0Title: Lost in Orbit (3/?)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Enterprise crew
Summary: On a mission to track down a missing delegation party, the Enterprise crew find themselves embroiled in a game of cat and mouse with another ship. When some of Kirk’s crew are captured, the chase turns into a nightmare.
Previous Parts: 1 | 2
Part Two
Moor’s ambition started small. At the cusp of young adulthood, he was taken onto a mid-size ship that had once been a planetary patrol cruiser and made to work as one of the nameless crewmen (engine brats, they were called, before he banned the name) for the majority of each solar cycle. The only part of that vessel he secretly considered his was a sleeping bunk, a cot barely wide enough to accommodate a growing man, no matter how bone-thin. Crew quarters were communal for the engine brats and often overrun by the lowest-ranking gulley officers such that many of them were forced into crawlspaces and engine tubes instead—but that bunk was entirely Moor’s. It only took a handful of wild, violent fits using his innate talent for destruction to make his point. The other men called him mad and brain-damaged, but soon enough they learned to leave that bit of space free for him; otherwise they had to endure the temper of a vicious little engine brat who excelled at decimating their numbers while none of the superiors appeared inclined to care.
During the short daily reprieve from the mindless clicking and clacking Moor did with his tools (always, it seemed, repairing the same pieces of the ship over and over again), he thought of what actually needed to be done to take the overused parts and make them strong again, from the bulkheads supporting the hull down to the intricate engine gears. And as his fondness grew for the old ship, the angrier Moor became that her innards continued to waste away to scraps even a junkmaster would refuse. He thought of what he might do if he wasn’t simply an engine brat. Driven by his passion, he tried to explain his ideas to the subcommander overseeing the section of crew he belonged to; but that grisly old man laughed in Moor’s face and cuffed his ear, told him brats weren’t allowed ideas and those who do were destined for an airlock. Moor understood then that no one but him cared about their home the way he did. So, the brat with ‘ideas’ reasoned, he would have her for himself. Refitted with all the best parts the galaxy had to offer, he would sail her among the stars so that other ships—other captains—would see in his ship what they lacked.
The thought was simpler than the deed, of course. It took years for Moor to be noticed as something other than a slave, even the cunning and deadly type; then he had to rise among the ranks, eventually crafting the mutiny to bring his dream to fruition. When the dream finally happened, Moor took those last steps across a silent bridge as the ship’s captain. He gave her a name to reflect the hardships they were born from, and she became the Revenant.
The Clan was born shortly thereafter, and within a decade, Captain Moor (known as Mortifier) had a fleet manned by loyal subcaptains, all his Clansmen by rebirth and bound in blood-oath to him, their Lord.
But now with his hard-won position encroaching on its twentieth year, the captain of the Revenant reflects bitterly, he has anarchy. Some of the Clan have tried to dissent and forced him to destroy ship and crew utterly; others whine incessantly that the profits of hijacking and privateering are too little—or never reflect their just shares. The tipping point comes at last when the Garde, an intergalactic affiliation of discrete, wealthy individuals with gray morals and the Mortifier Clan’s primary source of income, revokes a years-long partnership on a whim.
And furious though he may be, Moor realizes he has no leverage to overturn the Garde’s decision.
None, that is, except his knowledge of the final commission, a ‘transfer of property’ which had been handed over to an unheard-of team of spacers hoping to edge in on the game dominated by the Mortifier Clan.
Moor hates being made a fool in front of his Clansmen. And he will not have his reputation or the ability to retain his autonomy called into question over the fickleness of a few high-handed capitalists. No, he simply won’t be retired before his time. He would rather die.
And so Moor bides his time while he schemes. Then he hears of the Enterprise on her way to Rel-7, and suddenly his latest dream is close to becoming reality. All he needs to do is remind those who betrayed him, who lost faith and broke trust, why the Mortifier Clan should always be feared.
