Worlds in Collision (41 page)

“Talin is blockaded, my dear. And the only ones who will be trying to get past a Starfleet blockade are criminals and pirates.”

Uhura nodded. “I know that.”

McCoy glanced around, and lowered his voice. “Just what are you suggesting we
do,
Uhura?”

She smiled disarmingly. “Know where we can get a good spaceship cheap?”

There was only one Klingon ear nailed to the wall above the cash box, so it wasn't the toughest tavern Sulu had been in on Rigel VIII. But as he ducked beneath the swinging arc of a diburnium barstool, feinted to his right and kicked out to his left, he decided it probably ranked somewhere up in the top two. He didn't remember much about the other place, except spending the next two days in sickbay.

Sulu's kick clipped the charging Orion on the side of his black-maned head and sent the green-skinned alien flying into a flimsy table wisely abandoned by its occupants when the fight broke out. After the splintering crash of brittle Rigellian furniture alloy, there was a brief instant of peace in the tavern. The bartender stayed hidden behind a chrome-plated cabinet of imported liquors, unprotected customers scurried away to the back rooms, one solitary patron in a black cape poured another ale from a pitcher he hadn't paid for, and the combatants reevaluated each other.

Sulu crouched in a defensive
tesare
position. He felt a Vulcan form of self-defense seemed preferable at the moment because he knew there was not a hope in hell of him actually defeating three Orion males in hand-to-hand combat. But sometimes there were other things worth fighting for than immediate victory.

“No use, human,” Krulmadden said matter-of-factly. The massive Orion shipmaster still sat at the end of the bar, hands folded together, one elbow resting by a slender flask of Ganymede Green. He laughed then, and the gemstones in his teeth flashed as brilliantly as the ones studding the eight rings he wore, lit by the near blinding light from a molecular fusion sunball floating near the rippled metal ceiling five meters above him. The light also gave a glimmering sheen to Krulmadden's deep green skin and the emerald
destin
scales of his tunic. “No win for you.”

Sulu tipped his head at the Orion in a fencer's salute. “Then I shall lose.” He glanced back at Lasslanlin, the mate who had crushed the table in his fall. He was slowly getting back to his feet, shaking his head, jeweled earrings making gentle chiming music in odd contrast to his 150-kilo bulk. Sulu took a breath and repositioned his foot to prepare for Lasslanlin's inevitable rush.

But Artinton raised his head from behind the bar where Sulu had flipped him a few seconds earlier. A string of thick orange blood hung from the second Orion mate's black beard and he smiled at Sulu, grunting like a Tellarite as he spat out more blood and at least two teeth.

Now that's not fair,
Sulu thought.
I should be able to flatten at least one of these walking mountains.

“Lasslanlin, stay.” Artinton placed both gargantuan hands on the bar top. It had been cultured from a single cell of ironwood and Sulu swallowed as he heard it creak beneath the Orion's mass. “This one owes teeth.”

Sulu's eyes widened as the second mate vaulted the bar as if he were strapped to antigravs, and landed less than two meters away.

Oh, great, he's been toying with me for the past five minutes. He could have had me any—

Artinton leapt and Sulu reflexively dropped to one knee, angling forward to catch and deflect the Orion's momentum with his own shoulders and back. But the Orion had expected the move and brought his knee up against Sulu's neck, jerking him from his planned direction and destroying his balance.

Sulu's breath left him with an explosive huff as the Orion drove him to the metal floor. Without being able to breathe under the Orion's crushing force, the outmatched human tried to flip around and crawl away. But Artinton's monstrous green hand grabbed the collar of Sulu's quilted, spun-down jacket and shoved him back against the iron plates of the floor.

Black stars flickered at the edges of Sulu's vision and the floor's rivets tore into his cheek. He struggled to ignore the giant above him and concentrate all he had on breathing again. Just one breath. Half a breath. Anything.

Sulu felt himself rise up from the floor and spin around under someone else's control. Artinton's hand was like a mechanical pincer against Sulu's neck, lifting him by a fistful of crushed fabric until the toes of his boots left the floor completely.

At the end of the bar, Krulmadden clapped two beefy hands together, applauding the fight's conclusion. Sulu edged his eyes to the side as Lasslanlin approached to stand beside his shipmate. The Orions began to laugh, deep and booming. Sulu could feel himself sway with the force of Artinton's murderous good humor. He tried to swallow again but nothing could get past the pressure of the huge fist against his throat.
So much for Vulcan self-defense tactics,
Sulu thought.
I guess they work better when you've had fifty years of practice.
As far as he could see, there was only one thing left to do.

