by Diane Carey
“You forgot to warn us about the drinking water,” Tucker complained as he belted his jacket and took one of the communicator/translator devices she was handing out to the landing party.
Archer didn’t make any comments. If she was going to keep sniping at them with sentences like that, then she deserved what she got back. Beside him, Tucker, Reed, Mayweather, and Hoshi Sato were veritably twitching with anticipation. A new planet! Strange new worlds.
T’Pol didn’t even get Tucker’s comment. She went on to the next thing. “Dr. Phlox isn’t concerned with food and water. But he does caution against intimate contact.”
Archer glossed over that one, disliking the idea of treating his command staff like cadets on leave. “The Vulcans told us Klaang was a courier. If he was here to get something, then whoever gave it to him might know why he was taken. That was only a few days ago,” he added optimistically, “and a seven-foot Klingon doesn’t go unnoticed. T’Pol’s been here before, so follow her lead.”
He gave her a glance of what he hoped was confidence.
“Where do we rendezvous if we find something?” Hoshi asked.
“Back at the shuttlepod. And no one goes anywhere alone. From what I’ve heard about this place, it’s an alien version of an Oriental bazaar. Don’t stop to buy trinkets. Ask simple questions, get direct answers. If you don’t like what you hear, move on. There are a lot of people down there, or versions of people. Don’t get swallowed up. Watch each other. Clear?”
Whether it was or not, they were on their way. The six seat subwarp shuttlepod was functional, but not really comfortable, and the trip down to the planet seemed longer than it was.
Mayweather brought the pod into the atmosphere and found himself bucking snow-torn slopes and high winds.
“Approaching what appears to be a landing deck.” He squinted out the windshield. “I see a trail of lights. Runway, possibly.”
“I’d say this spaceport accommodates all kinds of craft,” Archer confirmed, just to make them all feel better. They might be strangers here, but they were coming to a place that was used to strangers. Coming into a cosmopolitan spaceport would be much easier to tolerate than invading a tribal clutch or a village.
In fact, when they finally found the landing pad in the whipping veils of snow, their shuttle turned out to be the smallest thing around, in a swarm of dozens of ships coming and going at the same time. The sight was eerily familiar to anyone who recognized a travel center. Something about it was reassuring to Archer, as they approached and were received as a matter of course. No fanfare, no ceremony, no warnings or threats.
Beacons and trails of blue and yellow landing lights branched out in patterns both distinguishable and not, at least enough to get them down safely. T’Pol used her knowledge of this place to secure a parking spot where the shuttlepod had a chance of not being plundered, and they immediately disembarked and broke into teams.
Trying to appear casual, Archer went first to the dockmaster’s control tower. After all, something had to come and go from here with Klaang aboard. He certainly hadn’t popped in out of thin air, so there had to be a trail.
He and Hoshi were ushered through a tubular construction with lots of bridges into a central control area with windows on every side, couched by banks of controls and broken every few seconds by the sweep of a beacon from the runways. The dockmaster himself was a huge burly alien preoccupied with traffic.
“Pardon us,” Archer began, hoping the translator didn’t get it wrong. “I’m Captain Jonathan Archer of Starfleet.”
“Who? What planet is that?”
“It’s not a planet. It’s an organization. The planet is Earth.”
“Good for you. The visitor’s center is on Quintash Plaza.”
“Thanks very much. Before we go, would you answer a few questions for us?”
“There’s a manual on the wall in the corridor. Read it,” the alien rumbled. “Next time, approach from the mountains. Less crosswind.”
“Thank you again … I’d like to know whether a Klingon vessel of any kind came through here about five or six of your days ago.”
“Five or six days? Do you realize how much traffic we process in a single day?”
“You must keep records,” Archer suggested, glancing at Hoshi. “This was a one-man Klingon scoutship.”
“What species are you?”
“Human. We’re called humans.”
As if congratulating him, an alarm went off and lights flashed on the dockmaster’s console. The dockmaster hammered on what might have been a keyboard, then checked a monitor.
“Elkan nine, raise your approach vector by point two radiants!”
When the alarm stopped, the dockmaster hammered something new into the keyboard and the monitor changed.
“It was seven days ago. A K’toch-class vessel.”
“Does it say who he was here to see?” Although the question was probably out of line or classified, Archer took his best shot at getting what he wanted.
“What it says is that he arrived at docking port six and was given a level one biohazard clearance.”
Archer kept from clapping his hands—he would never have given up information like that just for the asking! At least this guy had no such guardrails. “You don’t seem very interested in what people do here.”
“Our visitors value their privacy,” the dockmaster said, even though he had just handed over information Klaang probably never wanted known. “It wouldn’t be very tusoropko tuproya plo business they’re in.”
Archer flinched at the sudden change in sounds and looked at Hoshi, who busily adjusted the communicator/translator.
“It’s all right,” she said. “Rigelian uses a pronominal base. The translator’s just reprocessing the syntax.”
Who cared? Archer avoided telling her nobody was interested in how it did what it was doing, as long as it succeeded and he could keep talking to this person.
“Do you have any records of a Suliban vessel coming in around the same time?”
