EP 7 "EROWOON: PART I" - ACT III
COMMAND YACHT: 0011 HOURS
“You wanted to see me, Captain?” Murak popped his head
cautiously around the door of the Captain’s office.
“Come in, Murak,” Christian was as cheerful as he could
manage. “I suspect you know what this
is about.”
The Romulan stood at ease in front of the Captain’s desk,
Christian sat upright with one hand resting on a padd.
“The Romulan vessel,” Murak stated.
“Have you made contact?”
“Not yet. I wanted
to talk to you first. I expect you wish
to join them?” there was no other but a direct approach for Christian on this
matter. Murak had been a great asset,
but he couldn’t force the man to remain aboard.
Murak hesitated. “It
is my duty,” he said, not really knowing how to express himself.
When the first pictures of the station were displayed on the
viewscreen, Murak had immediately recognised the markings of the Romulan ship
as being one of the Locharva Squadron, a renowned group of highly skilled
tactical fighters that had been assigned to the flagship of the Romulan fleet
visiting Qovakia. Its crew was sure to
be among the cream of the service, and had a reputation for impeccable loyalty
and commitment to duty.
Murak’s previous posting had been aboard a diplomatic escort
– half the size of a cruiser – and conduct was a good deal more relaxed there
under an almost maternal Sub Commander.
His reception on this larger vessel was sure to be icy, and life on
board was bound to be gruelling.
“You don’t sound
very sure,” the Captain stood and walked over to the entrance to his private
quarters. “Please, come with me.”
Christian led the curious lad down the narrow, winding
corridor that widened out slightly before blending into his quarters.
“Please forgive the mess,” the Captain said, “I’ve only just
been able to gain access. Don’t worry,
I’ve checked the entire deck for spiders, we’re quite safe.”
This end of deck two was basically a large, open plan
accommodation, almost as big as the observation lounge.
The surrounding floor to ceiling slanted
windows offered a full-on view of the space station directly ahead and to the
left. Murak stared at the panoramic
view. Amid a long line of unusual
transports in the distance, sat the docked Romulan vessel.
Murak then hung back in the shadows, trying
to stay out of sight. It was not
impossible that someone with a telescopic scanner would be able to see him.
“I thought as much,” the Captain commented on Murak’s
obvious withdrawal from view. “You are
concerned, as you should be, that your time spent with us will provoke mistrust,
if not suspicion of collaboration with us.
I can imagine your treatment could be quite harsh.”
Christian pulled Murak aside into the
shadows, looking into his eyes in the half light.
“It doesn’t have to be that way.
You could choose to stay with us instead.”
Murak shook his head.
“That would not be right. I
appreciate the offer, Captain Christian, but I have to go to them.”
The Captain nodded his head.
“If you must, then I’ll understand,” Christian lied.
He paused and offered his hand which Murak
weakly took. “It’s been an honour to
have you serving under me, Murak,” he said and patted the youngster on the
shoulder, guiding him back to the corridor exit.
“Once we’ve docked we’ll make contact with the commander of the
Romulan ship.” The young Romulan
nodded.
As the doors were closing behind him, Murak cast a look back
at the Captain. His eyes said it all –
he would be going under a great deal of duress.
* * *
BETA SECTION/COMMAND YACHT: 0700 HOURS
“I’ve had it with you, Lirik,” Struckchev yelled and leapt
out of the turbolift into the box room.
He noticed there were two doors left and right, and an opening directly
ahead. A metre beyond, there was a short
flight of steps down, then another metre of deck ending in a thick bulkhead door
- Lirik stood his ground beside this.
It appeared to be an airlock.
Fraxon was here also, holding an overflowing sack of tools beside portly
Yeoman. The gentle blonde giant cowered
slightly at the Commander’s ire, but the Englishman steeled himself against yet
another confrontation.
The big Kosovan commander jumped down the stairway and
snatched the tools from Fraxon, several clattering to the grilled deck plating,
and stuck his face close to the young Helan’s.
“Get lost.”
Fraxon blushed slightly and edged fearfully away up the
stairs. He practically spanked the
turbolift door open and disappeared behind the closing doors leaving the two
alone. As Struckchev turned on Lirik,
the Yeoman almost disinterestedly looked over the Commander’s shoulder at the
lcars indicator pattern, following where Fraxon was taking the turbolift.
Deck 42 section 6, deck 41 section 6, deck
40 section 6, pause.
“Now I know you are playing with me, Lirik.
Rest assured I know how to screw you back
just as good,” his accent was becoming a little thicker as his face turned a
hot red.
Deck 40 section 7, section 8, pause.
