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Star Trek: Bounty - 9 - "But One Man of Her Crew Alive"

BountyTrek

BountyTrek

Commander
Red Shirt
Hello. :)

Another tale from the STB universe is upon us, I’m afraid. We’ve already made passing attempts at treasure hunting, action, adventure, revenge, westerns, weird psychodrama and bad comedy. And now we’re diverting the long-suffering crew into yet another genre for their next adventure (along with yet more bad comedy). There are some long-running mini story arcs running through this series (which I almost promise will pay off one day), but I think this is one that can safely be navigated without any specific knowledge of previous stories!

Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoy! And if you don’t, I can only apologise. :D

Star Trek: Bounty is a slightly off-kilter series set in the Trek universe that focuses on the adventures of the ragtag crew of a small civilian ship, who do what they can to get by in the Alpha Quadrant. They're not exactly Starfleet spec, but they try to keep on the right side of the moral line where they can.

The story so far:
Star Trek: Bounty - 1 - "Where Neither Moth nor Rust Destroys"
Star Trek: Bounty - 2 - "Be All My Sins Forgiven"
Star Trek: Bounty - 3 - "The Other Kind of Vulcan Hello"
Star Trek: Bounty - 4 - "It’s Not Easy Being Green"
Star Trek: Bounty - 5 - "Once Upon a Time in the Beta Quadrant"
Star Trek: Bounty - 6 - "He Feedeth Among the Lilies”
Star Trek: Bounty - 7 - “One Character in Search of an Exit”
Star Trek: Bounty - 8 - "A Klingon, a Vulcan and a Slave Girl Walk into a Bar"

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Star Trek: Bounty
1.09
“But One Man of Her Crew Alive”

Prologue

She ran.

She ran for her life.

On and on, past the endless gunmetal grey walls of the corridors deep in the bowels of the ship, she sprinted as fast as her legs could propel her.

The corridors themselves were eerily dark and cloaked in shadow. Stark evidence of the ship’s power issues, and enough of a change to the usual brightly lit interior of the vessel to cause the familiar surroundings to now feel alien and unsettling.

That feeling spurred her to run even faster. She skidded around a corner, almost colliding with the wall on the far side of the intersection as she did so. And still, she didn’t slow down.

Because she needed to escape. To escape from what was behind her. Or possibly what was in front of her. Or, in fact, anywhere all around her. Even inside the walls of the bulkhead for all she knew.

She forced that especially unnerving thought out of her mind and gritted her teeth as she raced onwards, her feet thudding down onto the floor of the deck and her arms pumping back and forth to help propel her forwards.

Her lungs began to ache from the exertion and the muscles in her legs started to cry out for an end to the torturous workout. But she kept on running. The stakes were too high for her to consider doing anything else. The fear that she felt provided the extra fuel that her aching body needed.

And she knew her destination was getting nearer.

The shuttlebay was now just a few more intersections away. There, she could make good her escape in one of the science vessel’s support craft.

We can make our escape, she silently corrected herself.

Assuming he was still alive, of course. She knew for a fact that nobody else was.

It had all been going so well. Their mission had been a complete success. They had made it to the rendezvous point well ahead of time, the package had been swiftly secured, and they were on their way home.

And then the package had escaped. And all hell had broken loose.

She fought off the wave of emotion that threatened to engulf her as she pictured the faces of some of the others. So many had died, so needlessly and so quickly. Picked off, one by one.

The package had learned fast. A lot faster than any of them had anticipated.

Perhaps that had been their mistake, she thought bitterly as she sprinted past another darkened intersection. They hadn’t appreciated just how fast it could learn. Or perhaps their mistake had simply been in taking the package in the first place. That was definitely another way of looking at it.

She rounded a final corner and felt the persistent thumping terror inside her chest subside just a fraction as she saw the huge grey doors of the shuttlebay looming large at the end of the latest stretch of dank corridor.

But it was only a fleeting relief. Because then the scant flickering emergency lighting still illuminating the corridor disappeared. The entire vista in front of her was plunged into total darkness. The last vestiges of emergency power were finally being depleted.

The sinking feeling in her stomach began to grow all over again as she realised what this would mean for her escape attempt.

She skidded to a halt in front of the shuttlebay doors and desperately tapped at the controls. But they were completely dead. Out of power.

And the doors themselves remained defiantly closed.

“No, no, no!” she whimpered to herself with a stifled sob, as she clawed helplessly at the tiny sliver of a panel gap in the middle of the unyielding metal doors.

On the other side was her salvation. Half a dozen shuttles and service vehicles, with enough capacity to evacuate the entire ship’s modestly sized crew in lieu of escape pods. Any one of which could be her own route away from this place.

But first she had to get to them.

She desperately looked around in a growing panic, looking for some sort of service hatch or access point, but there was no sign of anything. Stifling another sob, she quickly tapped the communicator badge attached to her dirt-streaked tunic top.

“Regaza!” she hissed into the ether, “I’m at the shuttlebay! Where the hell are you?!”

She waited for the only other surviving member of the crew to reply. Once they had realised that they were the only ones left, they had agreed over the crackling comms link to meet up right here, making their way over from opposite ends of the ship.

In truth, she hadn’t necessarily been intending to wait for him. Her all-consuming fear of what was chasing her was more than enough to override any sense of camaraderie. Her intention hadn’t been born out of callousness, but hysterical self-preservation.

But now, she called out for him, hoping that the extra help might get them through the sealed doors and to the precious shuttles within.

Except, as she waited in the eerie darkness of the corridor, there was no response.

“Regaza! Come in, please!”

She whispered the call with a note of dread, and received only static back over the comms link. A tear of despair ran down her cheek.

And then she remembered.

The shuttlebay doors were a priority system, especially in an emergency situation. Which meant that they would be fitted with a secondary mechanical release in the event of a complete power failure across the ship.

It was a logical design, to prioritise crew safety above all else, especially during a catastrophe. And it was a design feature that was about to save her life, just as intended.

She could picture the process in her mind right now. Remove the control panel, activate the mechanical door release, open the doors, get to a shuttle, and get the hell out of here. The whole process would take less than two minutes if she worked fast.

Easy.

She returned to the door controls and roughly prised the entire panel up and away, revealing the isolinear circuitry underneath.

She wasn’t an engineer, but she spied the manual release immediately. Reaching out with a tendriled hand, she grabbed the bulky lever and pulled with all her might.

And nothing happened.

Her relief immediately gave way to a fresh chasm of terror that opened up inside her as she wrenched at the lever again and again. And still nothing happened. The doors in front of her remained shut.

Someone must have tampered with the override.

The package really had learned fast.

She felt a fresh wave of despair rising up as she considered her dwindling options. Perhaps she could get back to engineering and find a laser cutter, or a tool to get through the door itself. Perhaps there was a chance that Regaza was still on his way here, and that the silence over the comms link was just a result of the power failure. Perhaps there was still hope.

And then all hope was extinguished. Because she realised that she was no longer alone.

Something was behind her.

“You ran away.”

Quivering with fear, she slowly turned around in the direction of the voice. Even though she already knew what would be waiting there for her.

Behind her, a short distance back down the darkened corridor, stood a young girl.

“But I found you,” the girl added in a childish sing-song voice.

She looked barely eight years old, a picture of childhood innocence. She had smooth, light brown skin and wore a simple green dress. Even through the darkness that was all around them, her vibrant, piercing yellow eyes were clearly visible.

And the sight of the cherub-like child made the sole remaining crew member of the otherwise lifeless ship weep with terror.

“Please,” the older woman cried out through tears as she sank to her knees, “Let me go! I beg you, let me live!”

The girl cocked her head to one side with a trace of curiosity, but the dark glare on her face didn’t soften one iota.

“You’re not very nice,” she said, scrunching up her nose with palpable disgust, “And you weren’t very nice to me.”

“I--I swear, I didn’t mean to--”

“I don’t like people who aren’t nice.”

The girl took a step forward. The woman’s eyes widened in horror.

“And I don’t like you…”

As the girl continued her advance, her face suddenly started to contort and fold in on itself. The innocent dusky face began to disappear, to be replaced by something else.

The woman stared at the unholy sight as it formed in front of her.

And she screamed.
 
Part One

Even by his own admission, Jirel Vincent was lacking in many of the basic requirements that people tended to look for in a top of the line 24th century space captain.

He wasn’t especially gifted academically. He struggled to project any sense of gravitas. He let his crew ride roughshod over the very concept of a chain of command whenever they pleased. And he didn’t own anything that came even close to the definition of a uniform. He also really needed a haircut.

