by Greg Cox
“A ‘pinch’ will suffice for our purposes,” Spock said. “I trust that you took note of where each sample was obtained and that they are each carefully labeled.”
“Naturally, Mister Spock, just as you instructed.” He gestured at his purchases. “See for yourself.”
Spock rose from his seat at the primary workstation to inspect the contents of the carton. As promised, the box was filled with several small paper envelopes, each of which had been labeled in a neat and legible hand. A robust aroma confirmed that the envelopes contained samples of nabbia tea obtained from a variety of sources. Vankov reached beneath his jacket to produce a written document, penned in parchment and rolled into a scroll. He handed the scroll over to Spock.
“I made a list of where each sample came from as well.”
Spock unfurled the scroll and examined the list, which appeared to be quite meticulous, even if he found the crude medium more inconvenient than quaint. It would be necessary to scan the document in order to transfer its content to the computer library. This was less than efficient, albeit unavoidable, considering the circumstances. He could hardly expect Vankov to roam the countryside with a data slate or tricorder in hand.
“Well done,” Spock said. “Let us hope your labors prove fruitful to our cause.”
Vankov looked pleased to be of use. He glanced around the control room. “So, any progress so far?”
“That depends on how you define progress,” Chekov said. “We are getting nowhere very fast.”
“Patience, Ensign. We are in fact making progress by eliminating possibilities via a methodical scientific approach to the problem.”
Chekov sighed. He had been assiduously at work at the auxiliary station for some time. “Aye, Mister Spock. I did not mean to imply otherwise.”
Spock opened one of the envelopes. Inside was a “pinch” of fresh tea, consisting of very thin shavings of nabbia root, each less than two millimeters in width. This particular batch appeared to have been aged for several weeks, giving it a darker color and more pungent odor than some other varieties. He noted with a twinge of disappointment that its color and scent were slightly different than the sample of bootleg nabbia they had obtained on Baldur III before departing for Yurnos, although he reminded himself that such superficial differences did not necessarily mean that they were not a match genetically; as he had learned, the manner of preparation could have a substantial effect on the tea’s final appearance and properties, which was why a more rigorous analysis was mandated.
“To be more specific,” he explained to Vankov, “we are attempting to determine the source of a specific variety of nabbia known to have been sold on Baldur III, in hopes that it will lead us to the smugglers. Variations in color and taste are inconclusive, so we are relying on DNA instead, searching for a genetic match to the contraband nabbia.”
“Interesting,” Vankov said. “That would have never occurred to me. Then again, as an anthropologist, I’m more interested in social evolution than genetic drift.”
“You would not have been able to pursue this avenue of investigation in any event,” Spock pointed out. “Not without a sample from Baldur III.”
“True enough,” Vankov conceded. “We weren’t in a position to pop over to another planet to pick up some illicit tea. You needed to bring that incriminating evidence with you.”
“Precisely,” Spock said. “At present we have compared the bootleg tea to most of the samples from your pantry and personal stores without finding a match.” He sealed the envelope and placed it back in the carton. “This larger selection of samples increases our chances of success.”
He contemplated the many new samples to be tested. Although Spock liked to think that he worked more efficiently than most, he was glad that Chekov was on hand to share the workload and allow them to process the samples twice as fast. Despite his impatience, the young human had been both careful and diligent in his work.
“I should leave you gentlemen to your labors. Shall I prepare you a light repast? Jord usually frowns on eating in the nerve center, but we can probably make an exception in this case.” He directed his attention to Spock. “I assume that, being Vulcan, you are a vegetarian?”
“That is correct,” Spock said. “I hope that does not pose a—”
“Bozhe moi!” Chekov blurted. “Mister Spock! We have it!”
His obvious excitement caused Spock’s own pulse to quicken although his stoic features displayed only curiosity. “A match?”
“Affirmative, sir!” Chekov reviewed the readings on the tricorder he had been using to analyze the samples on a genetic level. “This particular sample is genetically identical to the nabbia confiscated on Baldur III, right down to the last chromosome and base pair.”