Lirik raised an amused eyebrow at the
Commander’s turn of phrase.
“I told you to supervise the search teams this morning, so
what the hell are you doing all the way down here?” the Commander yelled.
Deck 39:8, deck 38:8, deck 37:8, pause.
“Just wanted to spend more time with your little boyfriend,
eh?” Struckchev was letting rip, he didn’t care about holding anything back
now.
Deck 37 section 9, section 10, pause.
Pause.
No more movement, Lirik observed.
Fraxon had debarked at Deck 37, section 10 – right about where the
off-limits science labs were located.
What was he doing there? He
realised his attention had wandered - what was this idiot Commander saying?
“Trust me, Yeoman, I’ll be sure to let the Captain know
about your gross insubordination,” Struckchev spat the last word.
Lirik finally locked eyes with the … gosh, to the Yeoman
Struckchev suddenly seemed devilishly handsome.
Was it his passionate, if not undeserving, mood or the fact he
looked cleaner and leaner than Lirik had remembered?
“Be my guest. In
fact, why don’t you tell him about you and Yip and how you got off the Papillon
so quickly while you’re at it?” Lirik didn’t want to enter a slanging match,
but in this instance he hoped to calm the Commander down with a few well-placed
verbal retorts. “You’ve got some nerve,
Struckchev. Here you are, an experienced
officer not too far from your own command, suddenly with some pitiful,
misplaced vendetta on me just because of who I am or what I am, or whatever the
hell you think it is I did to you. But
what the hell does it matter? This
situation we’re all in is far worse than anything your sick little mind could
dream up. Whatever it is, get over it,
Commander.”
The Russian grinned.
“You think you know it all, don’t you, Lirik?”
Struckchev had adopted a more condescending stance.
“What bugs me about you is that you never
even made it beyond Yeoman before you gave up Starfleet and took the easier
option of the Diplomatic Corps. What
the hell makes you think you know more than I do?”
Lirik ignored the jibe against the Corps – a lot of
Starfleet personnel felt the same way.
If only they knew the true extent of what the Corps did and what its
personnel were asked to risk each and every day, then they might have a little
more respect. But as was nearly always
the case, such matters were usually kept private and confidential, so nobody
ever found out.
“Actually we’re a part of the same service, you and me, both
working to facilitate the ethos of the Federation of Planets,” Lirik began to
brandish a power stall inducer. “The
reality is that you just don’t like the fact that I’m more than your equal and
that you can’t outrank a Diplomatic Corpsman.”
“You?!” Struckchev balked.
“My equal?”
“More than,” Lirik corrected.
“So why didn’t Christian leave you in command?” Struckchev
asked.
“Because he can’t bloody stand me, that’s why,” Lirik
shouted honestly. “That’s got nothing
to do with my abilities.” This was
going round in circles and the truth was that Lirik wanted to get on with his
current task in hand. “Look, just start
acting your rank – no, start acting your age, man and get over me.”
Struckchev was dumbfounded by Lirik’s remark but now
realised why Christian behaved toward the Yeoman the way he did.
His belly filled with the warmth of victory,
there was no contest with this Yeoman after all.
“Now,” Lirik continued regardless, tapping on the door with
the inducer’s hexagonal head with heavy, echoing clunks.
“Beyond this door lies the Marina Deck.
All the search teams in the Command Section
are working to schedule, checking in with me every thirty minutes, so I thought
I’d see if I could gain entry here in the meantime.
It’s possible we will find useful engineering tools and
equipment, the docking bays could even contain more cargo.
Possibly vessels.”
Struckchev snatched the inducer from Lirik with a slight
sparkle from Lirik’s energy field. It
reminded the Commander this Yeoman was partly alien.
“You have your orders.”
“Don’t do this, Commander.
Just accept the fact that we’re different – I sure do,” Lirik snatched
the inducer back. “Now will you please
just let me get on with something useful?”
“Prove it,” Struckchev said.
“Prove what?” Lirik was puzzled.
“Prove that you’re better than me,” the Russian seemed calm
enough. What did he mean?
“You want us to slug it out or something?” the Yeoman wasn’t
sure he could win a physical fight with the Commander, but also knew that he
was no lightweight either. The man
riled him so much he’d certainly give it his best shot.
“After a fashion,” Struckchev said.
“But I was thinking more of a challenge, to
settle this finally.”
“Why Commander,” Lirik was being flippant again.
“You do want to build bridges.
That’s so nice.”
Struckchev didn’t react.
“Okay, but we need to make it fair – something that will test all of our
abilities, not just one skill. What’s
the wager?”
