2268
“One of the passengers insists on speaking with you, Skipper.”
Captain Jerry Yamada was at the helm of the S.S. Chinook, a commercial transport three solar days out from Planet G, when his chief purser, Violet Achebe, visited the bridge to deliver a request from one of the forty or so travelers who had booked passage on the ship. The compact, utilitarian bridge was manned only by Yamada and his first mate. A viewscreen depicted a clear stretch of interstellar space.
“Their accommodations not to their liking? Or the meal service?” Yamada asked with a sigh, wondering what kind of deluxe treatment this particular passenger was demanding. “Can’t you handle this?”
It wasn’t that he couldn’t spare a moment to step away from the helm. This was a routine five-day run ferrying an assortment of civilians of various species to Cibonor Prime, out near the border of Federation space. Nothing his copilot or even the autonav systems couldn’t manage. Chinook had made this run countless times before, following a well-established route known to be free of any lurking singularities, plasma storms, or Orion pirates. Yamada simply wasn’t in a hurry to be groused at by some dissatisfied customer who didn’t find the modest transport up to their exalted standards. What had they expected, a Constitution-class starship?
“I tried, Skipper, but he insists on speaking with you directly. Claims it’s a matter of vital importance that must be dealt with at once. His words, not mine.”
“Understood.” He knew that Achebe had surely done her best to placate the unhappy passenger; as head of the cabin crew, she had always excelled at customer relations. He rose reluctantly from his seat, girding himself for the onerous chore ahead. He straightened his custom white uniform with braided gold epaulets, slicked back his thinning brown hair, and put on his captain’s hat. “So which of our current guests is giving you trouble?”
“Pierre Fortier, the traveling salesman.”
The captain nodded. He prided himself on familiarizing himself with the passenger list on each run. Fortier was a nondescript humanoid of terrestrial descent traveling alone on business. As Yamada recalled, the man was a merchant or sales rep peddling a variety of exotic tonics and elixirs of questionable provenance; in short, a modern-day snake-oil salesman plying his trade on frontier colonies and settlements on the fringes of the Federation. Harmless enough, by all appearances, but apparently making a pain of himself at the moment.
“Very well. Let’s see what’s bothering him.” He turned to his first mate. “Miguel, you have the helm.”
“Aye, sir.”
Yamada found Fortier waiting in the starview lounge, where the salesman was sharing a table with a few other passengers. Surveying the scene as a matter of course, the captain saw nothing amiss, just a cross section of ordinary people socializing with their fellow travelers: having cocktails, munching on snacks from the food dispensers, playing cards or chess or kal-toh, or maybe even chatting up an attractive stranger. Midvoyage, Chinook was still a few days away from Cibonor Prime, so folks were looking to pass the time as painlessly as possible. Picture viewports offered a panoramic view of distant stars and nebulae streaking past at warp speed. Caitian torch songs purred in the background. Artificial translators facilitated conversation. Everyone appeared in good spirits, except perhaps Fortier.
“You asked to see me, Mister Fortier?” Yamada addressed the man in a polite and professional manner; it was possible after all that Fortier had a legitimate grievance of some sort, although why it might require the captain’s personal attention remained a mystery. His crew were perfectly capable of sorting out most difficulties on their own.
“Ah, Captain, thanks so much for joining us.” Fortier didn’t seem particularly cranky; if anything, he seemed inordinately pleased by Yamada’s prompt arrival. He was a slight, unprepossessing fellow with limp black hair, somewhat protuberant blue eyes, a cheap suit, white gloves, and a rather oily demeanor. He smiled ingratiatingly at the captain and gestured at an empty seat across from him. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
“I’m a busy man, Mister Fortier,” Yamada said, not entirely accurately. He remained standing to avoid giving the impression that he was at any passenger’s beck and call. “Perhaps you can tell me what this is all about? Unless you’d rather discuss this privately?”
