EP 7 "EROWOON: PART I" - ACT IV
COMMAND YACHT: TIME LAPSE TO 0730 HOURS
Christian stepped back inside the Fantasy flanked by
Karless, Kluless and Narli. His four
boxes of latinum had been exchanged into hard currency with no problem –
indeed, the station’s exchange officer had beamed from ear to ear from the
amount of commission she was about to earn herself in one transaction.
Thankfully, the Induction Officer had made it clear that
Klingons were renowned for their warrior behaviour, so Christian deduced that
taking them along to convert the cash would provide all the protection he
needed. The looks he’d been given by
station inhabitants were intense – Narli seemed to be of particular
interest. Everyone kept their distance,
however. The Captain was intrigued to
learn that Ganhedra insisted upon staying on board the Fantasy, as did the
other Helan.
Just inside the airlock, Jackson greeted him.
“How was it?”
“It went very well,” Christian nodded to the Klingons in
thanks, and handed over the huge wad of cash notes to Narli for
distribution. “Here,” he handed Jackson
a very thick bundle of smelly notes.
“This is what is spare. It’s
more than enough to cover our fuel and any additional expenses.
Narli’s sharing out the rest among our team
of buyers.”
Christian glanced over to the nearby turbolift and watched
Murak exit slowly, followed closely by Souveson.
“Ah, well here goes nothing.”
“Why can’t he make his own way back?” the Commodore frowned,
flicking a look of impatience at the boy.
“We can’t afford to lose you to a trigger happy Romulan.”
“I’m guessing they’re not in much of a position to start
throwing their weight around,” Christian said.
“And besides, we owe it to Murak to see him safely returned.
If anything, they’ll trust his story more if
they see us ‘hand him over’ as it were.
It will also provide a perfect opportunity to try and see what they know
of the invasion.”
“I hope you’re not considering an alliance,” Jackson
whispered, conscious that Romulan hearing was almost as sharp as a Vulcan’s.
“Xenophobia doesn’t become a Starfleet officer,” Christian
chastised. “But I know how to handle
the Romulans. Don’t worry, I’ll be
careful.”
Christian turned to everyone gathered.
“Okay, now you know your duties.
Narli, Leonard, Reb, Kluless will go with
Miss Quatro to the main trading area,” the young woman nodded her square jawed
head with a flick of her long lashes.
(Quatro had been selected to join the crew on the Yacht by
the Commodore. Jackson was made aware
of the individual by one of a few Starfleet Intelligence operatives active on
Helub. She had apparently spent a
modest fortune while shopping in the Outer Zone in the short time since the
wormhole had opened. An Alpha Centaurian
heiress to her father’s fortune, she had her own business buying and selling
rare artefacts from across the Alpha Quadrant, and took every opportunity to
carry out the field work herself. A
drop out of Starfleet Academy, Quatro was nonetheless familiar with starship
protocols, as well as being knowledgeable, bright, quick to learn, streetwise,
and more familiar with the Outer Zone than any other of the volunteers on
board.)
The Captain continued.
“Karless will take Karnak and O’Hara to the administration and services
area to try and procure medical supplies.
Myself and Souveson will join you there once we’ve safely delivered
Murak to his people. We hope to gather
intel from them, so that may take some time.
Each of you has a substantial amount of money, look after it well.
You’ve each been issued with a list of
inventory required and a copy of the station’s rules.
If you need to verify anything, or at the slightest hint of
trouble, just patch through to the Commodore on the Fantasy, your commbadges
have been allocated a unique interpersonnel frequency, though be warned that it
doesn’t work in all areas,” he didn’t like the look on Jackson’s face.
“Okay, let’s move out.”
* * *
BETA SECTION/MARINA DECK: 0900 HOURS
Diplomatic Corpsman Yeoman Lirik and Commander Struckchev
sat on the steps of a jeffrey’s tube half way along the Marina deck.
Both had a padd in their hands and were
frantically stabbing the surfaces.
“Thirty seven vehicles!” Lirik was beaming so hard his face
ached. “And that’s not counting
anything that may be above on the maintenance deck you found.”
“Or the supplementary shuttle bays in the Passenger
Section,” the Commander added. His own
mind was on something else completely.
“Here, this is the perfect game plan,” Struckchev passed the list to
Lirik who shook his head.
“I don’t think so.
70 per cent of the points are based on engineering and flight
principles.”
“What, not up to scratch on them?” the Commander jibed.
“No, I’m just saying the tests should be a fair assessment
of all our abilities,” Lirik shoved the padd back at Struckchev and continued
with his own. “To test our skills as
thinkers, explorers, leaders and decision makers as well as competent
soldiers.”