Struckchev was nearly agog.
“The reward of seeing your defeat will suit me.”
“Well, likewise,” Lirik offered his hand.
The Commander hesitated, but then shook it –
firmly and just the once, mostly because of the sickening feeling it gave him.
* * *
COMMAND YACHT: 0400 HOURS
“Captain’s Log, supplemental.
The internal inspection went well enough.
The strange boarding party of three tall,
silver-skinned wraith-like creatures had floated through the airlock all the
way onto the bridge, each swathed in sheer, black material.
As their fabric billowed, dozens of small,
shiny orbs floated out into the air.
Each orb then sped off in different directions to search the ship.
“The process lasted about fifteen minutes.
The orbs returned to the bridge almost at
the same time, though it was amusing to see the wraith-like creatures made to
wait by one errant orb. The tallest of
the three unleashed a tumult of synthesised noise at the shaking little bauble
when it finally appeared, sending it dive-bombing for refuge in another’s
robes.
“They composed themselves, bowed, smiling wide, empty grins
and floated off the bridge and back to their ship.”
Christian walked back onto the bridge from the head,
instinctively sniffing his fingers and wincing, wiping them on his trouser
leg. He tossed the padd he’d been given
by Lirik to use as his log onto his chair.
“I wonder what telemetry they managed to gather,” Christian
wondered out loud.
“They probably know the ship better than we do now,” Jackson
agreed.
“Captain, we’re being hailed,” Narli slid into his seat and activated
the voice-only comm signal.
“Attention Fantasy, this is Erowoon Approach Control,
proceed to the following co-ordinates to commence docking,” the friendly voice
had a hint of boredom in it. “Your day
rate will commence once docking seals are activated.”
Before Christian could respond, another voice cut in.
“This is Erowoon Administration.
We have decided to grant you docking
rights-“
“Er..we know-” Christian sighed.
“-at the rate of 12,500 Roldal per cycle.”
“Roldal?!” Ganhedra flew his hands up in horror.
Christian frowned an enquiring look for
further extrapolation, but the sales clerk was continuing.
“An Induction Officer will meet you on arrival for the first
payment up front – Erowoon accepts all conventional and some not so conventional
forms of payment. Some currency
conversion rates are negotiable. We
notice you are suffering an infestation of Corsa Spiders.
We can clear that problem up for a ship of
your size at the discounted price of 1,500 Roldal.
In the meantime, you will have a pest control device fitted to
your docking airlock to prevent them leaving your vessel.
The presence of Spiders also means that
until they are irradicated, you will have to take any supplies on board through
your docking airlock.”
“But we need fuel,” Christian stepped in.
“How do we take that through our docking
airlock?”
“External scans reveal you have a fuel valve on your
underside. We can provide a special
tether service at 2,000 Roldal but we would need the precautional assistance of
pest control, and they charge 1,000 per half cycle, plus expenses, plus
materials,” the agent continued to reel off a number of other charges,
available services and special offers.
Christian noticed that most of the bridge crew were transfixed by the
sales shpeel, not wanting to miss a word of it.
“Ganhedra,” Christian whispered.
“Is there a problem?”
“Roldal,” he said shakily, “it is the official currency of
the K’Tani.”
“Dammit!” Jackson spat and slapped her chair angrily – and a
little too loudly. “They are in the K’Tani pockets.
Well, we can just kiss our freedom goodbye.”
Christian was shaking his head.
“I don’t see any K’Tani vessels here.
We haven’t been fired upon.”
“Excuse me,” the Erowoon sales agent cut in.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your
conversation about our switch from the Independent Phroak to the use of the
K’Tani Roldal.”
There was silence on the bridge.
Christian visibly blushed, he’d no idea the station’s
communications technology would be so advanced.
“What of it,” Christian managed to blurt out, then shrugged at
Jackson – he didn’t have a clue what to say, so decided to sound defensive
instead.
“Erowoon foresaw the re-occupation of Qovakia by the K’Tani
some time ago, and we decided that switching to the Roldal in advance would
make our transitional relations go a lot more smoothly this time around,” the
agent explained. “However, as indicated
we have a very preferable exchange rate with most other currencies.
How do you intend to make payment?”
“Oh, I think your little probes may have told you already,”
Christian said, suddenly full of bravado.
“Would gold pressed latinum do you?”
“Although only several weeks old, the GPL currency in
Qovakia managed to secure itself on the free market and even spread in hard
currency this far out. It has become
quite fashionable and so is currently commanding a very good exchange…1.3 to
the Roldal,” his voice wavered, everso slightly.