Kirk doesn’t wait for an invitation or an announcement, simply barrels into the Chief Inspector’s office like a man on a Priority One mission—which, in a sense, is what this current situation amounts to, thinks Leonard McCoy. When Uhura contacted Jim a few minutes ago to express concern that Spock and Niraula’s biosignatures had suddenly become untrackable, even Leonard experienced a heart-stopping moment of thinking the worst had occurred.
But after subsequent detail from the communications officer, it appears wherever the two officers have found themselves, something is interfering with the Enterprise‘s ability to identify their location. The biosignatures still exist (Spock is alive, thank god) but the coordinates transmitting from the station are scrambled. Uhura needs time to develop the right algorithm to decode the information.
Only Spock, Leonard decides, now wavering between worried and nonplussed at being worried, would wind up in the one place on the port engineered to mask his presence.
That doesn’t mean Kirk is taking this new development well. In fact, while Jim heads off to do battle with the port commander, McCoy has officially placed himself on damage control duty for the foreseeable future. It’s definitely not how he imagined spending his time when Spock commed him, asking him to beam down.
The man inside the small office is and isn’t what McCoy expects: Brams is younger in age than his initial guess by a few decades, but the fellow does look as arrogant and uncooperative as Jim described him. It’s when Brams openly allows them to see his dismay at their sudden appearance that McCoy takes an instant disliking to him.
“Captain Kirk,” the Chief Inspector begins, “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Jim has always been one to cut to the chase. “Mr. Spock isn’t answering comms,” he tells Brams. “Neither is the lieutenant with him. Where are they?”
The Chief Inspector falls silent for a short time, exchanging a look with a young woman in uniform standing to his right. McCoy studies her even more carefully than the head of Inspection, because something about the woman seems off to him. She isn’t nervous at all, being faced with a visibly furious James T. Kirk, and she should be given that Kirk’s men were last in her care.
“Obviously your Mr. Spock isn’t here, Captain.” Brams waves a hand to encompass the length of his office, as if daring them to argue the point.
McCoy presses his mouth into a thin line. “He should be—or at least we should be able to contact him. And you didn’t answer my captain.”
Brams’s gaze narrows, fixing on him. “Who are you?”
“Dr. Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer aboard the Enterprise.”
Brams gives him the oddest look, then. No doubt, the man must be attempting to work out why, of all the staff available, the senior-most medical officer of the flagship would come down to Rel-7. McCoy could answer that readily enough, advising the man not to bother working out Kirk’s thinking as he himself long ago gave up trying to understand why Jim does what he does, but Leonard is not feeling friendly enough to take pity on him.
Damn it, that worry keeps nettling him. The sooner they find Spock and Niraula, the better.
Kirk stalks slowly toward the inspector. “I think you know something, Brams. Why else would my officers’ communicator signals originate from here?”
The tension in the room is palpable enough to choke a man, Leonard feels. He watches as Brams finally relents in his staring contest with Kirk to reach for a drawer of a desk shoved into a corner. Next to McCoy, Lt. Connock shifts nervously on his feet. In response, Leonard tightens his grip on his phaser, though he prays there will be no reason to use it.
A moment later, Kirk freezes, and McCoy sees why. The item Brams had retrieved is a Starfleet-issued communicator.
Kirk snatches the device from the inspector’s hand just as a chill slides down McCoy’s spine. Then, wordlessly, Brams removes a second communicator from the open desk drawer—this one smashed, missing its cover. McCoy and Connock—even Kirk—just stare at it. No one takes it from Brams.
The two inspectors trade another look before Brams says, “Rima brought your communicators to me—and reported what happened.”
“…Happened?” Kirk repeats after a heartbeat, to McCoy looking like a man expecting to receive the date of his execution. Then, per usual the moment of weakness is gone. Jim has collected himself enough to demand as a captain, “Explain.”
McCoy moves closer to his captain’s side, just in case the explanation is a painful one.
“Your men left the lab,” the inspector says without preamble, “while my officer was otherwise occupied.”
