Chapter Twelve
Stardate 54365.1 (21 May 2377)
USS Dragonfire
En route to Vagabond VI – Warp 6
Slayd sat in the near darkness of his quarters, feeling emotionally drained. He had spent the better part of an hour conversing over subspace with his ex-wife, Amanda, who lived on Aqmara. As usual, the exchange was painfully polite, reserved and wholly civil. And, as usual, it was totally devoid of passion, affection or any meaningful communication.
Per the norm, this call regarded their 16 year old son, Bradley. The boy was handsome, bright, and totally out of control. When Amanda would reach her fill – either after bailing the boy out of a detention facility or paying for another round of rehab, she would call Slayd.
The maddening thing was that she never complained or shouted. She never accused Artemus of failing as a father. She never blamed him for Bradley’s wild streak.
Slayd rather wished she would.
Anything would be better than the cloying sadness of the calls. He did not believe she called to heap coals of guilt on his head – that simply wasn’t her way. Yet, the underlying suffering that came through – like background chatter over an open channel – came over the subspace connection like tiny shards of broken glass. So delicate, yet so sharp you didn’t realize you were bleeding until you saw the blood.
Slayd, for his part, played the role of concerned but distant father. Yes – he agreed that Bradley probably needed to see a new counselor. Certainly he felt that Amanda was doing the best she could. And yes, he would be happy to speak with Bradly at the first opportunity – though when that would happen was both unasked and unsaid.
As they closed their polite, mutually masochistic tête-à-tête, Amanda said something that broke the routine and jarred Slayd.
“Artie – I’m afraid.”
Slayd blinked, surprised by her off-script declaration. “Afraid? Of what, Amanda?”
Her clear blue eyes were dry and her expression poised, but Slayd was able to pick up subtle cues that she was indeed distressed.
“That I’ve lost you both.”
Slayd swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words. “I’m sure Bradley will come around, Amanda. He’s still a teen-ager, going through his growing pains. No doubt this phase will pass and he’ll move on to maturity in due time.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said. Slayd had a sudden inkling that he had missed something important – a briefly opened door that was once again firmly shut. Yet he could not bring himself to press the matter.
“I’m sure of it,” he lied.
“Good to see you, Artie. Take care of yourself.”
“And you. Good bye, Amanda.”
The image of the woman he had once loved disappeared from his terminal screen, replaced by the Border Service insignia.
Just like my life, he thought.
* * *
Stardate 54365.5 (21 May 2377)
USS Dragonfire
Entering the Morderis System
The Dragonfire dropped out of warp and slowed to one-quarter impulse as it entered the Morderis System. Traffic was heavy and chaotic so Lt. Yvessa kept a careful eye out for careless merchant vessels and lumbering tankers.
The Morderis System was the hub of commerce for the Outland Expanse. Being so far from the core worlds, much of the trade was of questionable legality. The key trade center was the rough and tumble world, Vagabond VI. Established as a scientific outpost by the United Earth Space Probe Agency in the late 22nd century, the small planet attracted traders from a dizzying array of cultures which wanted to avoid the red-tape of the more civilized systems. Trade was conducted by barter system with no questions, no tariffs and no refunds. The original scientific outpost was abandoned by the mid 23rd century but businesses continued to expand and thrive. It was said that it was possible to purchase anything on Vagabond VI. Likewise, it was also said that it was theoretically possible to contract every sexually transmitted disease known in the galaxy. Both statements were only slight exaggerations.
“Frak me!” exclaimed Lt. Yvessa as a small Ferengi transport cut sharply in front of the Dragonfire, forcing the helmsman to veer the cutter sharply to starboard.
“I can see we’re nearly there,” remarked Captain Slayd, dryly.
“Sorry, sir. That bizhaat pilot damn near side-swiped us. Permission to open fire?”
The Captain shook his head. “'Fraid not, Yvessa – that would be impolite. Just see if you can find a big enough opening and get us into standard orbit."
“Aye, sir – I’m working on it,” muttered the frustrated Deltan.
Lt. Xevok turned from the operations station. “I find it curious that no one has thought to establish any kind of traffic control system for the planet. This chaotic method of approach is most disconcerting.”
“All part of the charm of Vagabond VI, Mr. Xevok. Yvessa, I believe there’s an orbital insertion point at 14 mark 7 – just mind that bloody casino barge.”
* * *
Transporter Room 2
Brian West stood by in the transporter room, nervously waiting for the rest of the landing party. The phaser attached to his hip felt strange and unwelcome, but Lt. Commander Banton had made it clear in no uncertain terms that everyone going planet-side would wear side-arms. No exceptions.