Christian smirked and looked at Jackson.
She nodded at him.
“That sounds a bit steep,” Christian said.
“The hard currency will soon be in very
short supply. As we are prepared to
spend a substantial amount while on your station, could you not give us a lower
rate?”
Reb turned in his chair, mocking the Captain.
Christian winked at his Helmsman, proud to
be impersonating a Ferengi so well.
“I’m afraid our rates are fixed,” the voice wasn’t sorry at
all. “But we are prepared to waver the
payment for the fuel connection – that is if you are willing to purchase 3,000
volumes of fuel before departure.”
Christian frowned over to Leonard who shrugged.
Ganhedra fumbled for a translation, but he
didn’t have to.
“That’s about two thirds of your tank capacity,” the agent
explained.
“At what rate?” Christian asked.
“Again, Erowoon can offer you the post-invasion sale price
of 50 Roldal per half volume,” he said.
Again there was that waiver again – it amazed Christian sometimes how
the universal translator managed to pick up such inflections and nuances in an
alien tongue.
Jackson shook her head violently.
“Make it 25 Roldal..” Christian hoped.
A cheerful snigger came back.
“We would probably settle on 35, so I will save us both time and
make that my final offer.”
Jackson shrugged – she had no idea how much they’d end up
spending. And there was still the dry
dock and repair bill to eventually pay for.
At this rate, they would have no money left by the end of their visit.
The Commodore and her classmates had once taken a weekend
holodeck vacation in fashionable 20th Century Paris.
What struck them the most was the endless
need to pay for things all the time – and tip.
Even after she’d taken a leak, for goodness sake! While her elder years
had exposed the Commodore to a wider range of commerce and commercial experience,
she never quite forgot that overwhelming fear that had struck her back
then. Whereas then she and her friends
had been able to replicate more money once it ran out, in the real world, of
course, there was only a finite amount available.
That cold feeling was creeping across her once again.
* * *
BETA SECTION/COMMAND SECTION: 0800 HOURS
“Heeeeave!” Lirik gritted his teeth and pushed hard on the
door plate. Struckchev’s big powerful
hands were alongside his, pressing on the door with all their vein-bulging
might.
With a squeak of grinding metal it gave slightly.
“Just a bit…more…” Struckchev muttered
through clenched teeth and finally the door caught its runners and easily slid
into the wall.
Both men collapsed sideways with a sigh, Struckchev onto the
wall and Lirik holding onto his knees.
The access door was inset into one of the wide sweeping arched walls
that lined the long walkway of the Marina Deck.
The walkway, low-ceilinged and some five metres in width provided
the main public access to the private docking bays dispersed along each
side. Although the two men did not know
it yet, a further ‘hidden’ deck above provided an out-of-the-way maintenance
area, each private bay having a retractable plate in its roof for the vessels
to be drawn aloft. This maintenance
deck also allowed for the quick movement of vessels between bays, as well as
providing additional cargo and vehicle storage.
A further deck below the Marina provided room for access
crawlways and a myriad of fuel pipes, tanks, waste retraction and data conduits
to name a few that fed and serviced the docked vessels.
The two men stepped through onto the bleached wooden
floorboards of the Marina Deck’s central walkway.
Thick support struts were located uniformly every few metres,
each housing a set of emergency bulkhead doors to cut individual sections
off. Currently they were all housed, so
the two men had a clear view along the entire length of the one hundred and
fifty metre deck. Mesh covered lanterns lit the walls between each strut,
casting light upward and creating criss-cross shadows on the decking below that
stretched into the distance.
“Holy shit,” Lirik couldn’t suppress his surprise.
“This place is huge.
It must run beneath most of the length of
the Passenger Section.”
Struckchev quickly drew a phaser and Lirik did the
same. He pulled open a tricorder and
left it on the floor, actively scanning for any other movement (preferably of
the eight-legged variety) and the two cautiously housed their weapons to
investigate. The Commander walked over
to the nearest of the bay entry doors.
The opaque oval glass panel in the airlock door masked whatever lay
within the bay beyond. He touched the
lcars padd beside it and an array of tiny pink and cream text flashed up.
He leaned forward and read it.
“This apparently contains the Fantasy Launch “Oprah”,
seating capacity two hundred and fifty, life support and supplies for that
number for fourteen days, warp capable to factor five, though with limited
range. It’s classified as a ‘Panoramic
Touring Car and Mobile Debating and Lecture Venue’,” the Commander pressed a
few keys to try and open the bay door – the computer blurted a warning sound.
“Warning, environment differential beyond safe limits,” she
chirped snottily.