“On their own?” challenges Kirk, voice notably razor-edged. In other words, he doesn’t buy that they just disappeared because they wanted to—and neither does McCoy.
“Don’t insult me, Kirk. They gave Rima the slip.” Brams’s tone hardens too. “Which makes me wonder, was that part of your plan all along?”
McCoy jumps in, “You’ve got some nerve! We’ve been up-front with you about our mission from the beginning, and what do we get for our trouble? Why, you lot of ungrateful—you could at least offer to help us! We’ve lost two people!”
“Bones,” Kirk interrupts, a glint of amusement covering deep anger.
McCoy turns his glare on his captain, but Jim just looks at him until he subsides.
Then Jim turns back to Brams. “We accept that you don’t trust us or our intentions. Consider the feeling mutual. However, that doesn’t negate the fact I now have two missing parties to account for—and your neck is on the line for one of them, Inspector. Make no mistake about that.”
Brams slowly releases a breath. “You really don’t know where they are.”
A muscle spasms in Kirk’s jaw. “No, I don’t.” His gaze transfers to Rima. “So tell me everything you can concerning the last time you saw Cmdr. Spock and Lt. Niraula.”
“I know little, Captain,” the junior inspector insists. “One minute they were in the lab, the next gone.”
Kirk’s mouth flattens to an unhappy line. “Then you force my hand. I’ll have to lock-down Rel-7.”
Brams argues, “You can’t do that.”
“I could if I have probable cause.”
Good for you, Jim! cheers McCoy.
Brams likely has no idea whether or not Kirk has the clout to do what he claims, but McCoy can see the man at least recognizes the threat for what it is. The standoff between inspector and captain lasts a few seconds more. Then Brams relents.
“Rima, relay my orders to our security team: every guard on or off duty is to cooperate with Captain Kirk and his officers in the recovery of their crew.”
It’s the junior inspector who stares at her superior now, dismayed. But she says, “Aye, sir,” and proceeds from the office without meeting anyone else’s gaze.
“Good luck,” Brams says to Kirk, then turns his back on their little group in clear dismissal.
Kirk leaves the office first, and the others follow.
Lt. Connock had thought the atmosphere to be frightfully tense inside the Chief Inspector’s office, but somehow it’s worse when the three of them are in the corridor alone. Rom looks around for Inspector Rima, decides she made herself scarce on purpose and positions himself closer to a wall to follow suit in a similar manner. If he goes unnoticed, then the Captain and Dr. McCoy can keep their ongoing staring contest between themselves. Even to someone on Kirk and McCoy’s side, having the full effect of those intimidating stares on a person can leave him or her with wobbly knees.
It would be nice to have Mr. Spock around, Rom thinks. The Vulcan seems to be one of the few crewmen who can withstand being the subject of such potent human ire without flinching. Then again, if Spock was there, Captain Kirk would be in a far better mood and Dr. McCoy wouldn’t look so deeply troubled.
Rom sobers, replaying the unproductive conversation with the Chief Inspector. The situation isn’t looking good. He cannot imagine that either Spock or Niraula would purposely upset crewmates like this, let alone their captain. And, to be honest, if Rom was not bound by his oath to follow—and protect—Captain Kirk in every possible circumstance, he would have started the search for Niraula and Spock long before he received his next set of orders.
But surely Kirk won’t delay the search much longer? Not when the captain himself is clearly affected by the absence of his men?
The tail-end of some remark from Dr. McCoy breaks Connock’s train of thought: “—don’t just disappear on a spaceport without good reason. Something reeks,” McCoy is saying heatedly, “and I’d bet a month’s salary it has to do with that callous bastard, Brams!”
Kirk is unusually slow to respond. “Bones, is it possible Spock had a reason to hide?”
“Anything’s possible.” McCoy’s mix of concern and fury reaches a new pitch. “But, Jim, why wouldn’t Spock contact you first? I don’t buy a word of what that junior inspector said!”
