by Greg Cox
“Are you willing to put that in writing?” she asked.
“Is that necessary?” Spock asked. He could not imagine that such a contract could be legally enforceable under the circumstances. “As mentioned, we prefer to keep our business off the books.”
“This would be just between us,” she said, “to jog your memory just in case you suddenly remember this conversation differently once I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain.” She smirked at them. “You know the old saying, ‘Memories fade faster than ink.’ ”
“Ah, yes,” Chekov said, unconvincingly. “That old saying.”
“My family came over from the Old Kingdom,” she said proudly. “That was two generations ago, but I learned the old wisdoms on my mother’s knee and hold to them to this day.”
She drew a parchment and a coral pen from a drawer beneath the counter and hastily dashed off a letter of agreement. “Shall we agree to goods equivalent to, say, two hundred zeels in exchange for me facilitating a meeting between you and certain customers, with a ten percent bonus if the meeting yields the desired outcome?”
“Those terms are acceptable,” Spock said, declining to haggle over payments he had no intention of making. A contract to enable an illegal conspiracy was null and void by definition, nor did he wish to insert any further non-Yurnian goods into the planet’s economy. He took the document from Eefa and briefly reviewed it, having acquired a rudimentary knowledge of the written language while studying Yurnos earlier. “Shall I sign at the bottom?”
He reached for the pen, but she refused to surrender it. She put the pen away and extracted another sharp piece of coral, which she handed to Spock instead.
“Not in ink,” she specified. “Blood, as tradition requires for bargains of import. ‘Swear by the heart, sign by the blood,’ as the saying goes.”
Spock found himself wishing that Eefa was less of a traditionalist. Her stipulation posed a difficulty: Yurnians did not boast green blood.
He attempted to pass the coral needle to Chekov. “Would you care to do the honors?”
“What’s the matter?” Eefa said, the evasion not escaping her notice. “Your own blood is too good to seal a deal with?”
“I am merely prone to infections,” Spock said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, frowning. “Nobody ever died of a pinprick.” She shared a glance with Woji, who loomed ominously behind them. “Or is it that you don’t truly wish to commit to this pact?”
“I am quite sincere,” he lied.
“Then why balk at signing the proper way?” She took the parchment back from him and tore it up. “I can’t do business with someone I can’t trust, and I can’t trust anybody who won’t spill a few drops of blood as a show of good faith. A pity, truly. I’d thought we might all profit from our acquaintance, but it seems I was mistaken.”
“Let’s not be too hasty,” Chekov said. “Perhaps we can still work this out.”
“Too late for that, I think.” She pointed toward the exit. “You’d best leave now.”
Woji grunted in agreement.
“I disagree.” Spock was not ready to depart as they had yet to achieve their aims. To retreat now would leave them no closer to tracking down the smugglers and shutting down their operations. Better perhaps, he concluded, to force a confrontation in hopes of inducing the opposition to show their hands.
“What was that?” Eefa said, bristling. “This is my shop. I decide when it’s time for you to go. Isn’t that right, Woji?”
The guard massaged his knuckles. Spock ignored him.
“Let us dispense with polite circumlocutions,” he said. “We all know that you have been selling your tea—Suffusion, in particular—to smugglers in exchange for exotic goods which you then sell on the black market. We are in pursuit of the smugglers and will not be deterred. You can answer our questions . . . or would you prefer that we summon the local constables?”
She blanched at the suggestion.
“I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m a tea merchant. I sold tea. Where’s the crime in that?”
“That is for your own magistrates to decide,” Spock said, “but surely you are aware that your customers have secrets to hide, and that you are abetting them by helping them to conceal their illicit activities.”
Spock wished he knew more about her actual dealings with the smugglers, as well as whatever local regulations she may have bypassed. He could only hope that her guilty conscience would fill in the blanks in his accusations.