But none of that necessarily mattered when you took into account the fact that the Ju’Day-type raider he nominally commanded, the Bounty, was lacking in many of the basic requirements that people tended to look for in a top of the line 24th century spaceship.

The Bounty was an ancient, weathered, battered vessel which had been through more repair cycles than a Klingon battle wing, more warp cores than an experimental starship, and had covered more sectors than an overworked Ferengi mining freighter.

Still, in their own special way, captain and ship both possessed a shared quality of resilience. Which explained why both had somehow made it this far in life, despite their obvious limitations.

For the Bounty, this resilient quality was built into the rugged design of the Ju’Day-type craft, and the durability and repairability of the ship’s components.

And for Jirel himself, the quality was reflected in his unerring confidence in his own ability to talk his way out of anything. No matter how dire a situation he found himself in, the Trill trusted his powers of negotiation and his winning charm to get him through. That was just what he did. That was what he always had to do.

Which was why, even though he and the Bounty were five days late in arriving at the Flaxian science station Reja Gar, and even as he stood in front of the station commander’s desk, he was absolutely certain that he was successfully talking his way out of his latest problem.

After all, he had some really solid excuses.

“The Children of Tama?”

Commander Turanya, the Flaxian whose office Jirel stood in, steepled his tendriled fingers on the other side of the desk and stared back at Jirel in bemusement.

Jirel, for his part, offered his best disarming shrug and a sideways grin straight out of the top drawer of the available smiles in his armoury. It didn’t matter to him how unbelievable the truth might have sounded. Because a lot of days onboard the Bounty tended to be fairly unbelievable.

So, while a lesser captain might have been concerned that his excuses weren’t washing, he just casually pointed down at a bowl of Flaxian pine nuts sitting on his side of the desk.

“These complimentary, or…?”

Turanya gestured dismissively at the bowl and Jirel grabbed a handful of the nuts, popping a couple in his mouth and crunching them noisily.

“You’re telling me,” Turanya continued, the oily commander’s nostrils flaring slightly with incredulity as he spoke, “That you’re five days late with the consignment of spore samples our biological science team were waiting on because of…the Children of Tama?”

“Well, not entirely,” Jirel conceded truthfully, his confidence levels still high, “But one of their ships did intercept us as we were taking the most direct route out here, and they said we couldn’t cut through the Montur system because it belonged to them.”

“Did they?”

Commander Turanya’s tone was bereft of any sense of genuine belief, and he had in fact had to work hard to extract most of the sarcasm from his words.

Not that Jirel was worried about that. He was talking his way out of the problem, after all.

“I mean,” he continued with another winning grin, “I think that’s what they were claiming? They just kept saying ‘The city of Julod, its walls high, its moat wide’. And then they locked weapons on us. So we, y’know, decided we’d go the long way around.”

Turanya shook his head and picked up a small padd from the desk in front of him, raising a single eyebrow in confusion.

“But your engineer told my repair teams that the damage to your vessel was caused by a Breen scout ship?”

Jirel crewed on another pine nut and nodded, confidence levels still operating within normal parameters.

“Ah, yep, well, our new route had us skirting pretty close to the new border of Breen space. And, apparently, also a tiny bit over the border. Which was an honest mistake, but they didn’t give us a chance to explain that.”

Turanya’s second eyebrow joined his first.

“And then,” the Trill continued, “After we got through all that, we picked up the distress call.”

“...Distress call?”

“Yeah. From a transport ship ferrying a Kriosian princess to the Sentaxian system.”

“You…rescued a princess?”

Commander Turanya’s eyebrows were now threatening to flee his face entirely.

“I know what it sounds like,” Jirel smiled back, “But the transport just had a warp core imbalance, so we didn’t ‘rescue’ her so much as we just gave her a lift. We were passing that system on our way here anyway.”

“I see.”

“But, I mean, you know Kriosians, right? And it turned out this princess hadn’t imprinted yet. Said she'd been saving herself for her wedding day. Until she accidentally bumped into my weapons chief at the wrong moment. So then that became a whole thing--”

“Jirel, I’m going to stop you there,” Turanya said with a deep sigh.

Jirel obediently paused, happy that another sticky situation had been successfully avoided thanks to his ever-resilient powers of negotiation. In front of him, the Flaxian leaned forward in his chair, affecting a slightly deeper glower than Jirel would normally have expected from a man who was fully satisfied with the completely truthful explanation that he had been offered for their entirely understandable delays.

“Frankly, I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying.”

Jirel’s latest grin disappeared for a fleeting moment, as his confidence levels suffered a hit. But he quickly rotated his shield harmonics and recovered.

“That’s genuinely what happened,” he persisted, “Ask my crew. Klath had to undergo an ancient Kriosian memory wipe to get out of that whole imprint thing--”

“Stop it.”

Jirel stopped it. His confidence levels now fluctuating under pressure from the Flaxian’s reaction.

“So,” Turanya continued, “They’re fun, the stories. Very entertaining, I’m sure. But here’s the facts of the situation: In return for a very generous quantity of latinum, I entrusted you and your crew with the simple task of transporting two hundred spore samples from Flaxia Prime to my station, so that our researchers could conduct groundbreaking research into fungal lifespans in microgravity.”

“I know,” Jirel nodded, “Sounded super important.”

“Instead, you’ve shown up here five days late. All of the samples are damaged, destroyed or otherwise unusable. And on top of that, you’ve had the front to ask my engineering department to take time out of their refit of the habitation levels to help repair your ship!”

Jirel calmly reached down and grabbed another handful of pine nuts.

“Look, Commander,” he offered, keeping his tone understanding as his confidence returned to peak levels, “I’m as upset as you are. All we wanted was a nice quiet delivery for once--”

“For once?!”

“My point is that we honestly tried our best. But sometimes these things happen out here. And I totally understand if you want to renegotiate payment given what’s happened.”

The Flaxian leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers again.

“Oh, you have no idea how much we need to renegotiate. Because of your delays, the spores are ruined, the research will have to be delayed, which means the funding for the whole project will now need to be returned. And we were supposed to use part of that to get our new onboard animal habitat up and running!”

“Huh,” Jirel managed, his confidence levels shielding him from fully acknowledging how far south this negotiation was heading, “So, what, we’ll keep the upfront payment, you keep the rest of the balance, and we’ll call it even?”

The Trill tried a hopeful smile. And for the first time since their conversation had started, there was a trace of a smile on Turanya’s own face. Though not one that settled the nerves that were starting to impact on his resilience.

As Turanya idly tapped on the padd in his hand and then handed it over, Jirel felt his spots starting to itch.

“Here’s my counter-proposal,” the Flaxian said, calmly but firmly, “You, and your crew, are going to repay that amount of latinum. In full.”

Jirel stared at the figure on the padd. His confidence shattered in an instant.

“Um, I think there’s a typo here. This says you want us to pay--”

“No typo. That’s what you’ve just cost the Flaxian Science Agency.”

Jirel looked back up at the Flaxian commander. Who was still smiling, but definitely didn’t seem to be joking.

“Ok, let’s be real here, Turanya,” the Trill managed, “We both know that there’s no way we can give you that sort of money.”

“Well, I’d suggest you find a way, Jirel. Because until you do, I’m afraid that I have no choice but to keep hold of the collateral.”

“What collateral?”

“Your ship,” Turanya replied with a wider leer, “Which is hereby impounded.”

Jirel’s face dropped. His confidence had fully evaporated. For the first time, he was forced to fully acknowledge that he wasn’t going to talk his way out of this one.

“Y--You can’t do that!”

“I assure you I can,” Turanya replied, his own confidence growing as Jirel’s dwindled, as if he was absorbing it from the Trill’s body, “As per the rules of Flaxian interstellar law. If you need to double check, I think it’s section 17, paragraph 3.”

He gestured back to the padd in Jirel’s hand as he continued.

“You bring me what you owe me, and you can have your ship back. Otherwise, I guess you’re hiking to your next delivery.”

Jirel went to retort again, to try and argue his case further, and talk his way out of what was happening to him and his ship. But something entirely unexpected happened.

He found that he had nothing else to say.

****************************

Moments later, Jirel quietly stepped out of the station commander’s office and into the small reception area.

Over on the benches across the side of the room, the rest of the Bounty’s crew stood up expectantly, and he looked back at them. Klath, his Klingon weapons chief, Denella, his Orion engineer, Natasha Kinsen, his human ex-Starfleet doctor, and Sunek, his emotional Vulcan pilot.

