Tales of the USS Bluefin - 10: "No Honor Among Thieves"
- Thread starter TheLoneRedshirt
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Chapter Four
Stardate 54333.2 (4 May 2377)
USS Bluefin
Molari Badlands
“Have a seat Commander, Senior Chief,” directed Captain Akinola as the trio entered the ready room. Akinola stepped behind his desk, but did not sit. Instead, he folded his arms and stared out the viewport at the swirling hues of the Badlands.
Inga glanced over at Solly who gave a slight shrug. Obviously, he didn’t know what was going on either.
Finally, Akinola spoke. “Commander Strauss, Senior Chief Brin, I owe you and your away team an apology. I screwed up.”
“Sir?” began Strauss, puzzled, “How is that?”
“I made a cardinal error, Commander. I assumed because there were no life-signs on that ship that it was safe to send your team over. That false assumption could have easily cost all of you your lives if Antarean Plague had been present.”
“Captain, there’s no way you could have known . . .” her voice trailed off, as realization dawned.
“Tactical drones,” muttered Solly. Akinola turned and nodded.
“But sir,” protested Strauss, “We have a very limited inventory of drones, and they’re reserved for boarding operations when we know we’ll face hostile fire. The initial scans of the raider showed no life-signs at all.”
Akinola sat on the edge of his desk and fixed his gaze on Strauss. “That may be true, Commander, nonetheless I did not approach this situation with due prudence. Consider, we have an abandoned Syndicate vessel – unusual in itself – with no apparent damage. I should have been far more circumspect in my approach. Instead, I allowed you to beam in blind and vulnerable.”
“Captain, we followed standard procedure,” continued Inga, stubbornly.
Akinola smiled wanly. “Senior Chief, tell the XO how non-coms define ‘procedure.’”
Brin raised an eyebrow and suppressed an ironic smile. “Procedure is the pathetic excuse a miserable S.O.B. gives to explain how he frakked-up. Sir.”
Strauss exhaled sharply in frustration. “In that case, I screwed up too, Captain. I should have counseled you to be cautious.”
The Captain nodded. “Yes, you did and yes, you should have, Commander. But the final responsibility is mine. I’m just grateful we're able to talk it out here in my ready room without me having to write your grieving families explaining how we were ‘following procedure.’” Akinola rounded his desk and sat heavily in his chair, a rueful expression on his face. “Commander, do you feel up to manning the conn?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Then you’re dismissed. Check in with Commander Simms and see how they’re progressing. I need to bend the Senior Chief’s ear for a minute.”
“Aye, sir.” Strauss rose and exited the ready room. Brin looked after her retreating form, and then turned back to Akinola.
“She’s right, Skipper. This was just one of those things – you had no way of knowing what we’d find over there.”
Akinola leaned back and interlaced his fingers across his stomach. “I’d like to believe that, Solly. But you and I both know that’s bull.”
“Hey, I didn’t foresee any problems either, so I screwed up just like you and the XO.”
Akinola frowned slightly. “Yeah, and that’s what’s bothering me more than anything.”
“What - that we frakked up?”
“No, not just that. We all screw up from time to time if we live long enough. What bother’s me is how we seem to have lost our edge – it’s like we’re running on automatic pilot.”
Brin paused in thought. “Yeah. You just put the words to what I’ve been feeling for a while.”
“Ever since we salvaged the Finback,” added Akinola, gazing at Brin.
“Ever since we got caught on the Eku by that temporal bubble, or whatever the hell you called it – that’s what you mean, right?” asked Brin.
Akinola remained silent, continuing to gaze at Solly with an unreadable expression.
“Look . . . Skipper, I told you I believed you, and I meant it! But honest to the gods, I don’t remember the events the way you do . . . well, just a few vague impressions and odd feelings, but nothing tangible.” Brin frowned. “Do you think what happened affected us somehow?”
The Captain shrugged. “I have no idea, Solly. But I do know we better get our heads out of our collective asses before someone does get killed.”
* * *
Stardate 54333.3 (4 May 2377)
Orion Raider Fle’jurn
Molari Badlands
“Simms to Castille.”
Castille tapped the com-link on his haz-mat suit. “Castille, go ahead Commander.”
“We’ve found a dozen more bodies in the engine room, all in the same condition as the ones on the bridge. No signs of external wounds, just the swelling and discoloration.”
“Understood. I’ll send Menendez down to check them out. Are you all okay?”
“Just peachy, O.C. We’re up to our asses in dead Orions – couldn’t be better.”
Castille snorted. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Delta.”
“It helps keep my mind off of pukin.’ Simms, out.”
The CMO smiled and shook his head. He marveled at how easily Delta adapted to all kinds of stressful situation, while managing to keep her sense of humor. He remembered how she had been able to give Senior Chief Brin some advice on dealing with his daughter when they were stuck on the . . .
The smile froze on Castille’s face. Stuck on the what? He wondered, suddenly confused. He tried to recapture the wispy memory that had suddenly surfaced, only to disappear like a mirage on a dessert, but it was no use – the memory was gone.
His good mood having evaporated, he turned to Corpsman Menendez. “You heard, the lady, Menendez - get your butt down to the engine room and take tissue samples from all of the bodies. I don’t plan on spending all week on this barge!”
Menendez, accustomed to Castille’s curmudgeonly ways, simply smiled and nodded. “On my way, Doctor.”
“’Bout time,” groused Castille, turning back to the corpse from which he was drawing tissue samples.
* * *
Lt. Shelton and Chief Deryx continued their sweep through the crew compartments. Thus far they had discovered two bodies in the same condition as the others.
“I wonder what could have happened?” mused Shelton.
“Beats me, sir. That’s for the Doc to figure out. Maybe they got a hold of some bad Rigellian Ursk Chowder.”
Shelton chuckled. “Maybe so, Chief.” They came to a set of double doors marked in Orion glyphs. Deryx peered at the markings.
“If I’m reading this right, this is their transporter room,” said Deryx.
“Let’s check it out,” responded Shelton.
The Chief tapped a pressure plate adjacent to the doors. As they slid open a body tumbled out into the corridor. Shelton quickly stepped back before the dead Orion landed on him.
“Well, here’s a cause of death I recognize,” muttered Deryx.
Shelton stared down at the gaping hole burned clean through the chest of the corpse. Swallowing, he tapped the com-link.
“Shelton to Dr. Castille.”
“Castille, go ahead Lieutenant.”
“Ah, we have a body that appears to have been hit by an energy weapon of some sort.”
“Are you sure? Sometimes these blisters can look like burns.”
“Unless the blisters leave a hole big enough to stick your arm through, I’m pretty sure,” Shelton replied.
“Don’t touch the body, I’m on my way.”
Shelton closed the link and stared at Deryx. “He said for us not to touch the body.”
“Really? Damn, what a shame,” muttered the Chief as he stepped over the body and into the transporter room. He stopped abruptly. “Frak me . . .” he breathed.
“What?”
“Two more bodies – one of ‘em’s head is burned clean off. Looks like someone got pissed and unloaded a disruptor – there are scorch marks all over the bulkhead.”
Shelton didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on the gaping, scorched hole in the Orion’s body. The dead alien's eyes were bulging from their sockets, seeming to stare accusingly at Shelton.
* * *
Stardate 54333.4 (4 May 2377)
Pirate Ship G’laaq Toj’ma (Shade of Despair)
Molari Badlands
Kinjo Takeda moaned softly as consciousness slowly and painfully returned to his body. His first waking sensation was of the horrible stench that assaulted his nose. In his semi-conscious state, he supposed that Nork must have failed to make it to the head.
His second impression was of being on a cold, hard surface. He frowned, puzzled by this sensation. The deck of the yacht was covered with thickly padded carpet – there were few hard surfaces in the passenger areas of the Stargalleon.
As he attempted to open his eyes, a wave of nausea elicited a deep groan of misery. He waited a moment for the queasy churning in his stomach to settle before attempting to view his surroundings.
Kinjo was puzzled to see heavy, scuffed boots mere centimeters from his face. As he slowly directed his gaze upward, the boots flowed into a pair of patched and grimy looking pants. His eye paused as he noticed a large weapon strapped to the right leg of the owner of the pants.
“You’re awake – good. Welcome aboard the G’laaq Toj’ma, Mr. Takeda. I must apologize for the lack of amenities on our ship, certainly nothing such as you are accustomed, but it is the best we can offer, I’m afraid.”
Takeda’s vision was still blurry, but he could now tell that the person in front of him was female. The voice seemed familiar . . .
“Where . . . where are my friends?” he finally managed to rasp.
“Safe, for the moment.” The woman squatted where she could better converse with the prone teenager. “You will all remain safe, so long as you cooperate.”
Still disoriented, Kinjo tried to make sense of his predicament. “I don’t understand . . . Who are you? Where is the yacht?”
The woman regarded him with a sad shake of his head. “You really are naive, aren’t you?” She stood and reached for something on a nearby table and handed it to Kinjo. “Drink this,” she said. It wasn’t a request.
Kinjo looked at the cup suspiciously. “What is it?” he asked.
The slap to the side of Kinjo’s head was sudden and painful. Stars exploded in his field of vision and he felt his consciousness fade for a moment.
“That was for too many questions,” the woman said, calmly. “But, to answer, it is merely water boosted with minerals and a mild analgesic to help you recover from the stun effect. You should be thinking more clearly in a few minutes. At least, for your sake, I hope so.”
Confused, frightened and his face still stinging from the blow, Kinjo shakily took a sip from the cup. The water was tepid and had a harsh metallic taste, but he discovered he was very thirsty and drained the cup quickly.