“No, no, I prefer an audience.” He nodded at the vacant chair, then shrugged as the captain declined the invitation once more. “No? Very well then. Tell me, Captain, what do you know of Horta acid?”
“Excuse me?”
The seeming non sequitur perplexed Yamada, who’d been anticipating some mundane complaint about the man’s luggage, fees, cabin, or a perceived slight from an insufficiently attentive crew member.
“Horta acid,” Fortier repeated. “The remarkably corrosive chemical secreted by the Hortas, which allows them to tunnel through solid rock as easily as we pass through empty air. You are familiar with the species?”
“To a degree.” Yamada recognized the name as belonging to an exotic new sentient life-form that had recently been discovered on a remote mining planet; after some initial misunderstandings and conflict, the Hortas had formed a working relationship with the humans prospecting beneath the planet’s surface for precious ores, to the benefit of both. “But I fail to see what relevance that might have to your stay on this ship.”
“Patience, Captain. Believe me, you want to hear what I have to say.”
Yamada frowned. “If this is a sales pitch—”
“Nothing of the sort,” Fortier said, all innocence. “Anyway, Horta acid is quite fascinating, with a variety of potential applications, as I was just explaining to the esteemed professor here.”
He indicated the woman on his left: a middle-aged woman, perhaps pushing fifty, whose bluish complexion and snow-white hair suggested that she was part Andorian, as did her two small, stubby antennae. She was neatly but sensibly attired. Searching his memory, Yamada placed her as Doctor Taya Hamparian, a scientist on her way to an academic conference on Cibonor Prime. He hadn’t spent much time getting to know her, leaving that to Achebe and her crew, but he’d gathered that she was fairly celebrated in her field, whatever that was.
“From what I’ve heard,” she said, “the Hortas are indeed a unique species, given that their body chemistry is based on silicon rather than iron. Their discovery caused quite a stir in xenobiology circles, I can tell you that. Federation science is just beginning to scratch the surface of what we might learn from them about the myriad forms life can take throughout the galaxy.”
“I have no doubt,” Yamada said, “but unless there’s reason for me to be here, I’ll leave you two to discuss this topic on your own. I have ship’s business to attend to.” He smiled courteously at Hamparian, who bore no responsibility for dragging him from the bridge. “If you’ll forgive me, Doctor.”
“But this is ship’s business, Captain,” Fortier insisted, “as I’ll now demonstrate.”
To Yamada’s surprise, the other man peeled off the glove on his right hand to reveal a gleaming metal prosthetic of fairly sophisticated design, complete with a small, blinking control panel embedded in the underside of its wrist. The captain couldn’t remember if the man’s artificial hand was listed on his travel visas, not that this would have affected his passenger status in any way. Over the years, Chinook had transported any number of travelers with various special needs or conditions; this was hardly the first prosthetic limb or implant Yamada had encountered in his voyages.
“Alas,” Fortier explained, “I lost the hand I was born with due to an unfortunate misunderstanding with an Orion gambler who accused me of cheating him, but its replacement is ever so versatile.”
He twisted off the tip of a metallic index finger to reveal a small nozzle hidden beneath it. He pointed the finger at the tabletop, rather like a child playing at shooting a phaser pistol, and squirted a short stream of orangish fluid onto the table.
“Ye gods!” the captain exclaimed, alarmed given Fortier’s talk of Horta acid; to his relief, however, the minuscule spurt of fluid merely puddled atop the spill-proof plastene tablecloth, forming a small pool about the size of a quarter. (The Chinook had once hosted a long-winded Venusian numismatist who had bent the captain’s ear at length about archaic American currency.) “What the tox is that?”
“Horta acid, of course, but in its inactive form. A Horta does not always burn through everything it touches; it can control its corrosiveness at will. A natural catalyst, rather like a hormone, is required to activate the acid… like this.”
