. She looked forward to sharing what she’d learned with Captain Kirk as she polished off her tea, which was just as restorative as she’d hoped. She figured she had another song in her . . . for the sake of the mission, of course.

  “Well, if you insist.”

  Twelve

  Yurnos

  “You don’t think the smugglers might have a cloaking device, Mister Spock?”

  Chekov and Spock had set up shop in the underground nerve center beneath the farmhouse, Jord having entered their biometrics into the automated security system. Galileo remained hidden in the nearby barn, where it would hopefully evade discovery for the duration of their mission. It occurred to Spock t
hat a cloaking device would be convenient on undercover missions such as this one; alas, they were not standard issue on Starfleet shuttlecraft and were unlikely to ever become so.

  “We cannot eliminate that possibility,” he replied, “but I strongly doubt it. A Romulan-quality cloaking device is vastly more valuable than a cargo of bootleg tea, as well as being far beyond the reach of a mere smuggling operation. They are advanced military technology, not something one expects to find at the disposal of tea smugglers.”

  “I suppose,” Chekov said, “but then how are the traders getting the nabbia on and off the planet without being detected? We inspected the observers’ sensor equipment, and everything was in order. They should be able to detect any visiting vessels.”

  His accent rendered that last phrase “wisiting wessels,” but Spock was well accustomed to Chekov’s occasionally Russian-flavored pronunciations. He barely noticed the peculiarity.

  “That, Ensign, remains a puzzle to be solved.”

  The whoosh of a concealed panel sliding open heralded visitors.

  “Hello, down there.” Vankov descended the stairs, bearing a lightweight wooden carton, which he laid down on a counter. He paused to wipe the perspiration from his brow. “Took me the better part of the day, but I managed to obtain tea samples from pretty much every merchant in the province, to go along with the samples we provided you earlier. Thank goodness you only needed a pinch of each variety, or our household budget would be in tatters.”

  Spock could tell from the man’s flushed features and sweaty aroma that he had indeed been out riding in the muggy weather for some time. He appreciated Vankov’s strenuous efforts on their behalf.