Sulu closed his eyes, wincing as Artinton's foul breath flooded over him in even louder gales of laughter.

“Look at little insect!” the Orion howled. “He wants to sleep, forget bad dream!”

Eyes clenched shut, Sulu sensed the Orion bending closer to him, almost nose to nose. “But not dream, little insect. And not over!”

“You bet it's not,” Sulu grunted then jerked his head forward at warp ten. In the next instant he had the triple pleasure of flattening Artinton's nose like a jellyfish, feeling himself slip from Artinton's suddenly limp hand, and hearing Artinton's earsplitting screech of shock.

Sulu kept his balance as the Orion stumbled backward to bounce against the bar and crumple like a five-atmosphere probe in a fifty-atmosphere pressure chamber.

But Lasslanlin grabbed Sulu's shoulder and spun him around. “That ship's friend, little insect hatchling zygote.”

“If you're going to speak Standard then at least get it right!” Sulu shouted as he swung his fist. “I'm a
mammal!
Get it? A—”

Lasslanlin caught Sulu's fist in his black-gloved hand like a tractor beam stopping a meteoroid cold. His forearm didn't even travel back a centimeter as he absorbed the full force of the blow.
What a shame it will be to be taken apart by someone who knows so little about biology,
Sulu thought with regret.
But at least I got one of them.

Lasslanlin raised his other hand and a dancerknife suddenly shimmered into view, its blade an indistinct blue humming form.

Sulu braced himself, but knew he had nothing more to draw on to resist. He wondered if the tavern keeper would let the Orions at least nail his ears
above
the Klingon's.

“First, ears,” Lasslanlin promised. “Then,
mammal,
the little pair of—” The Orion suddenly jerked, mouth gaping in surprise. He shuddered again as if he had been hit from behind and let go of Sulu's fist.

Sulu staggered back, ready to run out from the tavern and disappear into the maze of the spaceport's back alleys. Lasslanlin didn't try to stop him. The Orion looked over his shoulder—just in time to catch a gleaming barstool with his face. The dancerknife spun from Lasslanlin's hand and its blade melted into air before it hit the floor.

“Stator rell…?”
Lasslanlin moaned, and then Sulu saw a flurry of five quick closed-hand chops pepper the Orion's face, ending with a final full roundhouse to his jaw.

Lasslanlin's eyes rolled back beneath his chartreuse lids, his knees wobbled once, then he fell to join his friend on the floor. The unexpected ally who had dropped the Orion stood above the unconscious body. He straightened his black cape, pulled back his cowl, and smiled disarmingly at Sulu. “Karate,” he said, “originally inwented in Russia. Before being stolen by the Chinese.”

Sulu dropped his hands to his side in relief. “You were supposed to be here an
hour
ago, Chekov.”

Chekov pointed over to a small table with a now empty pitcher of ale. “I
have
been here. All ewening.”

Sulu raised his hands again in sudden anger. “Then why weren't you helping me?”

“Up to now, you didn't need it.”

Sulu shook his head, then reached out to hug his friend. Behind them, Krulmadden applauded once again.

Sulu and Chekov faced the Orion shipmaster together.

“How touching,” Krulmadden growled. “Two
f'deraxt'la,
like slavegirls carrying on.”

Chekov glanced at Sulu. “Does
f'deraxt'la
mean what I think it means?”

Sulu nodded. “Three parents, all related, and it rhymes with ‘Federation' in the Trader's Tongue.”

“We cannot let him get away with this.”

“That's the point I've been trying to make, Chekov.”

The two humans began to move apart. They had been friends long enough that no words were needed to establish their strategy. It wasn't the first time in a bar brawl for either of them.

Krulmadden smiled and slowly moved his hand to scratch his monstrously rounded belly. But when his hand came back to the bar, it held a jewel-encrusted disruptor in a platinum housing. “Suggest move back together, humans. Audition over.”

“Audition?” Sulu asked.

