The young man shrugged his shoulders. “More or less.”
Corsi’s tone remained cold. “I hope you realize this terrorist organization of yours will be stopped, one way or another.”
Elless frowned. “I was hoping you and your Federation would be more reasonable.”
Corsi scowled. “You don’t know much about the Federation if you believe we would ever condone acts of terrorism.”
Elless stood his ground. “We’re not terrorists. I assume Ramark told you what happened to this world under Portlyn’s ownership?”
“He told us. So we have one side of the story now. That doesn’t mean we buy it. And even if it’s true, that doesn’t excuse your actions. Planting time bombs, blowing up a key facility under construction, endangering lives—”
“Oh, come on!” Elless interrupted. “We arranged everything so no one would be killed—or even hurt! We made sure of it!”
“Not as well as you think,” Corsi fired back angrily, thinking of Sonya Gomez and the anonymous suspect who remained in the da Vinci sickbay.
At that, Elless looked as if someone had suddenly splashed ice-cold water in his face. “Someone was…killed?” His body seemed to deflate.
“Two people injured on Vemlar, one severely,” Corsi said. “He’s one of yours, I think.”
Elless closed his eyes and lowered his head. “Jaxxon,” he whispered. “My brother. Vemlar was his assignment.”
Corsi felt a brief flash of sympathy, but was determined not to show it. Not to a terrorist. She told him flatly, “That’s the danger of playing with fire—you can’t always control the forces you unleash.”
“You have to believe me,” Elless insisted. “Bloodshed isn’t what we want.”
Corsi looked upon him doubtfully. “So what exactly do you want?”
Elless straightened up, looked her square in the eyes, set his jaw firmly, and told her with passion, “We intend to be a constant thorn in Portlyn’s side, and prevent him from spreading his taint to other worlds.”
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit?” Corsi asked. “I mean, assuming everything we’ve heard is true, the bottom line is, his business here took a downward turn. It happens—believe me, I know. That’s no reason to view him as some sort of disease.”
Elless chuckled bitterly. “Let me tell you about the real Rod Portlyn. We’ve learned that he’s found a way to keep profiting from Phantas 61, but it doesn’t include us. He intends to turn this entire planet into a giant dumping ground. For a price, he’s going to offer space to any interested governments across the galaxy, provide them with a place to dump their excess trash. All Phantasians will have to get off the planet, or else willingly live in a cosmic garbage dump.”
Corsi was unmoved. “Assuming this information is true, I agree, it’s an unfortunate situation for all of you. But Portlyn is well within his rights. You sold him your land. He can do whatever he wants with it.”
Elless exploded. “We don’t have anyplace else to go! And we’re down to the barest essentials here—we don’t have the means to transport our whole population to another world!” He then took a breath and spoke more calmly. “Besides, this planet is our home—has been for generations! We made it the success it was, not Portlyn. We have a vested interest in this place that goes beyond balance sheets and profit margins. That’s why we created this group, the Taru Bolivar. That’s a Phantasian term that means ‘to see reality as it should be.’”
“And just what should your reality be?” Corsi asked skeptically.
“Our ultimate goal is to regain this planet’s independence and make it a success again. To do that, we need to make Portlyn realize it’s in his best interests to relinquish his ownership. Until then, we intend to do whatever we can to interfere with his operations, to prevent him from doing to other worlds what he’s done to us. That’s why we targeted Vemlar.”
Corsi sighed, growing increasingly frustrated. “Look, the fact of the matter is, the soil on Vemlar became infertile. Had Portlyn not offered to buy the land from the farmers, they would’ve had nothing but famine and starvation. Like him or not, he saved those people.”
Elless snorted. “You think you know everything, don’t you? Portlyn himself oversaw a top-secret bio-engineering project conducted on Vemlar, well before he bought it up. That project involved reorganizing the molecular structure of Vemlar’s soil, using a newly developed viral agent. One that rendered itself undetectable after it was used.”