The captain’s gaze drops to his communicator as if wondering the same thing and has a difficult time articulating his thoughts, enough to concern Connock for the first time that the man may be struggling with his own demons. “I don’t know. I just don’t, Bones… not unless… maybe Spock…?”
The communicator in Kirk’s hand comes to life: “Enterprise to Captain Kirk.”
Kirk exchanges a quick glance with McCoy before answering. “Kirk here. What is it, Mr. Sulu?”
“Sir, an unidentified ship has appeared within range of Rel-7.”
Rom doesn’t understand. Why would Mr. Sulu contact them about some ship when Rel-7 is a waystation for them?
Sulu goes on, “Mr. Scott says—” until another voice overlays his, crying, “It’s the Mortifier Clan, Capt’n!”
Kirk stiffens. “Are you certain, Mr. Scott?”
“I’d recognize one of those Clan monstrosities anywhere. Those bastards don’t just hijack ships, sir. They take parts off other ships and add ’em to theirs—like the spoils of war or some kind of trophy.”
Sulu returns. “We’re locked on their signal. Orders?”
Kirk says nothing for a moment.
Rom understands why.
Apparently so does McCoy, who steps forward, drawing the captain’s attention. “A Clan vessel, Jim. Isn’t that part of what we were hoping to find?” When the man simply goes on looking at him, the doctor adds more sharply, “If you let them go, Command won’t be happy.”
“My head’s been on the chopping block before,” Kirk argues, his voice unexpectedly wry.
McCoy huffs, but says, “We know that. But it’s not just Spock and Niraula at stake, is it? What about those councilmen?”
Kirk’s voice softens. “I haven’t forgotten.”
For no reason Connock can discern, McCoy looks hesitant. Then the doctor says, “I could stay here. Look for Spock and Niraula,” and Rom knows why.
Unsurprisingly, one of Kirk’s hands curls into a fist. “Denied.”
McCoy just looks at Kirk, a Jim unspoken but not unheard.
“I thought you understood my dilemma, Doctor. I already have two missing crewmen. How can you ask me to leave another one behind?”
The senior officer arches an eyebrow. “What would they do to me? I’m just an old country doctor.”
An unmoved Kirk counters, “Wearing a Starfleet uniform.”
“Elevate M’Benga to Acting CMO,” McCoy barrels on. “You’ve done that before. I’ll comm you right away once I find Spock—and check in with Uhura regularly until then.”
Rom winces, knowing what he’s about to say won’t lessen Kirk’s unease. “Captain, I can look after Dr. McCoy. Besides, someone has to stay behind to search for Lt. Niraula and Mr. Spock.” He releases a breath, uncertain if he’s about to be demoted. “It shouldn’t be you. The ship needs you, sir.”
McCoy rocks back on his heels, looking at Connock warmly. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Lieutenant.”
Kirk is silent for a long time but there is no mistaking the almost panicked resignation in his eyes. Even the mighty James Kirk can recognize a lost battle.
McCoy lands the final blow. “Captain, every second we stand here deliberating is a second lost recovering anybody at all, including Spock.”
Kirk closes his eyes. When the man opens them again, he lifts his communicator toward his mouth. “I suppose you heard that, Mr. Sulu. One to beam up.”
“Transporter is already on-standby. Awaiting your signal.”
Kirk faces McCoy and Connock, giving both of them a hard stare. “Gentlemen, take no unnecessary risks.”
“Aye, sir,” the men chorus together.
“We’ll be back for you,” the captain adds.
Connock grins.
So does McCoy. “‘Course you will. See you later, Jim.”
Kirk nods once. “Energize.” In the next instant, his form vanishes.
As soon as the man is out of sight, McCoy’s shoulders sag. The doctor looks a bit forlorn, and his mutter of “Why do I keep doing this?” reflects that.