Before anyone could stop him, he pressed a control on his wrist. A few drops of a different solution spurted from his finger, joining the puddle on the table, which immediately sizzled and steamed as the fluid burned through the table and rained down on the carpeted floor below. A harsh, acidic odor assailed Yamada’s nostrils. Hamparian gasped out loud.
“Blast it, Fortier!” The captain hastily peeked beneath the table, where he saw, through a hole in the carpet, a badly scorched ceramic tile. “That’s willful vandalism. The repair costs will be added to your fare, along with the appropriate fines for knowingly bringing hazardous materials aboard this ship. Any such cargo needed to be reported upon boarding!”
The destructive chemistry experiment, as well as Yamada’s indignant tone, caught the attention of Fortier’s other companions at the table, a somewhat tipsy couple who had been preoccupied with chatting each other up until then. They gaped in surprise at the aftermath of the demonstration, even as the acrid white fumes dissipated into the filtered atmosphere of the lounge, where the remainder of those present appeared largely oblivious to the increasing tension at the table. The lounge’s piped-in music interfered with eavesdropping.
“Ah, but that’s precisely the point I was trying to make, Captain. These two substances are not hazardous in themselves, only when combined. They are also quite new to modern science, which is doubtless why they evaded the fairly rudimentary security scanners all passengers and their possessions were subjected to before boarding.” Fortier grinned slyly. “That and the fact that, being as the Horta are uniquely silicon based, their secretions won’t even register as biological materials, contraband or otherwise, on any standard scans.”
Yamada felt a sinking feeling, his earlier annoyance and indignation giving way to a genuine sense of foreboding. Fortier was practically bragging about smuggling a dangerous organic substance past Chinook’s security procedures. Why would he do that—unless this was the prelude to some darker purpose?
“But how in the cosmos did you even get your hands on a sample of Horta acid?” Hamparian asked. “I’ve only read about it in scientific journals.”
“A trade secret, Professor.” Fortier waved away her query. “What matters are its applications.” He once again indicated the empty chair. “You really should sit down for this next part, Captain. I strongly advise it.”
“Hey there, what’s this all about?” the other man at the table asked, rather late to the party. He was a travel writer touring the sector, name of Nestrom; extravagantly lobed ears betrayed Tiburonian roots. “Is there a problem here?”
“What’s a Horta?” his companion asked. Kybra Larrol was a youngish widow from Argelius II, apparently getting on with her life.
“Sit tight and all will be made clear, my friends.” Fortier waited until the captain grudgingly sat down at the table, just to hasten things along. “Where were we? Oh yes, applications. Imagine, for example, if a bulb containing sufficient amounts of both chemicals, separated by only a thin barrier, was discreetly and inconspicuously placed in proximity to a baffle plate in this ship’s energy pile, perhaps late at night during the graveyard shift when most crew and passengers are abed and only a skeleton crew is minding the store?”
A chill ran down Yamada’s spine. “That’s a disturbingly specific example.”
“But very apropos.” Fortier indicated the control panel blinking on his mechanical wrist. “Now imagine if that barrier is on a timer, programmed to self-destruct after a certain interval, unless the timer is reset remotely via a signal from my hand, causing the two chemicals to combine, thereby activating the acid… need I elaborate?”
Yamada stared at the hole in the table, which was still sizzling around its edges. If enough Horta acid dissolved one of the plates regulating the matter-antimatter reaction, the entire warp core could explode in an instant, taking Chinook with it, along with every living soul aboard, reduced to atoms by a white-hot blast.
“Heaven help us,” Hamparian whispered, getting it as well. The previously distracted couple appeared equally alarmed. They peered anxiously at the captain, looking to him for reassurance. Nestrom gripped Larrol’s hand.
“But… you would be destroyed as well,” Yamada pointed out.