Vankov shared Chekov’s emotive reaction. “Are you positive, Ensign?”
“Absolutely!” He hopped out of his seat and handed the tricorder to Spock. “Look, Mister Spock. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Spock had no reason to doubt Chekov’s findings, but he reviewed the readings on the tricorder’s display. A side-by-side comparison of the samples’ genomes confirmed that they were indeed identical beyond even a reasonable margin of error. It appeared that this tea came from the same source as the tea confiscated on Baldur III, which might be able to point them toward the identity of the smugglers.
“Excellent work, Mister Chekov.” Spock called Vankov’s attention to the sample Chekov had just scanned, which had come directly from the household’s pantry. “Where was this tea obtained?”
Vankov examined the tea and its label. He held the dried flakes up to his nose and sniffed them. A grin broke out across his face.
“Oh, I’d know this tea anywhere. It’s one of Eefa’s.”
Spock did not recognize the name. “Eefa?”
“A local tea merchant,” Vankov explained. “She has a shop a few towns over.” He sniffed the tea again. “Yes, this is definitely one of her more popular wares. Goes by the name of Suffusion.” He shrugged modestly. “I fancy I’ve become something of a nabbia connoisseur in our years here.”
Spock took his word for it. He preferred hard evidence to Vankov’s nose, but it would be simple enough to verify the tea’s provenance.
“I believe I should meet this Eefa.”
Thirteen
Deep Space Station S-8
“Here she is, Lieutenant! The saboteur!”
Sulu hurried across the station’s main shuttlebay, which was located at the “bottom” of the station’s core, relative to its artificial gravity. Two security officers, Knox and Johann, accompanied him. He had responded quickly to a report of attempted sabotage to one of the shuttles parked in the hangar, but was careful to manage his expectations when it came to solving the mystery of the ongoing accidents and malfunctions. A certain degree of paranoia was running rampant on the station, resulting in an uptick of false alarms and red herrings that had taxed the already overworked security teams. Sulu wanted to think that an actual saboteur had been nabbed at last, but he knew better than to get his hopes up.
“Lieutenant Sulu?” a male Vernalian addressed him. A thick exoskeleton supported his invertebrate anatomy. “I’m Pilot First-Class Uco. I caught this individual snooping around my ship!”
His upper pincers had a tight grip on the arm of . . .
Helena?
“Let go of me!” she fumed as additional members of the Vernalian crew stood by, glowering at her. She fought to extricate her arm from the pilot’s pincers. “For Athena’s sake, I keep telling you, I was just looking to barter a spare transfer coil for a subspace radio control circuit. I was only eyeballing your ship because it looked like its basic components were compatible with the Lucky Strike.”
Sulu glanced around, but didn’t see Helena’s ship in the hangar. As far as he knew, it was currently docked at one of the station’s outer arms. He sighed wearily.
Another false alarm, he realized, and Helena in the middle of it.
“Everybody
calm down,” he said. “Sounds to me like this is just a simple misunderstanding.”
“Yes! Thank you, Hikaru. That’s what I keep saying.”
Sulu wished she hadn’t addressed him by his first name. He wanted to avoid even the appearance of favoritism.
“But she was carrying this,” Uco insisted, holding up a well-equipped tool belt, which he had apparently taken off her. “And lurking suspiciously!”
“I wasn’t lurking,” she said. “I was window-shopping. So naturally I had my tools with me, in case I needed to inspect the merchandise.”
“Sounds plausible to me.” Sulu looked over the ship, which appeared undamaged. “Did either you or your crew find any evidence of sabotage or tinkering?”
“Well, no,” Uco conceded. “Probably because we caught her just in time!”
“That’s not enough to hold her on.” Sulu stepped forward and released her from the pincers; to his relief, Uco did not resist. “But thank you for being on the alert for any possibly suspicious activity. Rest assured, we’ll keep a close eye on her from now on.”
