by David Mack
That revelation widened Riker’s eyes. “Would that have helped the teams working to reverse-engineer Husnock technology?”
Torvig cut in, “Almost certainly, sir.”
Riker looked at Keru. “Do you think the Nausicaans knew what Kilaris and the others were working on?”
“Yes, sir. And I think they wanted it for themselves.” He showed Riker the device Torvig had brought him. “They’ve been using a ring of these gadgets to spy on the camp. No way to know for how long. But it’s a good bet they knew who they were taking, and why.”
“Then we need to get after them, as soon as we can.”
Sukorn-Eesha stepped forward. “Excuse me, I hate to impose, but—” He looked with great sadness toward the auditorium. “Our dead deserve to be repatriated to their kith and kin. Not buried or scattered here, strangers on an alien rock.”
Riker’s aspect turned sympathetic. “Of course. Do you have specific postmortem instructions for any of the victims?”
“For all of them. It was a mission requirement.”
“Prepare them for stasis transport. We’ll beam them up and secure them on the Titan until we can make the necessary arrangements to send them home.”
The Grazerite bowed his head. “Thank you, Admiral. Most kind.”
In a confidential tone, Riker said to Keru, “Have Doctor Ree see to the details.”
“Aye, sir.”
Keru’s combadge chirped, and Captain Vale’s voice issued from it a moment later. “Titan to Keru. We detect no Nausicaan ships on the planet’s surface, but we’ve picked up a faint trail of subspatial disturbance whose energy signature suggests one or more vessels made high-warp departures from this system in the last day.”
Riker hijacked the discussion. “Captain, do you have a clear heading to follow?”
“We do, sir.”
“And what’s the Ajax’s ETA?”
A short pause, then Vale answered, “Nine minutes.”
“Plot a pursuit course for the Nausicaans,” Riker said, “then beam up the victims of the attack, directly into long-term stasis. Inform the Ajax they’ll be responsible for defending the planet after we break orbit, because we’ll be taking the Wasp and the Canterbury with us.”
“Yes, sir. Titan out.”
After the channel closed, Riker looked Keru in the eye. “Get the away team ready for immediate beam up, Commander—because the chase is on.”
Seven
* * *
If there was anything better than stumbling upon a fortune whose doors were standing wide open and undefended, Gaila of Ferenginar had never seen it.
It was the luckiest of lucky breaks and Gaila knew it. He had been traveling with the same dozen rank-smelling thugs for the past year inside the Tahmila, a rattletrap of a ship, a piece of junk so beat-up and neglected that it made the slums of Orion Prime look like the gilded halls and jeweled boulevards of the Divine Treasury. The cramped smuggling vessel reeked of fruit-scented narcotic smoke, spoiled food, synthehol, and urine. Gaila had yet to visit a planet or starport so dismal that the Tahmila couldn’t make it look good.
He landed his decrepit ship inside an open docking bay of the mysterious facility, which he had found floating in the interstellar void, completely by chance.
Well, not completely. He had followed the dim-witted Pakleds to it. The chubby plodders weren’t good for much, but they had a knack for sniffing out things worth stealing. And if there was one thing Gaila excelled at, it was robbing other thieves of their paydays.
Time for a quick check of the sensors. Gaila confirmed the docking bay’s force field had engaged as soon as the Tahmila had touched down, and that the bay had filled with breathable air to a safe degree of pressure. Can’t be too careful.
He switched on the intraship comm. “We’re here,” Gaila said. He liked the way his voice echoed inside the ship when he used its PA system. “Get out of your bunks and gear up.”
From the aft corridors came the thuds, clatter, and grumblings of thugs roused from short intoxicated slumbers. The first one to join Gaila at the exit ramp was Marlik, a Brikar mercenary who was considered a runt among his species and a giant among most others. With skin that looked and felt like stone, and a body density that let him shake off most disruptor and phaser shots, Marlik was one of the best investments Gaila had ever made.
Next to arrive was Zehga, the gang’s heavy-weapons expert. As a Gorn he was the slowest moving of the bunch, which was part of why he preferred ordnance that packed a wallop. If he couldn’t hit with precision, he would destroy as much as possible and hope to count his foes among the collateral damage.