“Sorry to bust up the little boys’ meeting,” Hedrik had
appeared and neither had even noticed.
“But you’re both urgently needed on the Bridge.”
Struckchev glowered at the Yeoman who shrugged and said:
“The Comm System isn’t patched in this far down.”
As soon as they got within earshot of the turbolift, they
could hear the wail of red alert in the distance.
“What’s going on?” Struckchev yelled at the Orion, who
visibly flinched.
“Well, we were analysing passive scans from beyond the
nebula when we saw what looked like a couple of engine signatures coasting
past,” she said glibly, looking Struckchev up and down in an almost liscivious way.
“How long ago?” the Commander felt embarrassed – he hadn’t
expected an alert while concealed inside the nebula, so he may have also ruined
all chances for the post of Second Officer in the process.
Well, maybe he could do something about that
before it was too late.
Presently, the doors parted onto the Command Section Bridge,
busy with nervous Helan and composed Vulcan attendants who sat at now fully
functional stations. Not that that
mattered much, they had virtually no defence, certainly nothing to match up to
a K’Tani vessel if that’s what they turned out to be.
“Where are they now?” Struckchev asked Warnerburg as she
conceded the centre seat to him.
“They went clean past just over seven minutes ago at eleven
hundred kilometres, they must be some distance away by now,” she said.
“It was odd the way they passed us so close,
like they were purposefully looking into the nebula.
I can’t believe they wouldn’t have detected us.”
“Perhaps they did,” Lirik said – unhelpfully, Struckchev
thought. “We don’t know much about
their technological capabilities yet.”
“You’re assuming they are K’Tani,” Struckchev said.
The Yeoman cocked his head to one side
conceding the fact.
The old female engineer shifted from side to side.
“Ah, I hope you don’t mind, Commander, but
when you didn’t respond I took the liberty of reassigning all repair teams to
weapons duty.”
“Weapons?” Struckchev was surprised – he thought no weapons
aside from the phaser turret Christian had used was operational.
“We have identified several repulse cannon housings along
the sides of the Passenger and Command Sections on several levels.
I’ve despatched six environment suited and
armed teams of three to the remote locations.
One of Lirik’s search teams came across a small hoard of low intensity
shells. Not Starfleet standard, but
there are a number of them, some with multiple shell heads, volunteers are
distributing them now,” Warnerburg said.
“It will take some time before they’re on-line, though.
I need to re-route power first of all, that
shouldn’t take long, maybe ten minutes. But then it’ll take about twenty
minutes to run a diagnostic, load and arm the phaser turrets, plus around ten
or fifteen minutes realigning time.”
“Won’t using weapons deplete our energy reserves?” Lirik asked
what was on the Commander’s mind.
Warnerburg shrugged.
“That is the catch.”
Struckchev and Lirik snapped their fingers at the same time
and said: “The ships.”
Vostaline walked over to the group.
“What ships?”
“On the Marina Deck,” Lirik babbled, “all sorts of ships.”
“Fighters?” Warnerburg asked.
Struckchev shrugged.
“Most were listed as operational, but I’m not sure if they have weapons,
let alone fuel.”
The Yeoman remembered: “That Star Flyer would normally be
equipped with standard defensive shields and a low yield central disrupter.”
“Hardly a match for a military ship,” Struckchev said, “but
a good lure – she’s very fast and manoeuvreable over the short range.”
Warnerburg cast her hands into the fray, chopping the
air. “But what about pilots?
Those of us who can fly are few in number,
and I for one am hardly trained to go into battle.”
There was a pause, and Vostaline piped up cheerily: “Do we
have any choice?”
The Commander drew himself up straight.
“Okay, Warnerburg, the repulse cannons could
have a better effect against K’Tani shields, so keep your teams working on
those. Move anyone spare down to the
Marina Deck to help survey the vessels.
Lirik,” he paused as he realised he was about to allow the Yeoman to
prove himself. “Get all the civilians
to shelter. Then I want you to get down
to the M deck and scan the vehicle inventory and data gathered by the
volunteers. Select any ships you think
would be good in a dog fight – we’ll worry about pilots later, but there’s at
least three of us I know of. In the
meantime, I want to see if we can increase scan resolutions and bypass the
interference from the nebula gasses. We
may also be able to send a message to the Captain.
I want to know the moment the K’Tani show themselves again.”
* * *
EROWOON STATION: 0800 HOURS
Christian, Souveson and Murak stood at the inner airlock of
the station docking ring where it connected with the Romulan vessel.
A pair of opaque glass doors blocked the
view of anything beyond.
