Tales of the Border Service: “Above and Beyond”
(Note: the character, Lt. Commander Kelendi Nor Huren is the sister of Commander Katari Nor Huren in "Dragon's Slayd")
Stardate 53836.36 (2 November 2376)
USS Pamlico NCC-T101
Sector 04340, Near the Molari Bandlands
“Okay Sage – try it now!” shouted Lt. Commander Kelendi Nor Huren, C.O. of the buoy tender Pamilco. Nor Huren was wedged awkwardly into a tight crawl-space between a bulky graviton field generator and its adjacent cryogenic coolant pump.
Chief Petty Officer Sage Anderson shoved the isolinear chip back into its slot. The renewed humming of the coolant pump and subsequent green indicators on the control panel caused her to break out in a grin.
“That did it, Skipper! Starboard tractor beam is back in service.”
“Good! I was starting to get a muscle cramp. Now let’s see if I can get out of here!”
With a few choice Rigellian curses, Nor Huren began the tedious process of extricating her tall frame from the crawl-space. In a few moments, Anderson watched as her C.O. wriggled back through the small access hatch, dragging her tool pouch along behind her. Nor Huren stood and stretched, working the kinks out of her muscles.
“Thanks, Skipper! I appreciate the help,” said Chief Anderson with gratitude.
The Rigellian smiled at the strawberry blonde CPO. “No problem, Sage. Maybe the ‘tractors will hold together long enough for us to finish our run.” She wiped oily coolant from her face and onto her grimy cover-alls. “Do me a favor – call the bridge and ask Lt. Tien to take us on to the next buoy. I’m going to get cleaned up.”
“Will do. Say, Skipper – would you mind giving me a hand checking out the number two impulse manifold tomorrow? She’s running a little hot.”
Nor Huren grinned. “Sure! Sounds like fun. Beats the dreglorn out of writing reports.”
Lt. Commander Nor Huren tossed her tool pouch over her shoulder and headed toward a ladder alcove en route to her quarters. Her command, the USS Pamlico, was a converted Oberth-class ship, formerly the USS Gordon Cooper. Mothballed for years by Starfleet, the Border Service acquired the vessel in the 2360s. All of the labs and scientific equipment were stripped out, the weapons and many of the amenities removed, while two heavy graviton beam emitters and storage for subspace and navigational buoys were added, along with the necessary repair bays. Now, the little ship and its crew of 30 spent the days tending to the numerous navigational buoys and subspace relay stations in the Borderlands sector.
Once in her quarters, Kelendi stripped out of her grungy coveralls and tossed them in the ‘cycler. She took a quick sonic shower before putting on a clean jumpsuit. Looking in the mirror, she ran her fingers through a shock of course, brass-colored hair. Satisfied that no grime remained on her iridescent bronze skin, she paused at the replicator for a cup of hot, spiced Gwynt-ja tea before heading toward the bridge.
Kelendi Nor Huren was a native of Rigel VII, the least crowded world in the densely populated Rigel system. Although Nor Huren was primarily humanoid in appearance, her skin and exotic yellow-green eyes hinted at her distant reptilian ancestry.
At an early age, she learned to work with her hands, helping maintain the harvesting equipment that serviced her family’s Bunatma orchards. Strong academic scores helped her earn an appointment to Starfleet Academy, where she majored in engineering. She transferred to the Border Service a few years after graduation – intrigued by the challenge of keeping their fleet of vintage ships in operation. Never one to shrink from a challenge, she jumped at the opportunity to command one of the old buoy tenders, a billet usually seen as a career dead-end. Yet, on the Pamlico, she found her niche: an opportunity to exercise her leadership skills while managing to keep her hands dirty with repair work.
She loved her job and her little ship.
Still, there were times that the routine work of locating damaged buoys, tractoring them on board, patching them up and setting them back out, became somewhat tedious. After all, there were just so many things to repair on a buoy. Sometimes she wished that something might happen that would break the routine.
Something out of the ordinary.