Krulmadden waved his hands expansively and his gemstones flared so brightly Sulu saw multicolored afterimages. “This all play. With shipmaster's mates.” He pursed his lips and shook his head at the unconscious bodies of Lasslanlin and Artinton. “With shipmaster, me.” Sulu cringed as Krulmadden nonchalantly pointed at himself with the barrel of his disruptor. “And two worldkillers in one bar. All play.”

“Why do you call us worldkillers?” Chekov asked.

Krulmadden stuck out his lower lip and waved the disruptor again. “Why hands in cape, Chekov Mister?” He smiled at Sulu. “And you Sulu Mister. Both
Enterprise,
no? Krulmadden knows all. Fine shipmaster, Krulmadden.”

“But in this case,” Sulu said evenly, “the fine shipmaster is wrong.”

Krulmadden used his free hand to pick at an emerald in an upper tooth for a moment, as if carefully considering what Sulu had said. Then he shrugged, thrust the disruptor forward, and a small patch of iron at Sulu's feet bubbled up in red hot blisters.

“Krulmadden not good with Standard Tongue,” the Orion said. “Some things you not hear right. Some things you say…” He tapped the disruptor against his ear and stepped from his barstool.

“So again I say, Sulu and Chekov shipmates, but no ship.” He walked closer to them, steel-soled boots clanking on the floor plates, the disruptor swinging back and forth with each waddling step. “True, you
f'deraxt'l
shipmates. But other
f'deraxt'la
not want you. So no ship, but…” He stood before them, grinning with a mouth like a backlit rainbow.
“…Krulmadden
ship!” He slipped the barrel of the disruptor into a wide burgundy sash that rested high across his stomach. “So audition over.” He reached out and slapped two meaty hands on Sulu's and Chekov's shoulders. Sulu winced. “You ship again.”

Chekov looked concerned. “I…I am not sure that I understand—”

Sulu felt another heavy hand hit his other shoulder, and smelled a familiar stench as Artinton leaned forward from behind. The Orion's voice was thick and nasal.

“Shipmaster say, little…mammals,” Artinton said, digging fingers like daggers into Sulu's trapezius muscles, “you
hired.”

Surprisingly, the naming of ships was not a universal habit. Scholars speculated that the root of the practice might lie within those ancient instincts, common to some species such as Klingon and human, from which sprang such strife-ridden concepts as territory and combat. However, even the Vulcans acknowledged the logic of giving ships names to honor individuals and places worthy of remembrance, or to remind all who served aboard the vessels of the qualities they should seek to master.

But there were those other races that had taken up the custom in
all
its detail, without really comprehending the finer points of the practice. They christened their ships not with names from their own history or culture, but from those of the alien races who had originated the practice.

Thus cobalt-blooded Andorians bravely piloted massive troop carriers named the
Robert E. Lee
and the
Surak;
Tellarites traveled from world to world aboard the
Rhode Island
and the
Claw of the Vindicator;
and even the Centaurans had called the first warp-powered craft launched from their planet the
Daedalus.

Which is why Pavel Chekov was not surprised to read the name ornately emblazoned upon the hull of Krulmadden's ship, high in orbit above Rigel VIII. Despite all the alien influences of its mismatched components, and the fact that it was a Rigellian Registry Vessel, it made perfect sense to Chekov that the craft was proudly named the RRV
Queen Mary.
He had seen stranger.

“Holding at two hundred meters from the outer shields' perimeter,” Sulu announced, making a final adjustment to the shuttle's attitude thrusters. Chekov had been impressed at how well his friend had performed at the controls of Krulmadden's stripped-down orbital shuttle. It had been a long time since either of them had flown in anything without its own gravity generator. He supposed that was yet another adjustment they would have to make now that they were no longer flying the cutting-edge craft of Starfleet.

“So, my helmsman, what do you think of my brightest jewel?” The shuttle's small flight cabin became even more cramped as Krulmadden floated into it from the aft cargo hold. Chekov couldn't help but notice that Krulmadden's command of Standard had improved substantially since they had left the tavern for the shuttle landing field.

Sulu studied the
Queen Mary'
s configuration from the pilot's window. The ship was a balanced but ungainly vessel, in the style of warp-capable craft not designed for atmospheric flight. Its main hull was a 30-meter, Mars-built disk slung beneath an elliptical Rigellian warp pod. The pod was joined to the disk's trailing edge by a short linking pylon, and was topped by a hard-edged, Andorian military surplus impulse drive which had clearly not been part of the ship's original design.

