Chapter Three
Stardate 54333.1 (4 May 2377)
New Kyoto, Molari IV
Residence of Vice-Governor Hiru Takeda
Hiru Takeda was in a foul mood as he pulled his sleek skimmer into the garage of his luxurious New Kyoto home. The long trip to the Federation Governor’s Conference on Earth had been an utter disaster as far as Takeda was concerned. Molari IV’s current Governor, Sato Yurikama, had completely ignored Takeda’s advice and voted against an open trade pact with the Ferengi. The elderly Yurikama’s opinion held sway among the conferees, scuttling Takeda’s promises to a prominent Ferengi Daimon. Takeda had feigned illness to return early so he could begin the process of damage-control.
Damn that old fool! he thought, This will cost us billions of credits in potential trade! Not to mention the generous ‘bonus’ the Daimon had promised me - if we got the trade pact passed.
Takeda entered the house, dropping his garment bag over the back of a kitchen chair and startling the housekeeper, Mrs. Shinbaku.
“Oh, Mr. Takeda! I didn’t expect you for two more days – is everything alright?”
“No, Mrs. Shinbaku, everything is most certainly not alright!” He noted the alarmed expression on the elderly woman’s face and let out a sigh. “But that does not concern you. I’m sorry if I startled you.”
The old woman forced a smile. “I guess I’m just jumpy in my old age. Can I get you anything? Some tea perhaps?”
Takeda rubbed his neck, trying to knead out the tension. “Perhaps later. For now, I will be in my study and don’t wish to be disturbed. I have much work to do.”
Mrs. Shinbaku bobbed her head in acknowledgement. “Of course. If you should need anything, you have but to call.”
Takeda entered his spacious study and pulled to the large paneled doors. Taking a seat at his expansive Mahogany desk, he noted that he had several messages waiting on his terminal. He absently scrolled down the list, frowning in puzzlement over a call from the nearby spaceport where he kept his yacht. He tapped the reply key.
Momentarily, the grizzled face of Donald Atkinson, the spaceport manager appeared on the screen. Atkinson did not look happy.
“Mr. Atkinson, I see that you tried to contact me.”
“Yes sir.” Atkinson picked up a PADD from a cluttered desk for reference. “You scheduled a coolant flush and software update for your yacht today, but obviously we can’t do the work until you bring the yacht back in.”
Takeda’s eyes narrowed in consternation. “What are you talking about? I haven’t taken the yacht off-planet for over two weeks!”
Atkinson waved the PADD as if it were holy writ. “Mr. Takeda, I’ve got your flight-plan right here, along with your authenticated security codes. Your yacht departed on Stardate 54331.89, headed to Klaamet IV. And let me remind you, our spaceport guidelines clearly state we need at least two hours notice of departure, which we did not receive.”
“Mr. Atkinson,” Takeda’s voice was low with barely restrained anger. “As you can plainly see, I am presently here in my study, speaking with you. I am not on my yacht, nor have I been. It would seem that you have allowed someone to steal my yacht right from under your nose! Listen to me carefully - I will be in your office within twenty minutes. At that time, you had best have some answers for me or a very good attorney!”
Takeda closed the channel before a flustered Atkinson could respond. He stood, pondering this new, unexpected development. His eyes fell on a holo-cube of his two sons. A sudden thought prompted him to quickly exit the study and return to the kitchen where Mrs. Shinbaku was preparing a fresh fruit salad.
“Where is Kinjo?” he demanded, brusquely.
“He’s spending the weekend with his friend, Nork.” She noted the glacial expression on Takeda’s face. “Is . . . is something wrong?”
“Contact Kinjo and tell him I want him to come right home. I have a matter to attend to at the spaceport.” He slipped his jacket back on. “You are to contact me immediately once you’ve determined his whereabouts.”
“Yes, of course . . . is Kinjo in trouble?”
“Not if you can locate him.”
* * *
Stardate 54333.1 (3 May 2377)
USS Bluefin
The Molari Badlands
Captain Akinola entered the crowded and chaotic transporter room. On the dais, the five member away team was sequestered behind a glowing containment field, appearing calm but restless. Outside the field, Dr. Castille and two corpsmen were busy with medical tri-corders.
“Doc, how are they?” he began.
Castille waved him off. “I’m busy. Talk to them if you like.”
The Captain approached the transporter platform. Commander Strauss and the others looked alright; except for their obvious anxiety. Strauss glanced at Akinola and a weak smile broke out on her face.
“So much for a routine boarding mission,” she quipped.