“You tell her, Mister . . . Fultar,” Chekov said, playing along. He subjected Eefa to a stern gaze. “You’re up to no good, and you’re not going to get away with it.”
“Is that so?”
She drew a flintlock pistol from beneath the counter and aimed it at Spock. It was a primitive firearm, not nearly as sophisticated as a phaser or disrupter, but possibly even more dangerous at close range. Old-fashioned projectile weapons could not be set on stun, as Spock knew from painful experience. He had once been shot—and nearly killed—by an equally crude firearm.
“Stay where you are,” she ordered. “You had your chance to leave peacefully, but, no, you had to make trouble.” She peered at them above the muzzle of the pistol. “Who are you exactly? And what made you think you could bully me in my own shop?”
“We are no one you want to pull a weapon on,” Chekov blustered. “I’ll tell you that.”
The young ensign’s tense body language indicated that his human fight-or-flight reaction was urging him to action. Spock suspected that Chekov was only moments away from drawing his phaser or perhaps springing forward to wrest the pistol from Eefa’s grip; as both he and Spock were well trained in various forms of combat, it was likely they could subdue both Eefa and her guard if necessary, but that would not gain them any more information than they already possessed. Allowing Eefa the upper hand for the time being was more likely to yield significant revelations, albeit at some risk to their personal safety.
“We are at a distinct disadvantage,” he advised Chekov. “I suggest we comply.”
Chekov shot him a puzzled look, as though uncertain why they were not making more of an effort to defend themselves, only to catch on belatedly. He nodded at Spock, somehow resisting the urge to wink. Spock admired his restraint.
“Of course, Fultar. I understand.”
“Now you’re talking sense,” Eefa said. “Shame it took so long.” Brandishing the pistol, she gestured toward a curtained doorway at the rear of the shop. “Take them in the back while I figure out what to do with them.”
Woji escorted them into a back room behind the wall of tea racks. The chamber appeared to combine the functions of office and storeroom. Ledgers were piled atop a desk. Canvas bags and metal canisters held additional stock that had not yet made it to shelves. Barrels were tied together by lengths of sturdy chain. A wastebasket needed emptying.
“Search them,” she instructed Woji.
The guard frisked the prisoners, grunting as he confiscated their phasers and communicators. Despite the logic of letting themselves be captured at this juncture, Spock flinched inwardly at the loss of the devices, which represented yet another potential source of cultural contamination. It had been a risk carrying the items on their persons, but one could hardly go searching for criminals unarmed and with no means of calling for assistance. Woji’s hands-on search provided an opportunity for a judicious nerve pinch; Spock relinquished that chance, but not without reservations. He hoped he would not regret that lost opportunity later.
Playing it safe, on the other hand, will get us nowhere.
Woji presented his discoveries to Eefa, who did not seem nearly as confounded by them as perhaps she should have been. If anything, her eyes widened in recognition.
“I knew it!” she exclaimed. “You’re from Collu S’Avala too!”
Chekov blinked in confusion. “Colloo savalla?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Eefa said. “Collu S’Avala. The mystical kingdom far acros
s the waves, atop the highest mountains, where you obviously hail from.” She toyed with the phaser in a way that Spock found somewhat troubling. “Where else could you have obtained these marvels?”
Spock thought he understood. The name had escaped his studies of Yurnos, but Collu S’Avala appeared to be some fabled, supposedly distant realm that was likely more myth than reality, not unlike Shangri-La, Atlantis, or Sha Ka Ree.
“And that is where you believe your mysterious trading partners come from as well?” he asked Eefa. “From Collu S’Avala?”
“None other,” she replied. “Some believe it is just a legend, but I always knew it was real.”
All became clear to Spock. It was evident that Eefa did not know that her clients were from another world. Instead she had been led to believe that they came from a mythical land embedded in the lore of the planet. Spock greeted this realization with some relief; playing on the local folklore was preferable, from the standpoint of the Prime Directive, to prematurely introducing Yurnians to the reality of interstellar travel and societies. He resolved to do nothing to disabuse her of the notion.