Beside Sulu, in the copilot's sling, Artinton unfastened his acceleration harness and pushed off. He slipped around Krulmadden, back toward the hold, grinning at Chekov who bobbed in the navigator's sling at the rear of the flight cabin.

“It looks trim enough,” Sulu said appreciatively. “Though if you haven't got any upgrades under those impulse conduits, I don't see how she could hit anything higher than half cee in normal space.”

“
Very
good, little mammal.” Krulmadden beamed, though his jeweled teeth did not sparkle in the dim shuttle cabin lighting as much as they had planetside. The blue-white infernos of the Rigellian twin giants and twin lessers were hidden behind the planet for now. In addition to cutting back on expenses by having a shuttle without artificial gravity, Krulmadden had explained that he didn't like to waste power on radiation shields when he could simply park his ship in geosynchronous orbit in the almost perpetual shadow of Rigel VIII's rings. The light reflected from the planet's major moon was more than enough to steer by. But watching the ease with which Krulmadden buoyed his bulk around in microgravity, Chekov thought that perhaps there was another reason for the absence of gravity generators.

The shipmaster pointed out Sulu's window. “That Andorian impulse shell is just that. A shell. A delusion.”

“Uh, do you mean ‘illusion'?” Sulu asked.

“Whatever. Beneath it is a dual tangent, full magnetopulse field coil with an artificial singularity.” He said every word perfectly, a proud father naming his children. “Relative rest to half cee in less than one second. With full cargo, still reach nine-nine cee in less than thirty.”

Sulu whistled. “I didn't think artificial singularities were licensed for use by anyone except Starfleet and some planetary defense units.”

“They are not.” Krulmadden gave as good an impression of a shrug as he could in microgee. “And for good reason. It would give unscrupulous types too much advantage over
f'deraxt'l
border patrols. Not good, no no no.” The shipmaster slapped his own hand, then chuckled as his rhythmic exhalations began to spin him around.

Sulu glanced over at Chekov as Krulmadden steadied himself. Chekov nodded. He understood. The Orion's ship was obviously better equipped than they had hoped, which meant their plan was going to be much easier to bring off than they had anticipated.

“What procedures do we follow now?” Sulu asked.

At that, Krulmadden's face became unreadable. He was not a being who was comfortable with questions. “Now, Artinton kindly asks my sweet jewel to drop her shields and not to blow my shuttle out of space. And then, I see how good you are at docking.”

Chekov was troubled by that. It meant the
Queen Mary
had an automated defense system for the times it was left unattended. He and Sulu would have to devise some way of intercepting the recognition code Artinton was apparently going to transmit to inform the
Queen Mary'
s computers that the shuttle was a friendly craft. If his and Sulu's plan was to succeed, they would need to be able to transmit that information themselves, eventually.

Krulmadden clamped his hand firmly on Sulu's arm to steady himself. “Hold this position relative to my ship precisely, helmsman. If you deviate by more than a half
sateen,
you will owe Artinton more than his teeth.”

Chekov converted the Trader's Measure.
Three centimeters.
He wondered why the shuttle would have to maintain such an exact position simply to transmit a subspace code. Or even a radio signal. And why would not holding that position be dangerous to Artinton? The answer that came was both obvious and unexpected.

A yellow-orange flickering light suddenly filled the shuttle's cabin, originating from the aft hold and accompanied by a faint but distinctive musical chime. Artinton was
transporting
over to the
Queen Mary.
But how?

“Is that safe?” Sulu asked. “While the shields are up?”

Krulmadden didn't take his eyes from his ship. “As long as you hold this position, it is.”

Must be a prearranged interference gap in the shield,
Chekov decided.
Just wide enough for a transporter carrier wave from the ship to reach through. And the shields must be stacked deep around the gap so the wave can return only from a specific position.
He frowned in thought. There would be no security code to intercept. Artinton was going to shut down the automated defense systems physically from onboard the
Queen Mary
herself. The task of stealing the Orion's ship had just become more difficult.

A strip of running lights suddenly flashed into life along the side of the
Queen Mary'
s warp pod and orientation lights began to blink on the main hull.

“Shields are down,” Sulu announced, reading his control panel's tactical display.

“Shuttle berth is on the disk, on the opposite side of the warp pod pylon,” Krulmadden said.

Sulu tapped a readiness code into the thrusting system. “That's not a standard configuration.”

