Текст книги "Summon the Thunder"

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Fisher chuckled. “Comments like that won’t get you invited to my retirement party, Commodore.”

“At this rate, I’ll retire before you do,” Reyes said as they crossed the officers’ mess toward the door. “How long are you going to milk that, anyway?”

Shrugging and with perfect deadpan delivery, Fisher replied, “As long as it irritates you, why rush it?”

The station’s CMO had been contemplating retirement for a while now, Reyes knew. After more than five decades, Fisher had seen his share of what life in Starfleet had to offer. To say that he had grown tired of that life would be an egregious understatement, and Reyes had to wonder why he had accepted assignment to Vanguard in the first place.

Whatever the reason, I’m sure as hell glad he’s here.

The door leading from the mess hall opened several paces before Reyes and Fisher should have been in range of its proximity sensors, and through it stepped Captain Rana Desai. As usual, she presented an immaculate appearance in her Starfleet uniform, tailored with utmost precision to her athletic yet still quite feminine physique. Her black hair was cut in a short style that kept it free of her face, and once again Reyes found himself drawn to her high, smooth cheekbones, delicate nose, and narrow chin, made all the more attractive by her choosing not to apply cosmetics.

She looked great even when she was angry, Reyes decided, which was a good thing considering Desai’s dark, stern expression as she stepped into the room.

“Commodore,” she said by way of greeting, “we need to talk.”

“This can’t be good,” Fisher said, smiling to Desai.

Resisting the urge to elbow the doctor in the ribs, Reyes offered his own weak attempt at pleasantries as he regarded the JAG officer. “Looks like we’re getting started early today.” Desai’s only response was to stand silent and allow her scowl to deepen.

It’s going to be one of those days.

“I’ll be in sickbay when you need me,” Fisher said, nodding to Desai as he stepped past her on his way through the door. “Good morning, Captain,” he offered before exiting the room.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” Reyes asked as the doors closed behind Fisher, knowing even as he gave voice to the question that he was not going to like her answer.

Holding up the data slate in her left hand for emphasis, Desai said, “Explain to me why it seems you cannot grasp even the basic concepts of civil liberties.”

Reyes shrugged. “That could take a while. How’s your schedule this morning?”

Yes,he decided, watching Desai’s eyes smolder as if in preparation of unleashing phaser beams through his heart, she looks fantastic when she’s mad.

5

As she stepped from the turbolift, Commander Atish Khatami paused a moment to sip at the cup she cradled in her hands, letting the tea it carried warm her mouth. She had tucked her data slate under one arm so she could hold her hand over the top of the grayish standard-issue beverage cup, being mindful not to let her drink slosh over the cup’s side while on her way from the Starship Endeavour’s recreation room. At this point, she thought as she sipped again, she surely did not want to bobble it now.

Making her way down the corridor, Khatami sorted through a mental list of her morning routine. As the Endeavourhad returned to Erilon while she slept, she had awakened early enough to gather and review reports from the gamma-shift crew as they ended their duties, knowing as she did so that she probably had made a bit of a pest of herself. Khatami secretly enjoyed that she was a “morning person,” a quality that seemed to rattle her colleagues more often than not. She had even managed to sneak a bite of breakfast, and now everything seemed to be in order for her next item of business.

Rounding a bend in the corridor, she spied the ship’s chief medical officer, Anthony Leone, his left hand holding a drink of his own as he stood propped against the bulkhead outside the door to the Endeavour’s main briefing room. The wiry, sandy-haired man saw her and nodded silently, folding what looked like a pained grimace into a smile of greeting.

“Tony,” she acknowledged him in return, noticing Leone’s attention focused not on his mug but rather on a small device he held in his other hand. “Captain inside?”

“Nope,” Leone said, his eyes not wavering from what Khatami now recognized was a palm-sized chronometer.

“Good,” she said, comfortable that she was keeping to schedule. Khatami had learned quickly that while Captain Zhao liked his meetings frequent, he also liked them brief and to the point. Above all, he expected everyone called to a meeting to arrive before he did—and be ready to go. “Shouldn’t be long then.”

“I’d give him about…six seconds,” the physician said, “if I make my mark.”