“Suliban? I don’t know that word. Your device must still be malfunctioning.”
The dockmaster went back to his work, turning his idea of a shoulder to the newcomers. If the body language of a mollusk was anything Archer could trust, he got the idea the alien was all done talking. Had he asked the wrong question? Or the exactly right one?
He motioned to Hoshi, muttered another useless thank you, just in case he needed it later, and led the way out into the corridor.
“He’s lying,” she told him immediately.
“I know. But he has no reason to tell us anything. He’s probably more scared of whoever wants him to keep silent.”
“Why would he be?”
“You saw the Klingons and the Suliban. They’re both a little more rugged than you and I appear to be. Whose threat would you take more seriously?”
“Then we still don’t know anything.”
“We know for certain that Klaang was here.”
“We knew that before, didn’t we?”
“Yes,” Archer agreed. “But now, if I read my dockmasters correctly, somebody else will know we’re here looking for him. Let’s go down to the Plaza and appear obvious, shall we?”
The main downtown area was an ancient, towering, weatherworn complex that seemed to have been constructed over several decades. Architectural styles ran the gamut here, as did the age of the buildings. In some cases, new structures were built right on top of old ones, without bothering to demolish. The city was swirled on the outer reaches with inhospitable subarctic terrain and constant winds and snows. Plumes of steam blasted constantly from geothermal vents that kept the buildings from freezing.
Within the city itself, things were about twenty degrees warmer than the spaceport complex, just from the tightly clustered buildings and narrow streets, which didn’t allow the arctic blasts to dominate. Haze hung in the air, perforated by shafts of artificial light. Myriad species went about their private business, moving in
and out of concealed and sometimes locked trading alcoves. Some were in uniform, others in indistinct robes or layered with jewelry. Many carried weapons.
The flavor of the old West was palpable.
“This place reminds me of somewhere,” Archer commented, glancing at a mammoth carpet-haired beast of burden with legs like tree stumps and the smell of a pig farm. “If it were a desert, I’d swear I’ve been here before.”
“And I’d worry about your taste in vacation spots,” Hoshi murmured, flinching from a slimy individual who passed by on their left.
Alien insects came to investigate them—large insects the size of birds on Earth. They hovered, and one perched on Hoshi’s head for a moment, but became quickly disinterested.
“They don’t seem harmful,” Archer shored her up.
Hoshi shivered. “Jellyfish don’t seem harmful either. But don’t stick your hand under one.”
“Look—this must be the Plaza.” He led the way to a vast, cavernous thoroughfare of bridgelike walkways that crisscrossed each other well into the sky and for miles in three directions from where they stood. The concourse was poorly lit, just enough to walk by. As Archer looked out over the incredible complex, he began to worry for his other crewmen. This wasn’t the kind of place anyone wanted for a first venture into the galactic wilds.
“Shouldn’t we call the captain?”
Travis Mayweather’s question was fraught with doubts and misgivings. Quite normal.
Malcolm Reed, on the other hand, blithely followed their alien contact into the trade complex, climbing to the fifth level with a quiver of excitement in his stomach. Around them chattered a cacophony of strange sounds and a sea of deep-green lighting.
“Maybe we should wait,” he said to the ensign.
Mayweather hunched his shoulders and called to their very odd guide. “How much longer?”
“It’s not very far,” the alien called over his—was that a shoulder? “I promise you.”
“Are you sure his name was Klaang?” Reed asked again. “Couldn’t it have been another Klingon you saw?”
“It was Klaang. I’m certain. I’ll show you exactly where he was.”
The alien’s confidence was encouraging. His unwillingness to describe where he was going, however, was not, and Reed had his doubts. They kept moving.
“I think somebody’s following us,” Mayweather said, glancing behind them.
“Nonsense. You’re just uneasy.”
“Then why are the shadows moving in my periphery?”
“They’re alien shadows. They probably have arms as well.”
“Funny, sir.”
“Of course.”
“Look at that!” Mayweather pointed ahead of them as the lights changed—literally—to red.
Alien music pervaded the air just above the comfort range for conversation. In an archway off to one side, two mostly undressed alien women squirmed and writhed to an unusual rhythm. It almost sounded Eastern European, but Reed dismissed that as coincidental. Between the women was a thin lantern with dozens of butterfly-type creatures flitting around the light.
As he and Mayweather watched, rapt by the sight, the women squirmed closer to the lantern. One of them tipped back her head and emitted an eight-inch tongue that snared one of the butterflies.
An instant later, the second woman did the same. Were they competing?
Only now did Reed and Mayweather realize they had been joined by a gathering of other spectators to watch the butterfly dance. The crowd seemed to run the course from arousal to disgust. Rather familiar, at the moment, Reed noted.
Ah, yes, a brothel. What a shock. If he had been sketching out the most stereotypical mecca in all literature, this would be at its center. Didn’t anyone do anything subtle anymore?
“Would you like to meet them?” the alien man offered, waving a large narrow paw at the women. “I can arrange it.”
Mayweather grimaced. “Was this where you saw Klaang?” he persisted.