“A logical conclusion,” he told her. “I cannot refute it.”
“I should think not.” She kept the pistol trained on the captives. “Tie them up and gag them,” she instructed Woji. “I need to think.”
Spock considered resisting, but decided there was still more to be learned about the actual smugglers, so he stood by calmly. Eefa looked to be in no hurry to eliminate them, suggesting that she was merely a greedy tea dealer, not a murderer. This struck him as eminently plausible; furtively selling nabbia to smugglers was one thing, committing cold-blooded homicide was another.
Spock was caught off guard, however, when Woji roughly yanked his bandanna off, exposing the Vulcan’s ears. Spock assumed that the guard had simply intended to use the cloth as a gag, but the results were far more consequential. Woji backed away, gasping instead of grunting, while Eefa gaped at Spock in a way that implied that she had never laid eyes on a Vulcan before.
“Uh-oh,” Chekov said glumly.
Spock shared the sentiment.
“Your ears!” Eefa said redundantly. “Who . . . what are you?”
“An accident of birth,” Spock stated, hoping to salvage the situation. “Nothing to concern you.”
“Don’t tell me what to be concerned about, you . . . whatever you are.”
Her voice quavered while becoming shriller as well. She was clearly more agitated by his ears than by the sophisticated electronic devices they had been carrying. Spock was suddenly very glad that she had not been exposed to the sight of his verdant blood, even if his refusal to sign the contract had placed him and Chekov in their present predicament.
“These waters are too deep for me,” she lamented. “Finish tying them up while I reach out to our other friends from across the seas. They had better know what to do!”
Woji eyed Spock uneasily, but worked up the nerve to bind the prisoners’ arms behind their backs with thick lengths of chain at hand in the storeroom. Metal locks clamped shut, holding the chains in place. Pistol in hand, Eefa observed the procedure even as she retrieved a surprising item from a desk drawer: a modern communicator, not unlike the ones taken from Spock and Chekov.
The plot thickens, Spock thought.
The communicator was notably generic in design, making it difficult to link to any specific world or species. It was a simple civilian model of the sort that could be acquired at any common port of call, such as Deep Space Station S-8 for instance, but not on a world as technologically undeveloped as Yurnos. Spock deduced that Eefa had received the device from the smugglers. It chirped as she switched it on.
“Hello, hello?” she said into the communicator. She paced about the back room impatiently. “Answer me, curse your skins. I need to talk to you at once!”
A blinking violet light indicated that her hail had been received. She stepped away and turned her back on the prisoners, but Spock’s keen hearing allowed him to easily eavesdrop on the discussion.
“We hear you,” a male voice replied. “What’s so urgent?”
“We’ve strangers poking around, asking questions and wanting answers. Strangers of your sort, no less.”
“Our sort? What do you mean by that?”
“From your corner of the world, I mean. Well, one of them is. I don’t know where the other comes from. He doesn’t look like any person I’ve ever laid eyes on. His ears are pointed . . . like a whysser tree leaf.”
“Whatever that is.” The anonymous voice sounded annoyed at being bothered. “Just get rid of them. Send them away.”
“It’s too late for that. They already know too much for my peace of mind. I’ve got them wrapped up tight in the back of my shop, but I can’t hold them here indefinitely. We need to do something about them!”
“So dispose of them.”
“Oh, no,” she protested. “You’re not sticking me with this. This is your business, your affair, your people. You need to deal with this!”
“What exactly do you expect us to do?”
“I don’t know. That’s your problem. I just want them off my hands and out of my hair. Do you understand me?”
Spock listened intently. From what he heard, his strategy was working even better than he had hoped. If Eefa had her way, they might soon be face-to-face with the smugglers themselves. Matters were proceeding in a most productive manner.
Aside, that was, from the unfortunate matter of their captivity.