Rom wonders what the man is questioning about himself: his penchant for challenging esteemed officers (the Enterprisecrew knows McCoy values speaking his mind more than rank) or his inability to stay out of trouble (everybody knows about that too).
McCoy turns to Connock. “Any ideas on where to start?”
The lieutenant considers their options. “Rel-7’s concourse is larger than I thought. But I know Tyee, Dr. McCoy. He’d use a crowd to hide in if he could.”
“The main thoroughfare it is, then.”
McCoy takes out his tricorder as they head in that direction, allowing Connock to lead the way.
Connock glances a couple of times at the doctor in the midst of trying to stay alert to their surroundings. “Can you use that to locate them? Even if the biosignatures are scrambled?”
“Under normal circumstances I couldn’t, but we’ve got something in our favor,” McCoy explains. “Mr. Spock.”
“But why?” Then Rom thinks about it. “Oh, because he’s a Vulcan.”
The doctor chuckles. “Let me put it this way: without more advanced tech to hand, someone who doesn’t know his quarry well wouldn’t be able to tell two Vulcans apart. Or locate a particular human among many, for that matter. But Spock has a hybrid physiology—not purely one species or another.” McCoy waggles his medical tricorder in air. “Scrambled signals or not, I know what to look for when I look for him.”
Rom smiles. “That’s good.”
McCoy grins back. “Our First Officer likely wouldn’t agree with you, Lieutenant. He doesn’t appreciate being his own tracking device.”
With Dr. McCoy—and Captain Kirk—always being able to find him? Rom kind of gets why the thought might be unappealing.
McCoy stops walking all of a sudden, frowning at the passers-by in the corridor then down at himself. “Jim had a point. We stick out like sore thumbs in these uniforms.”
It takes a moment for that remark to sink in. When it does, unadulterated delight rushes through McCoy’s companion. “Are you suggesting we go incognito? Yes, sir!” Rom bursts out in his mounting excitement. “Can I pick out our disguises?”
Though McCoy looks at Rom strangely, he waves his hand as tacit permission to go ahead.
Connock lengthens his pace down the corridor, declaring for McCoy’s benefit, “I know just the place!”
When Jim steps onto the bridge, no one quite meets his eyes. He often tries to be conscious of the atmosphere he brings with him, but at times it isn’t always feasible to quell a sense of urgency or his tense mannerisms. Normally McCoy is the one to call him out, reminding Kirk to stop scaring his crew when it isn’t necessary.
But McCoy, like Spock, is not on the Enterprise. Kirk’s uneasiness deepens, and undoubtedly so does the off-putting expression he has.
As Kirk takes the captain’s chair, he places his personal worries aside. “Bring the ship on screen, Mr. Sulu.” Monstrosity was a polite description of the vessel that becomes visible on the bridge’s main viewer, thinks Kirk a moment later. “Chekov, what’s her course look like?”
“Stalled just out of range of the docking ring. She has not changed position since arriving, Keptin. No spacecrafts to or from the ship.”
There’s a warning at the back of Kirk’s neck at Chekov’s dubious tone. Like Chekov, he wonders why a Clan ship would simply hang around Rel-7 instead of docking? To meet someone?
And if that ship is aware of their presence, why hasn’t it turned tail and run at the mere thought of encountering Starfleet?
A challenge, perhaps. “Hail them,” he tells Uhura, wishing briefly Spock was there to advise him before ruthlessly burying the sentiment.
“Hailing frequencies open.” Uhura pauses, then reports, hand to her earpiece, “I’m not receiving a response, sir.”
If McCoy was there, he would roll his eyes and mutter something like typical. Jim’s hands tighten on the ends of his armrests.
“Send this message, Lieutenant.” Kirk deliberately shifts in his chair, then, crossing one leg over the other in order to lend the impression of nonchalance to whoever might appear on the main viewscreen. “This is Captain James T. Kirk of the starship Enterprise. Under special order of Starfleet, I have the authority to neutralize any security threat to the Rel-7 space station. State your intentions, or prepare to be boarded.”