Close behind him was the unlikely duo of Hurq, a black-maned Chalnoth whose temper could be counted on to spark a brawl in any drinking establishment he might visit, and Zinos, an Argelian quick-draw artist who loved to end the fights Hurq started by gunning down strangers. Backing them up were half a dozen assorted lowlifes whose names Gaila didn’t care to learn.
The last to answer Gaila’s summons was the one he and the others needed in order to bypass the station’s security and escape the confines of the docking bay: N’chk, a Kaferian whose insectoid clickings were nigh impossible to understand, but whose talent for manipulating computers was unsurpassed. He shouldered past the rest of the gang and took the lead down the ramp and across the bay to the locked door opposite the force field.
N’chk hacked it open in a matter of seconds, then stood aside to let Gaila lead the others inside the station.
Most of the facility was empty of living creatures. Gaila could see at once that what the Pakleds had stumbled upon was an automated factory, one that manufactured high-quality military-grade munitions. It was a veritable latinum mine.
And it was about to be all his.
Gaila and his goon squad turned a corner to find a band of Pakleds shuffling like incontinent geriatrics among the mountainous pallets of torpedoes, missiles, and bombs. The Ferengi ringleader pointed at the slug-witted scavengers and told his thugs, “Round ’em up.”
The rest was fast and cruel.
A single wide-dispersal shot from Zehga’s arm-cannon stunned half the Pakleds and sent the others waddling for cover. It took only a few minutes for Gaila’s crew to round up the few Pakleds who were still conscious and march them at gunpoint to stand before the Ferengi.
As dumb as the Pakleds looked, they understood Gaila’s gesture commanding them to kneel. Humbled, the craftiest of the dimwits glowered up at him. “What you want?”
“Your inventory, for starters.” Gaila picked up a Pakled padd and surveyed its contents. “By the Blessed Exchequer! You really did strike the mother lode here, didn’t you?” He perused page after page of itemized reports compiled by the jowly morons. Then he looked down at the one who had spoken to him. “You the one in charge here?”
“Yes,” the Pakled said.
“What’s your name?”
“Cherbegrod. Captain of Gomjar.”
Gaila motioned for Cherbegrod to rise. “Stand up.” The Pakled straightened to loom tall over Gaila—who cut the Pakled commander down to size by punching him in the groin. Cherbegrod wailed like a baby, then collapsed to the deck in a fetal position and whimpered. “Not to be a nitpicker, but from now on, I’m the one in charge here. And you—” He punished the overgrown infant with a kick in the ribs. “You’re no longer welcome.”
Zinos sidled over to Gaila. “Want me to ventilate ’em?”
“No, they’re harmless.” Gaila shouted to his Brikar henchman, “Marlik, help Hurq put ’em back on their ship—and make sure they all leave.”
The two bruisers herded the Pakleds out of the warehouse. It took four of the Pakleds to carry their stricken and humiliated captain. Gaila watched them leave, then he turned to Zinos. “Take a deep breath, my friend.” He inhaled with theatrical exaggeration. “Smell that?”
The mustached Argelian sniffed the air. “Metal lubricant?”
“No, you dolt. That’s the sweet
smell of profit. And as of now . . . it’s all ours.”
A heavy bundle of synthetic fabric landed in Kilaris’s lap. She unfolded enough of it to see it was a heavy-duty environmental suit. Then she looked up at the Nausicaan who had thrown it at her as if it and she were both garbage. “I presume you wish me to put this on.”
“Get dressed, Vulcan. We land soon.” He punctuated his order by resting his hand on the grip of his disruptor pistol, which was holstered on the outside of his own environmental suit.
Kilaris saw nothing to gain by antagonizing or resisting her captors’ orders, so she took off her shoes before donning the loose-fitting pressure suit over her regular clothes. “Where are we going that I’ll need an environmental suit?”
“No-name planet. No air. Wear suit or die.”
It was a crude but eminently persuasive rationale. Kilaris finished securing the suit and checked its built-in components. Its air reserves were full, and its radiation shields were fresh. The tool pockets, however, all had been emptied. She gave the Nausicaans credit—they weren’t foolish enough to give prisoners anything that could aid their escape. “When do I get a helmet?”