“No, no, not here. I’ll show you where. But first, you should enjoy yourselves! Which one would you prefer?”
“We’re here to learn about the Klingon,”Reed reiterated, though he found himself watching the women and the …“Are those real butterflies or some kind of hologram?”
Mayweather took his arm. “We should get going, sir.”
“Yes … absolutely. You’re right.”
They moved down the tubelike arcade of erotic dalliances from topless fire-eaters to costumed performers of every stripe. Reed slipped in front of the alien man who was supposed to be guiding them and began to ignore the fellow’s gestures of this way or that. Obviously he was more of a tour guide than an informant.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” the alien called, suddenly desperate. “Perhaps you’d prefer to watch the interspecies performance?”
“You don’t know anything about Klaang, do you?” Mayweather bluntly accused.
“Of course I do, but there’s no reason to hurry, is there?”
“Interspecies performance?” Reed asked.
“Lieutenant,” Mayweather called wearily, “this man has no intention of helping us.”
Reed nodded. “Perhaps another time.”
Disappointed, their guide sagged in several places and disappeared into the crowd. Reed and Mayweather moved in a completely different direction, just in case the fellow held a grudge.
“I can’t believe we fell for that.”
Reed stifled a groan and avoided mentioning that he couldn’t believe it either, and he didn’t want to tell this story. Perhaps he could make something up that would be more interesting to hear about and less trite in the telling.
He shrugged. “We are explorers.”
Trip Tucker had gotten himself paired off with T’Pol. Not the most natural of buddy systems, but he wanted to keep an eye on her. If she had a chance at subterfuge, this would be the place.
She was over there, speaking to a uniformed alien— maybe a security hireling or this place’s version of a constable. He looked just as seedy as everybody else here. Tucker felt like maybe he should’ve let himself get five o’clock shadow before he came.
He didn’t like it here. It was dirty and unfriendly. Nobody trusted anybody. Nobody deserved trust. Too many people, too little square dealing.
All he could do was wait. They had agreed on a game plan. She would do the talking and he would do the watching.
He was sitting among a weird assortment of beings, waiting, and hating every minute of it. The place was smoky, smelly, and dim. He’d never see a knife coming at him.
And over there was this alien infant, screaming its tentacles off. He couldn’t help but keep looking at it. Most of the “people” here ignored what was going on, but the loud squawling drove Tucker to wincing.
The alien mother kept tweaking a complicated breathing apparatus on her child’s nose. Ear. Whatever it was. Tucker thought at first the mother was trying to get the kid to stop crying, but every time she twisted the device, the child went into greater and greater distress.
Why was she taunting him? It? Was this some kind of bizarre alien mothering ritual? Drive your child crazy with suffocation and it’ll behave?
He shifted in his seat and glanced at T’Pol and the constable. How much longer was she going to take? She seemed to be doing all the talking. What good was that?
The mother twisted her child’s breathing device again. The poor thing howled in agony.
A few people around him shifted just from the noise, but no one interfered. What kind of people were these? To stand by and witness child abuse without a flicker? This was what awaited humanity in the open galaxy?
Here came T’Pol. She motioned to Tucker, who quickly got up and hurried across the field of feet and tails to her side. By the time he reached her, she was already speaking into her communicator.
“T’Pol to Archer.”
On the com unit, the captain responded almost immediately. “Go ahead.”
Th
e wail of the distressed child cut off any chance at conversation. Tucker turned to the mother, unable to control himself any longer. “Hey—”
T’Pol ignored his concern and continued speaking to the captain. “Central Security claims to have no record of Klaang. But they told me about an enclave on level nineteen where Klingons have been known to go. Something about live food.”
“Where on level nineteen?” the captain asked.
“The easternmost subsection. By the geothermal shafts.”
“I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. Archer out.”
The alien child was hysterical now. Tucker’s innards squirmed as the mother disconnected the breathing tube entirely. The child was suffocating!
Tucker bolted forward. “What are you doing! Leave that kid alone!”
T’Pol was right after him and seized him by the arm. “Don’t get involved.”
“Do you see what she’s doing? He’s going to suffocate!”
“They’re Lorillians. Before the age of four, they can only breathe methyloxide.” She paused, watching the mother and child as the little one began finally to grow quiet and begin breathing on his own, without the device. “The mother is simply weaning her son.”
Tucker inhaled deeply in empathy. “Could’ve fooled me… .”
“Humans can’t refrain from drawing conclusions,” T’Pol scolded. “You should learn to objectify other cultures so you can determine when to interfere and when not to.”
Tucker glanced back at the child. He knew he’d made a mistake, but that was all it was. He didn’t like being lectured.
He followed her into the open stretch of walkways and tubes leading toward the upper levels. “Well, hey, Sub-Commander,” he told her, “next time I see somebody backing you into a corner and taking a switchblade to your ribs, I’ll know to wait a few minutes just in case it’s a dance. Do you feel like somebody’s following us? I feel like we’re being watched. Do you get that feeling? I do….”
“Do you think they’re all right?”
“No way to know yet.”
“They don’t like each other.”
“I don’t think T’Pol would let anything happen to Tucker, no matter how they feel about each other.”