“Keep a close eye on—” Her jaw dropped. “Seriously?”
He gave her a pointed look. Just go with it, okay?
“If you’ll please come with me, ma’am.”
She hesitated, then came around. “Fine. Whatever. I’m clearly not getting that circuit from these clowns.” She snatched her tool belt back and glared at the Vernalians. “Hope you don’t need an extra transfer coil at some point.”
She took Sulu’s arm as he guided her away from the ship, glad to have defused the situation without too much conflict. His security escort tagged along, looking relieved as well. They were heading for the nearest turbolift, when a sudden explosion blew out a small section of the ceiling high above their heads. Dust and debris rained down on the hangar floor as well as on the ships parked there. An emergency klaxon blared.
“Hikaru?” Helena said. “What is it? What’s happening?”
“Damned if I know.” He could practically feel the adrenaline flooding his system as he went into full alert mode. “Heads up!” he barked to his ensigns before shouting loudly to whoever could hear him. “Is anybody hurt? In need of assistance?”
He heard plenty of shouting and panic, but no immediate cries for help. Peering up at the ruptured ceiling, he assessed the damage; it didn’t look as though any life-threateningly large chunks had fallen, nor did he see much in the way of flames. For a second, he allowed himself to hope that they had gotten lucky and there had been no serious casualties.
Then thick purple vapors started gushing from the rupture, hissing like a Regulan eel-bird. Sulu’s eyes widened in alarm as he identified the toxic fumes.
“Plasma coolant!”
He knew how dangerous the gas leak was. Plasma coolant could suffocate most humanoid life-forms if they inhaled too much of it. The capacious volume of the shuttlebay bought them all a bit of time, as it would take a few minutes for the fumes to fill the hangar completely, but he could already hear people coughing and gasping in distress. He made a point to breathe through his nose even as the acrid odor of the coolant irritated his nostrils. He felt an itch at the back of his throat. His eyes began to water.
“Why aren’t the emergency fans and filters clearing out the fumes?” Knox asked.
“I don’t know, Ensign,” Sulu replied. More malfunctions? Sabotage?
“Should we attempt to evacuate, sir?” Ensign Johann asked him.
“Not going to be that easy,” Sulu feared. People were already streaming toward the turbolifts and emergency stairwells, only to find that they’d been automatically sealed off to contain the spread of the gas. It was possible that he could override them somehow, but first he had to keep himself and his team—and Helena—from asphyxiating before they could help anyone else. “Breathing masks. We need breathing masks, pronto.”
“Over there.” Helena pointed across the hangar while holding her other hand in front of her mouth, muffling her voice somewhat. “I spotted it while I was ‘lurking’ earlier.”
Sure enough, an emergency supply closet, clearly labeled, was located against a bulkhead a few meters away. Sulu pried it open, triggering another alarm, and found maybe a dozen unused breathing masks at his disposal. More than enough, he assumed, for the shuttlebay back before the “gold rush,” but not nearly sufficient now. He placed a mask over his nose and mouth, receiving immediate relief, before dealing them out to Helena and the two ensigns. The mask did a good job of filtering out the coolant while providing a limited amount of oxygen, which was generated by a chemical reaction that triggered as needed. Sulu took a deep breath, appreciating the fresher air, even though his eyes were still watering. He wiped the tears away to assess the situation.
It wasn’t good.
Panicked people began collapsing onto the floor, while others were running around in distress. He suspected that some species had less lung capacity than others or might be more susceptible to the fumes. The purple vapor was spreading like a fog, filling up the hangar, making it difficult to see what was going on. The space door was in place, sealing the vapor in, and they couldn’t open the door to vent the coolant into space without flushing everyone out into the vacuum as well.
Unless . . .
“We need to get everyone into the shuttles,” Sulu ordered. The shuttles were airtight and equipped with their own life-support systems; they were the perfect shelters during this crisis even if they couldn’t go anywhere yet. “Spread out! Hurry!”
