by Greg Cox
Eefa’s pistol arm fell to her side. “You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered.
No, they did not, Spock thought.
He mourned Woji’s death and regretted that he had not been in a position to save him. The silent Yurnian had not treated him or Chekov kindly, but Spock knew little of the man beyond that. Woji had surely had a life and aspirations of his own, which had just been ruthlessly cut short simply to intimidate others. The waste of life appalled Spock, who noted also that the smugglers were not above murdering random Yurnians, even if they balked at killing Starfleet officers as a matter of self-interest. He suspected that lesson was not lost on Eefa either.
“You coldhearted Cossacks!” Chekov could not contain his emotions. “You had no right to kill that man!”
Mars shrugged. “Just a primitive nobody on a nowhere planet. The galaxy won’t miss him. Just be grateful you two have way higher profiles.”
“And yet your ‘harmless’ smuggling operation has now claimed the life of a native of this world,” Spock said. “Does that not call into question whether you should be doing business on this planet at all?”
“Save your breath,” Mars said. “I’m not stupid enough to debate ethics with a Vulcan. Folks on Baldur III want nabbia. We mean to oblige. End of story.”
“Baldur III?” Eefa echoed.
The planet in question was not even visible from Yurnos. Spock resisted the impulse to lift his gaze toward Baldur, which was but one of many stars gleaming faintly in the night sky. He took comfort in the fact that the name meant nothing to Eefa, who appeared deeply shaken by Woji’s abrupt incineration. He wondered how close they had truly been.
“Enough chitchat,” Venus said. “We’ve got work to do and a deadline to make.”
“Just like that?” Chekov said. “A man was murdered and you’re talking about—”
She drew the disruptor pistol on her hip. “I said, no chitchat.”
“Shame we vaporized the hired muscle.” Mars wandered over to inspect the barrels of nabbia waiting in the wagon. “Come along, Eefa. Guess it’s up to you and me to get these goods loaded, while Venus and Mercury make sure your new friends don’t go anywhere.”
Spock and Chekov stood by as the loading got underway. With both Venus’s and her vessel’s weapons trained on them, Spock saw no purpose in tempting death to prevent a single load of tea from being carted away; he believed he had learned enough about the smugglers’ methods and operation for the time being. Antigrav lifts were employed to transport the heavy barrels from the wagon to the shuttle. Eefa took the levitating pallets in stride, apparently regarding them as yet another exotic marvel from Collu S’Avala, akin to a flying carpet or some equivalent fancy. The task was accomplished quickly, and the smugglers’ craft was soon ready for departure.
“Just one more thing,” Mars said to Eefa. He secured a small wooden crate from the submersible and deposited it in the back of the wagon. “Your payment for the nabbia: another carton of sparkly glow juice from faraway. Wouldn’t want to welch on our side of the deal.”
“And you think that makes up for the rest of it?” Eefa said bitterly. “For Woji?”
Venus shrugged. “Consider that the penalty for expecting us to clean up your mess.”
“You soulless piece of tripe . . .”
“Always a pleasure, Eefa.” Mars took her hand and kissed it. “Hope this won’t put a crimp in our business relationship.” He glanced at where Woji wasn’t. “I’m sure you can find another hired hand. Maybe even a more talkative one?”
“Curse you,” she muttered under her breath.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Venus taunted her. “Water under the bridge.”
“So that’s it?” Eefa said feebly. “You’re truly just going to leave me alone with these two Starfleets, whatever that means?”
“Now you’re getting it,” Mars said. “We’re not touching this poison plant. It’s all yours.”
“But . . . but what am I to do with them?”
Mars’s gaze dropped to the pistol Eefa was still carrying limply at her side.
“You’re a smart woman. You’ll figure it out.”
Seventeen
Deep Space Station S-8
“I’ve known Tilton for years,” Grandle said. “Never seen him like this.”
With space aboard the station at a premium, Sulu had no choice but to share Grandle’s office with her. An extra plastiform desk had been squeezed up against Grandle’s so that they faced each other. It made for cramped conditions, but was only temporary. It also allowed them to discuss the station manager’s condition in private.
“He ignored my suggestion that he get checked out by a doctor,” Sulu said. “He didn’t take offense; he just shrugged it off and said he was too busy, even though I’m not sure how much he’s actually accomplishing these days. He seems to have shut down, basically, and is pretty much running on automatic pilot.”
“Cut him some slack,” Grandle said. “He’s not a young man anymore, and you’ve seen the bedlam we’ve been dealing with for months now. This is not what he signed on for.”
“No criticism intended,” Sulu assured her. “I’m not passing judgment on his stamina or character; just wondering how to handle the situation. A vacation would probably do Tilton worlds of good, but now’s not exactly a good time . . . unless you’re willing to step up and fill in as a manager for the time being?”
Grandle scoffed at the notion. “I’ve got enough on my hands without taking on all that administrative work as well. And who is going to talk Tilton into taking a break during this crisis? You? Me?” She shook her head. “We’re just going to have to muddle through unless—” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re not thinking of declaring him unfit or anything, are you?”