Four people that had entrusted their immediate future in Jirel’s ability to talk his way out of any situation. Four people that were completely exhausted from their eventful trip to the Flaxian science station Reja Gar.

And four people that Jirel now had to tell that they were homeless.

“Well?” Denella asked expectantly, “How did it go?”

The unjoined Trill took a moment to decide on the best way to break the news. Eventually, he settled on his approach.

“So, there’s good news and bad news.”

A long pause. The four people stared back at their de facto leader, as he held his hand out with a hopeful, confident smile.

“The good news is: I got us some pine nuts…”
 
Part One (Cont'd)

“This is all your fault.”

Sunek grumpily gestured at Klath with a wiry accusing finger. The Klingon looked suitably unimpressed at his action.

“How?” he grunted back.

The five Bounty crew members sat around a small table situated in the recreation area of the Reja Gar station, which was positioned down the length of one edge of the station’s main rectangular habitation section.

They had retreated here after leaving the commander’s office, ostensibly to figure out what they were going to do next. But it had quickly and predictably turned into the setting for an argument.

“Because,” Sunek griped, “We could still have been here almost on time if you hadn’t hooked up with that stupid princess!”

Klath growled unhappily back across the table.

“We did not ‘hook up’,” he retorted, “She accidentally allowed herself to imprint on me during a brief moment of weakness, that was all. As I explained to her betrothed’s family before respectfully submitting to the…eighteen stages of the memory wipe ceremony.”

“Besides,” Natasha added with a wisp of a smile, “It’s really not Klath’s fault that he’s so irresistibly attractive.”

Sunek scoffed loudly at this, even as Klath nodded back at the doctor, in complete agreement with her that such a thing was not something that was under his control.

“Psh,” the Vulcan retorted, “Looks have got nothing to--She was a Kriosian metamorph! She’d have imprinted on a hasperat soufflé if it had looked at her the right way!”

“Funny,” Denella mused, “Cos she met you in the transporter room and didn’t seem to--”

“I’d just woken up! I hadn’t fixed my hair! Besides, you know I’ve got more of a cute, understated, boyish thing going on. Some women are so shallow…”

Jirel was loath to break up his crew’s bickering. It was one of their favourite pursuits, after all. But after remaining silent for most of the debate so far, he reluctantly leaned forwards.

“Ok, come on. What the hell are we gonna do here?”

The question brought the argument shuddering straight into a miserable silence.

The Bounty, and all of their belongings, had been well and truly seized before they had even had a chance to get back. Commander Turanya had sent out instructions to seal off the docking bay they had landed in as soon as Jirel had left his office.

“There’s not a chance in hell we can pay what they’re asking,” Denella admitted with a sigh, doing her best to keep her full feelings under the surface.

Though, in truth, she didn’t really need to make the effort. Everyone else knew just how badly the Orion was taking their current plight. After all, as an engineer, she had imprinted on the Bounty with the same level of commitment that the Kriosian princess had with Klath. And now it was lost.

As another unhappy silence descended, Sunek’s face lit up with a flash of inspiration.

“Steal the ship back!” he eagerly exclaimed, before pointing around the table at the others in turn, hunting for some affirmation, “Steal the ship back? Steal the ship back? Steal the--?”

“Ok, sensible ideas only,” Jirel cut in, “This might only be a science station, but Turanya’s got half a dozen Flaxian cruisers out there at his disposal, don’t forget.”

They had seen the extent of the fleet protecting the station as they had arrived. Whatever research was being conducted on Reja Gar, it was being well protected. And while a Flaxian cruiser wasn’t an especially terrifying prospect in and of itself, it was still a match for the Bounty. And half a dozen of them would finish off any escape attempt before it had started.

“In which case,” Natasha shrugged, “We’ve got to reason with him. I dunno, work out a repayment plan, or something.”

“Sure,” Sunek snorted, gesturing at the padd in the middle of the table that still displayed the extent of their debt, “At the rate we rake in the latinum, that should all be squared up just in time for the heat death of the universe.”

“Besides,” Jirel added, “Turanya’s not exactly in a negotiating mood.”

Undeterred, Natasha stood up from the table and grabbed the padd, firing a knowing glance in the Trill’s direction.

“He wasn’t in a negotiating mood with you. That’s not the same thing.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a terrible negotiator, Jirel.”

This comment hit him hard for a couple of reasons. One, because of who it was that said it, which he decided to file away in the recesses of his mind along with the rest of his ever-conflicted feelings for the human doctor. And two, because of what she said. After all, he was a brilliant negotiator.

“Um, I’m a brilliant negotiator,” he shot back to emphasise that particular point.

“Not really,” Natasha replied with a patient smile, which Jirel also swiftly filed away in the recesses of his mind, “I’m sure you think you are, but you definitely have your limits. It’s one of your many, many weaknesses.”

“Yeah,” Denella chimed in, “Like when you tried to talk things out with those Nausicaan pirates last month?”

Jirel snapped a defensive look at his engineer and wagged a finger at her.

“Ok, granted, not my finest hour. But, after that little incident, who successfully talked us into a discount on a replacement shield grid from that Ferengi outpost on Darvan IV?”

“Kinda feels like you’re missing the larger point.”

“So,” Natasha said, waving the padd at the group as Jirel gently simmered in his chair, “Seeing as I’m guessing the rest of you are all just planning to sit around in this bar, drinking and feeling sorry for yourselves all night…?”

She paused to allow any of the other four to offer a counterpoint. But all she got back was four slightly guilty looks.

“I guess I’ll go…negotiate our ship back,” she concluded with a roll of her eyes.

With that, she turned and walked off out of the recreation area. For a moment, Jirel considered following her, but then he turned back to the others with a defiant look.

“I am a good negotiator, you know.”

“Cool,” Sunek yawned, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the bar, “So how about you go negotiate us a round of shots, hmm?”

****************************

“What the hell do you mean ‘no contact’?”

Commander Turanya snapped the question at the face displayed on the small screen on the desk in front of him.

The female Flaxian on the screen, Captain Sonaya of the cruiser Sud Yot, stared impassively back at her superior. Not entirely sure how she could make her report any clearer.

“I mean we’ve heard nothing from the crew since the last scheduled check-in, fourteen hours ago. All we have is a sensor trace. Three sectors away.”

Turanya grimaced and nodded, before smacking a balled fist onto the polished top of the desk. After leaving a short gap for any further reaction from her commander, Sonaya diligently continued with her report.

“From this distance, long-range scans aren’t going to tell us a lot, but we’re not even getting signs of an impulse pattern. Looks like they’re drifting. I would suspect that they’ve suffered a serious power failure of some kind.”

“Power failure? You really think so?”

At this question, Sonaya raised a curious eyebrow.

“What else could it be?” she asked back, entirely reasonably, “It is an older ship, after all. It was due for a refit of its warp core next month.”

“Right,” Turanya nodded, “Lifesigns?”

“Indeterminate. At this range.”

Turanya’s fist made a second impact with the desk as he began to grind his teeth. He could definitely have done without this today. First the collapse of the spore sample research, and now this.

“Ok,” he sighed, quickly composing himself and switching back to business mode, “I guess we’ll have to assume the worst for the time being. I’ll put together a recovery operation and get them ready to ship out asap.”

“Commander,” Sonaya replied, “The Sud Yot is ready for immediate departure--”

Turanya stopped her in the middle of her volunteering with a sharply dismissive wave of his hand.

“No. I’m not risking the Sud Yot. That’s the newest cruiser we’ve got out there.”

Sonaya’s eyebrow raised once again.

“What exactly would we be risking on a simple recovery mission?”

In his rise up the ranks of the Flaxian Science Agency, Turanya had become so used to covering his lies that he barely skipped a beat before he replied.

“I mean that I’d rather have the Sud Yot on patrol back here,” he explained with an entirely believable expression, “We had another report of Kressari raiding parties in the sector last week, so I don’t want to take any chances.”

Sonaya hadn’t seen any such report, but she knew that her superior would be privy to more detailed security briefings than she was. So she merely nodded in understanding.

“I’ll have a word with Captain Grinya on the Ret Kol,” Turanya continued, “I know he’s short a few crew members right now, but he’s a salvage expert.”

Sonaya nodded again, then cocked her head slightly, mulling over whether she should be forward enough to ask her next question. In the end, she decided to proceed.

“Commander, if I may. There have been some rumours around here about the cargo that--”

“I’m aware of the rumours,” he fired back tersely to shut her down, “And I’ll deal with them. You just tell Captain Grinya I want to talk to him.”

A short pause. As if she wanted to push the matter further.

“Understood,” she said eventually, “Sud Yot out.”