Fifteen
Deep Space Station S-8
Less than an hour after the emergency in the shuttlebay, Sulu emerged from the infirmary, which had been forced to cannibalize adjacent storage areas and a gymnasium in order to accommodate all the new patients. Doctor M’Benga had given Sulu a clean bill of health, more or less, while advising him to get some rest.
Right, Sulu thought. Like that’s going to happen.
A mob of angry civilians had already gathered outside Tilton’s office to protest the lockdown. Grandle blocked the entrance, backed up by a trio of stone-faced station security personnel. She shouted over the frustrated crowd, struggling to maintain order.
“Dial it down, everybody! Mister Tilton is reviewing the situation and will release a statement soon. We appreciate your concerns, but all this commotion isn’t helping. The sooner you let us do our jobs, the sooner we can straighten this out.”
“And how long is that going to take?” Mirsa Dajo stood out among the protesters. “I have passengers booked for Baldur III. I can’t afford to keep them waiting!”
“And I’m one of those passengers,” a nameless Tiburonian said, his species evident from his exaggerated earlobes. “I’ve staked everything on this expedition! You can’t strand me here!”
A chorus of voices, from both skippers and would-be miners, added to the tumult. Sulu pined briefly for the (apparently short-lived) teamwork and unity displayed during the crisis in the shuttlebay. It was discouraging to see people clashing angrily again now that the immediate emergency was over for the time being.
“That was my call,” he said loudly. “If you have any issues with it, take them up with me . . . after I’ve had a chance to confer with Mister Tilton and Chief Grandle.”
Braving the gauntlet, he strode through the crowd, which grudgingly parted to let him through. Complaints, demands, questions, and curses pelted him, reminding him of the treatment Tilton had gotten when the landing party from the Enterprise had first beamed aboard several days ago. Grandle’s eyes tracked Sulu’s progress toward the office door, her beefy arms crossed atop her chest. Her stoic expression would have done Spock proud, providing no clue as to what kind of reception Sulu could expect from her.
“Sulu,” she greeted him.
He nodded at the door. “He waiting for me?”
“What do you think?”
Leaving her people to guard the door, Grandle led Sulu into the office. Tilton was slumped in the chair behind his des
k, staring off into space. His eyes were vacant, as though his spirit had already departed his body. He barely acknowledged Sulu’s arrival, merely lifting his head to look at the newcomers. The strain of the last few months was obviously getting to him. Sulu regretted adding to his troubles.
“Sorry for setting off that brouhaha out there,” he began.
“Don’t apologize,” Grandle said. “You made the right call.”
Sulu was pleasantly surprised by her reaction. “I did?”
“In my book, yes,” she said. “We’ve obviously got a serious problem on our hands, so we can’t take any chances. Business as usual is going to have to wait until we can guarantee the safety of this station by finding out who is responsible for these incidents.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Sulu was glad to find Grandle on the same page. He turned toward Tilton, who had the final say on the matter. “Do you feel the same way, sir?”
“What’s that, Lieutenant?” Tilton asked, as though he hadn’t been paying attention. He stared out the viewport gazing blankly at the rotating arms of the station and the crowded space beyond. His voice was hollow, affectless.
“The lockdown, Mister Tilton,” Sulu prompted. Despite his preemptive action, he had no desire to usurp the manager’s authority. It would be better for all concerned if they presented a unified front on the controversial move. “Do we have your okay?”
“I suppose.” Tilton shrugged, seemingly worn out. “Do whatever you have to, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The man’s condition worried Sulu, who wondered if he should have M’Benga discreetly check the older man out. The last thing the station needed during this crisis was an overwhelmed manager who had checked out mentally and physically. Sulu started to turn away from Tilton, to confer with Grandle, when the manager startled Sulu by speaking up again.
“Lieutenant Sulu?”
“Yes?”
“The incident in the shuttlebay?” Tilton roused himself to ask. “How bad was it? How many hurt . . . or worse.”