Souveson pressed the attendance button again, but a faint
shadow had already appeared approaching the doors.
As it got nearer, it formed the unmistakable silhouette of a
Romulan male in his big, padded square shouldered uniform.
The doors parted to reveal a large, fairly old man wearing
the uniform of the Romulan fleet and the rank pin of a Senior Section Leader –
about the equivalent of a Lieutenant Commander in Starfleet, Christian
noted. The surprise at seeing Murak
with the two Starfleet personnel played all over his face.
“My name is Captain Christian, this is my tactical officer
Ensign Souveson and this,” the Captain pulled Murak forward, “is someone who
belongs with you.”
“State your identity,” the older Romulan had a deep
resonating voice.
“Leading Engineer’s Mate Murak Sa Druin, my ship was the
Laytu,” Murak’s voice by contrast sounded weak and unsteady.
The old man withdrew a medical scanner and passed it around
each of them, clearly confirming identities if not racial origins alone.
“How did you come to be with these people?”
“I was cut off from returning to my ship during the attack
on Helub. My only course of escape was
with several hundred civilians,” Murak would rather have said he was a
prisoner, but had told Christian he would probably be unable to maintain that
lie under interrogation. Rather it was
best he tell the truth from the start.
The old Romulan looked at Christian, then at Souveson, then
back at Christian again. “You say you
are a Captain? And that is your
ship?” He pointed towards an out of
site porthole in the docking arm behind him, on the side where the Command
Yacht could be seen.
“That’s correct,” Christian said.
“I am not familiar with its class.
It’s not like any other vessel in your current fleet,” the
Romulan scoffed, but Christian saw a faint glint in his eye.
The ship, perhaps because of its deflective
coating, clearly intrigued him.
Christian knitted his fingers together and let them drop,
resting above his groin. “That’s
because it is a civilian ship,” the Captain affirmed.
“We commandeered it to rescue as many survivors from the K’Tani
attack as we could.”
“Civilian ship,” the Romulan nodded.
“That is how you escaped initial
capture. So Starfleet did know about
the impending K’Tani invasion.”
“No…” the Captain began his protests, but the old man
stepped aside and waved them frantically toward his ship’s open airlock.
“Please, you must come aboard,” he said eagerly.
“There is much to discuss.”
Souveson shot a nervous look at the Captain and
automatically felt for her weapon, checking herself and hoping the Romulan
hadn’t read her body language. Murak
had, but his expression was not upset, rather more assured by her wariness.
Christian cautiously led the troupe up the ramp and across
the gangway, stepping over the threshold into the Romulan vessel.
The smell of burning plastic almost choked
him. Looking around it was clear the
ship had been much more heavily damaged than it had first appeared.
Ceiling panels were missing as was some
partition panelling, though the debris had since been cleared away.
Lights were dimmed and flickering in side
corridors. He felt the ripple of an
unstable gravity field sweep across his body and the warmth of an unsteady
environment system – or a nearby raging fire.
Souveson murmured her dislike of the place.
As the Romulan closed the airlock doors, he drew a weapon
and pointed it at them. It was clear
neither Human could draw and fire before he could, so they raised their arms
slightly. He looked Murak in the
eye. “Disarm them.”
Murak hesitated, looking into Christian’s eyes.
Christian didn’t relay anything except
patience in his expression.
“Are you disobeying me?” the old man shifted into a better
position from which to shoot any or all three of the newcomers.
Murak looked at his superior then back at Christian and
finally complied, slipping Souveson’s phaser into a pocket and holding
Christians aloft at them.
“Thanks a lot, Murak,” the Ensign couldn’t help but say, so
angry was she at leading her Captain into immediate danger.
Some security officer she was.
After a moment’s hesitation, Murak said: “They won’t cause
any trouble, Sir.”
“Your life depends upon that,” the old man pressed a few
keys on a face level wall mounted console.
“Chahleth to control, I have two Starfleet prisoners and a Romulan
junior officer. Is the brig clear?”
“Negative, Sir. Fire
damage has rendered that section powerless,” the female voice sounded tired.
“Perhaps we can help you,” Christian suggested.
Chahleth whirled around.
“Oh you will indeed.”
* * *
EROWOON: 0815 HOURS
“This is hopeless…” Reb muttered to himself.
The zig-zagging, uniform corridors seemed to
continue endlessly until finally he began to see groups of people carrying bags
and containers from the general direction of straight ahead.
“Must be the way to the trading levels…”
“You looking for something in particular?” a pale,
yellow-eyed wiry youth stepped into his path.