The screen went blank, leaving behind a reflection of Turanya’s scowling face in the reflection. As he mulled over the fresh complications in his head, he noted a message pop up from his secretary, indicating that someone was waiting for him in reception.

“Send them in,” he sighed as he tapped the intercom controls.

The door opened and a human woman walked in, dressed in a simple dark tunic top and holding a familiar padd. It didn’t take all of Turanya’s powers of deduction to figure out where she had come from.

“Hi, Commander Turanya,” Natasha began with a friendly smile, “Sorry to bother you, but I--”

“Yes, yes, you’re one of Jirel’s lot, aren’t you. Here to pay what you owe me?”

Natasha was a little thrown by his directness, but she didn’t let it show. Keeping her Academy lessons on diplomacy and mediation at the forefront of her mind, and treating this particular exchange with the delicate touch of a first contact.

“I am here to discuss our…financial situation, yes. So, if I may--”

“There really is nothing to discuss,” Turanya cut in again, “You either have the latinum, or you don’t. And unless you and your colleagues won the Lissepian lottery in the last couple of hours, I’m going to assume that you don’t.”

Natasha wasn’t sure precisely what it was about this particular Flaxian’s demeanour. Whether it was his superior, dismissive attitude. Or the way he kept cutting her off and talking over her. Or simply the fact that he had impounded all of her worldly possessions.

But whatever it was about Commander Turanya, she suddenly found herself dropping her carefully honed Starfleet diplomacy and striding across to the commander’s desk, before slamming the padd down onto the surface with a surprising amount of force.

“Ok, let’s cut the crap,” she fired off, “You know as well as I do that there’s no chance we’re gonna be able to pay this off. Especially when you’ve made so completely sure that we’ve lost the use of our ship.”

Turanya went to retort, but she persisted, not giving him a chance to interrupt her this time.

“And, on top of that, I’m sure you’re also aware of the state of our ship. Collateral or not, you know that’s not even gonna cover the down payment on the amount that you’re asking for. Way I see it, neither of us are getting anything out of the current situation. So…this is where we negotiate.”

She folded her arms in satisfaction and nodded down at the Flaxian. It was his move.

For his part, Turanya looked more than a little irritated at the impudence of her entrance. But he also had to admit that she had a point. His repair crews had delivered an initial report on the state of the collateral down in the landing bays. And to put it mildly, it was no Lissepian lottery prize.

And then, he had a sudden brainwave. A way to combine the twin headaches that he was dealing with right now. His irritation gave way to a more typically insincere leer.

“Perhaps you’re right. And you know what? There might be a solution to all of this, staring us right in the face.”

Natasha’s face betrayed a modicum of uncertainty. Regardless of how she had planned to approach this particular negotiation, she definitely hadn’t expected it to be quite that easy to win the Flaxian over.

“Oh,” she managed, “Well, that’s good to hear.”

Turanya’s smile widened further, as he realised that Captain Grinya and the Ret Kol wouldn’t be short of crew members for much longer. The universe worked in mysterious ways sometimes. And Commander Turanya had just been delivered a consignment of useful idiots. Right to his doorstep.

“Yes,” he nodded, “I think I’ve got the perfect way for you to work off your debt…”
 
Part One (Cont'd)

“Salvage?”

Sunek punctuated his question with a scoff that was loud enough to echo around the now mostly empty rec area. And his comment was backed up by a trio of less than enthusiastic looks from the rest of the Bounty’s crew, as Natasha revealed the results of her negotiation.

“Nope, nuh huh,” the Vulcan continued, “Salvage work is the worst. Creeping around some musty old shipwreck, probably in some stupid stinky spacesuit, just to steal stuff from a bunch of dead people? No thanks.”

“It’s not like that,” Natasha retorted, “This is more of a recovery mission. The ship’s out of power, the crew should still be alive. And it’s one job. We help out with this, and Commander Turanya says he’ll square off our debts. And we get the Bounty back.”

She paused and shrugged a concession.

“I mean, after we’re done with the salvage work, obviously. It’ll be a Flaxian-led operation using one of their cruisers."

Sunek tutted and shook his head again. Further around the table, Jirel’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“One salvage job? Really? And just like that, he’s gonna write off all that latinum?”

“You’re welcome,” Natasha replied with a smile, “And, guys, a little more positivity, maybe? I just saved the day here!”

The previously silent Klath grunted unhappily and folded his burly arms.

“I am…forced to agree with the Vulcan,” he grimaced with extreme reluctance, “There is no honour in salvage work.”

“But there was honour in ferrying a bunch of fungus across the cosmos?” Natasha shot back with a knowing look.

Klath went to fire back an equally sharp response, but found that he didn’t really have one. In truth, he just didn’t like salvage work either.

“That is…not the point.”

Denella shrugged from her side of the table.

“Well, I can’t say it’s what I’d choose to do, but I’d be up for some salvaging. Besides, it’s not like we have much of a choice, right?”

“Ah,” Natasha managed awkwardly, “Actually, you do have a choice. Because there’s something else Turanya wants from us.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yeah. It’s some big engineering project down in the science labs. It’s fallen behind schedule and they need some extra hands. So I…offered our services with that as well. And in return, we’ll be allowed to complete repairs to the Bounty before we leave.”

That seemed to appease the engineer, leaving Natasha free to turn her attention back to the other three at the table, who all remained substantially less appeased.

“Ok, I get it, salvage work sucks. But I’m not hearing any better ideas.”

“Well, here’s one,” Sunek offered, “We had a good run on the Bounty and all, it was fun while it lasted, but I guess now we go our separate ways. Keep in touch. Maybe catch up in a few years, see how we’re all getting on--?”

“Shut up, Sunek,” Denella griped, “I’m getting my ship back.”

“Your ship?” Jirel asked with amusement.

“Whatever. I say we do this.”

Jirel looked back at Denella for a moment, then conceded the point with a nod.

“In the absence of a plan that doesn’t involve salvage work, I guess I’m forced to agree.”

The three of them turned to Klath and Sunek. The Klingon grumbled slightly again, but offered a curt nod of his own. He was in.

“Ugh,” the remaining dissenting voice griped, “I’m still not going salvaging, you know.”

“Perfect,” Denella replied, “You can help me with the building work. Lots of heavy lifting, running around fetching me tools all day, long hours--”

Sunek jumped up from the table in an instant and turned to Jirel, snapping him the sharpest salute that anyone else at the table had ever seen.

“Reporting for salvage duty, sir!”

Jirel stifled a smile as he and the others stood up as well, preparing to depart.

“And you never know, Sunek,” he offered with an optimistic shrug, “Might end up being fun?”

****************************

As soon as he materialised on the transporter pad, Jirel immediately questioned how fun this particular mission was going to be.

He, Klath and Sunek stood on the raised pad and looked around the confines of the room. And at the trio of distinctly unimpressed Flaxians standing by the transporter controls.

Each of them possessed the usual facial ridges of their species, with a central silvery line of nodules running down their noses and wispy sensory tendrils hanging from their chins. But even by Flaxian standards, these three appeared especially tough and grizzled.

They were dressed in sturdy black uniforms with silver communicator pins attached to their chests, and looked entirely ready and prepared for their recovery mission.

In comparison, the three newcomers couldn’t have looked less prepared for a recovery mission if they tried. They wore a variety of creased and mismatched tunics and trousers, and their dishevelled look was topped off by Sunek’s ever-chaotic hairstyle, and Klath’s unfriendly scowl.

It wasn’t all that hard to understand why the Flaxians looked so unimpressed with them.

Jirel suppressed the urge to flinch as he stepped down from the transporter pad and held out a friendly hand to the Flaxians, turning on his winning space adventurer charm once again.

“Hey there,” he grinned, “I’m Jirel. Someone ordered some salvage experts?”

The tallest of the Flaxians slowly looked down at Jirel’s outstretched hand, then back up at the hopeful smile on his face, without his expression softening one iota.

Behind Jirel, Klath stepped down from the pad as well, glaring darkly at the three distrusting figures that faced him.

Sunek took another moment to compose himself before reluctantly stepping down. Someone who talked as much as he did knew it was best not to stand on active transporter pads for too long when someone was at the controls.

Eventually, just as Jirel’s jaw was starting to ache from the effort involved in maintaining the charming grin, and as he was starting to wonder if he needed to lean harder on the universal translator, the lead Flaxian tapped the combadge on his chest.

“Bridge,” he barked out in a deep voice, “The newbies are aboard. Set a direct course for the target. Maximum warp.”

“Confirmed,” the response came through the ether.