The woman nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good. I am Sora Cambiet, master of this ship. My word is life or death for you, so it behooves you to cooperate with me. My crew - we are privateers and mercenaries. Some call us pirates. What should matter to you, Mr. Takeda, is that your life is now mine, as are the lives of your friends. If your families value your lives, they will pay what we demand for your return. If not, well . . .” Cambiet shrugged, “You and your little girlfriends will bring a fair price at slave auction. As for your smelly Bolian friend, I think we may simply push him out an airlock.”
Kinjo’s mind was overloaded with panic. His mouth opened and closed but no sound came forth. Cambiet snatched the cup from his grasp and stepped toward an oval hatch.
“I will return in half a cycle. You will then give me all of the information I require. If you hesitate, I will cut off a finger. If I think you are lying, I will cut out an eye. If you resist in any way, well . . . let’s just say some of my crew would enjoy a night of pleasure in your company.”
With that threat hanging in the air, she retreated through the hatch, slamming it shut with a harsh clang. The lights went out as the hatch was locked, plunging the boy into utter darkness.
Kinjo sat, trembling and alone in the blackness, his mind still unable to fathom the depths of trouble to which he and his friends had descended.
* * *
Stardate 54333.2 (4 May 2377)
USS Bluefin
Molari Badlands
“Have a seat Commander, Senior Chief,” directed Captain Akinola as the trio entered the ready room. Akinola stepped behind his desk, but did not sit. Instead, he folded his arms and stared out the viewport at the swirling hues of the Badlands.
Inga glanced over at Solly who gave a slight shrug. Obviously, he didn’t know what was going on either.
Finally, Akinola spoke. “Commander Strauss, Senior Chief Brin, I owe you and your away team an apology. I screwed up.”
“Sir?” began Strauss, puzzled, “How is that?”
“I made a cardinal error, Commander. I assumed because there were no life-signs on that ship that it was safe to send your team over. That false assumption could have easily cost all of you your lives if Antarean Plague had been present.”
“Captain, there’s no way you could have known . . .” her voice trailed off, as realization dawned.
“Tactical drones,” muttered Solly. Akinola turned and nodded.
“But sir,” protested Strauss, “We have a very limited inventory of drones, and they’re reserved for boarding operations when we know we’ll face hostile fire. The initial scans of the raider showed no life-signs at all.”
Akinola sat on the edge of his desk and fixed his gaze on Strauss. “That may be true, Commander, nonetheless I did not approach this situation with due prudence. Consider, we have an abandoned Syndicate vessel – unusual in itself – with no apparent damage. I should have been far more circumspect in my approach. Instead, I allowed you to beam in blind and vulnerable.”
“Captain, we followed standard procedure,” continued Inga, stubbornly.
Akinola smiled wanly. “Senior Chief, tell the XO how non-coms define ‘procedure.’”
Brin raised an eyebrow and suppressed an ironic smile. “Procedure is the pathetic excuse a miserable S.O.B. gives to explain how he frakked-up. Sir.”
Strauss exhaled sharply in frustration. “In that case, I screwed up too, Captain. I should have counseled you to be cautious.”
The Captain nodded. “Yes, you did and yes, you should have, Commander. But the final responsibility is mine. I’m just grateful we're able to talk it out here in my ready room without me having to write your grieving families explaining how we were ‘following procedure.’” Akinola rounded his desk and sat heavily in his chair, a rueful expression on his face. “Commander, do you feel up to manning the conn?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Then you’re dismissed. Check in with Commander Simms and see how they’re progressing. I need to bend the Senior Chief’s ear for a minute.”
“Aye, sir.” Strauss rose and exited the ready room. Brin looked after her retreating form, and then turned back to Akinola.
“She’s right, Skipper. This was just one of those things – you had no way of knowing what we’d find over there.”
Akinola leaned back and interlaced his fingers across his stomach. “I’d like to believe that, Solly. But you and I both know that’s bull.”
“Hey, I didn’t foresee any problems either, so I screwed up just like you and the XO.”
Akinola frowned slightly. “Yeah, and that’s what’s bothering me more than anything.”
“What - that we frakked up?”
“No, not just that. We all screw up from time to time if we live long enough. What bother’s me is how we seem to have lost our edge – it’s like we’re running on automatic pilot.”
Brin paused in thought. “Yeah. You just put the words to what I’ve been feeling for a while.”
“Ever since we salvaged the Finback,” added Akinola, gazing at Brin.
“Ever since we got caught on the Eku by that temporal bubble, or whatever the hell you called it – that’s what you mean, right?” asked Brin.
Akinola remained silent, continuing to gaze at Solly with an unreadable expression.
“Look . . . Skipper, I told you I believed you, and I meant it! But honest to the gods, I don’t remember the events the way you do . . . well, just a few vague impressions and odd feelings, but nothing tangible.” Brin frowned. “Do you think what happened affected us somehow?”
The Captain shrugged. “I have no idea, Solly. But I do know we better get our heads out of our collective asses before someone does get killed.”
* * *
Stardate 54333.3 (4 May 2377)
Orion Raider Fle’jurn
Molari Badlands
“Simms to Castille.”
Castille tapped the com-link on his haz-mat suit. “Castille, go ahead Commander.”
“We’ve found a dozen more bodies in the engine room, all in the same condition as the ones on the bridge. No signs of external wounds, just the swelling and discoloration.”
“Understood. I’ll send Menendez down to check them out. Are you all okay?”
“Just peachy, O.C. We’re up to our asses in dead Orions – couldn’t be better.”
Castille snorted. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Delta.”
“It helps keep my mind off of pukin.’ Simms, out.”
The CMO smiled and shook his head. He marveled at how easily Delta adapted to all kinds of stressful situation, while managing to keep her sense of humor. He remembered how she had been able to give Senior Chief Brin some advice on dealing with his daughter when they were stuck on the . . .
The smile froze on Castille’s face. Stuck on the what? He wondered, suddenly confused. He tried to recapture the wispy memory that had suddenly surfaced, only to disappear like a mirage on a dessert, but it was no use – the memory was gone.
His good mood having evaporated, he turned to Corpsman Menendez. “You heard, the lady, Menendez - get your butt down to the engine room and take tissue samples from all of the bodies. I don’t plan on spending all week on this barge!”
Menendez, accustomed to Castille’s curmudgeonly ways, simply smiled and nodded. “On my way, Doctor.”
“’Bout time,” groused Castille, turning back to the corpse from which he was drawing tissue samples.
* * *
Lt. Shelton and Chief Deryx continued their sweep through the crew compartments. Thus far they had discovered two bodies in the same condition as the others.
“I wonder what could have happened?” mused Shelton.
“Beats me, sir. That’s for the Doc to figure out. Maybe they got a hold of some bad Rigellian Ursk Chowder.”
Shelton chuckled. “Maybe so, Chief.” They came to a set of double doors marked in Orion glyphs. Deryx peered at the markings.
“If I’m reading this right, this is their transporter room,” said Deryx.
“Let’s check it out,” responded Shelton.
The Chief tapped a pressure plate adjacent to the doors. As they slid open a body tumbled out into the corridor. Shelton quickly stepped back before the dead Orion landed on him.
“Well, here’s a cause of death I recognize,” muttered Deryx.
Shelton stared down at the gaping hole burned clean through the chest of the corpse. Swallowing, he tapped the com-link.
“Shelton to Dr. Castille.”
“Castille, go ahead Lieutenant.”
“Ah, we have a body that appears to have been hit by an energy weapon of some sort.”
“Are you sure? Sometimes these blisters can look like burns.”
“Unless the blisters leave a hole big enough to stick your arm through, I’m pretty sure,” Shelton replied.
“Don’t touch the body, I’m on my way.”
Shelton closed the link and stared at Deryx. “He said for us not to touch the body.”
“Really? Damn, what a shame,” muttered the Chief as he stepped over the body and into the transporter room. He stopped abruptly. “Frak me . . .” he breathed.
“What?”
“Two more bodies – one of ‘em’s head is burned clean off. Looks like someone got pissed and unloaded a disruptor – there are scorch marks all over the bulkhead.”
Shelton didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on the gaping, scorched hole in the Orion’s body. The dead alien's eyes were bulging from their sockets, seeming to stare accusingly at Shelton.
* * *
Stardate 54333.4 (4 May 2377)
Pirate Ship G’laaq Toj’ma (Shade of Despair)
Molari Badlands
Kinjo Takeda moaned softly as consciousness slowly and painfully returned to his body. His first waking sensation was of the horrible stench that assaulted his nose. In his semi-conscious state, he supposed that Nork must have failed to make it to the head.
His second impression was of being on a cold, hard surface. He frowned, puzzled by this sensation. The deck of the yacht was covered with thickly padded carpet – there were few hard surfaces in the passenger areas of the Stargalleon.
As he attempted to open his eyes, a wave of nausea elicited a deep groan of misery. He waited a moment for the queasy churning in his stomach to settle before attempting to view his surroundings.
Kinjo was puzzled to see heavy, scuffed boots mere centimeters from his face. As he slowly directed his gaze upward, the boots flowed into a pair of patched and grimy looking pants. His eye paused as he noticed a large weapon strapped to the right leg of the owner of the pants.
“You’re awake – good. Welcome aboard the G’laaq Toj’ma, Mr. Takeda. I must apologize for the lack of amenities on our ship, certainly nothing such as you are accustomed, but it is the best we can offer, I’m afraid.”
Takeda’s vision was still blurry, but he could now tell that the person in front of him was female. The voice seemed familiar . . .
“Where . . . where are my friends?” he finally managed to rasp.
“Safe, for the moment.” The woman squatted where she could better converse with the prone teenager. “You will all remain safe, so long as you cooperate.”
Still disoriented, Kinjo tried to make sense of his predicament. “I don’t understand . . . Who are you? Where is the yacht?”