Krulmadden laughed again. “The entire ship is not standard configuration. You would be a clever mammal to always keep that in mind.” He turned to make sure that Chekov was listening to his lesson as well. “It might help prevent needless…accidents.”

Without looking at any control panel readings, Sulu brought the shuttle smoothly around the
Queen Mary'
s disk and guided it toward the lit circle that indicated the airlock berth. He docked the shuttle with so little vibration that Krulmadden had to study the board to make sure the airlocks had mated. “Very good, mammal. Smooth as a slave's…ah, but then you are
f'deraxt'la,
and would not know about such things…thus far.”

Krulmadden pushed himself over to the copilot's controls and hovered by them, the orange tip of his tongue showing in concentration. “Your duties are finished. I shall take care of the remainder.” He ran his fingers over the control panel and Chekov's ears popped as he heard the shuttle's airlock whoosh open into the
Queen Mary.

A row of blue lights glowed on top of Krulmadden's board and he threw a locking switch, freezing the controls. Chekov surmised that a security code would have to be input before they would unlock again. That was another condition he and Sulu would have to get used to as civilians: the lack of trust that was reflected in the engineering of private spacecraft. Aboard a Starfleet ship, when life or death could depend on a crew member's ability to initiate action within seconds, there were few built-in safeguards to restrict access to critical controls. It was simply accepted that Starfleet personnel who had earned the opportunity to serve on a starship were among the most loyal and balanced the system could produce, so why spend time and engineering effort preventing such people from misusing controls when they would never choose to do so in any case? The added risk that complex ships such as the
Enterprise
might be made more vulnerable to hostile takeover from within had many times been proven worth the increased efficiency and flexibility such an open system provided. But judging from its shuttle, the
Queen Mary
was organized along completely different routines—almost as if Krulmadden were expecting someone to steal it from him every day.
Well,
Chekov thought,
at least this time he is correct.

Krulmadden spun away from the copilot's station and pointed at Chekov. “Now
you
must help take Lasslanlin to the medic booth.” Chekov unclipped his harness and floated off to begin his first work assignment for the shipmaster. It seemed an appropriate task considering he was the one who had made Lasslanlin require the medic booth in the first place.

In the hold, Lasslanlin was still wrapped in a stretcher cocoon and lashed to the “down” bulkhead, his sleep inducer strapped to his head. Back at the tavern, the bartender had used a black-market medical tricorder to diagnose the Orion as having a broken nose, broken jaw, and concussion. On the
Enterprise,
Chekov knew that Dr. McCoy could have dealt with those injuries in less than half an hour, but with only a computer-run medic booth on board the
Queen Mary,
Lasslanlin was looking at two or three days of uncomfortable recuperation. Chekov hoped the stories he had heard about Orion vengeance oaths had been exaggerated.

The airlock was set in the hold's “up” bulkhead—a departure from normal configuration. It should have been in the aft wall. As Chekov unhooked the elastic cords holding Lasslanlin's stretcher in place, he tried to determine if any other modifications had been made in the shuttle. Estimating the interior volume of the hold, he realized that it was not as large as he had expected it should be, based on what he had seen of the shuttle on its landing pad at the spaceport. The interior storage area appeared to end about two meters short of the craft's outside dimensions, even allowing for upgraded shielding, and Chekov suspected that Krulmadden had additional customized equipment installed in the dead volume.

Since a gravity generator would have had to run behind the “down” bulkhead, Chekov decided he would give even odds that the shipmaster had added a small warp unit—maybe factor 1.5 to 2—or extended life-support capability. Either choice would make sense for someone who might have to make a quick getaway or need a place to hide out for a few months. Chekov reminded himself to pay close attention to other dimensions onboard the
Queen Mary,
to establish if any more capabilities were being hidden from him. He was certain there would be.

Artinton appeared on the other side of the
Queen Mary'
s airlock, looking through at everyone in the shuttle's hold. “Be cautious pushing Lasslanlin through the lock. Go very slowly so the transition will not jar him.”

“Transition?” Chekov asked as he carefully rotated the stretcher into an orientation that would enable it to fit through the narrow airlock. “Is there grawity on the
Queen Mary?”

Krulmadden stared at Chekov. “Would you care for acceleration to nine-nine cee in thirty seconds without it? Krulmadden has clients who would be happy to spread what's left of you on their biscuits.”