Beneath tatty, ill-fitting clothes his skin was pink hued and covered in
blue spots. His head was topped with a
dense patch of short spines, much like a porcupine and he exuded a strong
odor. Wafer-thin, pointy ears formed
into delicate feathers above that moved gently in the stale air and appeared to
twitch slightly at every sound. He
wasn’t about to budge until Reb responded.
“Er..” Reb hadn’t expected someone to approach him.
Although he had a long list of purchases to
get through, and a pocket stuffed with old, wrinkled paper ‘Roldal’, mostly he
wanted information – namely to find out about alternative, and more affordable,
dry dock facilities in the local sector.
Now wasn’t the time to be hassled by a grifter, though the boy himself
might be able to provide such information.
The Captain had strongly advised the away team against
interacting with anyone on the station, of course, to try and keep a low
profile. He’d urged them to stay
together, but it was clear they would get nowhere fast.
So Reb had slipped away.
None of his shipmates were sure who worked
for the K’Tani and who didn’t – but that wasn’t about to stop Reb.
He felt sure he was a good judge of
character and would be able to spot a K’Tani agent by himself.
In fact, he was bursting to stop everyone he
could and ask them about other ports nearby.
After all, what good was all the cargo they were hoping to buy if the
ship it was going into had a screwed engine, dangerous power system and
clapped-out defences?
“I can get you whatever you want,” the youth urged and
smiled, then winked in a knowing way.
“Look…er, thanks, kid,” although Reb glanced around he was
unaware of several other interested parties eavesdropping nearby.
“But I don’t think you can give me what I
want.”
The boy hesitated, then smiled again.
“Well, maybe not, but I’m sure I can arrange
it for you, for a small fee.”
Reb fixed his eyes on him.
“Oh, yeah? You got dry dock
facilities for a seven hundred metre long vessel?” he blurted out.
The boy looked disappointed, of course he didn’t.
But then, maybe this stranger was just
saying that to get rid of him.
“Didn’t think so,” Reb said, and moved along.
A couple of steps away he heard the boy call
what sounded like ‘hair spool’, but when he turned, the boy had gone.
Twenty minutes later Reb leant against the side of a closed
banking booth, exhausted and depressed.
All the stores he had been to either didn’t sell exactly what they
needed, or had priced items so high that he wouldn’t be able to afford more
than one or two things on the list. It
was all so stupid to him, a trading station that demanded so much in taxation –
how could anyone ever make any money here?
Then it dawned on him.
Although the station was run efficiently with a high presence of
security, he had seen just as many poor looking people here as there were
rogues, mercenaries and wealthy merchants.
The station was huge, after all, and there must be somewhere that
more conventional means of business took place. He began his search afresh,
this time avoiding well-sign posted facilities clearly designed for the casual
visitors and tourists and made his way a good deal more off the beaten track.
Hitching a ride on a passing cargo platform, Reb presently
found himself in a less affluent residential area. He followed his nose to a
shopping area that seemed mostly for locals – groceries, bakers, butchers, municipal
clothing stores and various life insurance brokers.
From the main drag he followed the flow of people – that looked
more his type – and turned off down a wide, low-ceiling ramp lined with small
eateries serving a wide range of rank-smelling fried food.
Each establishment proffered uniquely
different fare, an individuality reflected in the assortment of hatch canopies
and flanking banners of various designs, colours and textures.
Taking his lead from Lirik’s thirst for knowledge, he
discretely activated his tricorder and removed the small sensor lens from its
housing. If he couldn’t find what he
had been ordered to, at least he would have gathered intelligence for later
analysis aboard the Fantasy. But it
wasn’t the tricorder’s scanners that made him smile.
It was hearing the clink of glasses and hum of convivial chatter
with his own, enhanced hearing.
“Progress at last,” he grinned.
The ramp ended in a wide, circular courtyard, overlooked by
three galleries surrounding the walls.
From a domed roof some thirty metres above were suspended multi-coloured
lanterns at various heights, the myriad lights reflecting rainbow-like over the
mingling masses moving slowly about, and the rope suspended banners that wafted
in the gentle breeze of the aircon system.
To his immediate left and right, and directly ahead were the
courtyard’s only businesses – two ramps almost identical to the one he’d just
come down separated the units opposite, these leading up - perhaps allowing
access to the upper galleried levels.
A number of semi-clad lifeforms leaned against and out of a
very obvious house of pleasure to his right.
The place stretched up through all the galleries, each level allowing
entry to the richly decorated orange and red lit interior.
Some of the humanoid female employees were
very attractive indeed – one caught his gaze and licked her lips salaciously -
and Reb had to remind himself that he was on a time limit here.