She should have remembered the old Rigellian proverb, be careful what you wish for.
* * *
Lt. Kep Tien stood smartly from the command chair as Lt. Commander Nor Huren stepped onto the bridge. The diminutive Asian woman announced, “Captain on the bridge.”
“Kep, please stop doing that,” chided Kelendi gently as she settled into the chair. “It’s really not necessary, particularly considering there’s only one other person on the bridge.” She referred to Petty Officer Andrew Pelham, who was grinning to himself as he piloted the Pamlico. He had heard this conversation many times.
“I’m just following standard procedure,” replied Tien, unperturbed. The executive officer / operations manager handed her C.O. a PADD. “My shift report, Captain. We’re running a bit behind schedule due to the time allotted for the tractor beam repairs. I instructed Mr. Pelham to increase our speed to warp 6 to compensate.”
Nor Huren overlooked the note of disapproval in Tien’s voice. Tien never liked to be behind schedule. It offended her strict sense of duty. The X.O.’s somewhat obsessive-compulsive behavior is what ultimately landed her on the Pamlico. Tien’s cool demeanor and inflexible by-the-book attitude, while laudable to a degree, tended to irritate her superiors. When she finally got on the nerves of the Captain T'San, the Vulcan C.O. of the USS Growler (no small feat), Admiral Bateson sent her to Nor Huren and the Pamlico.
For her part, Kelendi Nor Huron was the polar opposite of Lt. Tien. She was tall, out-going, laid-back and rarely gave regulations a second thought. She seldom waved her rank around and called subordinates by their first name. Yet, despite their differences in personality and leadership style, Nor Huron and Lt. Tien worked quite well together. The Rigellian C.O. was probably the closest thing to a friend that Kep Tien had in all of the Border Service.
“Thanks for keeping us on-schedule, Kep,” said Nor Huron without reading the PADD. “What’s our next pick-up?”
Lt. Tien refrained from sighing as the requested information was plainly on the screen of the neglected PADD. “A Clarion-class subspace relay is transmitting code Epsilon 773 – a power fluctuation in its reactor.”
Kelendi grimaced. “Frak!” she muttered, “That’s going to be dicey – those brutes are too big to beam on-board. We’ll need rad suits and limit work crews to two-hour shifts.” She absently ran her fingers through her unruly hair. “The Clarions ought to be replaced outright. That series is older than this ship.”
“No doubt you are correct, Captain. However, considering our current political context and budgetary constraints, it’s unlikely that a replacement for a series of sub-space relays is high on the priority list.”
“Maybe not,” conceded the C.O. “but if a few more of those beastly relays go down, we’ll lose subspace communications over a third of the quadrant.”
* * *
Three hours later, the Pamlico dropped out of warp near the Molari Badlands and approached the ailing subspace relay.
“Ahead dead slow, Andy,” ordered Commander Nor Huren. “We don’t want to spook that kludge of a relay into doing something rash.”
Petty Officer Pelham chuckled and tapped the helm controls. “Aye, Skipper. I’ll try to sneak up on it.”
The turbo-lift door slid open and CPO Peter McManus stepped onto the bridge. The gray-haired Chief of the Boat paused to consider the massive relay station that filled the viewscreen. He shifted his gaze to the C.O.
“Och, please tell me its nae the reactor,” he said in a thick, Scottish brogue.
Nor Huren gave the veteran NCO an apologetic smile. “Sorry Pete.”
“Bollocks!” he muttered as he moved around to what had once been the tactical station, and now housed the tractor beam controls. He settled his ample frame into the chair, which squeaked in protest.