Satisfied that his order was being followed, the lead Flaxian clocked the comms link closed, then jerked his head in the direction of the door of the transporter room and began to walk. The three Bounty crew members followed, with the two other still-silent Flaxians bringing up the rear.

Mercifully, given the decidedly awkward atmosphere that was developing, their tour guide did at least start to talk to them once they were moving.

“I’m Captain Grinya,” he explained as they paced down a corridor outside the transporter room, “And this is my ship, the Ret Kol. Fifteen years service for the Flaxian Science Agency.”

“The ship or the captain?” Jirel offered good-naturedly.

He received a sharp glare from Grinya for his efforts, who then turned and led them down an identical second corridor.

“Firstly, understand that I am the leader of this entire operation. And that whatever I tell you to do is what you do. It may sound trivial, or easy, or even beneath you. But salvage work can be dangerous, believe me. Especially when people don’t do what they’re told to do.”

“Don’t worry, I always do as I’m told,” Sunek inevitably piped up, “Just not always exactly when I’m told to do it.”

The Vulcan’s weak attempt at breaking the ice fell on deaf ears, as Grinya continued.

“The three of you will be part of the initial boarding team, along with myself and Lieutenants Deroya and Kataya back there.”

Klath glanced back at the two Flaxians, one male and one female, that followed them. There was still no trace of warmth on their features.

“Is there a problem, Klingon?” the male Flaxian virtually spat at him.

Klath felt an innate urge to fight rising up inside of him at this immediate sign of confrontation, but in a break from tradition, he opted to suppress it.

“No,” he replied in his most measured tone, “No problem.”

Jirel felt the atmosphere around the group drop another few degrees, as he gamely tried to find some sort of rapport with Captain Grinya.

“So, what’s the mission? What are we…salvaging?”

Grinya’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t delay his reply.

“Our target is a Flaxian transport, located three sectors away. Based on our sensor data, they’ve lost main power. Indeterminate lifesigns. No other ships detected in the area. Our mission is to recover and retrieve. Logs, survivors and…cargo.”

“What sort of cargo?”

Jirel wasn’t really all that interested in the answer, and was merely still trying to gamely make some sort of conversation. Still, Grinya’s jaw tightened another notch.

“Cargo that belongs to the Flaxian Science Agency,” he replied curtly.

Before the distinctly awkward conversation had a chance to progress any further, they arrived at a simple plain grey door, seemingly identical to all the other simple plain grey doors they had passed on their walk down the corridors of the Ret Kol so far.

Grinya pointed at the door with a slight sneer.

“These will be your barracks for the trip. I thought it best to keep you separated from the rest of my crew as much as possible. For your own safety.”

He glanced over at Deroya and Kataya, and for the first time since the Bounty’s trio had arrived on board, the Flaxians all shared a sudden burst of laughter. Mocking laughter, but laughter all the same.

Without needing to glance over to check, Jirel could already tell which of his colleagues was going to rise to that piece of obvious provocation.

“I do not need protection!”

Captain Grinya looked back at the snarling form of Klath and shrugged.

“Maybe not,” he conceded, still smiling, “But plenty of my crew love a fight, Klingon. And I don’t want them having too much fun before we’ve finished our mission.”

Klath growled again as the three Flaxians allowed themselves another short burst of mocking laughter, before they walked back the way they had come, leaving the three newcomers alone.

Jirel realised that he’d been holding his breath for some time, and suddenly became very keenly aware that they were onboard an unfamiliar ship, surrounded by unfriendly people, warping away into space.

He felt a long way from home all of a sudden.

“Is it just me?” Sunek asked from over the Trill’s shoulder with more than a trace of sarcasm, “Or are we nailing this so far?”
 
So they're not taking the Bounty to do the salvage job? That definitely limits their options. Better check whatever EVA suits and tools they're provided - this definitely sounds like a knife-in-the-back sort of adventure...

Thanks!! rbs
 
Part One (Cont'd)

Natasha had been feeling pretty good about her negotiating skills after her initial meeting with Commander Turanya. To the point that she hadn’t thought twice about offering to help Denella with the engineering side of things back onboard the Reja Gar station.

Unfortunately for her, she hadn’t been the only one impressed with her skills. It turned out that she’d also made quite an impression on Turanya himself.

“You know, I had no idea that you were ex-Starfleet when we met earlier. We’re always on the lookout for extra researchers at the Flaxian Science Agency.”

The oily Flaxian walked alongside her as she carried the crate of engineering parts along one of the labyrinth of corridors inside the station, contributing the bulk of the work to a conversation that Natasha had no interest in having.

He had offered to carry the crate for her, and she had been hoping that her polite but firm rejection of that offer would have been enough of a hint that she would rather have been left alone. But apparently Jirel wasn’t the only one whose negotiating skills had their limits.

She walked through the door to the science lab where Denella was working, followed by her unshakable Flaxian shadow. The Orion engineer glanced up from where she was working at a bank of computer consoles on the far side of the room, and caught the meaning behind Natasha’s knowing glare as soon as she saw it.

“Seriously,” Turanya continued, having caught none of the meaning, “With your qualifications and experience, you’d have the pick of the projects out here.”

Natasha placed the crate down with a thud and turned back to the Flaxian, trying to maintain a significantly more polite tone than the situation merited.

“Again, that’s a very kind offer, Commander Turanya. But as I’ve already told you, I’m a doctor, not a scientist.”

“Psh,” Turanya replied, his powers of awkward flirtation apparently unaffected by her comment, “Mere technicalities. As a medic, you have to know so much about so many different species out here in this galaxy of ours, you’re basically a biologist.”

“Hmm. Never had to treat a Flaxian before, actually,” she mused, maintaining her polite tone, before pointedly adding, “Yet.”

If Turanya was taken aback by that comment, he didn’t let it show. Instead, he broke into a cheery smile and wagged a tendriled finger at her.

“You’re spunky. I like that.”

Natasha fought off the urge to roll her eyes, and settled on sending a second knowing glare in Denella’s direction, who offered an apologetic shrug back.

“Tell you what,” the Flaxian commander continued unabashed, “How about we discuss all of this further. Over dinner? You know, the station commander’s dining area on Reja Gar gives an incredible view of the Plavian nebula…”

Natasha let out a tired sigh. Inside, she considered the sad fact that there was definitely a part of her that had fallen for this sort of boastful behaviour in the past. Not just her ex-husband Cameron, but more recently with Mizar Bal, a Ktarian who had turned out to be a criminal mastermind. Or even Jirel himself, when she had first arrived on the Bounty.

Still, she also noted that all of those men in her past had at least a modicum of charm to back up their more boastful side. Which was a department in which Turanya was entirely lacking.

“Honestly,” she said eventually, with a firmer tone, “Thanks for the kind offer, but I really think I’m better off where I am.”

“You’re homeless,” the Flaxian pointed out.

She offered him a smile and a gentle pat on his shoulder.

“Yep. I am. So, you let that sink in as you’re watching that nebula of yours over dinner, ok?”

Turanya looked a little offended for a moment, before his scaly face creased into another wide grin and he wagged another finger at her.

“You’re spunky,” he repeated, as he shook his head and made for the exit to the lab, “I…really like that…”

As the door closed, Natasha let out another sigh, this time of relief. Then she walked over to where Denella was still working.

“Hear that? I’m spunky.”

The Orion engineer offered a sympathetic smile, but had no interest in poking fun at the unwanted attention that the other woman was receiving. After all, she had plenty of experience of having to deal with that sort of thing.

So, instead, she turned her attention back to their work. Because she had some more pressing issues on her mind.

“I wanted to talk to you about all this,” she said, gesturing around the lab.

The room they were in was distinctly more modern than the rest of the interior of Reja Gar that they had seen so far, indicating that this was part of some new flagship scientific endeavour that had been designed from the ground up.

It was divided into two distinct areas. The main part, where they were standing, was clearly the main laboratory. It was filled with banks of computers, testing equipment and the like, all of which Denella was currently setting up.

And then there was the other, smaller section of the room. It was partitioned off by a stout metal frame that was evidently designed to house a forcefield of some kind. And it was this part that Denella had some issues about.

“What exactly are we building here again?”

“A research facility,” Natasha shrugged as she glanced around and gestured to the partitioned area, “Commander Turanya said they’re going to build an arboretum in there and complete a long-term study of plant growth patterns in artificial gravity.”

Denella didn’t seem at all convinced by this, even as Natasha continued.