“I’ve got another,” Lirik called from slightly further
down. “Come and see.”
The Commander joined Lirik at the door –
this airlock’s glass panel was clear and provided a view of the dimly lit ship
within. Just beyond the double doors
was a short covered gangway with a control booth up some stairs to the
right. The door at the end of the
gangway was hanging open, a ladder leading down into the bay beyond.
Suspended in the zero g hangar was a sleek,
shiny deep crimson – almost black – panelled vessel with pointed wings and nose
and tapering fins that gave a perfect aeordynamic appeal.
“It’s a vintage 2350’s Capellian Star Flyer,” Lirik
continued to read from the panel.
“Seating capacity…”
“Five,” the Commander interrupted, recalling from
memory. “Life support and supplies for
30 days, warp capable to 9.5 and maximum range of six months continuous
flight.”
“I see you know your ships,” Lirik complimented with a hint
of sarcasm. “But I’m not exactly
uninformed myself. You know, we’ll have
to have an umpire.”
“An umpire? What do
you mean?” Struckchev faced the Yeoman, backing away from the shield static
instinctively.
“If we are going to compete against each other in a fair
contest of skills, we need someone to arbitrate.
Someone neutral,” Lirik explained.
“Like O’Hara.”
The Commander immediately considered if she and Lirik were
friends. They did seem to get on, but
mostly it was out of duty and a mutual respect for, well, disrespecting
authority. Particularly the Captain.
“There could be dozens more vessels here,” Struckchev
said. “And on first appearances it
seems accessing them will be easy.
We’ll need to organise a search team right away.”
Lirik smiled sweetly.
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
COMMAND YACHT: 0455 HOURS
The Captain stood in the gangway just outside his vessel and
forward of his welcoming party, patiently waiting for some kind of response to
his greeting. An Erowoon official
waited nervously on the other side of the glass partition door leading onto the
station. The small old man wore a plain
brown two-piece suit with a light blue undershirt.
A badge of office was clipped to the right lapel, shiny
silver. He seemed surprised at the
group he saw in front of him, repeatedly looking up at them, studying his
clipboard and shaking his head.
Worriedly he looked around as if missing someone and then paced out of
view into the corridor around the corner.
Christian looked around at his own party, who were equally
bemused. When the little man reappeared
he was accompanied by two tall woman of alien origin.
Bipedal and semi Humanoid, each had four upper limbs - two looked
akin to arms, the others, crossing behind their shoulders were like folded
gossamer wings that ended in a set of claws.
Their heads were elliptical in shape, with hollow black eyes - some kind
of light sensitive film glistened within.
In contrast to the old man, they wore bright yellow suits of shiny
plastic - panelled and clearly armoured.
There was no mistaking the weapons both carried.
After a brief conversation huddled closely together with
much nodding, the old man stepped forward and activated the voice control.
"You are Human," he addressed the Captain.
"You are also Human," he looked
over at Leonard, then turned to Narli.
"And you are Andorian. All
Federation citizens and declared enemies of the K'Tani."
He fixed his eyes on the Captain.
"And you are…?" it was all Christian could think
of saying, trying to make a point somehow.
"I am your Induction Officer," he reached over and
released the door, stepping through to confront them.
“You deceived us. You informed
us you were businessmen, merchants. Our
inspection team may not have been informed, but I can clearly recognise the
uniform of the Federation’s Starfleet.”
“That may be true,” Christian smiled disarmingly.
“But we are not refugees.
And our money is as good as the next
alien’s.”
“Hm,” the official smirked.
“Your ship does not appear to be made for war, it is crewed by
relatively few and your supplies are clearly depleted.”
He tapped his board and looked up into the
ceiling, considering his next action.
An idea seemed to cheer him up.
“If you were to register at the station under the premium
confidentiality scheme,” he rubbed the fingers of his right hand over his chin.
“Then we could overlook the technicality of
your race’s political status.”
Christian wanted to ask how much that was going to cost, but
decided it wouldn’t matter anyway.
There was no going back now.
“Very well.”
“Good,” the man thrust a thin, transparent board at the
Captain. “Here are the station’s rules
of conduct, do not breach them or you will be detained and sued.
May I see your method of payment?”
Christian stepped to one side as Karless and Kluless heaved
forward the crate and slammed it on the deck with a dull chink, throwing back
the lid to reveal the box full of glistening latinum.
The old man nodded with a half smile, then looked up through
heavy lidded eyes. “Klingons.
Hm,” he turned to Christian.
“You might want to make use of our fully
comp visitor’s insurance policy.”
* * *
ACT 4