The ensuing silence on the bridge is tense. It finally breaks when Uhura states, “I have an incoming transmission. Audio only.”
Not good in Kirk’s experience. Jim presses his mouth flat, uncrosses his legs to plant both feet firmly on the deck. “Let’s hear what they have to say.”
“This is the commanding officer of the Trenchant. We are Clan, and our intentions—” The pause in the response is unusually long. “are hostile.”
Chekov looks confounded, then hisses between his teeth. Sulu’s eyebrows fly up and stay around his hairline.
“That was to the point,” Scotty mutters from his station on the upper deck.
Kirk sighs. So, his intuition was right after all. The ship isn’t here for Rel-7. This Trenchant wants to engage them. “Shields up,” he orders. “Go to Red Alert.” Unfortunately, he’s backed into a corner. He cannot condone a firefight in range of civilians. “Impulse engines only. Move us away from the port, Mr. Sulu.”
As his crew works to fulfill their orders, and Jim feels the ship hum beneath him as her engines come online, he closes his eyes and sends out a silent prayer to those not with him. If there is at least one benevolent deity in the universe, his men will stay safe until he finds out just why the Mortifier Clan is interested in the Enterprise and returns to them.
Tyee Niraula opens his eyes, realizing when his vision focuses enough to make out a durasteel ceiling above his head, “I’m not dead.”
“Obviously.”
The singular remark comes somewhere from Niraula’s left. The lieutenant turns his head to find the source, shifting to lift himself up slightly on an elbow at the same time—and releases a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding.
“You’re alive too.”
The person in question doesn’t spare a glance for Tyee, preoccupied, it seems, with shifting containers one after another into a stack on his opposite side. “We are in one of the cargo holds of the lower subsection of Rel-7,” Spock informs his newly awakened companion matter-of-factly. “You have been unconscious for seventeen minutes and thirty-three seconds.”
“Are you all right, sir?” Niraula asks, carefully assuming a sitting position when no part of his body protests being moved.
“I am uninjured.”
The lieutenant wishes he had a medical tricorder on hand to verify that statement. He doesn’t, though, and so trusting Mr. Spock to inform him of a problem is his only option, as he is no fool. Everybody knows about that one time an Engineering ensign had asked Mr. Spock if he could examine him “just in case” following a close call with a collapsing bulkhead and once the trapped crewmen realized the emergency triage team could not immediately reach them. Suffice to say, that poor fellow had learned just how scathing Vulcans can be, even with non-verbal cues. Mr. Spock in particular is sensitive to any kind of breaching of his personal space. Niraula has only ever seen (and heard of) a handful of people allowed that honor—and none of them under casual circumstances barring the captain and, occasionally, Dr. McCoy.
These are not casual circumstances; far from it, in fact. And Niraula wants to enjoy being alive for a while longer.
He starts to come to his feet. “How did we get here? What happened?”
“I brought us here after the attack.”
At the word ‘attack’, he starts to reach for a weapon until the full impact of the sentence brings Niraula up short. “Mr. Spock, you… carried me?”
“You were unconscious, Lieutenant. Carrying you was only logical.”
Niraula is unable to keep himself from visualizing his limp body slung over the Vulcan’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. His voice almost cracks from embarrassment. “I—thank you. For saving me.”
“Gratitude is unnecessary.”
It finally dawns on Niraula why his hand hasn’t found his phaser yet. It isn’t attached to his belt—nor is his communicator. He closes his eyes briefly, replaying the last moments of the attack.
When his eyes pop open again, he says in a harsher tone than intended, “You knew they would try to stop us from leaving.”
The Vulcan pauses in his task, angling his head toward the lieutenant. “It seemed likely.”
Niraula comes to his feet, hands fisting. His voice rises a notch, not by much but enough that those who know him would recognize his alarm—and fury. “Mr. Spock, those… scientists were armed.”
“As were we, Mr. Niraula.”