“It’s been quiet the past two weeks. About time we had some excitement,” the Captain replied with a smile. “Report, XO.”
Strauss nodded. “I guess there’s not much to tell, Captain. We beamed directly to the bridge where we found seven dead – all Orions. As you saw, the bodies were in pretty bad shape, so I would guess they’ve been dead for a while . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“All of you,” interrupted Castille. “I’m going to need a sample of your blood. Chief Deryx is going to beam in these hemo-samplers and a medical tri-corder – just hold the sampler against your forearm – then plug each into the tri-corder. Got it?”
Strauss, Brin and the others nodded and the items quickly materialized on the platform. Each of the five took one of the hemo-samplers and pressed it against their forearms.
“Very good. Your genetic markers will keep the results sorted for me. Commander, if you would, plug them into that receptacle on top of the tri-corder . . . that’s it. Now, just press the ‘send’ icon on the screen. Right, good.”
Castille held up his own tri-corder and read the results, a pensive frown on his face.
“Well?” demanded Akinola, impatiently.
Castille’s face relaxed somewhat, though he still appeared puzzled as he snapped the tri-corder shut. “Chief Deryx, you can deactivate the containment field. They’re all clear – there’s not a trace of plague or any other pathogens in their blood samples.”
There was a perceptible sigh of relief from the boarding party as the shimmering containment field faded. Strauss, Brin and the others stepped off the platform. The XO looked slightly pale but she was smiling gamely.
“Request permission to faint, sir?” she asked, deadpan.
“Maybe later, XO. We need to get some people on that ship in haz-mat gear. If the plague didn’t kill those people, we need to figure out what did.” He turned to Castille. “Doc, it seems you were wrong about the Antarean plague.”
Castille was frowning in thought as he stared suspiciously at the tri-corder. “Yeah, it would seem so . . .”
“You don’t sound very sure.”
The CMO fixed his gaze on Akinola. “Based on what I saw – the extreme swelling of the throats and tongues and the black mottling on their skin – it appeared to be classic signs of Antarean plague. But Antarean plague is an extremely virulent airborne contagion. If it were present on that ship, our people should have been infected.”
“But thankfully they weren’t. That being said, something killed those Orions, Doc. We need to figure out what.”
Castille nodded. “Agreed. With your permission, I’d like to go over with the next boarding party so I can do some proper work-ups. I’d like for Sanders and Menendez to come along – they know the drill.”
Akinola nodded. “Permission granted. But I also want a security detail - there’s still a lot of ship to check out.”
Castille frowned. “I thought you said there weren’t any life-form readings.”
“I did. But I don’t want to take any chances. Get on your protective gear and be ready to go in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay people, let’s get suited up so we can get back and do our job,” said Strauss, addressing her team.
“Negative, XO. Your team has been under enough stress today – you need time to de-compress.” He shook his head as Strauss began to protest.
“No arguments, Commander. That goes for you too, Senior Chief. I’ll have Commander Simms lead the next boarding party. Chief Deryx, gear up and pick your security team.” Akinola leveled his gaze at the first away team, daring any of them to protest. Outside of a slow, disgusted head shake by Brin, they held their peace.
“That’s good,” remarked the Captain. “XO, Solly, you’re with me.”
* * *
Stardate 54333.2 (4 May 2377)
New Kyoto, Molari IV
JaigonPark Spaceport
Donald Atkinson, manager of the Jaigon Park Spaceport, had gone from being aggravated to puzzled to worried. Vice-Governor Hiru Takeda might be an ass-hole, but he was a powerful, well-connected ass-hole. Takeda was glowering at the manager with cold contempt.
“Let me get this straight, Mr. Atkinson – four teenagers were able to walk into your spaceport and breach your highly vaunted security system in less than five minutes? Or is your sensor system as faulty as your security?”
The two men had just viewed the sensor logs from the hangar where Takeda’s 2.5 million credit Stargalleon had disappeared. They had clearly observed the quartet, led by Kinjo Takeda, enter the side door of the hangar, make their way to the yacht, gain entrance to the ship, and take-off mere moments later.
“Mr. Takeda, we don’t sit and monitor the sensor feed 27 hours a day. It’s there as a back-up when our security system notifies us of any security violation.” The excuse sounded weak to Atkinson's own ears.
“Yet your system did not notify you, despite the exorbitant berthing fees you charge - ostensibly to have state-of-the-art protection.” Takeda glowered, forcing himself to keep his temper in check. “I want you to contact space traffic control on Klaamet IV. You will find out where my ship is docked and you will see that it is impounded. You will also notify the local constabulary to pick up and detain Kinjo and his friends until I can deal with them personally.”
