Chapter Three
THUMANN’S
RENCOR SYSTEM
SECTOR 7211
In its long and chequered career,
Thumann’s had carried many names. It began, almost seventy years previously, as
Thumann’s Interstellar Trading and Cargo Hub. This lasted only as long as it took Sebastian Thumann, the diminutive owner and proprietor of said establishment, to realise that the acronym spelt TITCH and subsequently sack his entire PR staff.
Much to his chagrin, the appellation stuck with him personally though the multispecies station would go on to be known variously as
Thumann’s Folly, Thumann’s Freeport, Thumann Station, Agrelax Holdings – during a dubious and quite likely illegal exercise in tax adjusting – and finally to everybody’s relief, simply
Thumann’s.
Whatever it’s somewhat shadowy history, however,
Thumann’s provided a necessary service to both interplanetary and interstellar commerce. Docking and servicing operations combined with entertainment, administration and accommodation facilities in an area of space that had become a crossroads for major military and merchant routes.
As a Freeport,
Thumann’s owed allegiance to no government or sponsor, which is precisely the way Thumann had planned it when he began the business. All visiting vessels were welcomed equally with one single proviso; anybody damaging the station, the fragile status quo or Thumann’s personal reputation would receive a lifetime ban from the station and (unwritten of course) would probably encounter a serious accident in the very near future.
Only once had this been put to the test when a particularly vile Klingon Captain by the name of Klath approached the station requesting facilities for a victory celebration. The entire crew, many of whom were half drunk on bloodwine already, had been allowed to beam across to the station. Despite the warning against bellicose behaviour – or perhaps, knowing the Klingons, because of it – Klath’s crew took one too many liberties.
When ordering them to leave the station proved fruitless (and altogether too dangerous to the station itself), trickery and improvised provocation succeeded in luring the crew en masse to a docking bay allegedly containing a tribble trader with a bad attitude towards Klingons in general. When the empty bay ‘accidentally’ depressurised, the problem of Klath’s crew was solved.
It was a measure of the Klingon High Council’s respect for
Thumann’s ‘open arms’ policy that they demanded no reparation for the loss of Klath and his crew. Repairs to the station itself were paid for by an anonymous benefactor through several layers of financial go-betweens and the incident had become famous as the warning not to bite the hand that feeds. It was a warning that had served its purpose ever since.
High in the central core of the large station, Thumann sat in his expansive office surrounded by a plethora of sensor screens that gave him views from all over the station and images of the ships docking there. He was currently in the midst of receiving the morning briefing from his chief operations manager. Thumann didn’t fit the generic image that usually went with a high profile entrepreneur. His clothes were expensive but not gaudy, any jewellery he wore was equally affluent but discrete. In fact it would have been possible to pass him in one of the station’s corridors and have no suspicion whatsoever that he was the owner of a multi-million credit business.
His senior ops manager was equally well attired in an understated way and softly spoken at all times. It was known only to a select few, however, that the polite yet genial Bolian, Froll, was an acknowledged expert in much more physical aspects of his job than simple administration, skills that had gone a long way to securing him the position in the first place.
“So, no issues with the Orions then?”
“Absolutely not Sir,” Froll replied. “Docking fees are up to date including surcharges for extended pylon stay. Shipmaster Lerix has already provided us with extensive amounts of very valuable intelligence. It seems,” he grinned amicably with perfect white teeth, “that your decision to extend prolonged docking rights was spot on as usual.”
Thumann nodded as if the statement was self evident. What he didn’t mention to Froll was that he and Lerix went back quite some time and the Orion already owed Thumann a debt of gratitude that was unlikely ever to be discharged considering its origin. Thumann didn’t overtly use the debt by way of control over Lerix because it was only one of many markers that he held. If the time ever came where he really had to call them in,
Thumann’s would be an ex-business and he would be in desperate need.
“Promenade business?”
The outer ring that connected all four docking pylons was lined from end to end with bars, shops, gambling establishments and other entertainment venues. It was said, quite accurately, that if there was a legal form of entertainment or cuisine that the promenade couldn’t cater for then Thumann himself would authorize free docking rights for a year as well as ensuring that the missing item would quickly be added to the list of services offered. He’d never yet had to follow up on the offer. Nothing was ever mentioned about some of the more borderline legal services.
“Busy and profitable,” continued Froll. “The fire in Hondray’s Holo-suites caused us one or two minor headaches but the section is now back in operation again.”
Thumann ticked that one off his mental to-do list. In any spacebound business operation, fire was the most destructive and lethal emergency to deal with. Even decompression – unless catastrophic – allowed time for people to be evacuated or areas sealed off. To his credit, Thumann had ensured that the safety aspects of the station were state of the art knowing full well, of course, that he spent as much time here as the patrons did.
“Security has nothing major outstanding,” continued Froll. “The usual pickpockets, holo-scams and drunken scuffles that give our little corner of the universe a roguish tinge of colour.”
Thumann chuckled at that. On the whole, the station was a legal operation that abided by the majority of laws that any spacefaring community was required to do. Thumann saw that as a positive because he was making a good profit from doing so. Even so, anything that fostered an air of Casablanca style intrigue certainly didn’t harm business. Somebody had once quoted in a trade magazine that
Thumann’s was not unlike Risa or Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet would be if they ever carried a concealed weapon.