“Look how well that worked out,” he replies bitterly. “We lost our phasers and communicators.” He did. A security officer should never give up his weapon—to do so was tantamount to failure.
For some reason, Mr. Spock isn’t particularly offended by the insubordinate tone. Squatting there among a dozen or so containers that look exactly alike, the Vulcan is staring at Niraula like he’s a curiosity.
Niraula doesn’t want to be studied. He chokes on his next words, forcing them out nonetheless. “It’s clear I was useless to you in a fight. I apologize, Mr. Spock—” His gaze lowers in shame. “—and place myself on notice for reprimand.”
“Mr. Niraula,” Spock says after a moment of silence, “your emotionalism is uncalled-for—and, I admit, marginally disturbing. Given my numerous encounters with humans, by comparison you seemed less excitable than the majority. I assumed this meant you were also reasonable in your display of emotions.”
Niraula stares, thrown by being insulted and complimented in tandem.
“You performed your duties adequately with the information allotted to you,” the Vulcan continues. “If an error occurred, the fault would be mine. I did not explain my… plan. Therefore there is no basis to reprimand you.”
Niraula swallows, catching the way the hint of something (regret? hesitancy?) in the commander’s voice. “What plan?”
“To lose our company.” Mr. Spock returns to sorting those containers while Niraula looks on.
That explanation slowly sinks in. “You mean you wanted to force a confrontation so we might escape on our own.” And stupid me got stunned in the process. His gaze narrows. “Sir, how did you know Inspector Rima wouldn’t order her men to shoot to kill?”
“A calculated risk,” Spock replies in a manner that, for a Vulcan, is uncharacteristically vague.
It could be that Spock’s diligent inspection of a container is distracting him, thinks the lieutenant, but Niraula has the impression Mr. Spock isn’t comfortable admitting just how truly risky the plan was. Even to a Vulcan’s way of thinking, acting with only semi-favorable odds ought to be called reckless.
Niraula doesn’t press the matter, in truth not knowing what he could say. Not that he doesn’t have some sense of propriety; a subordinate should not call a superior into question.
Unless it nearly gets him or both of them killed.
He breathes out slowly, approaching Spock with the same carefulness. “You’re looking for something. Can I help?”
“Affirmative.”
Niraula kneels next to Spock. He’s beginning to understand that little of what Mr. Spock does occurs by happenstance. Like why Spock would choose this particular cargo hold to hide in. “Tell me what to do, sir.”
Spock dips his head ever-so-slightly, acknowledging the re-establishment of their roles: Spock to lead, and Niraula to follow. “There should be a container with evidence which should assist us in revealing the party behind the threat to the Carasian-MRC negotiations.”
What kind of evidence? Niraula wonders.
The question must be apparent on his face, for Spock supplies, “Titanium ore mined from the Carasian Moon.”
Niraula sucks in a breath. “That shouldn’t be here.”
“Precisely, Lieutenant.” Mr. Spock pauses to give him a long stare. “Rel-7 is not part of the governing body for the transport and commercial sale of mineral-based goods. Yet in the inventory databank, I discovered protective packaging materials required for the storing of matter like ore.”
Niraula has to sit down, looking at the containers now with a dubious eye. Everything he has heard about the Carasian Moon comes back to him, especially the news articles detailing the contaminated work environment that inevitably led to the miners’ strikes and riots. “So we’re looking for black-marketed moon ore. And pirates.” And potential exposure to a disease? No thanks. He doesn’t say that last part aloud.
Spock blinks placidly. “Yes, that would appear to be the case.”
“Perfect,” the security lieutenant murmurs. “So, who’s going to tell Captain Kirk?”
Wordlessly, the Vulcan chooses another container and studies its digital lockpad. After another minute, much to his own dismay, Niraula joins the commander in his quest to locate evidence to suggest the authorities on Rel-7 have been up to no good.