“What are you saying? That Portlyn—”
“Portlyn secretly ruined the soil on Vemlar, to intentionally create the famine and ultimately manipulate the farmers into selling their land to him.”
Corsi rolled her eyes. “This is getting ridiculous.”
“What, you think I’m some paranoid conspiracy nut making wild accusations?”
“I have to admit, Elless, the thought is crossing my mind. I’m supposed to just believe a gang of terrorists over a respected businessman with no criminal history?”
“We’re not terrorists!”
“Terrorists rarely see themselves as such. They usually call themselves, what? Freedom fighters? Revolutionaries? Heroes?”
“What I’ve told you is true.”
“If it is, we’ll need solid proof.”
Elless turned away from her and walked over to one of the computer consoles. He held up a small computer file that was sitting atop the console.
“This is a highly classified data file that details everything about the Vemlar project,” he explained. “I read it myself, and then managed to extract it directly from Portlyn’s home office.”
“Fine, let’s take a look at it.”
Elless grimaced and sighed heavily. “Once I brought the file back here, I tried to show the data to the rest of the Taru Bolivar. But it wouldn’t open. We discovered that it was encoded so intricately that it’ll only open on Portlyn’s personal computer.” He shook the file and sighed. “The proof is right here, but I can’t get to it!”
Elless then angrily shoved the file into a side pocket of his uniform.
He seems sincere enough, Corsi thought. But it’s also mighty convenient that the one piece of evidence he has is unreachable. If I could get it to the da Vinci, have it checked up there…
“It doesn’t matter, though,” Elless continued. “We, the Taru Bolivar, know the truth. And we intend to prevent Portlyn from completing his project on Vemlar—regardless of whether you stand in our way. Don’t you see, Commander? We’re the only ones who can stand against him—with Portlyn’s businesses located in nonaligned space, he doesn’t have to answer to anybody but himself.”
Now where have I heard that before? Corsi thought, with more than a hint of irony .
On Vemlar, Rod Portlyn stood in front of one of the huge windows in his office, alone, holding a half-full glass of Romulan ale. He stared out at the night-shrouded sky and the distant stars as he listened to the conversation being broadcast over the receiver unit in his desk.
“We, the Taru Bolivar, know the truth. And we intend to prevent Portlyn from completing his project on Vemlar…”
Portlyn turned off the receiver. He’d heard enough. He’d already set in motion his response.
Ah, Elless, Portlyn thought. He focused his gaze on one particular tiny spot of light in the sky: Phantas 61. Thanks to your antics, I’ve had to take harsh steps to solve this insurgency problem.
He glanced at the chronometer on the far wall and did a quick mental calculation.
The Orion mercenary ships should be arriving at Phantas 61 shortly. As should the robot freighter from Creccus. All in all, I would say I responded quite efficiently to this turn of events.
He then looked back at the sky, and that tiny spot of light. I knew you had to be involved in this, Elless. As soon as Adair told me that Phantas 61 was somehow connected.
Portlyn took a sip from the glass and closed his eyes as the ale went down his throat. He savored its powerful kick.
Elless ordered his operatives to holster their weapons and back off. But they remained in possession of the Federation team’s phasers.
“You’re in league with our enemy,” Elless told Corsi. “But you’re not our prisoners. Nor are you hostages. We’ve no intention of harming you in any way. Would that be the case if we were the terrorists you think we are?”
Corsi considered that, and the fact that their hand weapons had been set on stun, not kill.
“I’ll grant that your efforts to preserve life do seem genuine,” she replied. “And incidentally, we’re not ‘in league’ with Portlyn. We have a business arrangement with him that doesn’t extend beyond Vemlar.”
Elless nodded. “Understood. Maybe we can talk this out under less tense circumstances, perhaps open a real dialogue to understand each other better?”
“I’ll need to contact my ship and consult with my captain. He’ll decide how to proceed from here.”