While West felt that carrying a phaser was at odds with his Hippocratic oath to “do no harm,” he had not argued, especially considering the amount of firepower other members of the away team carried. He was disconcerted to see Chief Anaak packing two large disruptor pistols strapped to his legs. No doubt he had one or more deadly kligat secreted on his person. Senior Chief Burke was carrying an evil-looking ARC – an Adjustible Radius Concussion gun slung casually over her fore-arm. She had boasted that she could “rip the nuts off a Nausican at 50 meters” with the weapon. West had the uncomfortable sense that she was speaking from prior experience. Lt. T’Lin, the Vulcan security chief, was also well-armed, though with more standard weaponry. She wore a phaser on her hip and cradled a phaser carbine. Two additional security ratings stood by with similar ordinance.
The doors to the transporter room slid open, admitting Captain Slayd and Lt. Commander Banton. Both were armed with phasers and Banton wore something strikingly similar to a cutlass.
“Everyone here? Very good,” said Slayd. “Dr. West – please stay near Commander Banton. Do not make eye contact with anyone on the street and do not respond to anything someone might say to you, no matter how distasteful – is that understood?”
“Yes sir.” West felt decidedly ill at ease.
The Captain favored the CMO with a tight smile. “Sorry we did not have time to give you a proper briefing about Vagabond VI. Suffice it to say, it’s the polar opposite of the New Providence settlement on Lancaster IV. This is a dangerous place, Doctor, but we still try to ‘show the flag’ as it were. Mr. Banton will get you to the local infirmary to check on the flu patients while the rest of us deal with some of the locals.”
He looked around at the rest of the away team. “Standard ROE are in effect. Defend yourself however necessary, but do not provoke any altercations . . . understood, Senior Chief?” Slayd cast a knowing look at Burke who responded with a “who, me?” smile.
“Don’t worry about me, Skipper. I don’t start fights. I only finish ‘em,” she replied.
“Yes, quite.” Slayd maintained his firm gaze for a beat longer before stepping up on the transporter dais. The rest of the away team followed suit.
“Energize,” ordered Slayd.
* * *
Towuund City, Vagabond VI
The smell nearly took West’s breath away and his stomach gave an uneasy lurch. The away team materialized in a narrow alley filled with rotten garbage and the stench of excrement and vomit. A steady rain was falling and dark, oily water lapped around their boots.
“Lovely,” commented Slayd with distaste. “Remind me next time to beam down outside the city limit.”
They slogged through the stagnant filth until they came upon a crowded throughfare. West looked around at the eclectic mix of buildings and beings that vied for space. It was obvious that no thought had been given to planning the city. Structures made of shipping containers, parts of old starships and pre-cast domes competed with building constructed of native stone and wood. The duracast streets were in poor repair and meandered off in seemingly random directions without signage to provide any direction for a passing stranger.
As odd as West found the architecture, the beings that milled around them were stranger still. He recognized a few familiar races: Ferengi, Human, Klingon and Nausican, but there were many other aliens that were, well . . . totally alien to him. A gray skinned creature with four shining eyes growled menacingly at West as he waddled by, brushing against the young surgeon.
“Pardon me,” said West, reflexively.
“Tsmianiqa Hohp guNii!” the creature replied. West was fairly certain it was not wishing him a pleasant day.
“Eyes ahead and keep moving, Doctor,” growled Banton as he took the CMO firmly by the arm and pushed ahead through the crowd.
They came to a five-way intersection that was congested with pedestrians, skimmers and wheeled electric vehicles. There was a cacophonous noise as the vehicles nosed their way forward competing for right of way, uncaring of obstacles, whether metal or organic.
Banton pulled West back quickly as a hover-scooter raced past, missing the Doctor by mere inches. The young CMO felt his heart hammering in his chest.
“This is madness!” he protested to the second officer. Banton’s dark face broke into a grin and he winked at West.
“You ought to see it at rush hour.”
* * *
Thoroughly disoriented, West kept pace with Banton until they came to an even more crowded district. Bright lights flashed and hawkers called out, peddling wares of flesh to the passers by.
The Doctor was shocked to feel something grab him in a most intimate manner. Startled, he turned face-to-face with a one-eyed being with two sets of ill-concealed breasts. The hooker leered at him in a most suggestive manner.
“Aaaay, boo! Quickie? Quickie?” the well-endowed female(?) made thrusting motions against West’s pelvis. Banton quickly intervened.
“Get along. He’s not your type,” ordered Banton in a stern voice.
Another creature which West recognized as a Nausican suddenly loomed over them.
“You want to party, you pay first! Suhbey?”
