by Greg Cox
Sulu trusted the medic to do his work, addressing Uco instead. “Are your short-range sensors operational?”
“No reason they shouldn’t be,” the pilot said. “Why?”
“Scan the hangar for life-forms.” Sulu believed they’d managed to get everyone aboard a shuttle, but he wanted to verify that, especially with the swirling fumes impeding visibility. “I want to make sure we didn’t leave anyone out there.”
“Good thought.” Helena sat down in the copilot’s seat. Her voice was slightly hoarse from her brief exposure to the fumes. “If you don’t mind, Pilot. At the risk of patting myself on the back, I have a knack for this kind of thing.”
“Go ahead.” Uco got up and headed back toward the passenger compartment. “I need to check on my people anyway.”
Sulu plopped down into the vacated seat. He was feeling slightly short of breath himself, not to mention fatigued. His lungs and eyes burned. He made a mental note to have M’Benga check him out in the infirmary once the more injured patients were seen to. He watched tensely as Helena activated the sensor controls. The sooner they got those patients to the infirmary, the better.
“Well?” he asked.
“Just give me a moment.” She deftly adjusted the control panels, then examined the readings. “I’m not picking up any life-signs outside the shuttles. Of course, that could mean—”
“In which case, there’s nothing to be done for them,” he said grimly. He plucked his communicator from his belt and flipped it open. “Sulu to Station Manager. Repeat: Sulu to Station Manager. Please respond.”
Tilton replied almost immediately. Sulu assumed the man was in his office, attending to the crisis. His voice sounded more exhausted than agitated, as though he was nearing the end of his rope.
“Sulu? We tracked your communicator to the shuttlebay. Are you all right?”
“The situation is under control for the moment, but we have casualties in need of immediate medical attention. I need you to open the space doors so we can vent the gaseous coolant out into space.”
“But the people in the hangar—?”
“Are secure within their vessels, Mr. Tilton. They’ll be fine.”
“Understood, Lieutenant. Stand by.”
The massive space door retracted, separating into two halves as it opened up. Ordinarily, this would reveal the empty space outside the station, but the dense purple fog obscured the view. Only a force field remained between the hangar and the vacuum beyond. It crackled through the mist, as though fighting the increased air pressure.
“Lowering space door shields,” Tilton reported.
The force field dissolved, opening the hangar up to the void. The shuttles themselves remained magnetically fixed to the floor, but the sudden decompression sucked the contaminated atmosphere out into space, along with miscellaneous objects discarded during the panic. Sulu flinched as a random data slate flew past the cockpit, followed by pieces of charred debris from the ceiling. He worried that vital evidence was being lost, but venting the coolant took priority. Investigating the explosion, and trying to determine its cause, would have to wait until later. The view from the cockpit cleared as the thick fog exited the hangar. A paper coffee cup joined the other refuse tumbling out into the vacuum.
No bodies, that he could see.
“Nice work, Hikaru,” Helena said. “I hope you’re not going to blame this on Mirsa too.”
He couldn’t tell if she was teasing him or if she was still irked that he had discreetly questioned her about her captain earlier. Maybe a little bit of both?
“That depends.” He tried to maintain a light tone. “Just how expendable does your Captain Dajo think you are?”
“Ha-ha,” she replied. “Very funny. And the answer, by the way, is not one bit.”
“Smart man.” Sulu was encouraged by their easy banter. “Seriously, however, I have absolutely no reason to suspect Dajo more than any other visitor to the station. Still, I can’t believe this was just another accident. A freak explosion and the emergency systems malfunctioning?” He shook his head. “There have been too many accidents and systemic failures. People are getting hurt. Lives are in danger.”
And no ship is safe, he thought.
He made a snap decision. “Can you patch my communicator into the station-wide public-address system?”
“Can a Horta burrow through solid stone?” She scoffed at his inquiry. “I’m a communications specialist, remember?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Do it.”
“Aye, aye, Lieutenant.” She gave him a mock salute and plucked what looked to be a customized earpiece from her poncho. She brushed back her hair and affixed it to her ear. It chirped as she activated it and sparkled like a piece of jewelry. Her fingers fiddled expertly with the cockpit’s comm controls until his own communicator chirped in response. She nodded at him. “You’re on.”
He coughed and cleared his throat before raising the communicator to his lips. A glass of water would have eased his irritated throat and lungs, but there was no time for that. For all he knew, another ship could be preparing to disembark from the station at any moment. He was aware of several planned departures on the schedule.
“This is Lieutenant Sulu, acting commander of the Starfleet personnel assisting in the management of this station. On my authority, I’m instituting a temporary lockdown until certain security issues are resolved. No vessels are allowed to arrive or depart for the time being. We ask for your patience and cooperation. Sulu out.”
He cut off the transmission and closed his communicator. Helena gaped at him.
“Hoo boy.” She whistled in appreciation. “That’s not going to make you any friends.”
“I don’t expect it to.”
He regretted taking unilateral action without consulting Tilton and Grandle, but, in his judgment, every moment had counted. They could debate his decision later. In the meantime, he wasn’t willing to risk another ship venturing out into space or arriving at the station, not with a saboteur on the loose. Any vessel could become a death trap.