“Absolutely,” Elless told her solemnly. “I’ve already signaled Ramark to stop jamming communications. You can contact your ship.”
Corsi nodded and slapped the combadge on her chest. “Corsi to da Vinci. ”
There was no response. She slapped the badge again.
“Corsi to da Vinci, come in. Captain Gold, do you copy?”
Still no response. She looked over at the away team. They all started slapping their combadges and called to the ship, but were met with silence.
Corsi immediately turned to Elless and glared at him.
In response, Elless strode over to one of the computer consoles in the room and flipped a switch.
“Elless to Ramark. I told you to stop jamming outgoing transmissions.”
No response.
“Ramark, respond.”
Still no response. Elless turned to Buzz-cut.
“Vazga, check on Ramark, find out what’s going on with him.”
As Buzz-cut—Vazga—headed out of the chamber, Elless started adjusting the controls on the console. He became increasingly agitated as he studied the monitor screen while fiddling around with the knobs and dials.
“According to these readings,” he began, “our equipment up top is no longer jamming outgoing communications.”
“So what’s the problem?” Corsi replied with an annoyed scowl.
Elless pointed to an undulating energy pattern on the monitor. “All communications in this entire region of space are now being jammed by an outside source.”
Chapter
8
Captain Gold paced the bridge of the da Vinci, wondering what was happening on Phantas 61. Corsi was supposed to report in an hour after beaming down, and those sixty minutes had come and gone ten minutes ago. She was a highly competent officer, and Gold trusted her completely, but she was also punctual to a fault, so missing her check-in deadline was not something he took lightly.
He decided that he’d waited long enough and turned to the tactical console.
“Shabalala, open a channel to Commander Corsi.”
A moment later, Shabalala looked up from the console, concerned.
“Sir, I can’t reach Commander Corsi—or any other member of the away team. Something is jamming all transmissions.”
Gold scowled as he headed back to the captain’s chair. Given the circumstances they were in, he could guess where this was headed.
Sure enough, Ensign Susan Haznedl, stationed at the operations console, suddenly said, “Captain, sensors detect ten vessels closing in on us. They just appeared out of nowhere, sir—they may have been cloaked.”
“What do you make of them?”
“They’re more than twice the size of one of our shuttlecraft, sir, and heavily armed—each ship has a torpedo bay, phaser banks, and disruptor cannons. They’re essentially arsenals with warp drives.”
“Any idea who they are?”
“Unable to ascertain, sir. The ships seem to be…cobbled together, from various alien technologies.”
“Shields up,” Gold ordered. “Shabalala, stand by on defensive maneuvers.”
Soon, the ten vessels were close enough to be seen on the bridge viewscreen. They approached in a V-formation.
“Magnify, maximum setting,” Gold ordered.
Instantly, the image on the viewscreen increased in size. Gold had never seen vessels like these before. As Haznedl surmised, they indeed appeared to be cobbled together from different technologies. From what Gold could tell, the warp engines were Ferengi in design. The disruptor cannons mounted to either side of the cockpits were most likely Klingon in origin. The torpedo bays were located on the underbellies of the vessels, but each one seemed to be of a different alien technology—there was no consistency from ship to ship.
“The terrorists, I presume,” the captain said aloud.
“Shall I fire a warning shot, sir?” Shabalala asked.
But before Gold could reply, the lead ship on the viewscreen pulled ahead of the pack and opened fire with its disruptor cannons.
The da Vinci shuddered slightly under the barrage, which was deflected by the Starfleet vessel’s shields.
“Lock phasers on target and return fire,” Gold snapped. “No warnings about it!”
Gold watched the main viewscreen as twin phaser beams erupted from the da Vinci. But the lead attacking ship swiftly banked to the side, completely evading the beams and pulling away.
Haznedl, eyes glued to her console, reported, “The other ships have broken off from the V-formation, sir. They’re moving to surround us.”