“Theoretically, yes, but I can’t imagine you would risk your ship, your crew, and all the innocent travelers in your care just to test my resolve. And just so you know, Captain, that would not end well for any of us.” Fortier paused to let that ominous advice sink in before continuing. “Let me spell it out before you waste any precious time trying to think your way out of this dilemma. The acid bulb is real, it is in place, and any attempt to tamper with it will trigger its activation. Nor would I advise attempting to shut down the warp engine.” He indicated the stars streaking past the viewing windows. “I’m quite capable of triggering the bulb remotely at the first indication that you are trying to ingeniously circumvent my plans. Do you understand me, Captain?”
Loud and clear, Yamada thought. “This is a spacejacking.”
Nestrom started to get up from the table. He tugged on his companion’s arm. “C’mon, Kybra, we’re getting out of here.”
“Please stay where you are,” Fortier said, his eyes and tone at odds with his affable smile. A flesh-and-blood finger hovered over the control pad at his wrist. “I insist.”
Swallowing hard, Nestrom sat back down. He and Larrol grasped each other’s hands as though clinging to a tether during a spacewalk. She drank deeply from a full glass of wine.
“Relax,” Fortier assured them. “You have nothing to worry about. The good captain is not going to allow any harm to come to you. Are you, Captain?”
He has me there. Yamada was acutely aware of all the passengers in his charge; not just those present in the lounge, a few of whom were perhaps starting to pick up on some sort of issue at the table, sending curious and/or worried looks in his direction, but also the ones currently in their cabins or enjoying Chinook’s other recreational facilities. Their faces, names, and stories flooded his mind: the elderly couple on the way to meet their first grandchild, a high-school swim team traveling to compete in a sector tournament, a few other scientists and academics heading for the same conference Doctor Hamparian was attending, a quartet of Andorian newlyweds who had barely emerged from the ship’s honeymoon suite, and so many other unsuspecting souls, all counting on him to convey them safely to their destinations.
“What are your demands?”
Fortier beamed at him. “I knew you would be reasonable about this.” His organic hand reached inside his jacket and extracted a microtape, which he handed to Yamada. “This tape contains the coordinates for a specific location outside Federation space. I’m afraid you need to make a slight detour from our planned course.” He shrugged. “My apologies for the inconvenience.”
Inconvenience was the understatement of the century; this was terrorism pure and simple. Yamada kept his voice and anger tightly under control to avoid panicking his passengers.
“Why are you doing this? What’s going to happen to us once we reach that location?”
That sector of space bordered the Neutral Zone of Klingon space. In theory, both the Federation and the Empire did not encroach on that buffer zone, but could they count on the Klingons to abide by those terms once Chinook was beyond the Federation’s borders? Trusting Klingons to restrain themselves was seldom a safe bet.
“Nothing untoward will befall you,” Fortier promised. “You’ll drop me off and continue on your way, having fallen only a day or so behind schedule.” He glanced around the lounge at the other passengers, more and more of whom were starting to watch and whisper about whatever drama was playing out at the table. “In the meantime, Captain, I don’t presume to tell you how to do your job, but perhaps it would be best to confine the rest of the passengers to their cabins for the time being?”
Yamada would have preferred to clap Fortier in irons, or, better yet, beam him out into the void, but his hands were tied. His jaw was clenched so tight he had to spit out his response.
“Anything else?”
“That’s all for now. I’ll have more instructions once we arrive at the designated coordinates. Do as I say and this ship will arrive safely at Cibonor Prime, albeit somewhat tardily.”
Yamada wished he could trust him.
“Can we go now?” Larrol asked anxiously. “Back to our cabins, like you said?”
“Be my guest.” Fortier waved bye-bye at them as they scurried from the table, taking an open bottle of Château Picard with them. “Thanks for being so obliging.”
Hamparian started to rise as well. “I guess I’ll be leaving too.”
“Not you, Professor.”
She froze, her face turning a paler shade of blue. “I don’t understand. I’m just a bystander here. This is between you and the captain.”
“I’d rather you stay to keep me company, as well as to discourage any ill-advised heroics. Please remain seated.”