Two conspicuously concealed sets of doors set into high
plain grey walls to his left formed the tempting entry and inebriated egress to
the tavern he had sought out. What had
once been windows were painted over and barred.
Reb soon found out why.
There was a sudden sound of breaking glass from inside, a phaser blast
followed by two more powerful sets of blasts and a shrill scream.
Reb hesitated, not sure whether to retreat in an act of
caution, when out of the building directly opposite burst five heavily armoured
station security guards, brandishing phaser rifles and screaming for people to
move aside. The locals surged apart,
allowing a direct ten metre boot thundering dash to the nearest doors to the
taverna. Presently, they emerged
dragging two corpses and unceremoniously carrying one injured.
By the time they were back inside their
unit, everyone in the courtyard had returned to normal, as if nothing had
happened.
Four obvious space cowboys, swaying in different directions
and holding on to each other for support emerged from the taverna, looking
around through blurred eyes, and slunk off into the crowd singing bits of an
old song they had thought they knew. If
Reb was going to tap into the black market to get a fair price on the inventory
they needed, this seemed the perfect place to start.
Steeling himself with a deep breath, Reb pulled open the
door to the taverna. The alcoholic,
smoky heat haze hit him instantly. The
place was huge, multi-levelled and buzzing with atmosphere.
It stretched back into smoky darkness from
where there came sounds of soft singing and chilled music.
Around him, tables deeply recessed into the walls
accommodated crews discussing ship’s business, merchants making whispered deals
and old friends playing some form of card game with much toothless laughter and
nodding of old and creaking heads. Ledges
around support pillars provided a place for the solitary pilgrims and
one-manned bounty hunters to stand and observe, mingle and move on.
The long winding bar was populated by either
those who preferred the company of attentive bartenders, or those seeking
information (and willing to pay a small price in return).
As he slowly made his way toward the bar, eyes flicking
around for anyone he thought would be approachable, keen ears listening out for
shop talk, he caught sight of a Humanoid woman entering the bar from the other
doorway. It seemed like instant
recognition, yet Reb knew he hadn’t met her before.
She held his look for a moment and moved on.
She was smaller than he, older, though
attractive in an unusual kind of way.
Swathed in tight fitting black leather pants, a puffy metallic jacket
and teetering on a pair of boots with heels half the thickness of an isolinear
rod, he mistook the frizzy-red haired woman for a hooker from across the way.
Nearing the bar at the same time, she unzipped her jacked
and he saw the well-filled, deep plunge neck white vest beneath smeared with
grease. Her hands were also clearly
those of a worker, although they were small and long nailed.
She sat at a barstool, climbing onto the
rung with one foot and deftly swinging her other leg over the seat from
behind. Reb was fascinated by the
confident woman, and found himself sitting down beside her.
Fumbling for cash in his pocket, he glanced at her as she
lit a long, fat cigar with a small stick that flamed when squeezed.
She extinguished it with a sharp puff from
the side of her mouth and tossed the used wood stick into an ashtray, her
movement opening her jacket and revealing the handle of a mighty looking weapon
sticking up from under her armpit.
“Are you looking at my pistol or my tits, bub?” she asked in
a hard, throaty accent. “Because if
it’s the latter, just remember about the former.
‘Kay?”
Reb looked up into her unusual face.
She had glittering blue squinty eyes,
thickly lined with black eyeliner and masses
of lashes, a long, high nose and a full mouth with a generous gleaming white
overbite. Her round chin and chubby
cheeks almost belied the truly petite though well endowed form of the rest of
her body. In fact Reb thought she
looked quite Terran, he could see no obvious sign of alien heritage.
“Alrac,” she shouted over to a stout, wide-faced female with
masses of tight curly hair and a short, thick snout who was stacking crates of
bottles below the bar. The little woman
turned and cocked her head in readiness.
“I’ll have a Sharp Claw and give this letch whatever he wants.”
The alien nodded and poured clear liquid
into a short glass, waddling slowly over and placing it before the friendly
woman. Alrac turned to Reb with more
than a little contempt.
“Ah, I’ll have the same,” he said.
“Thank you,” he said to his new drinking partner.
“My name is Reb.”
“Miss Belmer Vidnie M Titehed,” she smiled and vigorously
shook his outstretched hand. “The
third!” she added as a joke. “Though my
crew all call me Bel.”
“Your crew?” Reb wondered if this flirtatious woman
fingering the ring of her drinking glass could possibly be the master of her
own ship.
She raised the drink and blew on it, a faint pink cloud of
vapour licked up and evaporated.
“That’s right, I own a maintenance and repair facility several light
years from here.”