And as the attackers surrounded the da Vinci, they opened fire, their disruptors alternating with their phasers.
“Maintain phaser fire!” Gold ordered.
Shabalala targeted another attacker and fired. The phaser beams struck the small ship, but were deflected by its shields. The attacker fired back with disruptors that struck at the upper hull of the da Vinci’s forward section, right near the bridge.
“Our shields are holding.” Haznedl then looked up from her console. “Captain, another ship is arriving!”
“Another attacker?”
“A freighter of some kind, sir. It’s heading away from us and toward the planet.”
“Then we can’t worry about it right now—our hands are full enough as it is.”
As if to emphasize that point, three of the attacking vessels swooped in closer.
“Photon torpedoes one, two, and three—fire!” Gold shouted.
Shabalala complied, and the da Vinci launched three torpedoes, each aimed at one of the three attackers. Two of the attackers evaded the torpedoes, but one was hit directly on its side.
“No damage to enemy ship, Captain,” Shabalala reported. “Its shields deflected the torpedo with a minimal loss of power.”
Another attacker closed in, on a direct course for the front of the da Vinci. It became bigger and bigger on the viewscreen as it got closer and closer. Then, it began spitting disruptor bolts at the bridge, trying to continue the work of its sister ship.
“Quantum torpedoes one and two—fire!” Gold ordered in response.
The da Vinci unleashed two of the more powerful quantum torpedoes, both of which hit their target head-on. The small attacker seemed to stop in midstream, and then started tilting to its side.
“Its shields are down, Captain!” Shabalala exclaimed.
“Quantum torpedo three—fire,” Gold told the tactical officer.
Shabalala fired the additional torpedo, which hit the now drifting attacker dead center. The small ship exploded like a miniature supernova.
But there was no time to celebrate. The two other attackers closed in again, taking up positions on either side of the da Vinci, and fired photon torpedoes.
Gold noted that the attackers held off on firing their torpedoes until they were at point-blank range, presum
ably because torpedoes were in short supply aboard the fairly small vessels and the pilots wanted to make sure that every shot counted.
“Our shields are down by twelve percent, Captain,” Haznedl announced.
The attackers’ strategy was starting to work.
Gold glanced at the viewscreen. Beyond the nine remaining attackers that streaked in and out of view, he could see the freighter entering low orbit around Phantas 61, completely ignoring the battle. But Gold had no time to even wonder what it was up to.
“We’re surrounded, sir,” Haznedl reported.
And then all the attackers opened fire.
Vazga returned to the Taru Bolivar underground headquarters, carrying the limp body of Ramark.
“Unconscious,” she reported as she placed him gently on the conference table. Two of the Taru Bolivar—one of the Nasats and the Arcturian—went over to examine him.
“Some kind of head injury,” Vazga continued. “Looks like somebody beat him up and then stun-blasted him.”
“Who?” Elless demanded.
“No idea,” Vazga replied. “There was nobody else up there—but I found the entryway open when I got upstairs.”
Suddenly, an alarm signal blared out. Corsi swiftly turned toward the large piece of machinery that was the source of the noise. Elless rushed over and started flipping switches. A large, flat-panel monitor rose up from inside and a schematic representation popped on, of a planet and the region of space surrounding it.
There were eleven blinking dots on the screen, in high orbit above the planet, clustered around one another. A twelfth blinking dot was off on its own, slowly getting closer to the planet.
“Is that supposed to be this planet?” Corsi asked, pointing to the schematic.
“Yes,” Elless replied. “This is our sensor device. It’s been monitoring local space. Those dots are all spaceships—there’s a lot of traffic above us all of a sudden.”
“One of those ships is ours,” Corsi noted. “Who are the others?”
Elless took a closer look at the sensor readings. “I’ve identified your ship, but I can’t seem to identify the ten circling it—they defy standard classification. But this other one seems to be a freighter of some kind.”
The Art of the Deal Page 6