“Airlock.” The Nausicaan took her by the arm and pulled her from her cell. “Move.”
He marched her down one corridor, then another. Doctor Pek and the Bynars had already been stuffed into environmental suits—an oversized garment for Pek, and child-sized outfits for 010 and 101. The trio stood in a huddle, watched by two Nausicaans who were also suited up for an EVA mission. Everyone’s gear, captors’ and prisoners’ alike, looked well worn.
Slokar stood at the airlock control panel. “Brace for landing,” he said.
Kilaris and her peers all found handholds along the bulkheads. Through the decks came the roar of braking thrusters. The ship lurched, rattling its hull plates against its spaceframe. An internal comm channel indicator lit up on the airlock controls as a voice spilled from its speaker: “Bridge to Slokar. Down and secure.”
“Good,” Slokar said. “Go to low-power mode. Watch long-range sensors.” He looked up as the overhead lights dimmed. Then he nodded at his men, who handed EVA suit helmets to Kilaris and her colleagues. Once the prisoners’ helmets were on, the Nausicaans checked their seals, then tested their transceivers. Pek’s was a tricky fit; his porcine snout pressed against the faceplate—a condition that Kilaris imagined must be uncomfortable.
The Nausicaans took turns guarding Kilaris and company while their comrades fixed their own helmets into place. Slokar was the last to put on his helmet. His voice issued from the transceiver circuits inside Kilaris’s helmet—and, she reasoned, everyone else’s as well. “We go single file.” He pointed at the Nausicaan who had rousted Kilaris from her cell. “Varoh leads.” A sweeping gesture at the prisoners. “Then you. We follow. Run and we leave you here to die.”
On that cheerful note Slokar opened the inner airlock door and ushered everyone inside. As the inner door closed, Pek asked in an aggrieved tone over the suits’ open channel, “Why land the ship? Don’t you people know how to use transporters?”
“Too much radiation,” Varoh said. “Scrambles signals. No transporters. Scanners and comms only over short distances.” He drew his weapon as Slokar depressurized the airlock.
The outer door rolled open and disappeared inside the ship’s hull. Outside stretched a vista of rock formations sculpted by the wind into bizarre organic twists and spires. Dust clouds raced across the barren, rugged landscape. Overhead yawned a sky streaked with bands of green and violet, and dominated by the majestic presence of a ringed gas-giant planet.
That must be the source of the radiation, Kilaris realized.
Varoh stepped outside and led the prisoners along the jagged edge of a cliff, below which lay a precipitous drop into fathomless darkness. Kilaris stayed close to the point man because there was no trail here that she could perceive. Each step they took sent pebbles and larger stones tumbling over the edge into the abyss. One misstep would likely be more than enough to condemn her or one of her peers to the same fate.
Pek remained impatient and irascible. “Where are we?”
“Quiet,” Slokar said.
“What are we even doing here?” The Tellarite’s temper frayed. “Tell me you didn’t kidnap us just to take us on the galaxy’s worst nature hike.”
Slokar matched Pek’s ire. “Keep walking. Talk again, I break your legs, drag you.”
Hoping to defuse Pek’s knack for confrontation, and more than a bit curious, Kilaris asked, “Can you at least give us an estimate of how far we need to walk?”
“Just under ten kellicams.”
Kilaris mentally converted the Klingon unit of distance into Federation-standard kilometers. It was going to be a long march.
Pek clearly had made the same computation. “Couldn’t you have landed your junkpile of a ship a little bit closer to our destination?”
“No stable ground large enough,” Varoh said.
Curtains of pink dust wafted over the landing party. Kilaris listened to the patter of grit rebounding off her suit’s transparent-aluminum faceplate. Austere and forbidding, the moonscape fascinated Kilaris, albeit in a morbid way. Now that she saw its unforgiving nature, she understood why the Nausicaans didn’t fear their prisoners would try to escape. There was nowhere to go, no breathable air, no water to drink. Just a sand-scoured ball of rock blasted sterile by a steady bath of high-intensity radiation from its gas-giant parent world.