“Oh really?” progress indeed, Reb thought, picked up the
glass of clear liquid and sniffed it.
As he did, it changed colour slightly, a lime tinge, then returned to
its clear state. He noticed her
intrigued expression. “I ah…haven’t
tried this before.”
Bel smiled and placed the glass to her lips.
As she did, the liquid turned a deep crimson
and she drained it, finishing with clenched teeth and the shake of her
head. “Sheesh!”
Not wishing to look the wimp, Reb followed suit.
As the liquid touched his own lips he saw it
turn a vibrant green with yellow streaks.
It tasted sweet, peppery and hot, burning his tongue, tightening his
throat and warming his belly. A swift
headrush followed and he uncontrollably coughed for breath.
Bel laughed and slapped him on the back.
“Not much of a drinker, eh Reb?”
That was like so much of a challenge and he banged his glass
on the counter. “On the contrary, Miss
Bell,” he pulled out his large wad of cash.
“Let’s have another.”
The woman hesitated, then smiled, her eyes tightly
squinting, her mouth revealing that full set of long white teeth and pushed her
own glass forward to join his.
* * *
COMMAN YACHT: 1000 HOURS
Commodore Jackson took the padd from Leonard and scrolled
down the long list of identified supplies.
“That’s a lot of inventory, Commander.”
“I’ve checked with Narli, our coffers can easily cover it,”
the German said. “Lieutenant O’Hara has
fared less well again, it seems. While
she can obtain small, basic freighter-class medical items and standard a&e
kit, the station has firm restrictions on the sale of drugs of any kind.”
“Hardly surprising,” Jackson thumbed her authorisation on
the shopping list. (Already Ambassador
Narli had drawn up a simple ledger – all their valuables against unassigned
purchase orders to keep a track of what they were spending the money on.
Leonard’s and O’Hara’s needs were the first
to be met, and Jackson watched the status bar as her authorisation reduced
their account by a not unsubstantial amount.)
“Any word from Rebbik?” the Commodore walked over to the
Operations console and tapped up computer estimates on current repair progress
and general ship’s business. She was
pleased to see no further problems as yet.
The German bit his lip and shook his head at the Commodore’s
disapproving expression. Leonard had
been in command of his group and losing Reb wasn’t something he had bargained
for. “He was talking to a bunch of
local merchant pilots last time I saw him, asking them about the current
situation in Qovakia. He told Kluless
he was going off on his own for a while, that he worked better alone, but then
he never came back in our allotted time.
Do we assume he’s come to harm or that he’s done a runner?”
Jackson raised her eyebrows at the statement.
“The fact is it doesn’t matter either way,
because there’s nothing we can do about it.
We simply don’t have the time or resources.
But I’ve been observing him, and I have a hunch he’s just doing
things his own way. My guess is he’ll
be back, and all will be well and good – though not for him, of course.
You can try hailing him, but he hasn’t
responded to any of our signals.”
Leonard nodded. “How
did the Captain and Ensign’s visit to the Romulan ship go?”
“I don’t know. There
hasn’t been any word from them as yet,” Jackson looked at the viewscreen
jumping between various images of the station every few seconds.
“I’m hoping they’re gathering intelligence
from the Romulans much as I hope that Reb is from the station’s inhabitants.”
* * *
ROMULAN VESSEL: 1000 HOURS
Whap!! Christian was
belted across the face for a third time.
He merely shrugged his shoulders and raised his head again.
In fact, he wasn’t sure how many more blows
he could endure before he passed out, but he was giving it his best shot.
Ensign Souveson was struggling against her bindings some few
metres behind him, but to no avail.
“Leave him alone, he’s done nothing but offer help to you!”
With her legs tied as well, she couldn’t
even get to her feet. The whole
situation felt hopeless.
The three guards who were taking turns in hitting the
Captain were trying to see who could knock him over the furthest or the most
dramatically. There was much laughing
and back slapping between each volley.
It was as if they were letting out their own grief and anger at what had
happened to their shipmates on the Captain.
The guards had ignored everything Christian and Souveson had said while
they had escorted them to an empty chamber deep in the ship.
They had manhandled Souveson a little, but
after several perfectly pronounced Romulan insults from her American captain,
they had seemed far more interested in getting their aggression out on him
instead.
The doors suddenly parted and there stood Chahleth and a
sheepish looking Murak flanked by two officers wearing different uniforms –
were they Tal’Shiar? Christian couldn’t
be certain with the dim light and blurred vision.
Murak went hyper as soon as he saw what was going on.