“Thank you Froll,” he concluded closing the report screen on his monitor. “I’d like you to keep an eye on that Ferengi Marauder out there, and particularly its owner. I have no proof that Mr Brok is conducting business that would be detrimental to
Thumann’s but it certainly won’t do any harm to let him know that we’re watching him.” He paused, mentally scanning the to-do list once more. “Oh yes, remind the staff in
Prime’s that we have a Yamagata vessel in today. They’re good credit.”
Froll made a note of that on his PADD knowing that any Ganjitsu native – especially an employee of Yamagata industries – was indeed good credit considering the number of contracts that Yamagata put their way.
Ganjitsun’s were from a colony world settled around the turn of the century who had restored the customs and traditions of Japan as it had been centuries before and practiced them offworld wherever their travels took them.
Thumann’s main transient crew mess was known as
Prime’s and would certainly need to be made aware of the hauler’s arrival.
“If there’s nothing else then Sir, I’d better get back belowdecks.”
Thumann nodded. “By all means Froll, and thank you.” Thumann was happy that Froll was aware of his place in the hierarchy on the station, but he was never anything other than polite to the loyal man who kept the wheels of the business turning for him.
Froll, meanwhile, had checked in with the staff in his own office for any updates he might need to know about though he was certain had anything arisen in his absence, he would have been paged. Once he’d determined that things were running smoothly he turned his attention to the matter of Brok, the Ferengi courier, who would shortly be docking at the central core.
Tapping his wrist communicator, he outlined the plans for the intentionally annoying overt observation of Mr Brok.
The concept of freedock at
Thumann’s was an expansion of the literal meaning of the word free. In one sense, it was freedocking as the Yamagata vessel
White Heron was far too large to attach to a docking pylon or enter the cavernous interior of the station itself and so sat within the protective shelter of the station’s deflector shields, free of any physical connection. This of course meant that the ship required no umbilical utility services from
Thumann’s and thus was not charged a docking fee, thereby utilizing the second meaning of the word free.
In the case of the
White Heron, this wasn’t a major concern as Yamagata was one of the wealthiest and most successful of the Federation’s mining and haulage companies. Yamagata excelled in both primary roles and was widely perceived as one of the premier employees in those fields. Staff welfare and care were always priorities with the company encouraging employees to remain with them throughout their working lives, and such was the case with Assistant Chief Engineer Shoza Koyama.
The position that Koyama held aboard the
White Heron earned him both the respect and financial remuneration that a career engineer deserved and, until recently at least, had been a man happy in his work. That had changed in a split second.
Because now he was heading homewards to Ganjitsu to arrange the funeral of his beloved mother and father, an act that would have broken the heart of any family man. That he was doing so in the knowledge that their deaths were the result of a senseless, drunken hit and run filled him with equal amounts agony and anger. It did little to assuage his desperate and conflicting emotions that the offworld perpetrator was in custody and awaiting trial.
He felt some small measure of retribution in seeing justice served but it could never bring back his parents. All he could do was return home and bear witness to their lives, their accomplishments and the abyss that their loss had torn in his life.
When he had first transported over to
Thumann’s less than ten hours ago, he’d had no clear idea of why he was doing so. The majority of his crewmates would be spending their hard-earned credits on gambling or one of a dozen other forms of entertainment and relaxation but Koyama simply could not stand the glare of the bright lights on the promenade in his current state of mind.
Instead, lost and very much alone, he had eventually found a quiet and secluded bar that was more than happy to provide the soul numbing effect of genuine alcohol that he desperately sought as long as he continued to supply the credits. Five hours of solid, solitary drinking had done absolutely nothing to temper the anguish or fury that burnt deep inside him.
Even in the relative solitude of the darkened booth, he found the quiet chatter of the bar’s patrons beginning to intrude upon his thoughts and sour his mood even further. In fact as his alcohol intake had increased so his tolerance levels had decreased until he had eventually reached the tipping point where every overheard innocent comment or misinterpreted glance pierced the bubble of his rapidly deflating control.
It was good, therefore, that he still retained enough of his senses to realize that now would be a good time to leave. Making a scene would not sit well with his employers and besides, Koyama simply wasn’t the type of man to allow his emotions to rule his actions even under such terrible circumstances.
He rose unsteadily to his feet, the unaccustomed effects of the alcohol causing the room to spin around him. He clumsily grabbed the partition that separated his booth from the adjoining one and steadied himself, taking a moment to locate the exit before launching himself towards it.
Despite the relatively short distance he had to cover, he found himself apologising semi-coherently to patrons as he bumped their tables or nudged their elbows. In his alcohol induced haze he mistook understanding nods for accusatory stares and his buried indignation burned incandescently.
He reached the safety of the small vestibule and then staggered out into the cooler and sweeter air of a night-dimmed corridor. Selecting an arbitrary direction, he attempted to navigate homewards though in truth, he neither knew nor much cared where he might end up.