“Actually, it sounds really fascinating. They’re going to test out a range of atmospheric conditions, and there’s a real potential for the results to apply to long-range terraforming projects. If you can adapt the required plant life to the planetary conditions en route, that would shave decades off the time it usually takes to--”

“Are you sure you’re not a scientist?” Denella asked with a wryly amused look, “Because you can definitely talk like one.”

Natasha looked a little sheepish, as the Orion turned back to the fenced-off area.

“Anyway, my point is: Why does an arboretum need a type-45 forcefield to be installed?”

“Like I said,” Natasha replied, “They’re going to test out--”

“Different atmospheric conditions, I know. But you can achieve atmospheric containment with just about any old forcefield. Why specify one so powerful?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I dunno,” Denella admitted with a shrug, “But it kinda feels like Commander Turanya has asked me to build a cage.”

Natasha looked back at the fenced-off section of the lab, and suddenly felt unnerved.

****************************

Jirel felt like he was flying.

In fact, he was flying. For a brief moment. He sailed across the mess hall of the Flaxian cruiser Ret Kol in a graceful arc, momentarily freed from the confines of the ship’s artificial gravity. Until his impromptu flight was brought to a significantly less graceful end by the form of one of the stout metal tables inside the mess hall, which the Trill landed on in a pained heap.

Today's lunch was proving to be a very eventful meal on the Ret Kol.

Breathing heavily, and wincing from the pain of the impact, he managed to roll away across several unfinished meals, before dropping back to his feet and refocusing on the fight.

He barely had time to note Klath on the other side of the room, growling in exertion as he lifted a burly Flaxian over his shoulders and threw him to the ground. Or Sunek, who was in the middle of sprinting down the length of one of the other tables, pursued by three other Flaxians.

Because as soon as Jirel got back to his feet, he found himself having to evade a punch being thrown at his face, and failing to evade a second one thrown at his stomach.

He wheezed in pain as the shot connected, but managed to connect with a punch of his own to momentarily daze his own opponent.

The fight had been on the cards ever since they had arrived onboard the Ret Kol. While the trio of Bounty crew members had mostly kept themselves to themselves onboard, as per Captain Grinya’s suggestion, they had occasionally mingled with the rest of the crew, at mealtimes and during mission briefings.

And there had always been plenty of needle between the grizzled salvage veterans and the strangers in their midst. It was fair to say that the Ret Kol’s crew didn’t have much respect for them, and Jirel had to admit that they hadn’t done a great job in earning any.

And with each passing mealtime over the two day voyage, the tension in the air had ratcheted up a notch and the glares they got had become more adversarial. Until lunchtime today, when an especially large member of the Ret Kol’s engineering team had casually walked up to where Klath was sitting and deposited a large helping of spit directly into the Klingon’s ration of Flaxian stew.

That action had proved to be more than enough to get things going.

As he evaded another punch, Jirel heard Klath roar in satisfaction again, accompanied by the sound of another Flaxian body being slammed into something substantial.

At least someone was enjoying themselves.

Klath spun around from the latest enemy he had dispatched and grappled with another Flaxian who charged at him. He recognised him as Lieutenant Kataya, from when they had beamed aboard. The Flaxian seemed to revel in their scuffle.

The Klingon gritted his teeth as he was slammed back against the wall of the mess hall, still relishing the fight despite the surge of pain that lanced through him.

Further across the room, Sunek found himself cornered by Lieutenant Deroya, the female Flaxian they had met when they had beamed aboard. He whipped his head one way and then the other to avoid a couple of swings of her fists as he panted in exertion.

“Um, guys,” he shouted out, “Can we all just clarify what the rules are here? Are we in a ‘it’s ok to hit a woman’ kinda scenario, or--?”

Before Sunek got any further, Deroya threw a punch that connected with the Vulcan’s side, and followed it up with a kick to what was almost universally established across humanoid species as being the part of their body they least appreciated being kicked in.

“Ok,” Sunek managed to cough, as his eyes widened in pain, “That…is definitely against the rules.”

Jirel himself was busily embarking on his second flight of the afternoon, having been launched back across the room by his new fighting partner onto another of the mess hall’s tables.

This time, he couldn’t stop himself from sliding clean off the sturdy piece of furniture in a clattering pile of arms, legs, metal canteen plates and leftovers. He wearily groaned where he landed, as a sizeable portion of Flaxian stew landed in his hair.

The fight had finally been knocked out of him. But before his adversary could take advantage, and before the fight could escalate even further, the door to the mess hall opened.

The dozen brawling individuals stopped in the middle of whatever they were doing, and a collection of dazed Flaxians, a snarling Klingon, a wheezing Vulcan and a Trill covered in leftover stew all watched as Captain Grinya strode in, flanked by his second in command, Lieutenant Rondya.

For a moment, there was silence, as the grizzled captain surveyed the scene of carnage in front of him with a look that suggested this wasn’t the first time he’d walked in on this sort of thing.

That suggestion was confirmed moments later, when the Flaxian captain’s face creased into an amused smile.

“I told you my crew loved a fight, didn’t I, Klingon?” he offered in Klath’s direction.

Still panting from the exertion of the battle, and working on controlling the blood lust that still boiled away inside, Klath mustered a curt nod back and nothing more. He was surprised to feel a supportive pat on his shoulder at the same time, and was more surprised to turn and find Lieutenant Kataya respectfully smiling back at him.

“I’d heard Klingons fight well,” he grunted, “But I’d never gotten the chance to see it until now. You didn’t disappoint.”

Klath wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so he fired off another of his curt nods. A motion that he hoped conveyed succinctly enough that he’d enjoyed himself as well.

“Still,” Captain Grinya barked out, getting everyone’s attention back to him, “There’s no more time for fun and games. We’re closing on our target. Lifesign readings are still indeterminate, so we’re now treating this as a priority alpha situation. Beam-in team, be ready in the transporter room in precisely fifteen minutes. Full spacesuits.”

He glanced at Jirel, just as a particularly large dollop of Flaxian stew dropped from his hair onto the deck below.

“In the meantime, get yourselves cleaned up. Newbie.”

****************************

Fifteen and a half minutes later, a completely stew-free Jirel led Klath and Sunek into the Ret Kol’s transporter room. And Sunek was still complaining.

“All I’m saying is below the belt is…below the belt! They literally named the thing after the thing!”

“Shut up, Sunek,” Jirel sighed.

All three of them were now clad in form-fitting Flaxian-spec spacesuits, replicated by their hosts to their exact dimensions to allow for full mobility. Each carried their bulky transparent helmets in their hands for the time being.

The three Flaxian members of the beam-in team were already in position on the transporter pad, clad in their own grey spacesuits with helmets locked in position. The faces of Captain Grinya and Lieutenants Deroya and Kataya were visible through their visors. And none of them looked happy to have been kept waiting, nor to be getting treated to another rant from Sunek.

“And another thing,” the Vulcan continued, gesturing to his helmet, “How come we need all this? They can’t scan that crate to check for an air supply over there? What kind of useless operation--”

“I said,” Jirel sighed, feeling a trio of glares burning into him from on the pad, “Shut up, Sunek.”

“What? It’d take five seconds for them to--”

“Our scans indicate an atmosphere,” Captain Grinya interjected, his voice oddly distorted as it came through a speaker on the outside of his sealed helmet, “The suits are a precaution. Until we ascertain exactly what has happened over there. And, just in case this wasn’t clear, they are a requisite precaution.”

The tall Flaxian stepped off the pad with a heavy footstep and stood towering over the wiry form of the Vulcan.

“Now, put your damn helmet on and get onto the damn transporter pad. Now.”

For a brief moment, Sunek considered firing off the comeback that was forming in the back of his mind. But eventually decided better of it. Instead, he reluctantly fixed his helmet into position, as Jirel and Klath did the same.

As the three of them stepped onto the pad and turned back, the Flaxian transporter operator walked over to them and wordlessly offered out three bulky phaser rifles.

“Better take one of those each,” Grinya continued, his voice now oddly echoing around their individual helmets over the inter-suit comms link, “Again, precautionary.”

Each of the Bounty crew members took one of the heavy rifles. A modular and industrial design that none of them were entirely familiar with. Jirel noted now that the three Flaxian members of the beam-in team already carried their own versions of the weapon.

As Klath quickly familiarised himself with the controls, Jirel once again heard Sunek’s voice drifting over the comms link.

“Lotta phasers for a simple salvage mission, isn’t there?”

Jirel declined to tell the Vulcan to shut up again.

Instead, and not for the first time since he had arrived onboard the Ret Kol, he suppressed a gulp.

End of Part One
 
Great fight and enjoyable that it kind of develops an understanding between Klath and Kataya - that might come in handy...