He ran over to the Captain and roughly
shoved two of the guards aside. He
helped Christian to his feet. “Don’t
worry,” Murak whispered almost imperceptibly.
“I’ll get you out of here.”
Christian snorted up some blood and spat it on the deck at
Murak’s feet. “Sure,” he panted, not
sounding convinced.
“You men have duties,” Chahleth ordered the guards out of
the room. Once they had gone he stepped
over to Christian and smiled, not in the least concerned at the Captain’s
mistreatment. “Please forgive my
men. They are very upset at having
their friends and colleagues blown to hell by a bunch of strangers.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” Christian managed – his jaw and ribs
ached like mad. “Doesn’t make this
right.”
Chahleth nodded.
“The Federation made First Contact with the Qovakians, not the Romulan
Star Empire. You can’t blame them at
being mad at you. For all they know,
you’re in league with the K’Tani.”
“If that’s true, why the hell would we have delivered your
bastard Romulan to you?!” Souveson yelled glowering at Murak.
He swallowed hard and looked devastated.
“By this delusioned child’s own account,” he gestured at
Murak, “you are a very charitable Human man,” Chahleth said as he circled
Christian and then walked over to the Ensign.
“When I first saw you approach the station with a partially cloaked ship
I thought you were aboard some type of new Starfleet stealth craft.
Of course, I should have known that such an
uninspired hulk couldn’t possibly be a war craft.
When you turned up with my fellow kinsman here I suspected some
kind of alterier plan.”
“Sorry to disappoint, there was no plan,” Christian
affirmed. “There was never anything
except to return Murak to you and offer an exchange of intelligence.”
Ow!
His lips had hurt in that sentence.
“Ah, the ever optimistic Starfleet attitude,” Chahleth
goaded. Souveson snarled at him, but he
didn’t flinch. He just chuckled a
little and walked back to Christian.
“But as you mention it, exchange is something I am interested in.
As no doubt you’ve already deduced, our own
vessel has suffered severe damage. Our
Commander is dead as are most of the crew, and with no word from any of the
Romulan fleet in this sector – nor any word from our other allies and neighbours
from back home – we’re all alone and with little scope for the situation
improving. We managed to hide the true
extent of damage from the Erowoon officials – they’ve never seen a quantum
singularity drive before. But we
couldn’t afford to moor here long enough for the repairs to be finished, even
if that were possible.”
“First sign they get you can’t afford to stay,” said the
Ensign, obviously, “they’ll tow you to beyond the safety perimeter and leave
you to the K’Tani.”
Christian followed Chahleth’s train of thought.
“Unless you manage to obtain another ship.”
“At first we thought we might gamble for a ship.
I’m quite the Tonga player, you know.
But there’s no such game played here.
Then we thought about stealing the
technology, maybe fighting our way out of here,” Chahleth was toying with
Christian and clearly enjoying it.
“You’ll never take her,” Christian interrupted the Romulan’s
oratory. “Not so long as my crew are
aboard.”
Chahleth laughed and walked to the door.
“We’ll see.”
He stepped out as did the guards.
“Murak!”
The young Romulan parked that doe-eyed stare on the Captain
again, though avoided Souveson’s bitter glare, and left.
As the doors closed behind and Christian and
his security officer were left alone, the Captain slumped to the floor
exhausted.
“Captain!” Souveson
bum-shuffled over to her commanding officer.
He was bruised, bloody and panting as if tired.
Sweat and blood matted his hair and he was
groaning a little.
“I’m okay,” he grunted defiantly.
“Just need to rest.”
“But Sir!” the Canadian urged.
“We need to get out of here.
Get word to the others.”
The Captain smiled.
“S’ok. Murak’ll handle it,” he
whispered.
Souveson’s jaw dropped.
“Murak?! Are you crazy..?
Sir?”
The Ensign hadn’t meant to overreact.
“Sorry, Sir. But Murak…?”
“Trust me,” he whispered softly, drifting into
unconsciousness. “Trust him…”
He was out for the count.
Souveson looked up and around them – the room was totally bare.
She felt powerless and doomed, and pitied
the Captain’s obviously delirious manner.
She wondered, as she had so many times recently, if this was the place
she would die.
* * *
COMMAND YACHT: 1100 HOURS
Lieutenant O’Hara exited the turbolift onto the Bridge with
grim determination. She right wheeled
and headed for the Captain’s Office.
“He’s not there,” Jackson’s voice, calling her from
behind. O’Hara swallowed and turned,
trying to look as composed as possible.
“He hasn’t returned to the ship.”
Jackson stood next to tactical – she seemed large and bulky, not at all
like a ship’s commander.