Peter McManus would never win any beauty contests. Gray, close-cropped hair covered a large head that had seen its share of fights. His nose was misshapen from being broken numerous times, and his ears were too small for his skull. Muddy brown eyes peered from under a prominent brow. His weight was a tad beyond the acceptable range for the Border Service. At one time, McManus had held the coveted rank of Master Chief Petty Officer, but a fiery temper coupled with a propensity for heavy drink and brawling had seen him busted back to CPO. Only the recent war and his impressive list of citations for bravery had allowed him to remain in the service. Banished from cutter duty, he was destined to finish out his career on the Pamlico. Still, McManus was grateful for what he saw as a second chance, and had worked hard on the tender. He liked Commander Nor Huren, who he saw as a no-nonsense, hands-on C.O. For her part, Nor Huren was glad to have the Chief’s experience and ability to deal effectively with the few enlisted crew members.
As the Pamlico began its approach to the malfunctioning subspace relay, Andy Pelham gave a sudden double-take at his instruments and tensed visibly. The proximity warning light was flashing for attention.
“Uh, Skipper? I’m reading another ship in close proximity to the relay.”
Nor Huren leaned forward in the command chair, her gaze now fixed intently on the screen. “Kep – see if you can get an I.D. on that vessel.”
“Scanning now.” Lt. Tien tuned the Pamlico’s scanners toward the mystery ship.
“Andy, why didn’t we pick up that ship sooner?” Nor Huren’s voice was even but there was a hint of rebuke in her tone.
“Sorry ma’am. It was hiding directly behind the relay – it didn’t show up until I began a slight turn to starboard for final approach.”
The Commander nodded, more to herself than to the young helmsman. “Kep? Anything?”
“Running scan through the ship registry database now. We should be able to get a visual.”
“Maximum magnification on viewscreen,” ordered Nor Huren.
The image shifted to reveal even more of the massive Clarion –class relay hanging in space. It was mostly in shadow, backlit by the Molari Badlands a few light years distant. And, sure enough, another ship was holding station practically on top of the relay.
The ship was not large, smaller in fact than Pamlico, and was of a simple wedge-shaped design. It was a dingy brown color, with streaks of orange and gray streaming behind vent ports. In short, it was an ugly little ship.
“Doesn’t look too dangerous,” commented Pelham from the helm.
“Looks can be deceiving, Andy,” replied the Commander, dryly. “Kep? I’m not getting any younger – tell me about that ship, please.”
“I have it now,” replied Tien. “Pakled vessel, registered as the Kordon. 35 thousand ton transport, typically unarmed.”
“Typically?” asked Nor Huren, sparing an incredulous glance at her X.O.
“The Pakled are notorious for avoiding safety inspections,” replied Tien. Her tone indicated she thought this a more serious offense than if the ship had been armed to the teeth. “Without an inspection, we cannot know if they are in legal compliance with interstellar commerce statutes.”
“I suppose not,” replied Nor Huren, suppressing a sarcastic response.
Chief McManus glowered at the Pakled ship. “What I want to know, is what they’re playin’ at and why they’re lurkin’ aboot one ‘o our relays?”
“My question as well, Pete. Kep? Hail them, please.”
“Aye, sir. Channel open.”
Nor Huren crossed her legs and forced a friendly expression on her face – though truth be told, she couldn’t recall what comprised ‘friendly’ for a Pakled.
“Pakled vessel, this is the USS Pamlico of the Federation Border Service. Do you require assistance?”
A minute went by without a response. Nor Huren pursed her lips and was about to order Lt. Tien to try again when the screen shifted to the interior of the Pakled vessel.
No better looking on the inside than on the outside, thought the Commander. The bridge of the small transport was dimly lit, revealing dingy brown control stations that appeared cobbled together from a variety of technologies.
Three Pakled stood staring at the viewscreen. They were as dingy as their ship, wearing formless brown coveralls. All wore rather dull expressions on their round faces, their vertical bushy eyebrows gave the impression of perpetual sadness.
“We are Pakled,” the one on the left said emphatically. Certainly, it lacked the effect of "We are the Borg," but it conveyed a certain cockiness. Nor Huren suppressed a smile.
“Yes, we know. I am Lt. Commander Kelendi Nor Huren, in command of the Pamlico. Your ship is, ah, rather close to one of our subspace relays. We were wondering if you were in distress?”
“No.” replied the Pakled spokesman, before closing the channel.