“No Suhbey, no party,” responded Banton, firmly. “Come on Doctor.” He attempted to pull West away, but quickly realized the Nausican was not alone.
“Keep perfectly still, Doctor,” ordered Banton and his hand moved towards his sleeve.
The first Nausican produced a decidedly nasty-looking blade. “You pay, little man – Suhbey!”
Banton moved like a flash, producing the hidden carbon rod from his sleeve. The flexible rod whipped through the air with a high-pitched whistle and snapped the Nausican’s blade in two. Banton’s second strike caught the pimp across the face, dropping him quickly.
A second Nausican let out an enraged roar and withdrew a disruptor from his belt. West found himself tripping as he moved away from the deadly weapon, his eyes wide with the horrible realization that he was about to die.
Before the snarling beast could pull the trigger, West heard a sudden loud noise, almost like a thunderclap. A shimmering translucent mass impacted the Nausican, sending him crashing against a building. He slid down in a crumpled bloody heap, unmoving.
West felt himself being hoisted to his feet. Banton was looking past West and a wan smile formed on his face.
“Just happened by, Senior Chief?”
West turned to see Paula Burke standing by with her ARC leveled in a menacing manner toward the quickly retreating throng. She smiled at the two officers.
“The Skipper asked me to watch your backs.” She pumped the ARC, re-charging the compression chamber of the riot gun. “You looked like you could use a little help.”
“I appreciate it,” replied Banton. “Why don’t you come along so we can get Dr. West to the medical station in one piece?”
* * *
Captain Slayd and the rest of the away team paused a short distance from a seedy looking joint, guarded by a stocky Klingon. T’Lin eyed the guard and the dreary building with obvious distaste.
“Is this necessary, sir?” she asked.
“Thu-Churr is a conniving, back-stabbing sack of excrement, who would sell out his own mother into slavery if the price were right. I’m counting on that particularly endearing trait to get a lead on the Tzenkethi marauders.”
“His other ‘endearing’ traits might get you killed, sir.”
“Noted, Lieutenant. Why don’t you and the lads keep that Klingon door-stop entertained while Anaak and I go have a friendly chat with Thu-Churr.”
The old Klingon, though an imposing figure, had apparently been downing heavy quantities of blood-wine while he stood watch. T’Lin and her two assistants quickly and quietly dispatched the drunken guard as Slayd and Anaak entered the establishment.
Inside, the air was redolent with thick smoke from hookahs of brain-blast and other potent hallucinogenic drugs. Beings in varying degrees of undress reclined on moldering pillows as the strong narcotics heightened their physical responses while also deadening any sense of decorum.
Anaak wore a feral snarl of disgust as he stepped around the writhing mass of bodies. Slayd’s face was stony as he moved towards the back of the room. A reptilian creature came through a doorway from a back room and froze upon seeing Slayd and Anaak.
“SSlayd! What bringss you to our esstablisshment?” The creature asked in a breathy manner. A slender tongue flitted from his orifice, tasting the thick air.
“I need a few moments of Thu-Churr’s time, Vuupir.” The Captain produced a small bag and shook it in an enticing manner. “Twenty slips of latinum should buy me five minutes.”
The serpent’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll ssee if he iss available.”
Anaak stepped forward and peered at the creature with menace. “I will see for myself, snake. Move aside.”
With an indignant hiss, Vuupir moved out of the large Capellan’s way. Anaak drew the twin disruptors and shouldered his way through the door with Slayd close behind.
The room beyond was opulent in an excessive and totally tasteless manner. At least the smoke was not as thick as in the main room. A green Orion woman wearing little more than a sly grin approached the two Border Dogs.
“Now you look like a challenge,” she said, looking Anaak up and down with an appreciative leer. “Would your friend like to watch or join us?”
“Perhaps another time,” replied Slayd, his eyes already fixed on the other occupant of the room. Anaak glared at the girl in a manner that made her recall another place she needed to be. She quickly slipped on a sheer robe and hurried from the chamber.
A grey felinoid with numerous scars and lacking one ear sat in a chair that was designed to give the impression of a throne. The chair failed badly in that regard, overcome by sheer gaudiness. The felinoid idly stabbed a piece of raw, red meat with a sharp claw, depositing it in a mouth full of dangerous teeth and four massive fangs. With the extended claw, he began to groom his whiskers.
“Captain Slayd,” the Tzenkethi expatriate rumbled, “So good to see you and your pet Capellan again. Would you care to join me for dinner?”
* * *
When you said Andy I thought of the robotic Sheriff Andy that was on Eureka a few weeks ago. Something about the personality...