A pair of human males in non-descript uniforms stride along a curved gangway, only slowed at one point by a cart and serviceman uncertain of where to branch off toward a designated receiving area. One of the males has an oddly young face framed by deep lines about the eyes, a puckered scar on his temple, and a mouth worn thin from levity; the other appears barely of an age to grow a beard, solidifying that impression by looking about him with an openly curious stare. Everyone in their lane on the gangway is in a hurry. They move along with the crowd, no different from the rest.
“Welcome to Rel-7,” a disembodied voice, that of Rel-7’s main computer, calls from above, issuing this standard greeting to all passengers disembarking from the ships currently in stasis. “Please follow the lighted pathways to the Primary Concourse.”
At the security checkpoint there, the taller human breaks from the line to approach a security guard standing nearby scrolling through a data padd. His companion hurries to catch him and stays on his heels.
“Can I help you?” the guard asks without looking up from his task, a young spacer who doesn’t appear concerned at being approached. The guard’s voice is courteous, friendly even, but he’s nonetheless well-armed.
Moor notes that though the guard’s voice is courteous, friendly even, but he’s nonetheless well-armed. That amuses him. Unfortunately, the newly recruited subcommander he brought with him jumps nervously. The Revenant‘s captain pins the idiot with a look of warning before turning his attention back to the guard.
He bares his teeth in a manner that will pass for a smile to the unattentive. “I have an appointment with Commander Weyland.”
The spacer’s head comes up at that, his facial expression barely registering surprise but his gaze much, much sharper. “Weyland no longer commands this port.”
“I see,” Moor responds lightly. “I was not aware. Who has taken his place?”
“The Chief Inspector is running operations.” Shifting his device to not-so-subtly scan Moor for an identity, the guard turns a critical eye onto the subcommander. “You need directions to the Inspection office?”
Moor brushes an invisible speck of dirt from his shoulder when the scanning finishes and the padd doesn’t raise an alarm. “Negative, Officer. We know the way. Thank you, you’ve been… most helpful.”
Once they are safely through the checkpoint, the subcommander catches Moor’s sleeve. “What do we do about Weyland, Master?”
Disgusted, Moor pulls his sleeve out of the man’s grasp. If only he had his pistol… He turns to the survey the foot traffic. “Quiet, Flint. I’m thinking.”
“Flinch, Master.” True to his name, Flinch flinches at his captain’s scathing look.
There are beings of every size and shape on the concourse, with the occasional cluster of humans dressed in civilian clothing or branded worker’s coveralls. Moor spies no Clansmen among the crowds, which means they have likely tucked into some bar-lounge or entertainment facility, wasting credits until the designated signal comes.
Flinch doesn’t seem to have any sense, breaking orders almost immediately by nattering on about Weyland. “But if the commander is gone, who’ll pay the debt, Master? How do we access the—”
Moor grabs the idiot by the throat without thinking, prepared to just squeeze his throat until talking for the next several hours is an impossibility. But movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention—and a security guard turning in their direction. He drops the subcommander back to his feet and, forcing his posture to relax, puts his back to Flinch’s gasps for air. Moor’s right hand slides to the band around his left wrist, the only reason he made it this far into the port without using force. A gift, courtesy of Weyland. What did the fool do to have himself removed from duty?
Or is the dismissal a result of the Garde tying up loose ends?
“We shall figure things out as we need to,” he promises, more so to himself than to his watery-eyed but now blissfully silent subcommander. “While the Enterprise chases our sister ship, the Trenchant, through the sector, we will take back what is rightfully ours.” And bring this pathetic port to its knees in the process, he doesn’t need to add.
Betrayal leaves a bitter aftertaste in one’s mouth. But Moor smiles, genuine and broad this time, at the thought of being rid of it once and for all.
With, more or less, several individuals along the way.
Related Posts:
- Lost in Orbit (4/?) – from November 2, 2018
- Lost in Orbit (2/?) – from November 22, 2017
- Lost in Orbit (1/?) – from November 4, 2017