Nor Huren was again greeted with a view of the subspace relay and the exterior of the Pakled vessel. She blinked in surprise. Andy Pelham snickered.
“Not very conversational, are they?” Pelham opined.
Nor Huren stood and crossed her arms. “Mind your station, Andy. Kep? One more time, if you please.”
The delay was shorter this time. Once more, they were greeted with the rather dull faces of the Pakled.
“We are Pakled . . .” began the spokesman.
“Yes, we got that. What is your name, please?” queried the Commander. The smile on her face was becoming strained.
“I am Nogborstek,” he replied, blinking slowly.
“Pleased to meet you,” interjected Nor Huren, quickly. She wanted to keep the conversation going, lest their reticent trespassers cut the channel again. “I must advise you, your ship has violated the exclusionary zone of our subspace relay. Please navigate to at least 50,000 kilometers distant – then we can continue our chat.”
Nogborstek blinked then turned back to his compatriots. He turned once more to Nor Huren.
“We are Pakled. We find things.”
The Commander felt a slight twitch settle in near her left eye. “I’m sure you do. However, I must insist you move your ship away from the relay. Now.” The smile remained but her voice was tight.
“We found this. It has cold stuff. We need cold stuff.” The Pakled said this as if it were the most obvious thing in the universe.
Nor Huren frowned in puzzlement, “Cold stuff? What do . . .” Sudden realization hit her and she felt a cold knot in her stomach. “Nogborstek – are you taking coolant from the reactor?”
“We need cold stuff.”
The Commander heard Chief McManus swear. She couldn’t blame him. If the Pakled continued to siphon off coolant from the old reactor on the relay station, it would over-heat. The best case scenario would be a total shut-down of the relay. But considering the age of the old Clarion, she wondered if all the safeties still functioned properly. There original purpose in coming out here was to perform upgrades to the obsolete systems.
If the safeties failed, the reactor would detonate. At this range, their shields would not help.
“Nogborstek – we will be glad to supply you with cryo . . . with ‘cold stuff.’ But I must insist you stop taking it from the relay – immediately!”
“Captain!” interrupted Lt. Tien from Ops, “I’m reading a critical spike in the reactor’s temperature.”
Too late! thought Nor Huren. “Kep! Are there any Pakled on the relay?”
“Negative. All the Pakled are on their ship.”
She turned back to the main viewscreen. “Nogborstek! Get away from the relay station immediately! The reactor may go critical and explode – for your own safety, move your ship away!”
The Pakled dull face took on a surprisingly calculating expression. “You can’t fool us. We found it first. You want to take it away. We are Pakled – we are smart!”
“You’ll be dead if that that reactor goes!”
Nogborstek cut the channel.
“Frak!” muttered Nor Huren. “Pete! Get a tractor on that Pakled ship. I don’t care if you pull the paint off, but we’ve got to get their stubborn asses out of here!”
“Aye! It’s as good as done.” McManus turned to the tractor beam controls. Nor Huren turned back to Lt. Tien.
“How much time until the reactor goes critical?”
Tien frowned and checked her board, running calculations. “At the current rate of pressure build-up, no more than 22 minutes.”
The Rigellian C.O. paused in thought. “That should be just enough time.” She tapped her combadge. “Nor Huren to Chief Anderson.”
“Anderson. Go ahead, Skipper.”
Nor Huren was moving toward the turbo-lift. “Sage - meet me in transporter room one - bring your tools and two rad suits. We’ve got a runaway reactor to bring under control.”
Sage responded with a hushed, “On my way.”
Lt. Tien stood from her station. “Captain! You can’t be serious!”
“You have the bridge, Kep. Keep a transporter lock on us and be ready to pull us off in 20 minutes. Andy, as soon as Sage and I are back on board, be ready to jump to warp.”
Chief McManus turned. “Cap’n – I’ve got a firm lock on yon wee ship. Got them caught tighter than a Ferengi’s purse.”
“Well done, Pete. Wish us luck!”