“I don’t imagine your captain is going to be too pleased,” Sulu said.
“Oh, he’s going to be hopping mad,” she said confidently. “The Lucky Strike is all booked up, at premium prices, and almost ready to take off for Baldur III.”
Sulu suspected that Dajo wouldn’t be the only one upset by the lockdown.
“What about you?” he asked Helena. “Do you think I made the right call?”
She paused before answering.
“Honestly . . . I’m not sure.”
Fourteen
Yurnos
Wavebreak was a modestly sized seaport about half a day’s ride from the mill. A marmot-drawn wagon brought Spock and Chekov to the edge of the town, where Jord dropped them off to avoid attracting too much attention to herself. A country road, running along a rocky coastline, led toward the port, whose outer buildings could be spied in the near distance. Sailing ships, sporting brightly colored banners, were docked at piers roughly half a kilometer away.
“Sorry I can’t take you straight to Eefa’s shop, but I need to be discreet. I’d rather not be seen chauffeuring a pair of strangers through the middle of town.”
“Your caution is well warranted,” Spock said. “We can manage from here.”
“Just follow the directions we gave you, and you’ll be fine. Good hunting.”
She turned the wagon around and started back toward the mill as the men set off on foot for the town. It was midafternoon, but the weather was still hot and humid, relieved only by drifting white clouds and a briny breeze blowing off the harbor. Both men had changed into native garb, borrowed from Vankov, their phasers and communicators hidden beneath linen vests and jackets. A stitched leather satchel, slung over Spock’s shoulder, held his tricorder. Wide-brimmed hats protected their heads from the sun, while also helping to conceal the tapered points of Spock’s ears. He hoped that would be sufficient to disguise his alien origins.
A short hike brought them into the town proper, where the dirt road evolved into a wide city street paved with seashells. Spock noted that shells of various colors and sizes were widely used as decoration throughout the town, often in the form of mosaics adorning the entrances of assorted shops, taverns, and temples. Some such mosaics displayed geometric patterns similar to those displayed on the carpet at the farmhouse—apparently a popular design in this region of Yurnos—while others were less abstract, advertising the nature of the various shops and businesses by depicting cups, baths, cakes, candles, and so on. Townspeople strolled the sidewalks, largely ceding the streets to carts and wagons. Harnessed marmots padded down the streets, occasionally leaving their droppings behind. He and Chekov drew a few curious looks, but no one appeared particularly startled or alarmed by their presence. It occurred to him that a seaport would likely be accustomed to travelers and traders from elsewhere. He wondered if that characteristic had attracted the anonymous smugglers to Wavebreak in the first place, on the assumption that they would attract less notice here.
A plausible theory, he thought.
“What do you think, Mister Spock?” Chekov asked, keeping his voice low. “Do you really think this Eefa person can lead us to the smugglers?”
They had already discussed this on the way to town, but Spock had long since accepted that humans were often uncomfortable with silence and felt a need to generate “small talk,” even if this meant repeating themselves.
“That the bootleg tea came from Eefa’s shop is our most promising lead,” Spock said. “I lack sufficient data, however, to estimate any probability of success when it comes to locating the actual smugglers trespassing on Yurnos.”
According to Jord and Vankov, Eefa was incontrovertibly a native Yurnian, born and raised in this vicinity, whose family and origins were a matter of record. It stood to reason therefore that she was not one of the actual smugglers, although it remained to be determined whether she was at all aware of where her tea was going. It was entirely possible, he reminded himself, that Eefa was simply an innocent tea merchant who had never heard of Baldur III, let alone the Prime Directive.
“But what if we don’t learn anything from Eefa?” Chekov asked. “What then?”
“We will cross that bridge when we come to it, Ensign. In the meantime, we appear to have arrived at our destination.”
Eefa’s tea shop was located on a quiet side street within sight of the docks. The mosaic above the doorway depicted a nabbia bush, denoting the nature of her business. A whistle sounded as they entered the shop, thanks to a small bellows attached to the door’s hinges. Spock admired the ingenuity of the simple mechanism.
Very creative.
The robust aroma of nabbia permeated the interior of the store, which was relatively cool compared to the heat outdoors. The front of the store displayed a wide selection of pots, cups, saucers, empty glass canisters, and other paraphernalia, while the actual tea was stored in a wall of wooden racks behind a long rectangular counter. A mechanical scale rested atop the counter. An erasable slate announced current prices and specials. Spock noted that Suffusion was among the varieties of tea being offered.
“Cozy shop,” Chekov commented. “Very tidy.”
The shop was occupied only by a hefty male Yurnian sitting on a stool in one corner, fanning himself with a paper fan bearing the same logo seen above the door. A colored bandanna covered his pate, a fashion choice often adopted, according to Vankov, by Yurnian men who were losing their hair, as they were apparently prone to do as they aged. The man looked the newcomers over, but made no effort to stir from his perch. A single grunt acknowledged their arrival.
Security, Spock surmised. Not a salesclerk.
“Hello?” Chekov said.