“Blast it, Fortier!” the captain said, seething. “You don’t need a hostage. You already have this entire ship at your mercy.”
“Indulge me, Captain. By my estimate, our new destination is roughly thirteen hours away. Time enough for you and your crew to hatch some reckless scheme to take back your ship. I like to think I’ve anticipated every countermeasure you might employ, but I’m not going to make the mistake of underestimating you… or believing myself infallible. Hence, an auxiliary plan to ensure your cooperation.” He pointed the nozzle on his index finger at the frightened scientist, who gripped the edge of the table with both hands as though to keep herself from bolting in panic. “My hand still holds an adequate supply of Horta juices. I doubt anyone wants me to dissolve all or part of the professor, particularly when I’m offering you a much less messy alternative in which no one gets harmed.”
Hamparian gasped once more. “You wouldn’t… not really!”
“That’s entirely up to the captain.” He smirked at Yamada. “Well, what do you say?”
Yamada kept his voice down to a low growl, even as he tried not to imagine what the powerful acid could to do to flesh and bone. Hadn’t he heard something about a Horta burning some human miners alive before the Hortas and humans found a way to coexist?
“What kind of fiend are you?”
“Irrelevant. The question is: What kind of man are you? And are you willing to risk all our lives to obstruct me?” He kept his finger pointed at Hamparian like a phaser set on kill. “I thank you for your time, Captain, but I believe you have business on the bridge? Some urgent course corrections, perhaps?”
“All right, Fortier. We’ve taken your blasted detour. What now?”
Thirteen point four hours at warp six had brought them to the outskirts of an unclaimed system smack-dab between Federation and Klingon space, as laid down by the latest round of border negotiations. Yamada, who was feeling every one of those thirteen hours, was more than ready to get on with whatever Fortier had planned and get the slimy spacejacker off Chinook as soon as possible, at which point he intended to race back to the Federation at top speed—assuming Fortier didn’t have any more unpleasant surprises in store.
“Excellent, Captain. We’ve made good time.”
Fortier remained camped out in the now-emptied lounge alongside his unwilling companion, Doctor Hamparian. He appeared in good spirits, albeit in need of a shave and a shower, while she appeared understandably wan. Cups of black coffee, frequently refilled, resided on the table before them, along with the residue of assorted meals from the ship’s galley. Fortier had eaten heartily throughout the crisis; to her credit, Hamparian had managed to down some food as well, if only to maintain her strength. Yamada admired her courage and grace under severe pressure. She was holding up better than might be expected. He couldn’t imagine that the middle-aged scientist had ever been taken hostage by a spacejacker before.
“Is that it then?” she asked, the strain of her ordeal audible in her voice. Her stubby, rudimentary antennae drooped like wilting flowers. “Is this finally over?”
Violet Achebe lingered nearby, having spent the last several hours attending to Hamparian and her smarmy captor. She had bravely volunteered to take the endangered passenger’s place, but Fortier had declined her offer, quipping that he had no desire to switch hostages in midwarp. Yamada assumed he judged an innocent civilian to be a better and safer bargaining chip than a crew member who might feel obliged to somehow turn the tables on him. He had allowed Achebe to sub in only briefly to permit Hamparian a few bathroom breaks.
“Over?” he echoed. “That remains to be seen, I suppose.”
Yamada braced himself for more treachery, already indignant in anticipation.
“What do you mean by that?” He wanted to tear Fortier’s blinking steel hand from its moorings and cram it down the other man’s throat. “We’ve done our part, per your demands. You had better not have been lying to us before about letting us go.”
Long-range scans had detected no waiting vessels in the vicinity, Klingon or otherwise, but Yamada wouldn’t rest until Chinook was fully out of harm’s way.
“Have no fear, Captain. Your fine ship will soon be on its way, and in one piece no less.” Fortier took one last gulp of coffee before rising and stretching his legs. “If you’ll please escort us to the nearest convenient escape pod.”