* * *
(Note: the character, Lt. Commander Kelendi Nor Huren is the sister of Commander Katari Nor Huren in "Dragon's Slayd")
Stardate 53836.36 (2 November 2376)
USS Pamlico NCC-T101
Sector 04340, Near the Molari Bandlands
“Okay Sage – try it now!” shouted Lt. Commander Kelendi Nor Huren, C.O. of the buoy tender Pamilco. Nor Huren was wedged awkwardly into a tight crawl-space between a bulky graviton field generator and its adjacent cryogenic coolant pump.
Chief Petty Officer Sage Anderson shoved the isolinear chip back into its slot. The renewed humming of the coolant pump and subsequent green indicators on the control panel caused her to break out in a grin.
“That did it, Skipper! Starboard tractor beam is back in service.”
“Good! I was starting to get a muscle cramp. Now let’s see if I can get out of here!”
With a few choice Rigellian curses, Nor Huren began the tedious process of extricating her tall frame from the crawl-space. In a few moments, Anderson watched as her C.O. wriggled back through the small access hatch, dragging her tool pouch along behind her. Nor Huren stood and stretched, working the kinks out of her muscles.
“Thanks, Skipper! I appreciate the help,” said Chief Anderson with gratitude.
The Rigellian smiled at the strawberry blonde CPO. “No problem, Sage. Maybe the ‘tractors will hold together long enough for us to finish our run.” She wiped oily coolant from her face and onto her grimy cover-alls. “Do me a favor – call the bridge and ask Lt. Tien to take us on to the next buoy. I’m going to get cleaned up.”
“Will do. Say, Skipper – would you mind giving me a hand checking out the number two impulse manifold tomorrow? She’s running a little hot.”
Nor Huren grinned. “Sure! Sounds like fun. Beats the dreglorn out of writing reports.”
Lt. Commander Nor Huren tossed her tool pouch over her shoulder and headed toward a ladder alcove en route to her quarters. Her command, the USS Pamlico, was a converted Oberth-class ship, formerly the USS Gordon Cooper. Mothballed for years by Starfleet, the Border Service acquired the vessel in the 2360s. All of the labs and scientific equipment were stripped out, the weapons and many of the amenities removed, while two heavy graviton beam emitters and storage for subspace and navigational buoys were added, along with the necessary repair bays. Now, the little ship and its crew of 30 spent the days tending to the numerous navigational buoys and subspace relay stations in the Borderlands sector.
Once in her quarters, Kelendi stripped out of her grungy coveralls and tossed them in the ‘cycler. She took a quick sonic shower before putting on a clean jumpsuit. Looking in the mirror, she ran her fingers through a shock of course, brass-colored hair. Satisfied that no grime remained on her iridescent bronze skin, she paused at the replicator for a cup of hot, spiced Gwynt-ja tea before heading toward the bridge.
Kelendi Nor Huren was a native of Rigel VII, the least crowded world in the densely populated Rigel system. Although Nor Huren was primarily humanoid in appearance, her skin and exotic yellow-green eyes hinted at her distant reptilian ancestry.
At an early age, she learned to work with her hands, helping maintain the harvesting equipment that serviced her family’s Bunatma orchards. Strong academic scores helped her earn an appointment to Starfleet Academy, where she majored in engineering. She transferred to the Border Service a few years after graduation – intrigued by the challenge of keeping their fleet of vintage ships in operation. Never one to shrink from a challenge, she jumped at the opportunity to command one of the old buoy tenders, a billet usually seen as a career dead-end. Yet, on the Pamlico, she found her niche: an opportunity to exercise her leadership skills while managing to keep her hands dirty with repair work.
She loved her job and her little ship.
Still, there were times that the routine work of locating damaged buoys, tractoring them on board, patching them up and setting them back out, became somewhat tedious. After all, there were just so many things to repair on a buoy. Sometimes she wished that something might happen that would break the routine.
Something out of the ordinary.
She should have remembered the old Rigellian proverb, be careful what you wish for.