“Be right with you!” a chipper voice called from a back room. A Yurnian woman emerged to greet them, bustling up to the counter. She was a handsome older woman wearing an apron over her everyday attire. A bun of auburn hair was piled atop her head. Calculating blue eyes struck Spock as possibly out of alignment with her broad professional smile. “Well, well, I see we have some new faces visiting us today. Take off your hats, gents, and make yourselves at home. Let me get a better look at your handsome faces.”
“As you wish.”
Spock removed his hat, not wishing to offend. A tightly wound bandanna, similar to the one sported by the guard, protected the tips of his ears from scrutiny. Chekov doffed his hat as well; a mop of dark hair explained his lack of a bandanna.
“There now,” the woman said. “My name’s Eefa. How can I help you fine gentlemen?”
“I am Fultar, and this is Tocas,” Spock stated, using names supplied by Jord and Vankov, who had assured their visitors that the aliases were so common as to be forgettable. “We represent a trading company that is interested in purchasing large quantities of nabbia on a regular basis.”
“Is that so?” Eefa’s smile grew even broader, her eyes even more calculating. “Any variety in particular?”
Spock played the next card in his deck. “I understand Suffusion is quite popular.”
The name did not provoke a visible response beyond a flicker of avarice. Spock had hoped for a more telling reaction.
“A delicious tea. Very much in demand.” She inspected his attire as though assessing his income. “How much are you looking to pay?”
“We have considerable resources,” Spock said, “but would prefer to trade in goods rather than local currency.”
“Interesting.” She leaned across the counter. “What are you looking to trade?”
Spock nodded at Chekov, who produced a felt bag from his vest pocket. Chekov opened the bag and spilled a handful of polished trillium beads onto the table. Their lustrous black gleam attested to their appeal and value.
The gems came from a trillium bracelet in Jord and Vankov’s collection of contraband. Spock had judged the Klingon and Capellan artifacts too distinctive to recycle, but hoped that the trillium beads would be less distinctive if no longer in the form of a bracelet. It was a calculated risk, but he had deemed it preferable to introducing yet another offworld item to Yurnos. And if it happened that Eefa did recognize the gems . . . that too could be informative.
“There is more where these came from,” Chekov stated. “Much more.”
Eefa’s eyes lit up at the sight of the trillium, but a new wariness entered her face and body language as well. Spock could practically see her go to yellow alert. Her eyes went from wide to narrow. Her smile became more forced.
“Seems to me I’ve seen beauties like these before.” She lifted her gaze from the gems to appraise her visitors once more. “Where exactly did you say you were from again?”
“We did not specify that,” Spock said.
He could not even hint at space travel or other worlds without knowing whether or not Eefa was aware that she had sold nabbia to aliens.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Eefa insisted. “If you’re foreigners, there’s legalities to be observed. Taxes and tariffs and duties, all of which need to be carefully recorded so the governor’s tax men get their share. And if you’re thinking of a serious, long-term business arrangement . . . well, you’ll need to be registered as foreign trading partners, times being what they are.”
Spock rather doubted that the anonymous smugglers observed such niceties.
“That would be . . . inconvenient for us. We would prefer to keep our transactions off the books, as it were.”
“Ah, so that’s how it is.” She mulled the matter over, as though weighing caution against profit, before addressing the guard. “Woji, I think this business requires some privacy.” She glanced at the doors and windows. “If you don’t mind . . .”
The guard grunted in assent. Hopping off his stool, he locked the front entrance and pulled some blinds down over the windows. Eefa turned up a lamp to compensate for the sunlight
being blocked by the blinds.
“There; now we can speak frankly.” She faced Spock and Chekov with her hands upon her hips. “What makes you think that I would be party to such an arrangement?”
“We were drawn by the quality of your wares,” Spock suggested, wanting to draw her out. His goal, after all, was to extract vital intelligence from her without compromising his own mission.
“No, there’s more to it than that,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not the only tea dealer in this province, let alone this town, and yet somehow these beauties”—she gestured at the trillium—“have found their way to my shop again? Don’t tell me that’s mere coincidence.”
“I would not insult your intelligence by doing so,” Spock said. “In truth, we have reason to believe that you have conducted similar transactions with other traders.”
“What other traders?” she quizzed him.
She wants to know how much I know, Spock realized, while I seek to discover how much she knows about the smugglers and their operation.
He regretted that Captain Kirk was not at hand to conduct this negotiation. He excelled at such exercises, which he often likened to human card games. Spock preferred chess himself, but had been told he had a good poker face.
“Strangers from afar,” he said, “such as ourselves.”
“Friends of yours?”
“Let us say that we are in the same business,” he said with deliberate vagueness.
“Ah, I get it now.” Comprehension dawned on her face. “You’re the competition, looking to horn in on their business.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Spock said, going along with her narrative. “We represent another, larger trading company with an interest in absorbing our colleague’s operation, on terms equitable to all, naturally. Perhaps you can arrange an introduction?”
“We can make it worth your while.” Chekov scooped up the trillium and placed it back in his bag. “If you’re interested.”
Her eyes tracked the bag as he returned it to his pocket. She licked her lips, clearly unwilling to part with it. She looked Spock squarely in the eyes.