It was then that Khatami heard the distinctive clatter of rapid footfalls against the deck plates. Turning to look past Leone toward the sound, she caught a glimpse of a bare-chested man in Starfleet-issue athletic shorts rushing their way.

“One minute, forty-two seconds, Captain,” Leone called out to the approaching runner. “Step it up, sir!”

“One more lap,” Captain Zhao Sheng huffed in a metered breath as he ran past. “Good morning, Commander.” His words echoed against the bulkheads as he disappeared around the bend of the corridor.

“Morning, sir,” Khatami called out to the now empty passageway. She had caught a slight scent of perspiration mingling with an almost spicy fragrance that lingered in the air of Zhao’s wake, and she smiled to herself in a subtle admission that she found it rather appealing. She chalked it up as another way that the captain reminded her of her husband, Kenji, whom she hadn’t seen since her last visit to their home on Deneva, more than four months before. Calculating the time between stops home was only going to become more involved the longer the Endeavourwas assigned to Starbase 47 and its subsequent duties in the Taurus Reach.

This place is a far sight from home foreveryone here, not just me,she thought, but we all knew that going in.

“I dunno,” Leone said after a moment to break the silence. “Running around, dripping with sweat. What kind of captain parades around his ship like that, with no shirt on and all?”

Khatami chuckled, something she typically found easy to do in Leone’s company. “I think he’s setting a great role model for the crew by staying on top of his physical training,” she said, and smiled as she stepped toward him. “As ship’s physician, you certainly can appreciate that.”

Leone shrugged. “You just remember that the next time you see Mog running half-naked down the corridor,” he said, referring to the Endeavour’s burly chief engineer, shaking his head and turning away from the chronometer in his hand long enough to sip from his drink. He swirled the cup and Khatami could see the thick, tan broth within.

“How do you drink that stuff?” Khatami had a high tolerance for the Federation’s wide assortment of food and drink, but Leone’s palate for his preferred morning beverage escaped her.

“Blame Mog, I guess,” he replied. “He got me started on it. Everyone on Tellar drinks it. Tastes sort of like…caffeinated mushroom soup or something.”

“What’s it called again?”

“Like I can pronounce it?” Leone sneered a bit as he brought the cup to his lips, barely getting a sip before they both heard the sound of Zhao’s approaching footfalls. The doctor’s attention returned to his chronometer as the captain slowed and came to a stop before them. Touching a key on the device, Leone nodded in approval. “Shaved five seconds, sir,” he said. “Not bad.”

Zhao was expressionless and drew in a deep breath as Leone passed him the chronometer. As usual, Khatami was impressed with the captain’s disposition even after the brisk run. His hairless chest gleamed with a thin sheen of perspiration, but that was the only evidence of the exertion he had just completed; his face was not flushed with color and he showed no sign of being winded. He was in peak physical condition, something Khatami could not as easily say for some of his fellow starship captains with whom she was personally acquainted, particularly the ones who had been on the job as long as Zhao.

Maybe I can expect this from Kenji when he’s the captain’s age?

The captain glanced at the chronometer before looking to Khatami. “I appreciate your indulging my run, Commander,” he said. “With my schedule today, this was the best time to fit it in.”

“Of course, sir,” she said. “Actually, we’re starting right on time.”

“Excellent,” Zhao said as he led the way into the briefing room and proceeded to the far end of the conference table. He grabbed a towel slung over the back of his chair and began wiping the perspiration from his chest and arms. Khatami was not at all surprised by the towel being at the ready, nor by the sight of a crisply folded standard gray Starfleet physical training shirt and a tall tumbler of water resting at the head of the table. Captain Zhao was nothing if not suitably prepared for any situation. “I hope you’ll forgive the lapse in attire, everyone,” he said as he scooped up the shirt and put it on. “I promise not to make it a habit.” To Leone, he said, “Doctor, please consider scheduling my next physical-fitness test so that it doesn’t clash so squarely with my duty schedule.”

“And deprive the crew of your sterling example to health and fitness?” the physician asked, his tone one of pure mockery as he held up his cup in mock salute. “What a waste of a morale booster that would be.”