The woman regarded him with a sad shake of his head. “You really are naive, aren’t you?” She stood and reached for something on a nearby table and handed it to Kinjo. “Drink this,” she said. It wasn’t a request.
Kinjo looked at the cup suspiciously. “What is it?” he asked.
The slap to the side of Kinjo’s head was sudden and painful. Stars exploded in his field of vision and he felt his consciousness fade for a moment.
“That was for too many questions,” the woman said, calmly. “But, to answer, it is merely water boosted with minerals and a mild analgesic to help you recover from the stun effect. You should be thinking more clearly in a few minutes. At least, for your sake, I hope so.”
Confused, frightened and his face still stinging from the blow, Kinjo shakily took a sip from the cup. The water was tepid and had a harsh metallic taste, but he discovered he was very thirsty and drained the cup quickly.
The woman nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good. I am Sora Cambiet, master of this ship. My word is life or death for you, so it behooves you to cooperate with me. My crew - we are privateers and mercenaries. Some call us pirates. What should matter to you, Mr. Takeda, is that your life is now mine, as are the lives of your friends. If your families value your lives, they will pay what we demand for your return. If not, well . . .” Cambiet shrugged, “You and your little girlfriends will bring a fair price at slave auction. As for your smelly Bolian friend, I think we may simply push him out an airlock.”
Kinjo’s mind was overloaded with panic. His mouth opened and closed but no sound came forth. Cambiet snatched the cup from his grasp and stepped toward an oval hatch.
“I will return in half a cycle. You will then give me all of the information I require. If you hesitate, I will cut off a finger. If I think you are lying, I will cut out an eye. If you resist in any way, well . . . let’s just say some of my crew would enjoy a night of pleasure in your company.”
With that threat hanging in the air, she retreated through the hatch, slamming it shut with a harsh clang. The lights went out as the hatch was locked, plunging the boy into utter darkness.
Kinjo sat, trembling and alone in the blackness, his mind still unable to fathom the depths of trouble to which he and his friends had descended.
* * *
She doesn't play nice. Oh a bitch of a baddie for Akinola and co. to go up against. Can't wait. 
Poor Kinjo. 
I personally still don't see the away mission to the raider as a major mistake but I do like the implication that something has changed among Bluefin's crew since their strange trip through time and space.
As for our teenagers I have little sympathy. I hope they survive this with all limbs and so forth in tact, but if you insist on being stupid, this is what you deserve.
As for our teenagers I have little sympathy. I hope they survive this with all limbs and so forth in tact, but if you insist on being stupid, this is what you deserve.
Kinjo is learning one of life's lessons--the hard way. Sometimes though, that's the only way people learn. I'm wondering if Sora's playing with a bio-engineered variation of Antarean Plague--if so, then she's incredibly dangerous and she's either got someone really nasty on her payroll or someone really nasty backing her.
Ol' Joe's got his work cut out for him.
Ol' Joe's got his work cut out for him.
Chapter Five
Stardate 54333.6 (4 May 2377)
USS Bluefin
Molari Badlands
Lt. Shelton sat at the wardroom table, waiting for the senior officer’s staff meeting. A cup of coffee sat before him, mostly ignored, as he absently clenched and relaxed his right hand. That seemed to relieve the annoying tremor that had reappeared after the boarding mission. His eyes roamed across the old-style photographs on the opposite wall. Vessels from long ago that bore the name Bluefin were displayed in chronological order, beginning with two U.S. Navy submarines, a mid-21st century Coast Guard cutter, and an old Avenger-class destroyer of the early 23rd century.
“Getting to know our predecessors, Lieutenant?”
Startled, Shelton turned to see Captain Akinola entering the wardroom, followed by Commander Strauss and Lt. Commander Simms. A Tellarite with Lt. Commander’s pips and a surly expression also entered. The latter sat heavily across the table from Shelton and eyed him peevishly.
“Who the frak are you?” groused Gralt.
Akinola interrupted. “Commander, we’ll save introductions of our new tactical officer until everyone else arrives. It will save time.”
Gralt turned his attention to a battered engineering PADD, muttering something vulgar under his breath. Shelton wasn’t bothered – he had served with Tellarites before and was used to their prickly demeanor.
Senior Chief Brin entered, followed by Lt. Bane. Both made way to the opposite end of the table, with Bane nodding to Shelton. Strauss and Simms took their seats following their customary stop at the replicator for raktajino and coffee. Akinola glanced at the chronometer on the bulkhead, an impatient look on his face.
“Where’s Castille?” he wondered aloud.
“Sir, I believe he was double-checking the lab results from those tissue samples,” said Simms.
Before Akinola could reply, Dr. Castille entered the wardroom, PADD in hand and a frown on his face. He took a seat next to Shelton, across from Commander Simms.
“Glad you could join us, Doctor,” began Akinola, dryly. “Before we begin, introductions are in order. This is Lt. Frank Shelton, our new tactical officer. Some of you have already met him, but it would be helpful if we could go around the table – introduce yourself, then we can get to the business at hand.”
Shelton took care to remember the names of the gathered officers. Most were cordial in their greetings, though Gralt muttered perfunctorily – no great surprise there. The doctor was also somewhat terse, but considering what he had been doing, Shelton couldn’t blame him.
“Alright, let’s begin with the medical report. What do you have, Doctor?”
Castille tossed the PADD on the table and gestured at it in an accusatory manner. “Bad news, that’s what. As it turns out, the Orions on that ship did die of Antarean Plague, minus the three that were killed by disruptor fire in the transporter room.”
Akinola frowned. “I’m confused, Doctor. I thought Antarean Plague was highly contagious. How did our people avoid becoming infected?”
“That’s the troubling part,” replied Castille.
“Oh?” interrupted Strauss, raising an eyebrow, “it’s troubling that we didn’t catch the plague?”
“That’s not what I meant, Commander,” replied Castille, clearly not in the mood for banter. “It’s troubling that this strain of the plague is behaving differently, much differently than the typical strain.” He picked up his PADD for reference.
“To be specific, it differs in three ways – first, it is much faster acting. From what I can tell, these Orions succumbed within minutes, perhaps seconds of exposure. Usually, it takes anywhere from 48 to 72 hours for the virus to reach lethal stage. Second, the virus multiplied with extreme speed in the ship’s atmosphere. Our best guess is that it originated in the transporter room and spread throughout the entire ship in under five minutes. Third, and most puzzling, the virus self-destructed – probably mere minutes after it completely took out the crew.” He placed the PADD back on the table. “That’s why our boarding party didn’t get sick – the virus was already dead.”
“A weaponized designer virus,” muttered Shelton.
“Speak up Lieutenant – you have something to add?” said Akinola, sharply.
Shelton blinked, realizing he had spoken loud enough to be heard. He cleared his throat. “Um, yes sir. It seems apparent that someone has managed to manipulate this plague into a weaponized form – it kills quickly then dissipates, allowing the aggressors to take a ship, or a town, or even an entire planet without firing a shot.”
There was silence around the table, save for the low hum of the air-handler. Castille continued, giving Shelton a side-long glance.
“I have to concur with Lt. Shelton – it’s obvious that this strain of Antarean Plague has been manipulated into a very deadly weapon, potentially a weapon of mass destruction on a cataclysmic scale.”
“And those Orions that died were what – test subjects?” asked Strauss, incredulous.
There was cross-talk as everyone at the table began to speak at once. Akinola held up his hand.
“Hold it, hold it! Settle down, people. Am I hearing this correctly Doctor? Lt. Shelton? You think someone hit the Fle’jurn with a biological weapon?”
Both men nodded.
“Mr. Bane, I need you to download the sensor and communication logs from that ship – any data you can find at all to help us determine the identity of the attacker. Get Ensign Vashtee to help you pick up an ion trail – any clue to the identity of the attacking ship and the direction they headed.”
“Aye sir.”
“Doc – is there any kind of inoculation than can protect us from that plague?”
Castille frowned. “Not really – I have a vaccine that might help against the normal strain, but against this weaponized variant? Not likely. And before you ask – no, there is no cure.”
“Then I suggest you get to work finding one, Doctor,” said Akinola, somberly.
“Captain,” protested Castille, “no offense, but our facilities are totally inadequate – not just our ship but even on Echo station! If I had the research facilities of Starfleet Medical, or a major Starbase, along with a team of a hundred researchers and a few years . . . maybe I could do it.”
“Vaccines were discovered centuries ago with far less than what you have here, Doctor. I don’t expect miracles, but I do expect your best effort.”
Castille sighed. “Yes sir – I’ll get on it.”
“From this point, we’re on yellow alert. I want weapons crews standing by and torpedo tubes loaded. Mr. Shelton – load out a single Mark 22 and the rest of the tubes with warshots.” The tactical officer nodded in acknowledgement.
“Any questions?” Akinola looked around the table at the troubled and pensive faces. His own face expressed apprehension. “Very well, dismissed. XO – you stay just a moment.”
The other officers filed out of the wardroom. Strauss approached Akinola with a questioning look.
“Sir?”
“I’m going to report to Admiral Bateson – you’ll have the conn. I need you to do something for me.”
“Certainly.”
He glanced toward the doorway to make sure they were alone. “Keep an eye on Lt. Shelton. I’m concerned about him.”
She frowned. “Concerned? In what way?”
“Have you noticed how his hands shake?”
Strauss' eyebrows rose in surprise. “No sir, I haven’t.”
“It may be nothing. Certainly, he’s performed his duties well thus far. But if we get into a combat situation, just . . . be ready to step in if you see the need.”
Strauss wasn’t happy with the thought, but she nodded. “Aye sir, I’ll keep a close watch.”
Akinola’s combadge chirped. “Bridge to Captain Akinola.”