“I’m hoping it won’t come to that,” Sulu said. He had no desire to file a negative report on the seemingly burnt-out manager. It was possible that Tilton needed to retire or be replaced, especially now that the once-obscure station had become a major interstellar crossroads; Sulu wondered if it would be enough to quietly inform Captain Kirk, who could then discreetly notify Starfleet, instead of going through official channels. “We need to keep an eye on the situation, for everyone’s sake.”
“He’s a good man,” Grandle insisted. “He doesn’t deserve to be forced out.”
“Not saying he does,” Sulu said, “but our joint responsibility is to the station and its visitors, not one man. We have to consider the bigger picture.”
Just like Captain Kirk would, Sulu thought.
“I know, I know,” Grandle conceded. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Ditto,” Sulu said.
He went back to what he had been doing before: reviewing data and security footage relating to the near disaster in the shuttlebay. The cause of the explosion had yet to be determined, in part because the station’s engineers were too busy working around the clock to repair and inspect the plasma coolant system. In the meantime, the search for bodies sucked into space had been called off; Sulu was now confident that no one had been killed in the incident.
But what about next time?
Determined to track down the source of the accidents, Sulu sipped from a cup of herbal tea as he studied the info on his desk’s computer terminal. He squinted at the security footage, examining it from every angle available, but saw only what he already knew. The explosion had blown a small hole in the hangar ceiling at exactly 1500, resulting in the coolant leak. He’d scanned the recordings for hours prior to the explosion, hoping to spot something suspicious, but all he had to show for it was tired eyes, the beginnings of a headache, and a growing sense that time was running out before the next “accident” endangered lives and vessels.
“Computer, replay security recording, starting five minutes prior to the explosion.”
“Replaying.”
He watched again as shuttle crews, station personnel, and random travelers went about their business in the h
angar, blithely unaware of what was about to transpire. No one appeared nervous, or suicidal, or in a hurry to exit the hangar before the explosion. From some angles, Sulu saw himself escorting Helena away from the paranoid Vernalians and their shuttle. He could hear the general hubbub in the shuttlebay: overlapping voices, humming machinery, amplified announcements over the public address system . . . and possibly something else?
“Hmm,” he murmured.
“What is it?” Grandle looked up from her own work. “You see something?”
“Not see,” Sulu replied. “But maybe hear.”
Remembering that he had four more senses, Sulu closed his eyes and signaled Grandle to keep quiet. He listened again to the security footage, mentally sifting through the ambient noise to zero in on one specific sound: a high-pitched whine rising in the background. Was it just his imagination or did that sound like . . . ?
Don’t jump to conclusions, he cautioned himself. With the computer’s help, he meticulously muted every other identifiable sound until all that remained was an unmistakable screech that Grandle also identified immediately.
“That’s a phaser on overload!”
“Right on the money,” Sulu agreed. “Someone placed an overloading phaser in one of the ceiling panels, leading to the explosion that caused the coolant leak.”
Grandle came around their desks to look over Sulu’s shoulder. “But how did they manage to smuggle a phaser aboard?”
“And avoid detection while planting it in the ceiling?” Sulu added. “I suppose they could conceivably beam the phaser into the ceiling, but that would require very precise coordinates, not to mention access to a transporter station.”
He couldn’t help glancing over at the compact, two-person transporter pad installed in the far corner of Grandle’s office, near the entrance to the brig. As Sulu understood it, the pad served to help transfer prisoners to and from the brig without having to parade them through the public areas of the station. Site-to-site transporting within a station or ship remained dangerous unless you had a transporter pad at both ends, but it would be conceivably possible to transport a small object like a phaser into a conduit or service tube if you knew what you were doing—and didn’t particularly care about damaging anything essential.
His glance at the transporter did not escape Grandle’s notice. “Hang on there! You’re not seriously thinking that—”
Her own computer terminal beeped urgently. An alert light flashed atop it. Grandle darted back to her own terminal to investigate. Her eyes widened as she viewed the display screen.
“What is it?” Sulu asked.
“An emergency airlock, leading out into space, has been opened without authorization.” She scanned the information. “Arm B, Level Nine.”
“An unscheduled repair job?” Sulu knew that such airlocks were primarily used for inspections of and maintenance work on the station’s exterior.
Grandle’s gaze was glued to the screen. “Not seeing any EVA work in progress at the moment. Even if the repairs were unplanned, in response to a newly discovered problem that required an immediate response, there would be a report in the database. And there would also be a log of somebody using the airlock, period.” She looked up from the terminal. “Believe it or not, Sulu, people don’t just wander in and out of the vacuum on this station. Not on my watch.”
“I believe you,” Sulu said. “Which means somebody’s taking an unsanctioned jaunt outside your station.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. Not on my watch either.
“Computer,” Grandle ordered, “show space around Arm B, Level Nine on main viewer.”
“Complying,” the computer said.
A view of the surrounding space appeared on the large viewscreen on the wall opposite Grandle’s desk. Sulu had to swivel his chair around to inspect the area, which was far from empty. Smaller spacecraft were docked to the station’s outward arm while larger vessels could be seen orbiting in the background between the station and the stars. Sulu winced at the heavy traffic outside, which reminded him of both the ongoing crisis and the multiple opportunities for sabotage available.