“Y- Yes sir, Mr. Takeda!” Any remaining bravado the manager may have possessed vanished.
Takeda stepped outside the manager’s office and activated his communicator. The image of his personal assistant, Toshiro Hayakawa, appeared on the small screen.
“Yes, Mr. Takeda?”
“Toshiro, I need you to set up an appointment with Daimon Hurnth. It’s time for some damage control. Convey my respects, apologies, excuses, whatever - just get him to agree to meet – understood?”
Hayakawa nodded. “Right away, sir. Have you located your yacht?”
“I believe so. It seems that Kinjo took his friends ‘joy-riding.’ It will be the last joy he experiences for a quite a while, I promise you that!”
Hayakawa nodded. “I understand, sir. However, it must give you pride that your son could pull off such a bold endeavor. It was wrong, of course, but it shows his resourcefulness.”
Takeda sighed. “Toshiro, we will revisit this conversation when you have children of your own. For now, get in touch with the Daimon. I still need to deal with Kinjo and his little band of pirates, not to mention smoothing things over with their parents. Call me in an hour with an update.”
The assistant bowed his head slightly. “Yes sir.”
“Takeda, out.” He folded the latinum-plated communicator and replaced it in his jacket before returning to Atkinson’s office. Atkinson was closing a subspace channel, a concerned expression on his face.
“I just spoke with the traffic control supervisor for Klaamet IV. She told me that your ship never arrived. They just conducted a scan and it's not in the Klaamet system.”
For the first time, Takeda’s anger ebbed, replaced by the first, vague tendrils of fear. “What? But you told me their flight plan . . .”
Atkinson held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Mr. Takeda, more than likely they decided to do some exploring along the way. Heck, I used to do some boot-leg flying in my old man’s transport back in the day. I’m sure . . .”
Takeda cut him off. “Your assurances mean very little to me, Mr. Atkinson. Contact the Border Service – have them begin an immediate search!”
Atkinson hesitated and spoke with an apologetic tone. “Mr. Takeda, the Border Service doesn’t usually begin search and rescue unless a vessel is more than a day overdue. Out near the Badlands, there are a lot of factors that can cause a ship to take longer . . .”
“I’m well aware of that, Atkinson!” Takeda’s anger began to resurface. “I also know that there are four adolescents - none of them with proper training or experience, flying that yacht near the Badlands. You will make that call to the Border Service, Atkinson, or I’ll see that you are unemployed by the end of the day!”
* * *
Stardate 54333.2 (4 May 2377)
Orion Raider Fle’jurn
Molari Badlands
The second boarding party from the Bluefin materialized on the Fle'jurn's bridge. This time, there were eight in the party, all wearing protective haz-mat suits.
Lt. Commander Delta Simms winced as she surveyed the bloated and discolored bodies that littered the bridge. She was grateful that the suit spared her from the smell, if not the sight of the carnage.
"Dr. Castille, why don't you get started here. Lieutenant Shelton? I'd like for you to go with Chief Deryx and search the crew compartments. Steiner, you and Ensign Li follow me to the engine room."
"Commander - anything in particular you want us to look for?" asked Lt. Shelton.
"Keep your scanners running for life-signs. Maybe we'll pick up something that the initial ship's scans missed," she mused, doubtfully. "Other than that - look for anything out of the ordinary, okay? Good - let's get to it. Once we finish the initial search, the fun part begins - bagging and tagging."
Shelton nodded, at least as much as his sealed helmet allowed. He turned to follow the Denobulan CPO who was heading aft.
As he was about to step through the aft hatch, a sudden, vivid and unwanted image intruded into Shelton's mind. It was his memory of the USS Galaxy's bridge - aflame and littered with bleeding and broken bodies. He saw his own hands savaged with burns, and the blood . . . God, the blood was everywhere!
"Sir? You comin'?" asked Deryx. He had turned and was eying the new tactical officer with an expression that conveyed respectful impatience.
Shelton blinked and forced a grin. "Sorry, Chief. Must need to add more Oh-two to my breathing mix!"
Deryx grinned in response. "Yessir. I sometimes get a little closed-in with these suits, myself." The Denobulan non-com turned and moved down the corridor, his tri-corder open and operating.
Shelton took another look around, now seeing only the bodies of the dead Orions, before moving to join Deryx in searching the crew compartments.
* * *
All going to go very bad I can imagine.
I know it's typical Border Service machismo, but damn, I think the Bluefin could have spent a little longer along the old DMZ learning the benefits of caution. 