“Aye, sir!” Knox said.
“We’re on it!” Helena said, pitching in.
Sulu prayed that would be enough as he rushed toward a fallen humanoid who was gasping for breath like a fish out of water. He placed one of the extra breathing masks over the man’s face, then helped him to his feet. Looking around, he saw that the nearest shelter was the Vernalian shuttle Helena had been accused of spying on earlier.
Here’s hoping they’re not still holding a grudge, he thought.
His arm around the other man, he half dragged, half carried the stricken traveler toward the shuttle’s main airlock, which was already sealed against the fumes. Sulu couldn’t blame the Vernalians for slamming the door shut, but he was sure they had room for more. He pounded on the solid duranium door with his fist.
“Open!” he shouted. “This is Lieutenant Sulu! I have a casualty!”
He could try to hail the shuttle via his communicator, but first he’d have to find the proper channel. Shouting was probably more efficient, as long as the Vernalians didn’t choose to ignore him. He strained to keep his humanoid burden up on his feet. The man was still coughing hoarsely, despite his mask. He was clearly in need of medical attention.
“We have dying people out here! Open up!”
He briefly feared that the Vernalians were only concerned with their own safety, but the airlock hissed and the door slid open, revealing Uco wearing a different-model breathing mask, which Sulu assumed came from the shuttle’s private stores. The mask was crafted to fit the insectoid contours of the pilot’s features.
“Thanks!” Sulu thrust the shaky victim into Uco’s arms. “I’m going back for more. Be ready for me!”
The airlock door whooshed shut behind him as he rushed back out onto the foggy hangar floor, drawn by the sound of coughing and labored breathing. He squinted desperately at the ceiling and saw that an engineering team had somehow managed to shut off the coolant leak, so that no more of the vapor was hissing from the rupture.
About time, he thought.
He fanned at the remaining fumes to see through them and spied several more figures sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath. People were succumbing to the fumes faster than Sulu and his allies could rescue them; even with Helena and the pair of officers backing him up, there was little chance that they could get all the imperiled victims into the shuttles before people started dying, if they hadn’t expired already.
I’ll just have to keep going and save as
many as I can, he resolved. And hope that Tilton and the others can get the vents and filters working again.
He plunged into the toxic fog, practically stepping on another choking victim, who had already passed out from the fumes. Hefting her in a fireman’s carry, he staggered back toward the Vernalian shuttle, while passing yet another casualty. He needed a lot more backup, but they were cut off from the rest of the station until the hangar could be vented. Sulu wondered if there was any time or point to applying triage to the victims when everyone outside the shuttles was in danger of asphyxiation.
How did he choose whom to save?
The responsibility weighed him down as heavily as the unconscious victim he was toting. His communicator chirped for his attention, but he wasn’t about to put the woman down to answer it. He staggered toward the waiting shuttle, breathing hard, when he suddenly heard footsteps pounding the floor around him. Peering through the choking mist, he saw a slew of civilians, equipped with a variety of breathing masks and environmental suits, pour out of their respective shuttles to assist in the rescue operation, picking up the fallen off the floor and hustling them back into the nearest shuttles, which were all being drafted into service as emergency shelters.
Yes! Sulu rejoiced, overjoyed by the number of volunteers. It did his heart good to know that the headlong rush for pergium hadn’t completely squashed people’s better instincts. His throat tightened, and not from the fumes. This is more like it!
With many more hands to assist in the effort, the casualties were brought aboard the shuttles. Airlocks sealed, protecting them all from the leaking coolant. Sulu peeled off his sweaty breathing mask as he joined Helena and Uco in the cockpit of his shuttle, their previous enmity forgotten in the face of the greater emergency. Behind him, on the floor of the passenger compartment, a Denobulan medic was applying field treatment to the most severely affected casualties. His medical tricorder hummed repeatedly. A hypospray hissed.