Smiling at the good-natured jab, Zhao waved the matter away as he reached for his water. “So, shall we start and let Lieutenant Xiong catch up on his own, or am I being too presumptive in thinking he’ll be here at all?”

Knowing full well that Xiong’s cavalier attitude toward Zhao’s penchant for regular staff meetings put the two at constant odds, Khatami held her tongue as she took a seat at the briefing room table. She trusted that the room would not remain silent long, however, as the concept of knowing when a question could go unanswered typically eluded Dr. Leone.

His predictability fell into form this morning.

“I’m sure I just passed him on deck eight coming with a tray of sweet rolls for everybody.” As soon as Zhao shot a narrow-eyed look at him, Leone quickly added, “Um, sir,” and slid into his chair.

“Dr. Leone,” Zhao said, pausing to take a long swig of water, “maybe you could start with your report on the status of the Erilon encampment’s staff and their acclimation to conditions?”

“Yes, sir,” the physician said in a voice Khatami found suddenly officious. “The Corps of Engineers and survey-team members have adapted to the arctic climate on the planet as well as we can expect. Dr. Catera’s incident log for the last few weeks looks pretty routine. A few cases of frostbite in the extremities, fatigue, bumps and bruises. It’s what you’d expect at any installation trying to get up and running in Class-P conditions.”

“Any illnesses or reported reactions to anything indigenous?” Zhao asked.

“Besides the sniffles?” Leone frowned. “No, nothing out of the ordinary, illness-wise. As for reactions or interactions or any other kind of actions, nothing. There’ve been no reported encounters with indigenous life beyond any bacteria or mold thawed out and stirred up by our activities. There’s been no higher-order life detected down there, Captain. The place is an ice cube.”

Listening to Leone’s report, Khatami knew that, like her, the captain was waiting for information that to the doctor might on its own seem new or unusual but which might have additional meaning when coupled with other facts to which she and Zhao were privy. Researchers at the Erilon encampment were among the first Federation personnel with long-term exposure to bacteria and other life imbued with the Taurus meta-genome, and no one had any idea of the potential implications of such prolonged contact.

As the doctor completed his report, Zhao quietly took another long draw from his tumbler before looking to Khatami. Their eyes locked only briefly, but in that instant she saw that his thoughts mirrored her own: Nothing new.

“So much for Erilon,” Zhao said with a small smile. “Ship’s status, Commander?”

“As far as the Endeavourgoes, all main systems are working normally,” she said before consulting the data slate she had brought to the meeting. “Chief Nelson resolved that pattern-buffer problem in the transporter room. Commander Mog replaced a faulty backflow to eliminate an intercooler issue he reported yesterday. Oh, and Doctor, I received a memo thanking me for correcting the food-slot situation.”

“Situation?” Zhao knit his brow. “I wasn’t informed of any situation.”

“Oh, it was nothing, sir,” Khatami said, wincing a bit as she heard the words escape her lips unchecked. The captain never liked hearing an incident aboard ship or a status report on an Endeavoursystem reduced to “nothing.”

“If it was nothing…” Zhao let his voice trail off, offering a knowing smile because Khatami and everyone else on the senior staff could finish the sentence for him.

…then why bring it up in a meeting?

Mentally resetting herself as Leone sighed audibly, she said, “I meant that more for Dr. Leone, sir. Ensigns th’…th’Shendileth and sh’Dastisar—”

“Say thosethree times fast,” Leone said, which made Khatami laugh in spite of herself.

Zhao seemed to almost crack a smile himself, though it was quickly suppressed as he glanced over at Khatami. “Continue, Commander.”

“Well, sir, the ensigns in question had complained that the food slots had not been programmed for Andorian cuisine,” she said. “I told them that the problem lies in their meal cards, so I consulted Dr. Leone and he issued me amended cards to pass to them.”

“And another shipboard dietary crisis is averted,” Leone said dryly. “Good work, Commander.”

“So,” Zhao said, “let’s move on.” He made a show of looking about the conference room. “We seem to be missing some representatives from the planetary survey team.”

