Deep Space Station S-8
The Solar Wind’s departure was extremely short-lived. The chartered spacecraft had barely flown two hundred kilometers from the station before its warp and impulse engines failed inexplicably, leaving it adrift in space, beyond the range of the station’s tractor and transporter beams. With the station’s own ship busy guarding the border of the Maelstrom, Tilton had been forced to respond to the Wind’s SOS by dragooning a handful of private vessels to assist in the rescue operation. Some had “volunteered” more readily than others, creating more tense situations for Sulu to handle.
It never rains but it pours, he thought.
Anticipating trouble, a full security team was on hand as the ship’s captain and senior officers were the last to be beamed back aboard the station, after the Solar Wind was towed back within transporter range. Although no one had been harmed, an angry mob of unhappy customers awaited them, none too happy to find themselves where they started rather than en route to Baldur III.
“We want our credits back!” a rescued passenger demanded almost immediately. He shook his fist at the Wind’s captain, Zita Mansori. More voices added to the tumult. “We paid for a working ship, not a junk heap!”
“There’s nothing wrong with my ship,” Mansori said, bristling. “It passed every inspection.”
“Then how come we’re not on our way to Baldur III right now?” another displaced passenger challenged her. “Answer me that!”
“Honestly, I smell sabotage,” Mansori answered. “Somebody wants to stop us from getting to our destination!”
Not a totally implausible explanation, Sulu thought, looking on from the sidelines. He wanted to dismiss Mansori’s accusation as nothing more than an excuse to get herself and her ship off the hook, but, unfortunately, this was hardly the first such incident. Just yesterday, the docking clamps had refused to release a departing Tarkalean shuttle, delaying its exit by several hours, while yet another ship needed to turn back before they could get too far after their food processors turned out to be badly contaminated. None of these freak malfunctions had resulted in any serious injuries or fatalities so far, but their increasing frequency was worrisome. It was possible, he supposed, that the string of mishaps were simply the result of the headlong rush to Baldur III testing the resources of both ships and station, yet he couldn’t rule out the possibility of foul play.
“Nonsense!” A colorful figure stepped forward to refute Mansori’s charges. “Everyone knows the Wind is a worn-out relic that should have never been pressed back into service.”
The speaker was a male Midasite with silver skin, golden eyes, a mane of curly gold hair, and a pencil mustache. His flamboyant attire had a piratical flair, complete with a fur-trimmed, jet-black jacket, checkered leggings, and broad-brimmed boots. Spican flame gems, flashy but of little value, studded his wide leather belt and a front tooth. Prominent canines gave him a carnivorous smile.
“Watch your mouth, Dajo!” the affronted captain snarled. “Don’t you talk about my ship like that!”
“Fine,” Dajo said. “I’ll talk about my ship instead.” He raised his voice to be heard over the general chatter. “The name’s Mirsa Dajo, for those that don’t know, and I still have a few berths left aboard my own ship, the Lucky Strike. You want to get to Baldur III, talk to me, although the seats are going fast so I wouldn’t advise you to dither.”
The Lucky Strike?
That’s Helena’s ship, Sulu realized. And that must be her captain.
A few of the Wind’s former passengers succumbed to Dajo’s sales pitch and started shoving their way toward him, much to the dismay and outrage of Mansori.
“You!” she accused Dajo. “This was your doing all along! You sabotaged my ship in order to poach my passengers!”
He laughed out loud. “Keep telling yourself that, Zita.”
Sulu signaled his team to get between the quarreling captains, even as Mansori and her officers surged toward Dajo, possibly looking for a fight. Complicating matters, Helena emerged from the crowd to stand beside her captain.
This is getting awkward, Sulu thought.
“Everyone cool down,” he ordered. “Let’s not start throwing wild accusations around, or rushing to judgment before the facts are in.” Good thing he had enough security on hand to back up his authority. “Captain Mansori, I suggest you see to your ship and its repairs. Captain Dajo, if you could try to be a little less provocative when it comes to lining up customers . . .”
“Of course, Lieutenant,” Dajo said amiably. “It was never my intent to stir up trouble. Just trying to come to the assistance of anyone inconvenienced by the Wind’s unfortunate lack of spaceworthiness.” He guided a collection of potential customers out into the promenade. “Now you understand that, due to the last-minute nature of the bookings, I need to charge a premium—”
Mansori glared at Dajo as he departed with many of her passengers, but thankfully limited herself to giving him the evil eye. Sulu admired her self-control as he made his way toward Helena, who had lingered behind in the lobby of the transporter room.
“You have a moment?” he asked her.
“Sure. You up for that drink at last?”
“If only.” He led her to a quiet corner where they could converse more privately. He glanced around to make certain they couldn’t be overheard. “I don’t want to put you on the spot, but I have to ask: Could there be any truth to Mansori’s accusations?”
She stiffened, obviously taken aback by the question. Her inviting smile vanished faster than a Romulan bird-of-prey activating its cloaking device.
“Wait. Are you actually asking me if my captain is a saboteur?”
“Nothing personal,” he insisted. “But I wouldn’t be doing my due diligence if I didn’t at least try to investigate any possible threat to the security of this station.”
“And I wouldn’t be much of a first officer,” she countered, “if I went around gossiping about my captain.”
“That’s not a yes or a no.”
He hated to press Helena like this, but if there was any chance that Dajo was sabotaging his competition, he needed to ask the hard questions, even if it meant risking their friendship—and spoiling their reunion.
“No!” she said emphatically. “Mirsa is no saint, and not above taking advantage of the Solar Wind’s bad luck, but he’s no saboteur. You think I’d be working for him if he was capable of that?”
“Probably not,” Sulu said, immediately regretting the “probably” part. “I mean, no, of course not, but is it possible that he could be up to something without you knowing? Can you think of him doing or saying anything suspicious lately?”
“Oh, so now you’re implying that I’m simply clueless or a bad judge of character?” Her dark eyebrows dived toward each other to form a V that signified trouble for whoever had just got on her bad side. Her nostrils flared along with her temper. “Way to dig yourself out of a hole, Hikaru.”
“This isn’t about you . . . or us. I’m just asking for your help, in a professional capacity.”
“Tell you what,” she said. “I see anything ‘suspicious,’ I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I’ll thank you to not take the word of a disgruntled rival over my captain.”
“Fair enough,” he said, hoping to resolve the friction between them. Glancing about, he saw that the crowd had dispersed to some degree, even though there were still plenty of people waiting to use the transporters. With any luck, he had a few moments to kill before the next crisis demanded his attention. “I don’t suppose you’re ready for that drink now?”
He knew he was pushing his luck, but . . .
“Another time,” she said, her tone frostier than Alfa 177 after sundown. “After all, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your ‘professional’ duties.”
She turned and strode away from him without a backward glance.
Sulu sighed.
Saw that coming.