The Captain tapped his combadge. “Akinola – go ahead Maya.”
“Sir – I have a priority one communiqué from Admiral Bateson.”
Akinola and Strauss exchanged surprised glances.
“Maybe the Admiral already got word?” wondered Inga.
“I don’t see how,” answered Akinola, puzzled. “Head on up to the bridge – I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
“Yes sir.” Strauss left and Akinola continued. “Maya, pipe the transmission down to the wardroom – I’ll take it here.”
“Aye sir – wait one.”
Akinola walked to the end of the narrow room where a viewscreen took up most of one wall. The Border Service insignia morphed into the image of Admiral Morgan Bateson, Commander of the 7th Border Service Squadron. Akinola could tell by the dark expression on Bateson’s face that something was seriously wrong.
“Admiral, I was just about to contact you,” began Akinola.
Bateson’s expression was grim. “Joseph, I just received some terrible news. The Amberjack was ambushed by a group of Maquis ships, apparently led by a Klingon K'Vort-class ship.” He took a breath. “Amberjack was destroyed in the attack.”
Akinola’s mouth went dry. He stared at his friend’s image dumbly for a moment. “What of Sylvia? Her crew?”
The Admiral averted his gaze and wiped something from his cheek. “No survivors, Joseph. Captain Reuben went down fighting, but she along with Amberjack's entire crew were lost.”
“Admiral,” Akinola began, trying to get his mind around the devastating news, “we have a situation here you need to know about, but I request that we be allowed to participate in any counter-attack against the Maquis.”
Bateson’s jaw muscles tightened perceptibly. Akinola realized that his friend was not merely distressed, he was enraged.
“Unfortunately, we have been ordered to keep out of this, Captain. Starfleet Command is ‘handling’ the situation with their own assets. The Border Service is to ‘stay clear.’”
Akinola’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Beggin your pardon, sir, but what the frak! What crank-sucking pile of excrement made that call?!?”
“Stand down, Captain – I hear you and I share your sentiments. But this came down from ‘on-high.’ There’s not a damn thing we can do but swallow our pride and say yes sir, yes sir. . .”
“Three bags full,” completed Akinola, tonelessly. “Frak!” he repeated, his own anger unabated.
“I’m sorry as hell to tell you, Joseph. Sylvia was my friend too. But at least she gave as good as she got.”
Akinola nodded morosely. “I’m sure she did, Morgan, I’m sure she did,” He took a shaky breath. “Ah, hell.”
Bateson nodded sympathetically. “Hell indeed.” The Admiral paused. “What is this situation you mentioned?”
Akinola nodded and gave the Admiral his report about finding the Syndicate vessel adrift and the Orions killed by the weaponized plague.
Bateson stroked his beard as he frowned in thought. “Now that’s damn troubling, Captain. First, we have one of our cutters ambushed, now someone is playing with bio-weapons. Maybe the Maquis is bent on all-out war with the Federation.”
“Morgan, I just can’t see the point – why attack a Syndicate ship? Hell, the Maquis get most of their arms from the Syndicate!”
“The Maquis seldom use Klingon ships – maybe they’ve found a new supplier. I’ll run this by Fleet intel – perhaps they have a clue.”
Akinola snorted derisively. In his opinion, there were few spooks that could find their asses with both hands. “Maybe,” he said, doubtfully. “What are your orders, Admiral, since the powers that be have ordered us to the sidelines?”
“Actually, I do have an assignment for you, though I doubt you’re going to like it – it comes from Admiral Bouvier.”
“Great,” replied Akinola tersely, “does she want us to repaint subspace relays?”
“Easy, Joseph,” warned Bateson, “I know you’re upset – God knows we all are – but don’t let your mouth get you in trouble.” The Admiral paused, giving Akinola a meaningful look. “I need you to search for a missing yacht that belongs to the vice-governor of Morlari IV.”
The Captain shook his head. “What the frak? You’ve got to be kidding! Admiral – did you hear a word I said about this weaponized plague?”
“I most certainly did, Captain. I’m dispatching the Pompano to your location to follow-up with the investigation. No doubt, Fleet intel will want to check it out as well.”
“No doubt,” said Akinola tightly. “So while the Maquis kill our people and someone else is playing with weapons of mass destruction, Admiral Bouvier wants to kiss some politician's ass and earn some brownie points.
“Suck it up, Captain!” Bateson said, sharply, “We don’t have to like our orders – we do have to carry them out. If you can’t, tell me right now.” The Admiral’s eyes were hard as was his tone.
Akinola merely nodded. “I’ll do it, Admiral. It’s my job.”
Bateson’s gaze softened. “Good. I’m transmitting the details about the yacht – apparently the vice-governor’s son decided to go joy-riding with his friends. He’s probably tied up at some merchant station, drunk and getting a good dose of the clap. Send me the coordinates of that Syndicate ship – Pompano can be there in about three hours.”
“Yes sir,” Akinola suddenly felt very tired. “Anything else, sir?”
Bateson opened his mouth to speak, then just shook his head sadly. Finally he said, “I’ll let you know about the arrangements for the memorial service for Captain Reuben and her crew when I hear something. Bateson, out.”
Akinola eased into a chair at the wardroom table and rubbed his forehead against the sudden onslaught of a headache. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.
“Shit,” he muttered, before standing and leaving for the bridge.
* * *
Stardate 54333.6 (4 May 2377)
USS Bluefin
Molari Badlands
Lt. Shelton sat at the wardroom table, waiting for the senior officer’s staff meeting. A cup of coffee sat before him, mostly ignored, as he absently clenched and relaxed his right hand. That seemed to relieve the annoying tremor that had reappeared after the boarding mission. His eyes roamed across the old-style photographs on the opposite wall. Vessels from long ago that bore the name Bluefin were displayed in chronological order, beginning with two U.S. Navy submarines, a mid-21st century Coast Guard cutter, and an old Avenger-class destroyer of the early 23rd century.
“Getting to know our predecessors, Lieutenant?”
Startled, Shelton turned to see Captain Akinola entering the wardroom, followed by Commander Strauss and Lt. Commander Simms. A Tellarite with Lt. Commander’s pips and a surly expression also entered. The latter sat heavily across the table from Shelton and eyed him peevishly.
“Who the frak are you?” groused Gralt.
Akinola interrupted. “Commander, we’ll save introductions of our new tactical officer until everyone else arrives. It will save time.”
Gralt turned his attention to a battered engineering PADD, muttering something vulgar under his breath. Shelton wasn’t bothered – he had served with Tellarites before and was used to their prickly demeanor.
Senior Chief Brin entered, followed by Lt. Bane. Both made way to the opposite end of the table, with Bane nodding to Shelton. Strauss and Simms took their seats following their customary stop at the replicator for raktajino and coffee. Akinola glanced at the chronometer on the bulkhead, an impatient look on his face.
“Where’s Castille?” he wondered aloud.
“Sir, I believe he was double-checking the lab results from those tissue samples,” said Simms.
Before Akinola could reply, Dr. Castille entered the wardroom, PADD in hand and a frown on his face. He took a seat next to Shelton, across from Commander Simms.
“Glad you could join us, Doctor,” began Akinola, dryly. “Before we begin, introductions are in order. This is Lt. Frank Shelton, our new tactical officer. Some of you have already met him, but it would be helpful if we could go around the table – introduce yourself, then we can get to the business at hand.”
Shelton took care to remember the names of the gathered officers. Most were cordial in their greetings, though Gralt muttered perfunctorily – no great surprise there. The doctor was also somewhat terse, but considering what he had been doing, Shelton couldn’t blame him.
“Alright, let’s begin with the medical report. What do you have, Doctor?”
Castille tossed the PADD on the table and gestured at it in an accusatory manner. “Bad news, that’s what. As it turns out, the Orions on that ship did die of Antarean Plague, minus the three that were killed by disruptor fire in the transporter room.”
Akinola frowned. “I’m confused, Doctor. I thought Antarean Plague was highly contagious. How did our people avoid becoming infected?”
“That’s the troubling part,” replied Castille.
“Oh?” interrupted Strauss, raising an eyebrow, “it’s troubling that we didn’t catch the plague?”
“That’s not what I meant, Commander,” replied Castille, clearly not in the mood for banter. “It’s troubling that this strain of the plague is behaving differently, much differently than the typical strain.” He picked up his PADD for reference.
“To be specific, it differs in three ways – first, it is much faster acting. From what I can tell, these Orions succumbed within minutes, perhaps seconds of exposure. Usually, it takes anywhere from 48 to 72 hours for the virus to reach lethal stage. Second, the virus multiplied with extreme speed in the ship’s atmosphere. Our best guess is that it originated in the transporter room and spread throughout the entire ship in under five minutes. Third, and most puzzling, the virus self-destructed – probably mere minutes after it completely took out the crew.” He placed the PADD back on the table. “That’s why our boarding party didn’t get sick – the virus was already dead.”
“A weaponized designer virus,” muttered Shelton.
“Speak up Lieutenant – you have something to add?” said Akinola, sharply.
Shelton blinked, realizing he had spoken loud enough to be heard. He cleared his throat. “Um, yes sir. It seems apparent that someone has managed to manipulate this plague into a weaponized form – it kills quickly then dissipates, allowing the aggressors to take a ship, or a town, or even an entire planet without firing a shot.”
There was silence around the table, save for the low hum of the air-handler. Castille continued, giving Shelton a side-long glance.
“I have to concur with Lt. Shelton – it’s obvious that this strain of Antarean Plague has been manipulated into a very deadly weapon, potentially a weapon of mass destruction on a cataclysmic scale.”
“And those Orions that died were what – test subjects?” asked Strauss, incredulous.