* * *
Lt. Kep Tien stood smartly from the command chair as Lt. Commander Nor Huren stepped onto the bridge. The diminutive Asian woman announced, “Captain on the bridge.”
“Kep, please stop doing that,” chided Kelendi gently as she settled into the chair. “It’s really not necessary, particularly considering there’s only one other person on the bridge.” She referred to Petty Officer Andrew Pelham, who was grinning to himself as he piloted the Pamlico. He had heard this conversation many times.
“I’m just following standard procedure,” replied Tien, unperturbed. The executive officer / operations manager handed her C.O. a PADD. “My shift report, Captain. We’re running a bit behind schedule due to the time allotted for the tractor beam repairs. I instructed Mr. Pelham to increase our speed to warp 6 to compensate.”
Nor Huren overlooked the note of disapproval in Tien’s voice. Tien never liked to be behind schedule. It offended her strict sense of duty. The X.O.’s somewhat obsessive-compulsive behavior is what ultimately landed her on the Pamlico. Tien’s cool demeanor and inflexible by-the-book attitude, while laudable to a degree, tended to irritate her superiors. When she finally got on the nerves of the Captain T'San, the Vulcan C.O. of the USS Growler (no small feat), Admiral Bateson sent her to Nor Huren and the Pamlico.
For her part, Kelendi Nor Huron was the polar opposite of Lt. Tien. She was tall, out-going, laid-back and rarely gave regulations a second thought. She seldom waved her rank around and called subordinates by their first name. Yet, despite their differences in personality and leadership style, Nor Huron and Lt. Tien worked quite well together. The Rigellian C.O. was probably the closest thing to a friend that Kep Tien had in all of the Border Service.
“Thanks for keeping us on-schedule, Kep,” said Nor Huron without reading the PADD. “What’s our next pick-up?”
Lt. Tien refrained from sighing as the requested information was plainly on the screen of the neglected PADD. “A Clarion-class subspace relay is transmitting code Epsilon 773 – a power fluctuation in its reactor.”
Kelendi grimaced. “Frak!” she muttered, “That’s going to be dicey – those brutes are too big to beam on-board. We’ll need rad suits and limit work crews to two-hour shifts.” She absently ran her fingers through her unruly hair. “The Clarions ought to be replaced outright. That series is older than this ship.”
“No doubt you are correct, Captain. However, considering our current political context and budgetary constraints, it’s unlikely that a replacement for a series of sub-space relays is high on the priority list.”
“Maybe not,” conceded the C.O. “but if a few more of those beastly relays go down, we’ll lose subspace communications over a third of the quadrant.”
* * *
Three hours later, the Pamlico dropped out of warp near the Molari Badlands and approached the ailing subspace relay.
“Ahead dead slow, Andy,” ordered Commander Nor Huren. “We don’t want to spook that kludge of a relay into doing something rash.”
Petty Officer Pelham chuckled and tapped the helm controls. “Aye, Skipper. I’ll try to sneak up on it.”
The turbo-lift door slid open and CPO Peter McManus stepped onto the bridge. The gray-haired Chief of the Boat paused to consider the massive relay station that filled the viewscreen. He shifted his gaze to the C.O.
“Och, please tell me its nae the reactor,” he said in a thick, Scottish brogue.
Nor Huren gave the veteran NCO an apologetic smile. “Sorry Pete.”
“Bollocks!” he muttered as he moved around to what had once been the tactical station, and now housed the tractor beam controls. He settled his ample frame into the chair, which squeaked in protest.
Peter McManus would never win any beauty contests. Gray, close-cropped hair covered a large head that had seen its share of fights. His nose was misshapen from being broken numerous times, and his ears were too small for his skull. Muddy brown eyes peered from under a prominent brow. His weight was a tad beyond the acceptable range for the Border Service. At one time, McManus had held the coveted rank of Master Chief Petty Officer, but a fiery temper coupled with a propensity for heavy drink and brawling had seen him busted back to CPO. Only the recent war and his impressive list of citations for bravery had allowed him to remain in the service. Banished from cutter duty, he was destined to finish out his career on the Pamlico. Still, McManus was grateful for what he saw as a second chance, and had worked hard on the tender. He liked Commander Nor Huren, who he saw as a no-nonsense, hands-on C.O. For her part, Nor Huren was glad to have the Chief’s experience and ability to deal effectively with the few enlisted crew members.