Khatami fidgeted a bit in her seat, uncomfortable at her being the bearer of frustrating news. “Well, sir, Lieutenant Xiong informed me that he would forward his report to me in time for the meeting. Then when you asked for his attendance at our meeting, I presented that request to him as well.”

“And his response?” Zhao’s voice was flat and his eyes just slightly narrowed.

“He indicated that he would come to the meeting…if he had time,” Khatami said, eliciting a single cough of a laugh from Leone. “Those were his words, sir, and I made it very clear that you wanted your report in per…”

Khatami abruptly closed her mouth as Zhao rose from the table and sharply tugged down the front of his shirt, the same automatic gesture he would have made had he been wearing his standard Starfleet duty uniform. The glint in his eyes was not one of anger or irritation, but of ice.

“Considering the lieutenant’s busy schedule, perhaps I’ll just take my report from him in his lab.”

“Captain!” Khatami exclaimed, surprised at the sharpness of her own voice as it echoed around the briefing room. Rising to her feet, she continued in a more reserved tone. “That is, sir, allow me to retrieve Lieutenant Xiong and escort him back here. There’s no reason for you to go to the surface yourself.”

“On the contrary,” Zhao said, his voice remaining neutral as he strode to the door. “I think there’s every reason. Our Mr. Xiong is a busy young man. I’d hate to inconvenience him any more than is absolutely necessary.”

Khatami hustled to keep pace with Zhao as Leone fell in behind her. “But sir, please at least wait long enough for me to assign a security detail to accompany you.” By way of reply, Zhao offered an odd, almost amused expression, and she expected him to deliver a sharp denial of her suggestion, but none came. “Starfleet regulations, sir,” she said, hoping to lighten the tone. “I’m offering only a reminder.”

After a moment, the captain nodded. “Very well. Have Lieutenant Nauls muster two of his team and meet me in the transporter room in one hour.” As Zhao walked toward the turbolift, his words echoed back to her. “We’ll give that pattern buffer its first run.”

As Zhao left the room and the doors closed behind him, Leone sidled over to stand next to Khatami.

“I’ve never seen him that mad, have you?” Leone asked in a wide-eyed whisper with as much seriousness as Khatami had ever heard from the doctor. “Good idea about the security, Atish. I think the captain’s gonna killXiong.”

6

As he always did when summoned to the inner sanctum aboard the Omari-Ekon, Quinn stood between the pair of ominous black obelisks while facing the raised dais upon which Ganz reclined in unrepentant splendor. He tried not to fidget as the muscled Orion crime lord looked down upon him, his emerald green skin glistening from a recent application of body oil no doubt provided by one or more of the concubines with whom he surrounded himself. For several moments Ganz said nothing, and Quinn had to restrain himself from speaking first for fear that he might start blabbering incoherently.

He also feared he might simply throw up all over the room.

Rising up from the pile of multicolored cushions and pillows covering the dais, Ganz maneuvered himself into a sitting position, resting his bare green feet on the polished deck plate less than two meters from Quinn’s own dingy boots.

“You don’t look well, Quinn,” the Orion said, his voice low and ominous. “You need to start taking better care of yourself. All that drinking is going to kill you one day.”

Quinn, of course, held no misconceptions that Ganz was at all interested in his health. “I plan to cut down later today,” he replied. “I figure that’s when I’ll run out of money.” Looking around the lavishly appointed chamber, he added, “What can I do for you, Ganz? I don’t mean to sound like I’m rushing, but I’ve got a charter this morning. I’m leaving in less than an hour. I’ll be gone for two weeks.”

“I know all about your itinerary,” Ganz said, his thick brow furrowing. “I’ve got a change in your schedule.”

Quinn knew better than to protest, but he still could not help the resigned sigh that escaped his lips. He braced for whatever retribution his minor loss of bearing might bring, but Ganz merely shook his head.

“Don’t worry,” the Orion said, “I’ve already made arrangements to ensure your shipment gets where it needs to go. Zett will give you all the details when we’re finished here, but suffice it to say that your so-called employment with Starfleet provides a nice cover should I need you, so it’s in my best interest to ensure you don’t do anything which might make them decide to terminate your services.” Shrugging, he added, “Of course, this extra effort on my part comes with a price. I figure sixty percent of your fee from the station quartermaster should be sufficient to cover my end.”