There was cross-talk as everyone at the table began to speak at once. Akinola held up his hand.
“Hold it, hold it! Settle down, people. Am I hearing this correctly Doctor? Lt. Shelton? You think someone hit the Fle’jurn with a biological weapon?”
Both men nodded.
“Mr. Bane, I need you to download the sensor and communication logs from that ship – any data you can find at all to help us determine the identity of the attacker. Get Ensign Vashtee to help you pick up an ion trail – any clue to the identity of the attacking ship and the direction they headed.”
“Aye sir.”
“Doc – is there any kind of inoculation than can protect us from that plague?”
Castille frowned. “Not really – I have a vaccine that might help against the normal strain, but against this weaponized variant? Not likely. And before you ask – no, there is no cure.”
“Then I suggest you get to work finding one, Doctor,” said Akinola, somberly.
“Captain,” protested Castille, “no offense, but our facilities are totally inadequate – not just our ship but even on Echo station! If I had the research facilities of Starfleet Medical, or a major Starbase, along with a team of a hundred researchers and a few years . . . maybe I could do it.”
“Vaccines were discovered centuries ago with far less than what you have here, Doctor. I don’t expect miracles, but I do expect your best effort.”
Castille sighed. “Yes sir – I’ll get on it.”
“From this point, we’re on yellow alert. I want weapons crews standing by and torpedo tubes loaded. Mr. Shelton – load out a single Mark 22 and the rest of the tubes with warshots.” The tactical officer nodded in acknowledgement.
“Any questions?” Akinola looked around the table at the troubled and pensive faces. His own face expressed apprehension. “Very well, dismissed. XO – you stay just a moment.”
The other officers filed out of the wardroom. Strauss approached Akinola with a questioning look.
“Sir?”
“I’m going to report to Admiral Bateson – you’ll have the conn. I need you to do something for me.”
“Certainly.”
He glanced toward the doorway to make sure they were alone. “Keep an eye on Lt. Shelton. I’m concerned about him.”
She frowned. “Concerned? In what way?”
“Have you noticed how his hands shake?”
Strauss' eyebrows rose in surprise. “No sir, I haven’t.”
“It may be nothing. Certainly, he’s performed his duties well thus far. But if we get into a combat situation, just . . . be ready to step in if you see the need.”
Strauss wasn’t happy with the thought, but she nodded. “Aye sir, I’ll keep a close watch.”
Akinola’s combadge chirped. “Bridge to Captain Akinola.”
The Captain tapped his combadge. “Akinola – go ahead Maya.”
“Sir – I have a priority one communiqué from Admiral Bateson.”
Akinola and Strauss exchanged surprised glances.
“Maybe the Admiral already got word?” wondered Inga.
“I don’t see how,” answered Akinola, puzzled. “Head on up to the bridge – I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
“Yes sir.” Strauss left and Akinola continued. “Maya, pipe the transmission down to the wardroom – I’ll take it here.”
“Aye sir – wait one.”
Akinola walked to the end of the narrow room where a viewscreen took up most of one wall. The Border Service insignia morphed into the image of Admiral Morgan Bateson, Commander of the 7th Border Service Squadron. Akinola could tell by the dark expression on Bateson’s face that something was seriously wrong.
“Admiral, I was just about to contact you,” began Akinola.
Bateson’s expression was grim. “Joseph, I just received some terrible news. The Amberjack was ambushed by a group of Maquis ships, apparently led by a Klingon K'Vort-class ship.” He took a breath. “Amberjack was destroyed in the attack.”
Akinola’s mouth went dry. He stared at his friend’s image dumbly for a moment. “What of Sylvia? Her crew?”
The Admiral averted his gaze and wiped something from his cheek. “No survivors, Joseph. Captain Reuben went down fighting, but she along with Amberjack's entire crew were lost.”
“Admiral,” Akinola began, trying to get his mind around the devastating news, “we have a situation here you need to know about, but I request that we be allowed to participate in any counter-attack against the Maquis.”
Bateson’s jaw muscles tightened perceptibly. Akinola realized that his friend was not merely distressed, he was enraged.
“Unfortunately, we have been ordered to keep out of this, Captain. Starfleet Command is ‘handling’ the situation with their own assets. The Border Service is to ‘stay clear.’”
Akinola’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Beggin your pardon, sir, but what the frak! What crank-sucking pile of excrement made that call?!?”
“Stand down, Captain – I hear you and I share your sentiments. But this came down from ‘on-high.’ There’s not a damn thing we can do but swallow our pride and say yes sir, yes sir. . .”
“Three bags full,” completed Akinola, tonelessly. “Frak!” he repeated, his own anger unabated.
“I’m sorry as hell to tell you, Joseph. Sylvia was my friend too. But at least she gave as good as she got.”
Akinola nodded morosely. “I’m sure she did, Morgan, I’m sure she did,” He took a shaky breath. “Ah, hell.”
Bateson nodded sympathetically. “Hell indeed.” The Admiral paused. “What is this situation you mentioned?”
Akinola nodded and gave the Admiral his report about finding the Syndicate vessel adrift and the Orions killed by the weaponized plague.
Bateson stroked his beard as he frowned in thought. “Now that’s damn troubling, Captain. First, we have one of our cutters ambushed, now someone is playing with bio-weapons. Maybe the Maquis is bent on all-out war with the Federation.”
“Morgan, I just can’t see the point – why attack a Syndicate ship? Hell, the Maquis get most of their arms from the Syndicate!”
“The Maquis seldom use Klingon ships – maybe they’ve found a new supplier. I’ll run this by Fleet intel – perhaps they have a clue.”
Akinola snorted derisively. In his opinion, there were few spooks that could find their asses with both hands. “Maybe,” he said, doubtfully. “What are your orders, Admiral, since the powers that be have ordered us to the sidelines?”
“Actually, I do have an assignment for you, though I doubt you’re going to like it – it comes from Admiral Bouvier.”
“Great,” replied Akinola tersely, “does she want us to repaint subspace relays?”
“Easy, Joseph,” warned Bateson, “I know you’re upset – God knows we all are – but don’t let your mouth get you in trouble.” The Admiral paused, giving Akinola a meaningful look. “I need you to search for a missing yacht that belongs to the vice-governor of Morlari IV.”
The Captain shook his head. “What the frak? You’ve got to be kidding! Admiral – did you hear a word I said about this weaponized plague?”
“I most certainly did, Captain. I’m dispatching the Pompano to your location to follow-up with the investigation. No doubt, Fleet intel will want to check it out as well.”
“No doubt,” said Akinola tightly. “So while the Maquis kill our people and someone else is playing with weapons of mass destruction, Admiral Bouvier wants to kiss some politician's ass and earn some brownie points.
“Suck it up, Captain!” Bateson said, sharply, “We don’t have to like our orders – we do have to carry them out. If you can’t, tell me right now.” The Admiral’s eyes were hard as was his tone.
Akinola merely nodded. “I’ll do it, Admiral. It’s my job.”
Bateson’s gaze softened. “Good. I’m transmitting the details about the yacht – apparently the vice-governor’s son decided to go joy-riding with his friends. He’s probably tied up at some merchant station, drunk and getting a good dose of the clap. Send me the coordinates of that Syndicate ship – Pompano can be there in about three hours.”
“Yes sir,” Akinola suddenly felt very tired. “Anything else, sir?”
Bateson opened his mouth to speak, then just shook his head sadly. Finally he said, “I’ll let you know about the arrangements for the memorial service for Captain Reuben and her crew when I hear something. Bateson, out.”
Akinola eased into a chair at the wardroom table and rubbed his forehead against the sudden onslaught of a headache. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.
“Shit,” he muttered, before standing and leaving for the bridge.
* * *
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Damn that was excellent. First off, the tie in with 'The Chains' story in progress by Mdgarcia and Gibraltar. The fate of the Amberjack really hit home in that story but to see how it floors Akinola here makes it all the more telling. It's why I love the United Trek universe and why no matter Trek 09 good or bad [haven't seen yet I'm not making a comment on that] we'll have our very own little pocket universe i as an avid reader can turn to.
Secondly, just Joseph's and Bateson's reactions to the news. Their understandbale anger and desire for some payback. Very natural reactions to be expected. I really liked how fitting it was.
Third, Bouvier sticking her oar in and handing out little jobs. Sticks in the jaw a bit for Akinola no doubt though we know it's actually leading him into the lion's den.
On top of that, the crew dynamics. With T'Ser gone things have changed for this close knit crew. But someone like Shelton can unsettle the apple cart, especially in light of his hidden troubles.
Lastly, the dastardly plot of this weaponised plague. Very cool, very evil, very much trouble in store.
Excellent.
Secondly, just Joseph's and Bateson's reactions to the news. Their understandbale anger and desire for some payback. Very natural reactions to be expected. I really liked how fitting it was.
Third, Bouvier sticking her oar in and handing out little jobs. Sticks in the jaw a bit for Akinola no doubt though we know it's actually leading him into the lion's den.
On top of that, the crew dynamics. With T'Ser gone things have changed for this close knit crew. But someone like Shelton can unsettle the apple cart, especially in light of his hidden troubles.
Lastly, the dastardly plot of this weaponised plague. Very cool, very evil, very much trouble in store.
Excellent.
I'm sure the rest of the crew, noticeably Brin and Gralt, will have some choice words for the Maquis, and some actions they might like to take.
I loved the little nod to the Amberjack and I'm looking forward to see where you're going with this.
I loved the little nod to the Amberjack and I'm looking forward to see where you're going with this.
It is doubtless galling for Akinola to have uncovered the evidence of a weaponized bio-agent, only to be pulled off the assignment and placed on what on the surface appears to be a political hand-holding gig. Then, to top it off, he discovers a good friend and fellow Border Service captain and her crew have been killed in the line of duty.
