White Rabbit - Part 4

In Nerva’s Ops, T’Shak found herself quickly adapting to the station’s ways of recording and allocating data, power and other resources, noting and comparing the patterns… and adapting to working closely beside Haluk, who worked swiftly and efficiently. And silently.

Prompting her to speak. “They use the electromagnetic catapult as a communications array, decreasing response time for messages being sent across the Quadrant. Most economical.”

He said nothing in reply, never looking up from his analysis fo the displays.

“I have run diagnostics on the timecodes for their sensor logs during, before and after the alleged appearance of the White Rabbit from the Rabbit Hole,” she continued, raising an eyebrow. “It is clear that a human devised those names. One can never say they lack the capacity for jejune creativity.”

Haluk remained silent.

She stopped speaking. She would never admit aloud that she had an interest in Haluk, not even to the one onboard that she could truly consider a friend. Haluk was Vulcan, approximated her age, and possessed intellectual and physical attributes that one could accurately consider aesthetically appealing.

And this was not even taking into account the rumours that he was a member of the V’Shar, the Vulcan Security Directorate – a so-called ‘secret agent’, as Nola Brice would intone, intimating that this was some sort of exciting, romantic spur – rumours that Haluk has always disavowed.

And yes, T’Shak considered it a fortuitous opportunity to work alone with him, away from the prurient interests of others… strictly in order to establish a professional relationship with him, of course. But now it had become obvious that he had no interest in even doing that, and in fact her attempts at what humans called ‘small talk’ would no doubt dissuade him from spending any time with her in future-

“Excuse me?”

Both Vulcans turned in their chairs to face Venner, the large, bald human male, the member of Kramer’s crew working in Ops. He was three metres away, at another console, but now faced them, his beige jumpsuit hugging his huge frame as he noted, with a thick accent T’Shak recognised as Terran, Austrian or German to be specific, “You’re here to examine our sensor logs. Why are you in our Security Database?”

T’Shak raised an eyebrow in bemusement, not aware of what he was talking about. But before she could respond, Haluk did. “Please excuse me, Sir. I made an error.”

Venner grunted, his blubbery face turning pink. “I didn’t think Vulcans made errors.”

“I am fatigued,” Haluk explained – reaching out and gently taking T’Shak’s hand in his own. “My wife and I are attempting to conceive, and I have had little sleep of late.” He looked to T’Shak now. “Isn’t that right, Beloved?”

T’Shak stared at him, acutely cognisant of the heat from his hand, the strength of his muscles, every groove and indentation of his skin, and it took an unprecedented amount of self-discipline on her part not to let the shock of the unexpected intimacy show on her face, as she looked to Venner. “My husband is quite correct. I have been most insistent that he take advantage of my current levels of fecundity.”

“To avoid further errors, my wife and I will now engage in a meditative exercise,” Haluk offered. “If you will permit us?” He turned his chair to face her, looking into her eyes intently, before drawing her nearer.

T’Shak’s pulse raced despite her attempts to control it, confusion competing with arousal at the other Vulcan’s touch, his bizarre display of feigned familiarity, as he drew up to the left side of her head, the one not seen by Venner, until his mouth was near her ear, and he whispered, almost imperceptibly, “Forgive my actions, Crewman, but this is necessary. He is still observing. Place your hand on the side of my face, to mirror intimacy.”

She did so, seeing from the corner of her eye that, as stated, Venner was still watching them.

“I accessed the station’s Security Logs deliberately,” Haluk continued, “To confirm my suspicions that the human was here to secretly monitor our activity. I will now employ greater subterfuge in continuing my scans. Are you willing to maintain the artifice of our being a married couple?”

T’Shak heart remained at a quickened pace, and she adjusted her hand and forearm to hide her lips as she replied, at an equally low whisper, “Of course, Mr Haluk. I will cooperate with any level of intimacy you wish display.”

She felt him react slightly. “I doubt if we will be required to exhibit our conjugal status any further than this… but I will keep your alacrity in mind.” He paused, and then added, “You may release your touch now.”

*

In his office, Kramer was moving once more to the drinks cabinet… until Bunol, sitting at his husband’s desk examining the images on several monitors, said without looking up, “Don’t.”

The Human stopped, spun on his heels and stormed around. “Damn it! What’s taking him so long? How difficult can it be to convince someone to do what you want?”

The Rigelian’s mouth lifted at one corner. “As I recall it took you a few tries before I agreed to go to bed with you.”

“Did I ever tell you that you’re not funny?”

Now Bunol met Kramer’s gaze. “Not being a Lethean, or indeed a member of any type of telepathic race, I have no direct knowledge of the physical or logistical problems. But Seirren explained it wouldn’t be easy to do what he’s doing to multiple targets, from a place directly below, through several centimetres of bulkhead, and without alerting them...”

Kramer grunted, moving to the observation windows. “I bet he only said that to jack up his price.”