Perhaps Natasha should reconsider that date in light of new information. She just might need to pump the commander for more information...

Thanks!! rbs
 
Part Two

The six figures materialised inside a darkened corridor onboard the derelict vessel.

As soon as their patterns had finished reforming on the deck plates, Captain Grinya and his Flaxian lieutenants tapped the sides of their helmets to flick on the torchlights on top of the headgear and swung around to sweep down each direction of the corridor.

At the same time, Grinya flicked on the comms link back to the Ret Kol with a tap of his suit’s wrist controls, while Deroya and Kataya tapped their own wrist controls to perform initial scans with the built-in tricorder.

All of their actions were performed with the practised speed of a group of people who had done this sort of thing dozens of times before.

“Grinya to Ret Kol.”

“Rondya here,” the gruff voice of his second in command came back.

“We’ve completed beam-in. Main power is definitely offline, no sign of any crew. Or any bodies. For now. Keep the channel clear for updates. Grinya out.”

While the Flaxians were following their usual procedures, the three Bounty crew members were working on keeping up, switching on their own helmet torchlights.

Jirel found himself suppressing a shiver that ran down his spine as he peered down the shadowy and uninviting corridor ahead of him, bathed only in thin torch beams.

“Lifesign readings are still unclear. But no contaminants detected,” Deroya reported over the separate suit-to-suit comms channel as she tapped her wrist controls.

“Well, that's something at least,” Sunek grunted, reaching to undo his helmet.

“No!” Grinya snapped at the Vulcan.

“Wh--? What the hell were you transporting in this thing? The Tarellian plague?”

Grinya ignored the latest round of sarcasm from Sunek and checked his own readouts, explaining his reasoning as he did so.

“As the lieutenant said, Scans are still muddled. It’s possible they’re missing something. Until we find the crew, or until we get main power back online and run a full internal sensor sweep, helmets stay on and suits stay sealed. This is not a debate.”

With that matter settled, the lead Flaxian turned to the rest of the group and began to bark out orders.

“Ok, people, this is the part where I tell you what you’re gonna do, and then you all go and do it, without screwing anything up. Everyone clear?”

Jirel braced himself for Sunek’s inevitable contribution to that question, but to his surprise, the Vulcan remained silent. He couldn’t help but absently wonder whether there was a fault with his comms unit.

“Myself and Lieutenant Deroya will head to main engineering, get main power back up,” Grinya continued, “The Klingon and the Vulcan will head up to the bridge and set up the data link back to the Ret Kol, so they can start downloading data recorders and mission logs. And Lieutenant Kataya, you take newbie here and begin a deck by deck sweep for crew and cargo. Tag everything of value for us to retrieve with the Ret Kol’s transporter, and get any survivors back to sickbay, stat.”

“Great,” Jirel muttered to himself, forgetting his own comms link for a second, “Splitting up. That always works.”

Grinya took a slow and deliberate step towards him and fixed the Trill with a glare.

“You got a problem with my orders, feel free to sign up for the Flaxian Science Agency, work your way up the chain of command until you outrank me, and then tell me what to do. In the meantime, remember: I’m the leader of this operation. And you will do whatever the hell I tell you to do. I’ve not lost a member of a salvage team in fifteen years, and I’m not gonna start today.”

His eyes narrowed slightly as he stared down at Jirel.

“Besides, you'd better do a good job, or that debt of yours with Commander Turanya’ll grow a little bigger.”

He didn’t bother to wait for a response, and instead turned on his heels and led Deroya away down the corridor. Once he was a safe distance away, Sunek took a moment to snap a very sharp, and very sarcastic salute in his direction. Despite their situation, Jirel failed to hide the smirk.

Lieutenant Kataya, meanwhile, didn’t seem to be in a smirking mood.

“Ok, you all heard the Captain,” he barked over the short-range comms link in their helmets, jabbing a gloved finger in Jirel’s direction, “You’re with me. The two of you, get to the bridge and set up that transfer. And everyone keep an eye out for lifesigns.”

Like Grinya, he didn’t wait for any sort of affirmation either. He was used to people doing as they were told. Instead, he hoisted his phaser rifle, tapped a couple of commands into his wrist-mounted controls, and set off.

Jirel offered the scowling Klath and the distinctly nervous Sunek a shrug, then took off after the Flaxian before he disappeared from sight.

With only Klath left for company, Sunek made for a set of turbolift doors that were recessed in a nearby alcove. He paused in momentary confusion when they failed to open.

“What the hell?”

“Perhaps you missed the fact that main power was offline,” Klath grunted from behind him.

“Yeah, but then how are we supposed to--?”

Sunek paused mid-question as he turned to see Klath disappearing into an access conduit a little further down the corridor, to begin their slow and laborious journey up to the bridge.

The Vulcan sighed inside his helmet with enough intensity to temporarily fog the visor.

“I really hate salvage work…”

****************************

She watched them from a safe distance, keeping herself well concealed.

As soon as she had heard them arrive, she instinctively reacted and hid herself away. Just as she had learned to with the others.

She knew now that it was important to remain out of sight. Until the time was right.

Fortunately, it was easy enough for her to remain concealed, especially when she was so small. So she had calmly watched on as they had debated and gesticulated at each other before they eventually split up.

She hadn’t been able to hear what they were talking about, and struggled to discern much about the newcomers at all given how they were dressed in identical suits. She certainly couldn’t make out any details of their features through their helmets.

She had also never seen a Flaxian phaser rifle before, but a distant memory somewhere inside her instinctively made her feel wary about them. Especially when she saw the way they were being held by the newcomers.

And although she had remained concealed and undetected, their presence worried her. She hadn’t expected any more to show up. She thought that she had done everything that she needed to do. But it appeared that her task was still not at an end.

Once again, she found herself wishing that she could just go home. She ached to be back where she had been before all this had started. Before she had started to kill.

But all of that seemed so far away, like a distant and faded memory.

And besides, she had no idea how she would even get there any more. Whatever she used to do, or used to be, this was what she was now.

So, instead of going home, she crept onwards after two of the newcomers. Keeping herself carefully hidden from view for the time being, and using her skills to ensure that they had no possible idea of what was silently stalking them.

She continued to observe them for now, but she knew that soon she would have to act.

Because she didn’t think she was going to like these people either.
 
Part Two (Cont'd)

The bridge of the derelict had been peaceful and silent for some time.

Then, in an instant, the silence was shattered by the sound of an access hatch clattering to the ground, and two ungainly figures in spacesuits awkwardly clambering out onto the deck.

All the while, Klath’s own peaceful silence was being shattered by the sound of Sunek’s long list of complaints over their short-range comms link.

“Five decks! Five decks, crawling on our hands and knees inside a bunch of musty old conduits, in a stupid heavy spacesuit which, frankly, I’m starting to think wasn’t even freshly replicated! Does yours smell weird?”

Klath got back to his feet and retrieved the phaser rifle from where it was slung on his back, swinging the weapon around the darkened bridge and using the torch sight along with his own helmet lights to scan for any threats.

“No,” he replied to the Vulcan as he did so, “My suit is fine.”

Sunek clambered back up onto his own two feet, and caught the clear message in the Klingon’s grunted comment.

“Yeah, ok, I know what you’re implying, smart guy. But it’s not me. Vulcans don’t sweat. And besides, I have a very pleasant natural odour. Every single one of my exes have said that I’m--”

“Completely empty,” Klath muttered.

It took Sunek’s indignation a moment to realise that Klath’s attention was still on the bridge of the derelict itself. The Vulcan swept his own spotlights around the room to confirm the Klingon’s initial analysis of the situation.

The bridge was a fairly typical design for most species throughout the quadrant, with a forward helm position, a central command chair and several other consoles and interfaces dotted around the perimeter of the room. Sunek noted that, aside from the command chair, every other station was a standing position. On Flaxian ships, it seemed that only the captain got the comfortable option.

At the front of the room stood a small but functional viewscreen. Albeit one that was currently offline, along with just about every other screen or readout on the bridge.

And, as Klath had correctly pointed out, the entire room was completely empty. Not that Sunek seemed overly worried by that at first.

“So?” he shrugged, “What were you expecting? A surprise party?”

Klath stepped cautiously and quietly around the expanse of the room, making sure to scan into every dark corner with his lights.

“No,” he replied tersely, “I was expecting dead bodies.”

“So, like, a Klingon surprise party?”

Klath suppressed a sigh, the tension inside him continuing to rise as he completed his sweep of the seemingly empty room.