There are days, and then... there are days.
Thanks for the shout-out to The Chains of Error. I had a feeling the loss of the Amberjack was going to stir up a hornet's nest within the Border Service, but I don't think we've seen all the ripples from this particular event yet.
Wonderful stuff! I'm glad Bluefin's back.
There are days, and then... there are days.
Thanks for the shout-out to The Chains of Error. I had a feeling the loss of the Amberjack was going to stir up a hornet's nest within the Border Service, but I don't think we've seen all the ripples from this particular event yet.
Wonderful stuff! I'm glad Bluefin's back.
Good to see you back to writing! 
And like others have said--MAN, I feel for Akinola, getting pulled off the assignment after such a horrific discovery.
And Shelton...personally, I really feel for the guy. I'm thinking PTSD and I wonder what happened to bring that on. (Though as I said once earlier in his thread...my first impulse was to check his medical record over for any incidents of taking a phaser hit...)
And like others have said--MAN, I feel for Akinola, getting pulled off the assignment after such a horrific discovery.
And Shelton...personally, I really feel for the guy. I'm thinking PTSD and I wonder what happened to bring that on. (Though as I said once earlier in his thread...my first impulse was to check his medical record over for any incidents of taking a phaser hit...)
I really can't think of much to add to what has already been said.
They way you have weaved in the events of The Chains of Error was splendid. What a blow for the Border Service and Starfleet in general.
And then there is this biological weapon, and those missing kids, and a questionable tactical officer. Somebody is going to have their hands full.
Terrific chapter.
They way you have weaved in the events of The Chains of Error was splendid. What a blow for the Border Service and Starfleet in general.
And then there is this biological weapon, and those missing kids, and a questionable tactical officer. Somebody is going to have their hands full.
Terrific chapter.
Chapter Six
Stardate 54333.6 (4 May 2377)
USS Bluefin
Molari Badlands
Commander Strauss looked up from her PADD as Captain Akinola stepped onto the bridge from the turbo-lift. She was about to speak when she saw the expression on his face. Her words died in her throat at the mixture of anguish and fury on the Captain’s face.
Akinola remained silent as he strode purposefully to the ready room and disappeared inside.
“What’s eatin’ the Skipper?”
Inga nearly jumped, so intent on the Captain she didn’t notice Lt. Bane step over to the command chair.
“I don’t know . . . he just received a transmission from Admiral Bateson. I better find out what’s wrong.”
She approached the door to the ready room and pressed the enunciator. For a moment there was no reply. Inga deliberated over pressing the button again when she heard a muffled, “Come.”
Entering the ready room, she saw Captain Akinola standing behind the desk, staring out the viewport. His hands were clasped behind his back, but Inga could see the tension in his posture.
“Sir? Is everything alright?” she asked.
Akinola did not turn but shook his head slowly. “No, Inga. Things are most certainly not alright.”
“May I ask – what happened?”
Akinola let out a long sigh and turned to face Strauss. She noticed that the look of rage had subsided to be replaced by a terrible sadness.
“I just received word that the Amberjack was ambushed by the Maquis. The ship was destroyed and all hands were lost.”
Inga's hand flew to her mouth , shocked by the news. “My God! Captain, I am so sorry! You knew the Amberjack’s Captain, didn’t you?”
Akinola nodded. “Yes, I did, and several of her officers and non-coms. Sylvia Reuben was a fine C.O. and a good friend. I’ve known her for over twenty years.” He paused. “She left behind a husband and two sons.”
“Did the Admiral order us to begin operations against the Maquis?”
Something dark and dreadful passed over Akinola’s face. It was just a momentary glimpse, but it gave Strauss a chill of fear.
“No, Commander. No he did not.”
* * *
Stardate 54334.4 (5 May 2377)
Issani’s Cantina – Pleasure District
Olquidd City, Rigel IV
The third largest city on Rigel IV dated back millennia as a stop-off point for space-farers from around the quadrant. The densely populated Olquidd City was an eclectic mix of the ancient and the new, a destination for pious religious pilgrims and a cauldron for the seven deadly sins. Nothing had been manufactured in the city for nearly three centuries, yet it was a center of trade and commerce. One of the top trade commodities was information.
The short Ferengi male entered Issani’s Cantina and glanced around furtively. His drooping lobes told the sad tale of poor health and even poorer fortunes. Glamp was an embarrassment to his family – a respectable (and profitable) family of note on Ferenginar. Glamp, in short, was an unprofitable failure. Nearly every business deal he touched ended in disaster. Unable to bear the stigma of failure, Glamp had left Ferenginar a decade earlier, determined to seek his fortune and return to his home one day as a profitable success.
As it turned out, Glamp discovered that while his business acumen was pathetic by Ferengi standards, he had a marketable talent that provided him with a steady income.
Glamp heard things - things that were of interest to other people - people who would pay to know the things Glamp heard. Therein lay his stock and trade. Unfortunately, it was a dangerous trade, for the things he heard were often of a sensitive, even volatile nature. Glamp had the scars (and lacked three fingers) to show for the times he spoke to the wrong person about the wrong thing.
Thus, Glamp had grown very cautious in trading information. As much as he valued gold-pressed latinum, he valued his life a bit more. So it was with more than a hint of unease that he made eye-contact with the round-faced human that sat alone in a booth, a large silver ring adorning the middle finger of the human’s hand.
Glamp slid into the booth across from the human who was sipping from a steaming mug of warm Rigellian ale.
“I am Glamp,” the Ferengi began without preamble. “Who are you, hew-mon?”
The man’s face broadened into a bright smile. “Smith’s the name. Pleasure!”
Accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of Terrans, Glamp stuck out his own hand and gave a perfunctory shake.
“Why is it all the hew-mon’s I meet are named ‘Smith?’”
“It’s a common enough name on Earth,” responded the intelligence officer, whose name was not, in fact, Smith. The broad smile faded into a still pleasant expression of curiosity. “I understand you have something of value?”
Glamp glanced around, still nervous. “It will cost you ten bars of gold-pressed latinum.”
“Smith” slid a single bar of the precious alloy across the table. “Here’s one for your time and I’ll buy you a drink. If what you have interests me, I’ll pay the rest. If not, well, you can enjoy your drink and you still come out ahead, though I would think your reputation would suffer somewhat.”
The Ferengi attempted to glower at the human, but instead, his facial expression gave the impression he was suffering from some intestinal malady. Smith, for his part, continued to gaze pleasantly across the table, waiting patiently.
Emitting a noise between a groan and a sigh, Glamp slumped back on the thinly padded bench. He had always been a terrible negotiator. Smith raised a hand, signaling the scaly Rigellian waiter over. The waiter glanced at Glamp expectantly, but the Ferengi waved him off. Shrugging, the waiter ambled off to tend to other customers.
Smith, for his part, took a small device from his coat and placed it on the table. Glamp recognized it as a sensor scrambler, which would keep their conversation private from prying ears.
Glamp pocketed the bar of gold-pressed latinum, eliciting a pleased smile from Smith.
“Excellent!” beamed Smith. “Now – what is it you have for me?”
The Ferengi leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “What if I were to tell you that the Maquis are planning a major operation against the Federation?”
The smile remained on Smith’s face but his eyes became cold. “I would say I could get that information from the news net. You are a day late with that morsel, my friend.”
Glamp winced. He had not seen the news in several days and was unaware that the Maquis had already destroyed a Border Service cutter.
Smith began to slide out of the booth. “Enjoy your drink, Mr. Glamp.”
Glamp grasped Smith’s arm, stopping him. “Wait – I have something else I know you will find of interest.”
The intelligence officer paused, his face now pensive and his eyes narrow. Glamp suddenly felt nervous again, for this pleasant-looking Terran no longer looked pleasant. In fact, he looked decidedly dangerous.
Smith slid back to his original position in the booth. “I’m listening,” he said, quietly.
The Ferengi ran his tongue over his sharp teeth. “I have it on good authority that someone has developed a biological weapon – a weapon that can kill on a massive scale in mere minutes, then dissipate as quickly.”
“Someone?” asked Smith with a raised eyebrow. “You’ll have to do better than that, Mr. Glamp. Who developed it? Where is it? What is it? So far, you’ve given me nothing.”
“I have a name,” Glamp said quickly, fearing that Smith would not pay him the rest.
“Yes?”
Glamp told Smith.
Smith sat quietly for a moment, his face now an unreadable mask. The intelligence agent then reached into his pocket. Glamp’s heart skipped a beat as he expected Smith to pull out a weapon. Instead, Smith placed a small bag on the table, the distinctive sound of precious metal clinking together caused Glamp’s heart to return to normal rhythm.
Smith stood. “We will seek to verify your information, of course. If it should prove true, you can expect a nice bonus.” The intelligence officer slipped away through the crowd, while Glamp quickly pocketed his prize as he mentally kicked himself for not demanding a higher payment.
* * *
Smith moved down the narrow street, passing food vendors, flesh peddlers and raucous taverns until he came to a dimly lit alley way. He gingerly stepped over the form of someone who was sleeping on the ground until he came to a recessed doorway in a small alcove. Tapping a pendant on his lapel, Smith spoke quietly.
“Thornvold to Spectre – one to beam up.”
Lt. Hans Thornvold of Starfleet Intelligence disappeared in a swirl of transporter effect.
* * *
Stardate 54334.3 (5 May 2377)
USS Bluefin
Molari Badlands
“Captain’s Log – Stardate 54334.5. We are in our second day of search for the missing yacht and the vice-governor’s son. Thus far, our search has come up empty. Neither the Bourgoine Trade Station nor Kle’banto Base have any record of the ship or the four teenagers. The Klaamet port authorities have also been involved in the search with no sign of the missing yacht. I have ordered Bluefin to head deeper into the Badlands to continue our search. The deeper we go, however, the less likely it is we’ll find the vessel in one piece.”