Naturally,Quinn thought, this time taking pains to suppress any reaction to Ganz’s words. Why can’t I just die from alcohol poisoning like other drunks?

As if on cue, a bell rang from somewhere down on the gambling deck, announcing another lucky winner at one of the table games. At least somebody was having some good fortune this morning.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

Ganz nodded, obviously pleased with the way the conversation was going. “I need you to leave on schedule. After you rendezvous with one of my ships to transfer your cargo for that Federation colony, you’ll head to the Yerad system and retrieve an employee of mine.”

A few salient factoids about that system managed to work their way up from the depths of Quinn’s liquor-deadened and sleep-deprived memory. “Aren’t they under Klingon control?” With the Federation and Klingon Empire each taking pronounced interest in the Taurus Reach in recent weeks, the region had seen a sharp upswing in ship traffic, particularly from the Klingons. Based on what he had gleaned from gossip overheard in various places around the station, the Klingons were sending numerous ships into the area, hopping from system to system and planting the flag of the empire on a number of worlds. While most of those planets were reportedly uninhabited, a few were known to contain sentient populations, which the Klingons had “conquered.”

Ganz nodded. “More or less. The Klingons staked a claim, but they’re interested in the dilithium mines on one of the outer planets. They’re leaving Yerad III alone, at least for now.”

“For now?” Quinn repeated. “Ganz, you’re a smart man. Surely you’re following the…how should I put it? The chaotic political climate in that region?”

Fixing him with a stern glare, the Orion paused for several seconds before one thick yet impeccably groomed eyebrow arched upward. “Do I present the appearance of someone who follows politics, Mr. Quinn?”

Good point,Quinn conceded, as a faint yet noxious odor—one he recognized as a more exotic blend of Rigelian tobacco no doubt being enjoyed by someone on the gambling deck—drifted past his nostrils. A brief wave of nausea washed over him, and he wondered once again if he might escape the Omari-Ekonwith the contents of his stomach.

Reaching to a small table set to the right of the dais, Ganz retrieved a sizable mug with a flared base that seemed small and fragile in his massive hand. After taking a large gulp of the mug’s contents, he said, “What I do know is that there’s no way to be sure when the Klingons might adjust their priorities, so I need to take a few steps to protect my business interests. You understand. Right, Quinn?”

Yerad III was not unknown to the privateer. The planet was located within a system outside the actual boundaries of the Taurus Reach, but close enough that the Klingons had deemed it a good strategic point for ship servicing operations as well as the dilithium mining Ganz had mentioned. Essentially a third-rate imitator of Risa or Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet with its numerous self-styled resorts, spas and other destinations of questionable morality, the remote world also was home to a loose collection of assorted nefarious characters who preferred to blend in with the comings and goings of the planet’s uncounted visitors. Away from the prying eyes of Federation or other law-enforcement entities, the planet’s teeming underworld took advantage of the isolated location to carry out all manner of questionable activities.

“So,” Quinn said, hating where this conversation was going. “You want me to go to Yerad III and get your…?”

“One of my accountants,” Ganz finished for him. “He safeguards a substantial portion of my…financial records and other information related to several of my various business activities. Bring him to me along with all of his data files. He knows someone’s coming to get him, so he should be ready when you get there.” He leaned forward, his expression growing even more menacing. “No matter what happens, those files have to make it here. You understand what I’m saying, Mr. Quinn?”

Doing his best to maintain an even keel as he listened to the details of his coming assignment, Quinn affected what he hoped appeared to be a genuine smile. “Perfectly. Does this bookkeeper have a name?”

“I’m sure he does,” Ganz replied without hesitation. Turning to Zett, he asked, “What’s the bookkeeper’s name?”

“Sakud Armnoj,” the Nalori replied. “He’s a Zakdorn.”

A Zakdorn?Quinn only barely prevented himself from visibly flinching at the thought. His few encounters with members of that perpetually fussy, pretentious species had almost always ended with him wishing for a blunt object of some kind and five minutes without any witnesses. Performing the mental calculations for the voyage to and from Yerad III did little to raise his already plummeting morale. Almost a week with a Zakdorn. If I’m lucky, we’ll get blown to hell by a passing Klingon ship, or maybe I can just fly into a star.