“We have still detected no lifesigns, but this vessel apparently only suffered a power failure,” he patiently explained to his companion, “Which means that some of the crew would have remained on the bridge while repairs were attempted.”

Sunek considered this statement for a moment, cocking an eyebrow as he thought through the likeliest answer to Klath’s concerns.

“Maybe they abandoned ship?”

“Perhaps they did,” Klath replied, “Or at least attempted to. Which is a very…illogical response to a simple power failure, would you not agree?”

At this leading comment, Sunek suppressed a shudder that suddenly passed down the length of his spine.

Without being entirely sure why he was doing it, he found himself unslinging his own rifle from his back and idly thumbing the power setting onto a medium stun.

“Alright, come on, stop messing around, buddy,” he managed to stammer out, “What the hell are you getting at?”

The Klingon walked back over to the Vulcan, still darting glances around the dark recesses of the bridge as he did so. His battle senses were definitely hardening.

“Something I sensed as soon as we arrived here. Something is very wrong here.”

“I--In what way?”

“It is as if everyone on this vessel decided to…run.”

A second shudder followed the first down Sunek’s spine. He quickly thumbed his rifle onto the heaviest stun setting available.

“Ok, look,” he added, gesturing to the consoles, “Let’s get this stupid data link sorted. The sooner we do that, the sooner we can get the hell off this crate and you can tell me your ghost stories somewhere a lot less creepy. Deal?”

Klath’s senses still alerted him to the danger of their situation, and he felt his blood lust rising once again. But he controlled that for the time being, and nodded back at the Vulcan.

The pair of them moved over to one of the side consoles of the bridge, and before Klath could start to work, Sunek took over the entire task.

“Right,” he said as his gloved fingers danced across the dimmed controls, “There’s enough juice in the reserve batteries to get this done without main power. I’m gonna patch out a link to the other ship, then they can take over and pull whatever they need from the database.”

Despite the darker feelings inside him right now, Klath couldn’t help but watch on in quiet satisfaction as the Vulcan actually put some effort in for once. Not only was it a rare enough event to be celebrated in its own right, but he had also stopped complaining.

The Klingon was almost allowing himself to relax a tad when the main comms units inside their helmets suddenly flared into life.

“Search team checking in,” they heard Jirel's familiar voice say with a clear modicum of worry, “We've...found a body.”

Klath tensed up all over again, even as Sunek patted him on his arm.

“See, buddy?” the Vulcan said over their shorter suit-to-suit link, “There’s your bodies.”

Klath ignored his comment, listening in to the main link as Captain Grinya’s gruff voice responded to Jirel with clear irritation.

“It’s a salvage mission, newbie. Should expect to find some bodies.”

“Yeah,” Jirel replied, “But not in the state this one’s in.”

The third shudder that jolted down his spine was sharp enough to cause Sunek’s fingers to jump across the controls with even more haste.

To his side, Klath gripped his phaser rifle even more tightly. Whatever Jirel’s comment meant, he was now certain that the crew had been running.

The next question was: From what?

****************************

Like most 24th century spacefarers, Jirel tended to intensely dislike wearing spacesuits of any description.

Centuries ago, such heavy outfits had been a basic requirement of space travel, in order to keep their occupant alive and well in whatever harsh environment they found themselves in. But since the advent of reliable artificial atmospheres and gravity, together with precise sensor readings and transporter biofilters to protect against most threats, they had been phased out for just about anything other than external spacewalks.

All of which meant that it was now possible to spend your entire life travelling in space without ever having to wear a spacesuit, being able to walk around or beam in and out of any environment as you pleased, unencumbered by anything other than the clothes you had on at the time. And the rare occasion when you actually had to pull on a spacesuit tended to be seen as a universal chore.

Still, right now, Jirel was glad to be inside the bulky confines of his Flaxian spacesuit. Because at least the suit and his helmet were helping to block out a couple of his senses.

He stood alongside Kataya and surveyed the grisly scene they had stumbled into, and took a moment to control a fresh feeling of nausea.

There was very little left of whoever it had been. Little more than a ragged, shredded torso lying in a dried-up pool of crimson blood. After a brief supplementary search, Kataya had found a couple of limbs a short distance away. They still hadn’t found the head.

Jirel glanced over at his impassive Flaxian search partner, even as Captain Grinya’s voice filled his helmet over the still-open comms link.

“Tag the remains and move on. We’ll beam them to the Ret Kol when we’re finished up over here. Meantime, there’s a lot more searching to be done.”

The Trill stifled a scoff at the dispassionate nature of his response. He was pretty sure he’d been detailed enough in his description of what they’d found.

“You heard what I said, right?” he replied with more than a trace of anger audible in his words, “This guy’s been--”

“Understood, Captain,” Kataya butted in over the open link, “Tagging and moving on. Search team out.”

Before Jirel could act, Kataya had closed the link for him. The Flaxian then dutifully thumbed the controls of his rifle into tagging mode and shot a small isolinear tag into the bloodied torso. All the easier for the Ret Kol to identify it and beam it back.

With that done, he stood back up straight, kept his weapon raised, and continued down the corridor in the direction they had been heading. A shocked Jirel took one last look at the remains, suppressed another wave of nausea, and then took off after the slowly marching Flaxian.

“That’s it?” he called out over their suit-to-suit link.

Kataya didn’t look over at him, continuing to sweep his spotlights across the deck in front of them instead.

“That’s it,” he grunted in response.

“But,” Jirel persisted, “Wh--I mean, what the hell did that? What the hell were they transporting on this ship, anyway? Whoever that poor guy was, it looked like he’d been…I dunno, mauled by something!”

Kataya’s focus remained on the path ahead, but inside his helmet, his jaw clenched a fraction tighter before he responded.

“Unclear. Explosive decompression, engineering malfunction, some kind of previously undiscovered interstellar phenomenon--”

“Interstellar phenomenon?” Jirel scoffed, “Yeah, sure, maybe a type-4 meteor just swung by and ate the guy!”

Kataya stopped suddenly and swung back around to Jirel, fixing him with a stern glare.

“And what exactly is your theory? Hmm? Some big old space monster on a ship where we're still detecting no lifesigns? That seems more likely to you?”

Jirel felt the intensity of Kataya’s glare even through the visor of his helmet, but he maintained his own stance without shrinking back.

“I thought those readings weren’t reliable?” he offered back, “Otherwise, what exactly is Captain Grinya having us search for?”

Kataya went to retort, then paused. Clearly the Trill had caused him to run into a momentary logical dichotomy. But it didn’t take long for his expression to harden again, back into work mode.

“Listen, newbie,” he grunted, “I don’t know how you normally do things wherever the hell you’re from, but we’ve been given an order by Captain Grinya. And when he does that, we don’t ask questions, we don’t start playing make-believe, we follow his orders. Because when we stop doing that, that’s when things go wrong.”

Jirel couldn’t help but fire off the response that jumped onto the tip of his tongue.

“That guy back there,” he gestured back to the remains, “Think he followed orders?”

He regretted saying it as soon as it was done, even though he stood by it as a question, seeing Kataya’s expression contort into an even deeper scowl. For a moment, he even wondered if Kataya was about to settle things as he and his crewmates had tried to settle things in the mess hall earlier.

But instead, the Flaxian merely jabbed a gloved finger back down the corridor as he spat out his response.

“I have no idea what the hell happened back there, ok? But I do know that the best way to make sure the same thing doesn’t happen to us is if we make sure not to jeopardise the entire salvage operation. Now, we’ve tagged it, and we’re moving on. Clear?”

Jirel stared back at the Flaxian. Almost every fibre of his being was telling him to continue to argue his point further with the order-following lieutenant. Or even to entirely go rogue and signal back to the Ret Kol to beam them back.

But once again, he was also keenly aware of just how far away from home he was. He had lost the Bounty, he had left Natasha and Denella many light years away. And now he was even separated from Klath and Sunek. Every one of his friends and his comforts had been stripped away.

And he felt very alone indeed.

So, instead of arguing, he quickly walked off after Lieutenant Kataya, as he strode on deeper and deeper into the maze of corridors inside the derelict ship.

Getting even further away from home with every footstep.

And as he walked down the darkened corridors, he couldn’t shake a feeling that had been cultivating in the back of his mind since they had beamed in.

A feeling that was unsettling enough to make his spots itch.

He felt like they were being watched.
 
That's one instinct Jirel should probably trust - the sense of being watched. I'm liking the spooking of both Jirel and Sunek - who finally snaps into get it done mode when he realized just how wrong everything is on this wreck. Nice rising action sequence - Thanks!! rbs
 
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