Akinola paused a moment, considering his next words. “The news of the Amberjack’s destruction has hit the crew hard – particularly our senior officers and non-coms, most who had friends on that cutter. Equally hard to swallow is being cut out of any counter-attack against the Maquis. I’m having difficulty understanding the decision of Starfleet Command, but orders are orders. Then, there is the matter of the weaponized Antarean Plague. The only reason I can fathom for being pulled off the investigation is because that scrawny witch, Bouvier, hates my guts.”
Akinola closed his eyes and shook his head. “Computer – delete the last two lines – save and close log entry.”
“Acknowledged.”
Akinola took a sip of coffee, stood, and exited the ready room. On the bridge, Nigel Bane vacated the command chair as the Captain approached.
“We’re still running grid tango-two. No contacts or ion trails discovered,” reported the Australian Operations Officer.
“Thank you, Mr. Bane. Helm, let’s head deeper into the Badlands – alter course 4 degrees to port and slow to one-quarter impulse.”
“Coming to 114 mark 12, reducing speed to one-quarter, aye,” responded Lt. (j.g.) Bralus.
“Steady as she goes, Mr. Bralus.”
“Captain – how long are we to conduct this search?” inquired Bane.
Akinola took another sip of coffee and glanced up. “What’s your hurry, Lieutenant? It’s not like we’re needed elsewhere.”
Bane looked like he wanted to say more, but instead replied, “Yes sir.” He returned to his seat at Ops and peered into the sensor hood. “Looks like some plasma storms are kicking up – the ride may get a bit bumpy soon.”
“Increase shield intensity Mr. Bralus, and mind the gravimetric shear,” ordered Akinola.
The hull rumbled slightly as Bluefin plowed through a cloud of concentrated ion particles. Bralus turned and gave Akinola an apologetic smile. “Sorry, sir.”
Akinola nodded. “Just make sure my coffee stays in the cup, son.”
* * *
Four hours later, the Beta shift bridge crew made their way onto the bridge. Inga made her way to the command chair.
“I relieve you, sir,” she said, smiling.
Akinola stifled a yawn. “Good. I’m heading to the gym for a workout. The bridge is yours, XO.”
Ensign Maya Vashtee was approaching Ops when Lt. Bane suddenly tensed and turned. “Sensor contact, bearing 288 mark 39, range 940 thousand klicks.”
“Can you get an ID on that contact?” queried Akinola, settling back into his seat.
Bane frowned in concentration, working his controls to focus on the contact. “There’s a lot of fuzz, Sir – heavy ionic bombardment in that region.” He turned, a grim expression on his face. “Unless their shields are up . . .”
“Understood, Lieutenant. Helm – increase speed to full impulse and take us in toward that contact,” finished Akinola. He stabbed the ship’s intercom stud.
“All hands, this is the Captain. We’re going to experience a rough ride, so everyone take precautions and brace yourselves.”
The twin Consolidated Aerospace Ion-Mass Drivers emitted a guttural roar that reverberated through the cutter’s hull, pushing the Bluefin through the charged murk of the Badlands. Tendrils of energy sparked and spattered across her shields as she battered her way toward the distant contact.
“Contact is adrift,” continued Bane, hanging on as the ship lurched, “Mass and configuration match the missing yacht. I’m not reading any power output.”
“We’re too late,” murmured Strauss as she held the edge of the command chair to maintain her balance.
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Akinola. “Those yachts are well-built – it might be enough to keep the radiation levels below the lethal range.” Yet he knew such hopes were slim at best. Even with an inch of Duranium alloy, an un-shielded vessel would be saturated with lethal levels of radiation within minutes in this area of the Badlands.
“XO – notify Senior Chief Brin that we’re going to need a rescue party standing by. Have the flight deck get one of the Stallions ready for launch.”
“Aye sir,” she replied, moving to carry out Akinola’s orders.
The Captain stared at the swirling energy on the viewscreen, his mood as sour as his stomach. Though it had galled him to be left out of the action against the Maquis and dropped from investigating the Antarean plague weapon, he had expected a simple search and recovery of the yacht and its occupants. Now, it seemed even this was going wrong.
Bluefin lurched violently to starboard, caught in the vortex of an ionic eddy. Strauss staggered but kept her footing.
“Time to intercept?” asked the Captain.
“Thirty five minutes,” responded Bralus. The ship lurched again and the gravity seemed to fade for a second before steadying. “Give or take,” the Bolian finished.
Akinola nodded grimly, willing the cutter to move faster. “Increase power to structural integrity fields. Mr. Bane – are you reading any life signs?”
“Not yet – but with all the interference, I can’t be sure one way or the other.”
“Try hailing them – if anyone’s left alive on that yacht, let them know help is on the way.”
* * *
Stardate 54333.6 (4 May 2377)
USS Bluefin
Molari Badlands
Commander Strauss looked up from her PADD as Captain Akinola stepped onto the bridge from the turbo-lift. She was about to speak when she saw the expression on his face. Her words died in her throat at the mixture of anguish and fury on the Captain’s face.
Akinola remained silent as he strode purposefully to the ready room and disappeared inside.
“What’s eatin’ the Skipper?”
Inga nearly jumped, so intent on the Captain she didn’t notice Lt. Bane step over to the command chair.
“I don’t know . . . he just received a transmission from Admiral Bateson. I better find out what’s wrong.”
She approached the door to the ready room and pressed the enunciator. For a moment there was no reply. Inga deliberated over pressing the button again when she heard a muffled, “Come.”
Entering the ready room, she saw Captain Akinola standing behind the desk, staring out the viewport. His hands were clasped behind his back, but Inga could see the tension in his posture.
“Sir? Is everything alright?” she asked.
Akinola did not turn but shook his head slowly. “No, Inga. Things are most certainly not alright.”
“May I ask – what happened?”
Akinola let out a long sigh and turned to face Strauss. She noticed that the look of rage had subsided to be replaced by a terrible sadness.
“I just received word that the Amberjack was ambushed by the Maquis. The ship was destroyed and all hands were lost.”
Inga's hand flew to her mouth , shocked by the news. “My God! Captain, I am so sorry! You knew the Amberjack’s Captain, didn’t you?”
Akinola nodded. “Yes, I did, and several of her officers and non-coms. Sylvia Reuben was a fine C.O. and a good friend. I’ve known her for over twenty years.” He paused. “She left behind a husband and two sons.”
“Did the Admiral order us to begin operations against the Maquis?”
Something dark and dreadful passed over Akinola’s face. It was just a momentary glimpse, but it gave Strauss a chill of fear.
“No, Commander. No he did not.”
* * *
Stardate 54334.4 (5 May 2377)
Issani’s Cantina – Pleasure District
Olquidd City, Rigel IV
The third largest city on Rigel IV dated back millennia as a stop-off point for space-farers from around the quadrant. The densely populated Olquidd City was an eclectic mix of the ancient and the new, a destination for pious religious pilgrims and a cauldron for the seven deadly sins. Nothing had been manufactured in the city for nearly three centuries, yet it was a center of trade and commerce. One of the top trade commodities was information.
The short Ferengi male entered Issani’s Cantina and glanced around furtively. His drooping lobes told the sad tale of poor health and even poorer fortunes. Glamp was an embarrassment to his family – a respectable (and profitable) family of note on Ferenginar. Glamp, in short, was an unprofitable failure. Nearly every business deal he touched ended in disaster. Unable to bear the stigma of failure, Glamp had left Ferenginar a decade earlier, determined to seek his fortune and return to his home one day as a profitable success.
As it turned out, Glamp discovered that while his business acumen was pathetic by Ferengi standards, he had a marketable talent that provided him with a steady income.
Glamp heard things - things that were of interest to other people - people who would pay to know the things Glamp heard. Therein lay his stock and trade. Unfortunately, it was a dangerous trade, for the things he heard were often of a sensitive, even volatile nature. Glamp had the scars (and lacked three fingers) to show for the times he spoke to the wrong person about the wrong thing.
Thus, Glamp had grown very cautious in trading information. As much as he valued gold-pressed latinum, he valued his life a bit more. So it was with more than a hint of unease that he made eye-contact with the round-faced human that sat alone in a booth, a large silver ring adorning the middle finger of the human’s hand.
Glamp slid into the booth across from the human who was sipping from a steaming mug of warm Rigellian ale.
“I am Glamp,” the Ferengi began without preamble. “Who are you, hew-mon?”
The man’s face broadened into a bright smile. “Smith’s the name. Pleasure!”
Accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of Terrans, Glamp stuck out his own hand and gave a perfunctory shake.
“Why is it all the hew-mon’s I meet are named ‘Smith?’”
“It’s a common enough name on Earth,” responded the intelligence officer, whose name was not, in fact, Smith. The broad smile faded into a still pleasant expression of curiosity. “I understand you have something of value?”
Glamp glanced around, still nervous. “It will cost you ten bars of gold-pressed latinum.”
“Smith” slid a single bar of the precious alloy across the table. “Here’s one for your time and I’ll buy you a drink. If what you have interests me, I’ll pay the rest. If not, well, you can enjoy your drink and you still come out ahead, though I would think your reputation would suffer somewhat.”
The Ferengi attempted to glower at the human, but instead, his facial expression gave the impression he was suffering from some intestinal malady. Smith, for his part, continued to gaze pleasantly across the table, waiting patiently.
Emitting a noise between a groan and a sigh, Glamp slumped back on the thinly padded bench. He had always been a terrible negotiator. Smith raised a hand, signaling the scaly Rigellian waiter over. The waiter glanced at Glamp expectantly, but the Ferengi waved him off. Shrugging, the waiter ambled off to tend to other customers.