As the Pamlico began its approach to the malfunctioning subspace relay, Andy Pelham gave a sudden double-take at his instruments and tensed visibly. The proximity warning light was flashing for attention.
“Uh, Skipper? I’m reading another ship in close proximity to the relay.”
Nor Huren leaned forward in the command chair, her gaze now fixed intently on the screen. “Kep – see if you can get an I.D. on that vessel.”
“Scanning now.” Lt. Tien tuned the Pamlico’s scanners toward the mystery ship.
“Andy, why didn’t we pick up that ship sooner?” Nor Huren’s voice was even but there was a hint of rebuke in her tone.
“Sorry ma’am. It was hiding directly behind the relay – it didn’t show up until I began a slight turn to starboard for final approach.”
The Commander nodded, more to herself than to the young helmsman. “Kep? Anything?”
“Running scan through the ship registry database now. We should be able to get a visual.”
“Maximum magnification on viewscreen,” ordered Nor Huren.
The image shifted to reveal even more of the massive Clarion –class relay hanging in space. It was mostly in shadow, backlit by the Molari Badlands a few light years distant. And, sure enough, another ship was holding station practically on top of the relay.
The ship was not large, smaller in fact than Pamlico, and was of a simple wedge-shaped design. It was a dingy brown color, with streaks of orange and gray streaming behind vent ports. In short, it was an ugly little ship.
“Doesn’t look too dangerous,” commented Pelham from the helm.
“Looks can be deceiving, Andy,” replied the Commander, dryly. “Kep? I’m not getting any younger – tell me about that ship, please.”
“I have it now,” replied Tien. “Pakled vessel, registered as the Kordon. 35 thousand ton transport, typically unarmed.”
“Typically?” asked Nor Huren, sparing an incredulous glance at her X.O.
“The Pakled are notorious for avoiding safety inspections,” replied Tien. Her tone indicated she thought this a more serious offense than if the ship had been armed to the teeth. “Without an inspection, we cannot know if they are in legal compliance with interstellar commerce statutes.”
“I suppose not,” replied Nor Huren, suppressing a sarcastic response.
Chief McManus glowered at the Pakled ship. “What I want to know, is what they’re playin’ at and why they’re lurkin’ aboot one ‘o our relays?”
“My question as well, Pete. Kep? Hail them, please.”
“Aye, sir. Channel open.”
Nor Huren crossed her legs and forced a friendly expression on her face – though truth be told, she couldn’t recall what comprised ‘friendly’ for a Pakled.
“Pakled vessel, this is the USS Pamlico of the Federation Border Service. Do you require assistance?”
A minute went by without a response. Nor Huren pursed her lips and was about to order Lt. Tien to try again when the screen shifted to the interior of the Pakled vessel.
No better looking on the inside than on the outside, thought the Commander. The bridge of the small transport was dimly lit, revealing dingy brown control stations that appeared cobbled together from a variety of technologies.
Three Pakled stood staring at the viewscreen. They were as dingy as their ship, wearing formless brown coveralls. All wore rather dull expressions on their round faces, their vertical bushy eyebrows gave the impression of perpetual sadness.
“We are Pakled,” the one on the left said emphatically. Certainly, it lacked the effect of "We are the Borg," but it conveyed a certain cockiness. Nor Huren suppressed a smile.
“Yes, we know. I am Lt. Commander Kelendi Nor Huren, in command of the Pamlico. Your ship is, ah, rather close to one of our subspace relays. We were wondering if you were in distress?”
“No.” replied the Pakled spokesman, before closing the channel.