It was only when he reached a complete dead end in an obscure part of the station core that he realised just how far off the beaten track he’d managed to wander. He leaned against the cool wall and blinked in confusion in the dimly lit corridor. There were no signs or direction markers in view and even if he’d been in a fit state to operate one, he couldn’t see a public terminal either.
Slowly he began to retrace his steps until he reached the last branch in the corridor where he had turned. On the opposite side of the junction he spotted an open door beyond which he was sure he’d just seen the electrical discharge of equipment in use.
He staggered forward and almost fell through the open hatch, catching himself just in time against a large and somewhat dilapidated cargo container. As he blinked owlishly in the half light, he saw that the rest of the room was in pretty much the same shape. He could only assume that it was one of the lesser used small docking bays that lined the core of the mighty station filled as it was with more containers, apparent spare parts and stanchions all of which cast deep shadows intermittently across the deck.
In fact the bay’s one saving grace was the low sound of somebody grumbling just beyond the cargo crate that was currently supporting him. Moving forward into the bay, his only thought now was to find somebody – anybody – who could guide him back to the transporter stages. Just ahead he thought he saw movement and blearily made his way into the shadows.
Despite it being an alien language, whoever was moving around was not happy causing him to momentarily reconsider asking them for directions. Retreating and finding his own way back might be a better idea unless, of course, he became lost or passed out in which case he could well miss the boarding recall and…no, he would ask for help.
What he saw as he moved between shadows sobered him with the same speed as a bucket of ice cold water. On the floor ahead lay a large Deltan, the front of his uniform shirt burnt away and the skin beneath blackened and charred. If Koyama had needed further proof that the big man was dead, it was provided by the sightless eyes that stared lifelessly at the overhead.
Crouching over the dead man and clutching a small dark wood box was a diminutive Ferengi, his face screwed into a feral grimace that radiated malevolence. Koyama gasped involuntarily and the Ferengi looked up in shock realising he had been discovered. To Koyama’s horror, the face of the Ferengi contorted into an evil smile as he lifted a heavy duty phaser, its muzzle pointing directly between his eyes.
In a drunken panic he threw himself sideways hoping to spoil the Ferengi’s aim. It was the last act that Assistant Chief Engineer Shoza Koyama would ever voluntarily perform.
Froll stood silently and stared at the scene before him showing no emotion nor giving any clue to his thoughts. It had been Froll himself who had personally assigned the young Deltan officer to observe the Ferengi knowing full well that discretion wasn’t the object of the chase. But then neither was death. It had been, as Thumann had stated, the simple inconvenience of constant observation. The Deltan’s fate was inextricably linked to Froll’s decision.
What he couldn’t truly fathom was had Brok been genuinely involved in something worth killing for? And if so, how had he managed to stay below the impressively tight security radar that Thumann employed? He turned his attention away from the gruesome sight and waved over the sergeant in charge of the crime scene.
“Initial report please Sergeant.”
The security officer gestured at the crime scene as he replied matter-of-factly. “It would seem that Constable Char may have underestimated the situation Sir. He must have been taken by surprise because he never even had a chance to call in his report.” He pointed to a darkened corner of the room. “Brok had managed to rig the security monitors in here but obviously forgot about the weapons sensors which I’m guessing meant he had no intention of using one.”
Froll’s brow creased. “No Sergeant, I don’t think so. Brok doesn’t strike me as the kind of…operator who carries a weapon and then forgets to disarm the sensors.” He made several entries into his personal PADD before indicating that the sergeant should continue.
“We received the first sensor report in central at 2342 hours. A team was dispatched immediately but there was a second discharge three minutes later, according to the sensors, from Constable Char’s phaser.”
Froll considered the information that the sergeant had given him and tried to form a mental image of what could have led to the deaths of the two men in this room. From the timings of the shots and the final positions of the two bodies…
“It would
appear that Brok was caught unawares by Char engaging in some form of illegal activity. This prompted Brok to react without thinking and take a hurried first shot. If that
was the case then I can only assume the Ferengi must then have been distracted because Char evidently had enough life left to take down Brok.” He looked at the still body of the Ferengi courier that lay not far from that of Constable Char. A neat and very accurate hole disfigured his face directly between his eyes disturbing a slightly shocked expression.
“Appearances can of course be extremely deceptive Sergeant.” It appeared that Froll had reached his own conclusions though he didn’t share them with the Sergeant. “Get a full forensics and deep scan team in here please and contact me directly as soon as you have an update.”
“Yes Sir. Erm, are we looking for anything in particular Sir?”
The Bolian smiled although it was one that didn’t make it all the way to his eyes.
“Oh yes Sergeant, there most certainly is. We’re looking for the truth.”
Froll left the puzzled Sergeant to carry out his orders and felt some sympathy for the man. The evidence, both actual and circumstantial, pointed to the two men killing each other at the scene but Froll had spent much of his career at
Thumann’s heading up the station’s security department. Something about this was just wrong and he couldn’t pin it down.
The simple fact remained; although he was no longer directly involved in security, deaths had occurred on his watch and that was something he would not tolerate. Until he had the elusive truth that he sought, Froll would not rest.