Smith, for his part, took a small device from his coat and placed it on the table. Glamp recognized it as a sensor scrambler, which would keep their conversation private from prying ears.
Glamp pocketed the bar of gold-pressed latinum, eliciting a pleased smile from Smith.
“Excellent!” beamed Smith. “Now – what is it you have for me?”
The Ferengi leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “What if I were to tell you that the Maquis are planning a major operation against the Federation?”
The smile remained on Smith’s face but his eyes became cold. “I would say I could get that information from the news net. You are a day late with that morsel, my friend.”
Glamp winced. He had not seen the news in several days and was unaware that the Maquis had already destroyed a Border Service cutter.
Smith began to slide out of the booth. “Enjoy your drink, Mr. Glamp.”
Glamp grasped Smith’s arm, stopping him. “Wait – I have something else I know you will find of interest.”
The intelligence officer paused, his face now pensive and his eyes narrow. Glamp suddenly felt nervous again, for this pleasant-looking Terran no longer looked pleasant. In fact, he looked decidedly dangerous.
Smith slid back to his original position in the booth. “I’m listening,” he said, quietly.
The Ferengi ran his tongue over his sharp teeth. “I have it on good authority that someone has developed a biological weapon – a weapon that can kill on a massive scale in mere minutes, then dissipate as quickly.”
“Someone?” asked Smith with a raised eyebrow. “You’ll have to do better than that, Mr. Glamp. Who developed it? Where is it? What is it? So far, you’ve given me nothing.”
“I have a name,” Glamp said quickly, fearing that Smith would not pay him the rest.
“Yes?”
Glamp told Smith.
Smith sat quietly for a moment, his face now an unreadable mask. The intelligence agent then reached into his pocket. Glamp’s heart skipped a beat as he expected Smith to pull out a weapon. Instead, Smith placed a small bag on the table, the distinctive sound of precious metal clinking together caused Glamp’s heart to return to normal rhythm.
Smith stood. “We will seek to verify your information, of course. If it should prove true, you can expect a nice bonus.” The intelligence officer slipped away through the crowd, while Glamp quickly pocketed his prize as he mentally kicked himself for not demanding a higher payment.
* * *
Smith moved down the narrow street, passing food vendors, flesh peddlers and raucous taverns until he came to a dimly lit alley way. He gingerly stepped over the form of someone who was sleeping on the ground until he came to a recessed doorway in a small alcove. Tapping a pendant on his lapel, Smith spoke quietly.
“Thornvold to Spectre – one to beam up.”
Lt. Hans Thornvold of Starfleet Intelligence disappeared in a swirl of transporter effect.
* * *
Stardate 54334.3 (5 May 2377)
USS Bluefin
Molari Badlands
“Captain’s Log – Stardate 54334.5. We are in our second day of search for the missing yacht and the vice-governor’s son. Thus far, our search has come up empty. Neither the Bourgoine Trade Station nor Kle’banto Base have any record of the ship or the four teenagers. The Klaamet port authorities have also been involved in the search with no sign of the missing yacht. I have ordered Bluefin to head deeper into the Badlands to continue our search. The deeper we go, however, the less likely it is we’ll find the vessel in one piece.”
Akinola paused a moment, considering his next words. “The news of the Amberjack’s destruction has hit the crew hard – particularly our senior officers and non-coms, most who had friends on that cutter. Equally hard to swallow is being cut out of any counter-attack against the Maquis. I’m having difficulty understanding the decision of Starfleet Command, but orders are orders. Then, there is the matter of the weaponized Antarean Plague. The only reason I can fathom for being pulled off the investigation is because that scrawny witch, Bouvier, hates my guts.”
Akinola closed his eyes and shook his head. “Computer – delete the last two lines – save and close log entry.”
“Acknowledged.”
Akinola took a sip of coffee, stood, and exited the ready room. On the bridge, Nigel Bane vacated the command chair as the Captain approached.
“We’re still running grid tango-two. No contacts or ion trails discovered,” reported the Australian Operations Officer.
“Thank you, Mr. Bane. Helm, let’s head deeper into the Badlands – alter course 4 degrees to port and slow to one-quarter impulse.”
“Coming to 114 mark 12, reducing speed to one-quarter, aye,” responded Lt. (j.g.) Bralus.
“Steady as she goes, Mr. Bralus.”
“Captain – how long are we to conduct this search?” inquired Bane.
Akinola took another sip of coffee and glanced up. “What’s your hurry, Lieutenant? It’s not like we’re needed elsewhere.”
Bane looked like he wanted to say more, but instead replied, “Yes sir.” He returned to his seat at Ops and peered into the sensor hood. “Looks like some plasma storms are kicking up – the ride may get a bit bumpy soon.”
“Increase shield intensity Mr. Bralus, and mind the gravimetric shear,” ordered Akinola.
The hull rumbled slightly as Bluefin plowed through a cloud of concentrated ion particles. Bralus turned and gave Akinola an apologetic smile. “Sorry, sir.”
Akinola nodded. “Just make sure my coffee stays in the cup, son.”
* * *
Four hours later, the Beta shift bridge crew made their way onto the bridge. Inga made her way to the command chair.
“I relieve you, sir,” she said, smiling.
Akinola stifled a yawn. “Good. I’m heading to the gym for a workout. The bridge is yours, XO.”
Ensign Maya Vashtee was approaching Ops when Lt. Bane suddenly tensed and turned. “Sensor contact, bearing 288 mark 39, range 940 thousand klicks.”
“Can you get an ID on that contact?” queried Akinola, settling back into his seat.
Bane frowned in concentration, working his controls to focus on the contact. “There’s a lot of fuzz, Sir – heavy ionic bombardment in that region.” He turned, a grim expression on his face. “Unless their shields are up . . .”
“Understood, Lieutenant. Helm – increase speed to full impulse and take us in toward that contact,” finished Akinola. He stabbed the ship’s intercom stud.
“All hands, this is the Captain. We’re going to experience a rough ride, so everyone take precautions and brace yourselves.”
The twin Consolidated Aerospace Ion-Mass Drivers emitted a guttural roar that reverberated through the cutter’s hull, pushing the Bluefin through the charged murk of the Badlands. Tendrils of energy sparked and spattered across her shields as she battered her way toward the distant contact.
“Contact is adrift,” continued Bane, hanging on as the ship lurched, “Mass and configuration match the missing yacht. I’m not reading any power output.”
“We’re too late,” murmured Strauss as she held the edge of the command chair to maintain her balance.
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Akinola. “Those yachts are well-built – it might be enough to keep the radiation levels below the lethal range.” Yet he knew such hopes were slim at best. Even with an inch of Duranium alloy, an un-shielded vessel would be saturated with lethal levels of radiation within minutes in this area of the Badlands.
“XO – notify Senior Chief Brin that we’re going to need a rescue party standing by. Have the flight deck get one of the Stallions ready for launch.”
“Aye sir,” she replied, moving to carry out Akinola’s orders.
The Captain stared at the swirling energy on the viewscreen, his mood as sour as his stomach. Though it had galled him to be left out of the action against the Maquis and dropped from investigating the Antarean plague weapon, he had expected a simple search and recovery of the yacht and its occupants. Now, it seemed even this was going wrong.
Bluefin lurched violently to starboard, caught in the vortex of an ionic eddy. Strauss staggered but kept her footing.
“Time to intercept?” asked the Captain.
“Thirty five minutes,” responded Bralus. The ship lurched again and the gravity seemed to fade for a second before steadying. “Give or take,” the Bolian finished.
Akinola nodded grimly, willing the cutter to move faster. “Increase power to structural integrity fields. Mr. Bane – are you reading any life signs?”
“Not yet – but with all the interference, I can’t be sure one way or the other.”
“Try hailing them – if anyone’s left alive on that yacht, let them know help is on the way.”
* * *
Another excellent chapter. Here we see the Amberjack's fate and the role not asked of the Bluefin in avenging it is having. Pretty messy for the crew.
And it hurts Akinola bad to be put out to pasture like this. Hopefully, whilst all this is likely to blow up in his face, he'll scavenge something from it to rub in Bouvier's face. To be honest, I almost expected Akinola to keep those few lines in his log.
Add into the mix, our Starfleet intelligience operative [as much as an oxymoran as that usually is] and I can see this getting complicated and deadly. Especially since ole Joe doesn't like the cloak and dagger stuff.
And it hurts Akinola bad to be put out to pasture like this. Hopefully, whilst all this is likely to blow up in his face, he'll scavenge something from it to rub in Bouvier's face. To be honest, I almost expected Akinola to keep those few lines in his log.
Add into the mix, our Starfleet intelligience operative [as much as an oxymoran as that usually is] and I can see this getting complicated and deadly. Especially since ole Joe doesn't like the cloak and dagger stuff.
Akinola isn't going to hold that fury in forever. I'm sure that when he discovers the truth about what happened to the yacht there will be some hell to pay, and if he can't take his anger out on the Maquis, he'll exact his pound of flesh elsewhere.
Now is not a good time to be a pirate in the Molari Badlands.
Now is not a good time to be a pirate in the Molari Badlands.
Yeah, Joseph's got a lot of misplaced anger available to focus on whatever poor bastard wanders into his targeting reticule. In the case of this story, the particular bastards most likely to do so are freakishly deserving of such attentions.
As for Akinola and his crew, they've survived worse, but losing fellow BS members (ones crewing a sister-ship, no less) hurts like hell. This will be with them awhile.
As for Akinola and his crew, they've survived worse, but losing fellow BS members (ones crewing a sister-ship, no less) hurts like hell. This will be with them awhile.
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