So many potential targets.
His eyes searched in vain for one or more figures floating through the void or clinging to the station’s hull. It felt like he was hunting for a cloaked Romulan warship.
“Do your exterior sensors include motion detectors?” he asked.
“Of course,” Grandle said, “but with all the vessels orbiting the station now, a solitary individual or two are barely going to register. We’re not exactly scanning an empty void.”
Sulu grasped the challenge. He contemplated the myriad spacecraft on display—and his eyes locked onto one particular vessel: a fairly bare-bones passenger ship about 150 meters in length. Cheap gold plating distracted from the fact that the vessel was clearly at least a decade old. He recognized the freighter from having looked it up days ago, just for curiosity’s sake.
It was the Lucky Strike.
Helena’s ship.
“Zoom in on that Midasite cruiser,” he said to Grandle.
“Any particular reason?”
“Just a hunch,” Sulu admitted. “Its captain was involved in an altercation with another captain the other day.”
He didn’t mention that Mirsa Dajo had been accused of sabotage since there had been no evidence to back up that charge. Nor that Dajo had been among those loudly protesting the lockdown.
“That’s all you’ve got to go on?” Grandle asked with obvious skepticism.
It wasn’t much, Sulu admitted to himself. “You got a better idea?”
“I wish,” Grandle said, giving in. “Here you go.”
Magnified, the space around the Lucky Strike filled the screen. The ship appeared undisturbed, locked in orbit around the station as it awaited the go-ahead to depart for Baldur III.
“So much for your hunch,” Grandle said. “Seen enough?”
“I suppose.” Sulu was both relieved and disappointed to find nothing amiss on or around Helena’s ship. “Thanks for indulging— Hold on, what’s that?”
A flicker of motion against the blackness of space caught his eye before vanishing from sight. It came and went so fast he couldn’t be sure he’d seen it.
“What?” Grandle asked.
“Back up a few moments.” Sulu got up from his chair and walked over to the viewscreen. He watched intently as Grandle reversed the displayed images until . . . “There!”
Grandle froze the image, capturing what appeared to be a momentary spurt of vapor in the vacuum of space. Sulu pointed at the screen. “You see that?”
“Clear as day,” Grandle said. “A vapor jet from a thruster suit?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” He squinted at the screen. “Can you go in closer?”
“Try and stop me.”
Grandle adjusted the controls, further magnifying the area around the telltale jet. Observed at such close range, a camouflaged figure came into view: an individual in a matte-black spacesuit flying silently toward the Lucky Strike’s starboard nacelle, propelled by discreet, intermittent jets of gas.
“I don’t recognize the design of the suit,” Grandle said. “That’s not one of ours.”
“Definitely not standard issue,” Sulu agreed. Starfleet EV suits were designed to be highly reflective to make their wearers more visible and easier to locate when outside in the vacuum. They were also one size fits all, more or less. The customized suit on the screen, on the other hand, seemed expressly intended to vanish against the blackness of space.
Momentum carried the anonymous figure closer to the nacelle. Another well-gauged puff of gas adjusted their trajectory.
“Any way we can hail them?” Sulu asked.
“Without even knowing who they are?” Grandle threw her hands up. “I’m open to suggestions.”
Sulu suspected that Uhura would find a way, but they didn’t have time to hail random frequencies in hopes of reaching the mystery space
walker. He watched with concern as the stranger touched down on Lucky Strike’s nacelle. Sulu couldn’t imagine they were up to any good.
“Within transporter range?” he asked urgently.
“Locking on now.” Grandle operated the transporter controls at her desk, which were tied into the pad across the room. “We may not be able to talk to that suspect, but we sure as hell know exactly where they are.”
This wouldn’t work, Sulu realized, if the Lucky Strike had its shields raised, but there was no reason for the ship to maintain its shields while parked in orbit around the station, which was no doubt what the possible saboteur was counting on as well.
“Energizing,” Grandle said, pushing a lever.
Onscreen, the space-suited figure dissolved into a cloud of shimmering energy that vanished from view even as it re-formed above the transporter pad in the office. Sulu drew his phaser, set on stun, in anticipation of the stranger’s reaction to being transported without warning and against their will. Even as the sparkling energy coalesced back into matter, Sulu braced himself for fireworks of a different sort.
“Good instincts,” Grandle commented, “but the automated filters are intended to screen out any weapons or explosives.”
Sulu felt better having the upper hand just the same. “Simply want a peaceful conversation, that’s all.”
The spacewalker materialized on the platform. A tinted visor concealed their features while the pressurized black suit obscured their species and gender. Their body language conveyed their surprise, however, at suddenly finding themselves in the security chief’s office instead of riding the Lucky Strike’s nacelle. A muffled curse defeated the universal translator.
“Welcome aboard,” Grandle said. “Please identify yourself.”
The figure turned toward Grandle. A female voice emerged from her helmet’s speaker. “You had no right—!”
“You operated a station airlock without authorization,” the security chief replied. “That makes it my business.”