“Us?” Hamparian’s antennae shot upward in alarm. “But—”
“I’m afraid that conference on Cibonor Prime will have to do without you, my dear professor. I need you to accompany me on the last leg of our journey.”
She recoiled in shock. “You can’t mean that, not after you promised to let us go!”
“This is unconscionable!” Yamada raged. “It’s bad enough that you’ve held this woman hostage all this time, but—”
“Spare me the dramatics, please.” Fortier held up his organic hand to fend off their protests. “Don’t forget, Captain, this ship and everyone aboard are at my mercy. Your righteous posturing is merely delaying the inevitable.”
Yamada wished he could refute that. “But why do this? What do you gain?”
“A clean escape. Chinook has phasers to defend against bandits and other hostiles, does it not? And a working tractor beam? What’s to stop you from targeting my escape pod once I’ve disabled the acid bulb threatening your warp engine? Or pursuing me in the name of justice? Or perhaps you’ve had the foresight to already sabotage all the escape pods in anticipation of me departing in one? Or even have, unknown to me, deviated from the prescribed coordinates in order to strand me in deep space, far from my intended destination?”
“We’ve done nothing of the sort!”
“I’m pleased to hear that, Captain, sincerely, but I still think it best to give you a compelling reason to not come after me, one way or another, once we part ways. Namely, the professor’s well-being.”
“I swear on my life, we won’t do anything to pursue you or impede your escape. Believe me, I want nothing more than to see the back of you… forever!”
“Of that I have no doubt, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t have the luxury of taking your word for it. Doctor Hamparian comes with me, for my own peace of mind.”
Yamada shook his head. “I can’t allow that. Not in good conscience.”
“You have no choice, Captain. It’s her or the lives of all your other passengers and crew.”
“Would you both stop talking about me as though I’m not here!”
Taya Hamparian rose slowly to her feet. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she looked Fortier squarely in the eye. “Tell me the truth. Would you truly destroy this ship if you have to?”
“I have little to lose otherwise.” He aimed his lethal prosthetic at her face. “And make no mistake: although I’m loath to do so, I will melt you with Horta acid if forced.”
She flinched at the threat but did not retreat.
Yamada clenched his fists at his sides, feeling this nightmarish situation slip further and further out of his control. “Listen to me, Doctor Hamparian. You don’t have to do this.”
“We both know that’s not true, Captain.” She shook her head sadly. “I’ve no desire to play human sacrifice, but if it means that everyone else survives… what else can I do?”
Yamada was again impressed by her poise and presence of mind under these most hellish of circumstances, as well as her sheer, straightforward heroism. He glared furiously at Fortier.
“How do I know you won’t just let Chinook blow up once you’re free and clear, just to cover your tracks?”
“That’s where the professor comes in. I’m where I want to be. Get us into a working escape pod, and I’ll disable the acid bulb there and then. At which point, I’ll be relying on your legitimate concern for the professor’s safety to bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion… without any needless death or destruction.”
Yamada remained skeptical. “And that matters to you because?”
“There are degrees of criminality, Captain. Is it that hard to conceive that I would just as soon not commit mass murder if I don’t have to?”
Was he speaking honestly? Yamada had no way of knowing, and the hell of it was that trusting Fortier to keep his word was pretty much their best shot at living another day.
“It’s all right, Captain,” Hamparian said. “I understand the position you’re in. Don’t blame yourself for what we both have to do now.”
Yamada’s throat tightened. “You’re a remarkable woman, Doctor. I hope we meet again someday.”
“That strikes me as unlikely, Captain, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Yes, yes, this is all very touching, but can we get a move on?” Fortier took Hamparian by the arm, the deadly nozzle directed at her side. “Our lifeboat awaits, Professor.”
She maintained her dignity, her chin held high.
“Just one question: Why me?”
“Luck of the draw, I’m afraid. There just happened to be a vacant seat at your table.” He let Yamada escort them out of the lounge. “Nothing personal, I assure you.”