Nor Huren was again greeted with a view of the subspace relay and the exterior of the Pakled vessel. She blinked in surprise. Andy Pelham snickered.
“Not very conversational, are they?” Pelham opined.
Nor Huren stood and crossed her arms. “Mind your station, Andy. Kep? One more time, if you please.”
The delay was shorter this time. Once more, they were greeted with the rather dull faces of the Pakled.
“We are Pakled . . .” began the spokesman.
“Yes, we got that. What is your name, please?” queried the Commander. The smile on her face was becoming strained.
“I am Nogborstek,” he replied, blinking slowly.
“Pleased to meet you,” interjected Nor Huren, quickly. She wanted to keep the conversation going, lest their reticent trespassers cut the channel again. “I must advise you, your ship has violated the exclusionary zone of our subspace relay. Please navigate to at least 50,000 kilometers distant – then we can continue our chat.”
Nogborstek blinked then turned back to his compatriots. He turned once more to Nor Huren.
“We are Pakled. We find things.”
The Commander felt a slight twitch settle in near her left eye. “I’m sure you do. However, I must insist you move your ship away from the relay. Now.” The smile remained but her voice was tight.
“We found this. It has cold stuff. We need cold stuff.” The Pakled said this as if it were the most obvious thing in the universe.
Nor Huren frowned in puzzlement, “Cold stuff? What do . . .” Sudden realization hit her and she felt a cold knot in her stomach. “Nogborstek – are you taking coolant from the reactor?”
“We need cold stuff.”
The Commander heard Chief McManus swear. She couldn’t blame him. If the Pakled continued to siphon off coolant from the old reactor on the relay station, it would over-heat. The best case scenario would be a total shut-down of the relay. But considering the age of the old Clarion, she wondered if all the safeties still functioned properly. There original purpose in coming out here was to perform upgrades to the obsolete systems.
If the safeties failed, the reactor would detonate. At this range, their shields would not help.
“Nogborstek – we will be glad to supply you with cryo . . . with ‘cold stuff.’ But I must insist you stop taking it from the relay – immediately!”
“Captain!” interrupted Lt. Tien from Ops, “I’m reading a critical spike in the reactor’s temperature.”
Too late! thought Nor Huren. “Kep! Are there any Pakled on the relay?”
“Negative. All the Pakled are on their ship.”
She turned back to the main viewscreen. “Nogborstek! Get away from the relay station immediately! The reactor may go critical and explode – for your own safety, move your ship away!”
The Pakled dull face took on a surprisingly calculating expression. “You can’t fool us. We found it first. You want to take it away. We are Pakled – we are smart!”
“You’ll be dead if that that reactor goes!”
Nogborstek cut the channel.
“Frak!” muttered Nor Huren. “Pete! Get a tractor on that Pakled ship. I don’t care if you pull the paint off, but we’ve got to get their stubborn asses out of here!”
“Aye! It’s as good as done.” McManus turned to the tractor beam controls. Nor Huren turned back to Lt. Tien.
“How much time until the reactor goes critical?”
Tien frowned and checked her board, running calculations. “At the current rate of pressure build-up, no more than 22 minutes.”
The Rigellian C.O. paused in thought. “That should be just enough time.” She tapped her combadge. “Nor Huren to Chief Anderson.”
“Anderson. Go ahead, Skipper.”
Nor Huren was moving toward the turbo-lift. “Sage - meet me in transporter room one - bring your tools and two rad suits. We’ve got a runaway reactor to bring under control.”
Sage responded with a hushed, “On my way.”
Lt. Tien stood from her station. “Captain! You can’t be serious!”
“You have the bridge, Kep. Keep a transporter lock on us and be ready to pull us off in 20 minutes. Andy, as soon as Sage and I are back on board, be ready to jump to warp.”
Chief McManus turned. “Cap’n – I’ve got a firm lock on yon wee ship. Got them caught tighter than a Ferengi’s purse.”
“Well done, Pete. Wish us luck!”
* * *
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I agree with Bateson, though, that Nor Huren took too much of a risk here.