“Any other questions?” Ganz asked.

Figuring he had nothing to lose, Quinn replied, “I don’t suppose this little errand—assuming that I get this bookkeeper of yours back here safe and sound—makes us even, does it?”

“No,” Ganz replied. “Not even close.”

Of course.

After a failed assignment last month to Ravanar IV, during which he had lost a very valuable piece of technology that Ganz had sent him to retrieve, the Orion had seen fit to place Quinn into perpetual servitude as payment for the blunder. Further, the item turned out to be a component for a Starfleet sensor screen in use on the planet, and Ganz’s displeasure at Quinn’s inability to obtain it was but one consequence of that botched task.

Your actions led to the loss of a starship and the deaths of hundreds of Starfleet personnel, Mr. Quinn.

The accusation, levied by Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn during his first clandestine meeting with her, deep in the bowels of the station, still rang in his ears. In a manner of speaking, she was correct. The U.S.S. Bombayhad been dispatched to Ravanar IV with a replacement component for the sensor screen he had incapacitated, and shortly thereafter had fallen victim to ambush by Tholian vessels. T’Prynn had used that information to press him into service for her own purposes, none of which she felt inclined to share with Quinn, leaving him with the burden of attempting to serve two masters who appeared to have more in common than either would ever readily admit.

If there is a Great Bird of the Galaxy out there, then the only reason it’s interested in me is so that it can swoop in low and fast and take a big…

“Anything else?” Ganz said, interrupting his momentary reverie.

Quinn shrugged. “Why me?”

“To be honest, I need somebody I can count on not to screw this up,” the Orion said before drawing another long pull from his mug. “Don’t look so surprised, Quinn. I’m a businessman, and I’m smart enough to know when I’ve got a useful employee working for me.” He leaned forward, his thick brow furrowing. “So…don’t screw this up. Understood?”

Unsure of what to make of Ganz’s abrupt, unexpected show at what for him passed as civility, Quinn nodded. “You got it.”

His departure from the Omari-Ekonwas much like his arrival. As Zett walked behind him and just to his right, no doubt ready to kill him if he so much as breathed in a suspicious rhythm, Quinn looked longingly at the festive atmosphere surrounding him as he passed through the gaming deck. Throughout the room, all manner of humans and aliens—none of them Starfleet—were engaging in the sort of whimsical ribald behavior that had made Ganz’s vessel a premier destination for those seeking solace from the more conservative, restrained venues available aboard Vanguard. High-stakes gambling, high-priced liquor, and equally expensive “companionship”—male, female, and a few Quinn honestly could not categorize—all were on stark, uninhibited display here in the ship’s festive sanctuary.

They’re happy now,he reminded himself. But just wait until they see the bill.

Zett, naturally, opted out of any casual conversation as they reached the airlock, offering only a perfunctory nod of farewell to Quinn. Now alone with his muddled and unorganized thoughts as he continued on down the gangplank and toward the docking corridor, the privateer wondered about his chances of surviving a mission into Klingon-occupied territory only to travel to a world teeming with all manner of despicable cretins and abscond with a whiny, nasally Zakdorn whose name his employer had not even bothered to learn.

The outlook was not encouraging, he decided as he rode a turbolift up to the station’s small-craft bays, wondering at the same time whether his day would get any worse before he even had a chance to get the Rocinanteunder way.

Rounding a bend in the corridor, Quinn was almost to the docking bay where his ship was berthed when he stopped short, coming face-to-face with Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn. The Vulcan intelligence officer stood ramrod straight in her crisp red Starfleet uniform, hands clasped behind her back and looking as though she might have been waiting there for a hundred years.

“Good morning, Mr. Quinn,” she said.

Dammit,the privateer thought as a fresh wave of hangover pain chose that moment to course through his alcohol-saturated brain. Reaching up to rub his forehead with the heel of his right hand, Quinn wondered if there was any chance of a hull breach occurring right where he stood.