That news wasn’t good – the Captain and Souveson were now
well overdue – O’Hara had purposefully remembered his check in details so as to
time her visit perfectly. “Has there
been no word at all?” O’Hara asked, trying to not think about her real reason
for being there – it had taken all her reserves to summon the courage to do it.
“Not so far. We’re
giving him another thirty minutes – by then Mister Leonard should have all of
his supplies aboard and all the fuel transferred,” the Commodore walked down to
the command chair and slumped into it.
“And what then?” O’Hara asked.
“We go pay a house call,” Jackson said wryly – though not
with some private concern for perhaps her first tactical assignment.
* * *
EROWOON STATION: 1300 HOURS
In a recessed alcove, Bel was flopped on her side in
hysterical laughter. Reb was less
amused, but still very much loving the company of this lively character.
Presently she composed herself.
“Oh, I’m sorry…it’s just I’ve heard a lot
about g spots in my time but never anything so ridiculous as eyebrows and
earlobes.” She saw Reb’s expression
slightly hurt. “No really, your ears
are lovely, but where I come from there’s only one place that needs attention
during love making-”
“Anyway,” Reb rubbed his forehead, the alcohol had burned a
small hole in his pocket and a larger one, it felt, in his head.
“You were telling me about your
facility. You say you could repair a
ship of our size?” He realised he
fancied her but didn’t want to stray too far from his objective.
The woman sat bolt upright and re-lit the short stub of
cigar sticking out of her mouth. “Oh,
yeah. But your ship doesn’t look even a
quarter of that size to me.”
A wash of nausia swept over Reb.
“How do you know which is my ship?”
She looked him in the eye.
“I saw you debark.” From his
cautious, fearful expression Bel could tell he wasn’t buying it.
“Okay, look.
Business in these parts has suddenly dropped right off.
With the K’Tani invasion all our bookings
have been cancelled and we’ve had few to no customers from passers by.
That’s why I’m here.
Touting for business.
I’ve been keeping my eye on new arrivals.
I followed you and your crew to the tourist
bars, when you snuck away I thought you would be the man to talk to.
Then I overheard you asking about dry dock
requirements earlier-”
“So let’s cut to the chase.
How much?” Reb fingered the money remaining in his pocket knowing it
wouldn’t even make the down payment on repairs to the Fantasy – though the
Captain had assured him there was plenty more money at their disposal.
That intrigued Reb, but he wasn’t allowed
the luxury of exploring the Fantasy looking for it.
The woman smiled.
“That’s not important right now.
Just know that it’s a lot less than this place would charge you.”
“I’ll need to talk to my Captain,” Reb said.
“Of course,” she stood up to leave.
“Where are you going?” Reb asked surprised.
Bel snorted a short laugh.
“Back to my ship. Bay 220,
Docking Level 3. Business may be slow,
but I still have to get back. I leave
tomorrow morning, though not too early.”
With that, Bel was swiftly gone.
Reb reeled slightly and drained his glass, realising that she had
pursued him from the upper levels all the way to the bar with just one thing on
her mind. She clearly wasn’t interested
in him in the slightest.
“Szh-c..c..mi..eb-“ his commbadge was making a noise, but
even Reb couldn’t make it out above the din of the bar.
“Shit!” Reb realised he had lost all track of the time.
Careful not to fall over, he walked steadily out into the
courtyard that looked much the same as it had an hour past.
“..Reb, please respond..” the badge said
more clearly: it was Leonard’s voice.
Reb slapped the Starfleet pin.
“This is Reb. Go ahead-“
“Where the heck are you?!” the German accent became so
strong when he was angry it was difficult for the universal translator to cope
with. Reb personally disliked the Human
accents, they varied so much.
“I was…negotiating a deal, I still need more time,” Reb
actually wanted time to compose himself, sober up and try to obtain at least
some of the items on his list with the money remaining.
He certainly didn’t like the thought of
returning to the ship empty handed and facing Christian.
“Not possible,” Leonard snapped.
“We have a situation. The
Commodore wants everyone back to the ship pronto.”
Reb hesitated, realising something was definitely up if the
Commodore was calling the shots. He
decided it might be better to try and make up for his absence by taking the
matter into his own hands. “I’m sorry,
what was that?”
“Return to the ship immediately,” the engineer reiterated.
“I can’t read you,” Reb lied, “there must be interference.”
A pause was followed by: “Reb, I’m not stupid.
This is a direct order.
Return to the ship now.
You don’t know-“
Reb slapped his commbadge terminating the conversation and
made his way to the docking levels with grim determination.
* * *
EPISODE EIGHT "EROWOON - PART II"