And us, she reflected, trudging across it at the mercy of a band of thugs who most likely intend to leave us behind as corpses.
For now, logic dictated cooperation. But the moment it dictated otherwise, Kilaris would act; she would show the Nausicaans the same quality of mercy they had shown Max—and she would call it justice.
“Someone get me a lock on that damn ship.” Nilat paced in front of her command chair. She appreciated the irony that the main viewscreen of the Silago-Ekon offered her a magnificent image of a tiger-striped gas giant with a broad girdle of debris rings and an entourage of moons, yet couldn’t seem to show her the one thing she was looking for amid all that splendor: the Nausicaan ship she had followed to this unnamed star system.
She circled her chair to prowl past the aft stations. K’mjok leaned on the back of Trunch’s chair and observed over the Balduk’s shoulder as he trained the ship’s sensor array on the next closest unscanned moon. If Trunch was vexed by the Klingon XO’s micromanagement, he either hid it well or was sublimating it into his work. Whichever proved to be the case, Nilat was grateful the two had stopped posturing at each other long enough to get something done for a change. She didn’t expect their détente to last, but she meant to enjoy it while it did.
“I’m still waiting on an answer, you knobs. Somebody talk. Now.”
K’mjok pivoted away from the sensor console. “Still looking, Commander. But the gas giant’s magnetic field makes it impossible to follow ion trails within two million kellicams of the planet. The moment the merc ship started its approach, we lost them.”
Nilat stewed in her frustration. This, she had known from the start, was the risk involved in tailing a vessel at the extreme edge of one’s long-range sensors. Following at closer range would have increased the risk of detection, but it also would have given Nilat the option of switching over to visual scanning when the planet’s radiation blinded their other sensors.
She set herself against the console beside Ninivus, who looked up at her. “Commander?”
“Any comm chatter? In orbit or on the surface?”
“Which surface?” The Tiburonian jerked his head toward the main viewscreen. “We have at least four moons within easy comm range.”
“Stay on it.” Nilat joined K’mjok in looming over Trunch, who remained fixated upon his sensor displays. “Talk to me. Where can those bastards be?”
“We have narrowed the search to three moons,” K’mjok said.
“Which already puts you one ahead of Ninivus
. What else?”
The XO called up additional information on an auxiliary screen. “Moon One is a dead rock. No atmosphere.” He switched to a new data set. “Moon Two is another rockball, thin atmosphere of methane and carbon dioxide, some trace elements.” A final screen of data. “Moon Three is a slush of methane and liquid water under five kellicams of ice crust, iron-nickel core. Tenuous atmosphere of oxygen with other trace elements.”
“So . . . none are Class-M.”
“Not even close.” The Klingon moved closer to Nilat so he could confide in a hush, “We could hide in the planet’s rings and wait to reacquire the merc ship when it moves again.”
“No,” Nilat said with an emphatic headshake. “They brought their hostages here for a reason. If I’m right, we can’t risk letting them go mobile with whatever it is they’ve found. We need to intercept it here.” What she left unsaid—at least in part because she felt it was understood by every member of her crew—was that there was more at stake in this operation than mind-boggling sums of potential wealth. If they failed in this assignment, the penalty for disappointing their masters would most likely be their lives.
Lord Srinigar is many things, but forgiving is not one of them.
Nilat tried to massage the ache from her temples, only to be disturbed by a declaration from Ang-Harod. “Commander? We have a new problem.”
The Orion sharpened her focus as she moved forward. “Talk to me, Ang.”
Ang-Harod divided the main viewscreen image to show her new intel in its left third. “Three signals inbound at high warp.” She superimposed an analysis filter. “Their energy signatures are consistent with Starfleet designs, and their power levels are high enough that I think we’re dealing with cruisers and heavy cruisers.”
“Just what we don’t need right now—Federation entanglements.” Nilat looked aft; she knew Trunch and K’mjok would already be working the problem. “Have they detected us?”
“Don’t think so,” Trunch said. “Planet hides us too.”
Let’s be thankful for that, at least. “Ang, what’s their ETA?”