“Maybe,” Bunol conceded. “But telepaths are rare. Telepaths with flexible codes of conduct are rarer still. If he can create a convincing illusion for Captain Mistry and her people, and she agrees to buy the artefact, he’ll be more than worth it.” He smiled again. “And then we can go off and retire on Casperia Prime, and leave this pesthole behind us.”

Kramer glared out at the Rabbit Hole. “Bastard Arkarians.”

Bunol shrugged. “You can’t blame them. After many generations they managed to break the political power of the waste export unions, and begin recycling their theta waste from home. Quicker, safer, cheaper.”

“And with their ordinary freighters and transport ships not needing to stop here, they may as well have just hurled us into the Rabbit Hole like their waste.” He shuddered. “I don’t have to tell you, Guyad, I thought we were going to have to walk away from this, from nearly a decade’s investment, with almost nothing.”

“As did I,” Bunol admitted ruefully.

Then Kramer rushed up, dropped to one knee beside the sitting Bunol and hugged him. “But it’s going to be okay now! They’re gonna buy the story, buy the statue, and we can leave this place and retire to Casperia Prime! Thanks to you and your brilliant mind!”

Bunol hugged him back. “And thanks to you and your ability to hoard.” He nodded to the image of the White Rabbit onscreen, which they had found two years before in the wreckage of an Orion smuggler ship that had drifted into their area. It couldn’t be scanned or cut up into scrap, and Bunol had wanted it tossed into the Rabbit Hole, but Kramer had insisted on keeping it in a store bay, with the rest of the junk they had accumulated over the decades. You never know when it’ll come in handy, his husband had insisted at the time.

Well, he had been right, for once. “We never did work out where that thing came from.” He shrugged. “Maybe it is Iconian?”

“Wouldn’t that be something?” Kramer mused, his anxiety lacing his alleged amusement. “We go to all this trouble to fake an Iconian relic, and it turns out we don’t have to.”

“‘A Man Plans’,” Bunol quoted. “‘And the Universe Laughs.’” But he didn’t feel so philosophical, acutely aware of how precarious his plan was, despite his ‘brilliant mind’. The idea had come to him after the news about the Arkarians changing their theta waste policies, and it had become obvious that they weren’t renewing their contract with Nerva, without even offering any compensation for their imminent loss of revenue. It became increasingly likely that they would all have to cut their rather considerable losses.

Then Bunol recalled some former associates who had made a living with fake relics had read an article about the Iconians and the extensive archaeological interest in the extinct race, given how little was actually known about them. He knew of several associates from his past who had made money from fake artefacts, religious icons, maps to the remains of alleged Iconian settlements on distant worlds.

The rest fell into place: the use of Nerva’s fabricators to create the pedestal plates; a computer program that took the few known examples of Iconian script and extrapolate more, none of which had any genuine meaning but which looked authentic; further forgeries of the station logs to support the backstory, a backstory that was so fantastic that it had to be true; sensor blocks in the bay to disrupt any attempts to scan the object or the surrounding area more thoroughly; the talents of Seirren to plant images and influences in Mistry and the others; and a contrived urgency that would hopefully prompt Starfleet to accept the offer to purchase the so-called White Rabbit, and give Bunol, Kramer and the others a chance to escape and set up new lives, new identities, elsewhere, by the time that Starfleet took away the Rabbit and failed to duplicate the telepathic side effects elsewhere.

A communications signal flashed onscreen. Kramer turned to it. “Who’s calling? The Starfleet vessel? Arkaria?”

Bunol frowned at the signal parameters flashing up onscreen. “The signal is originating from… from a part of space I’m not familiar with. It’s not Federation, Orion, Klingon, Romulan, Tholian-”

“Are you sure it’s meant for us?”

The Rigelian nodded. “That’s what it says in the header. In fact, it’s addressed specifically to you and me...” Curious, he opened the channel. “This is Nerva Beacon, Guyan Bulon and Malik Kramer present. Who is this?”

He expected a visual image of the caller to appear. Instead, they had a still picture… of a stylised illustration of a crescent moon, on some old black cardboard, with a ghostly smiling face on it, and an ancient sailing ship seemingly floating within the concave side, while below, the words THE MOON were written in elaborate script.

“What the…” Bunol muttered.

Kramer grunted. “Looks like it’s from a… they used to call them Tarot Cards. Cards they used to use to tell fortunes-”

Then both men were startled by an electronically-altered, gender-neutral voice. “Mr Bunol, Mr Kramer, Greetings: I’m calling on behalf of an organisation known informally as Moonfleet.”

Bunol and Kramer looked to each, silently mouthing the name.

The Caller continued, as if able to see them. “You won’t have heard of us. But we’ve heard of you.”

“And what is Moonfleet?” Bunol asked suspiciously.

“We’re a book club.”

Kramer made a sound like mirthless laughter. “What the- we don’t have time for this, Guyan-”

“You don’t have much time for anything, Mr Kramer,” the Caller agreed. “None of you, so we should proceed to the reason for our call. We are aware of your plan to swindle the Federation with your fake Iconian relic.”

Kramer turned beet red, and he gasped, but Bunol remained cooler, though sweat beaded down his high green forehead. “I’m afraid we don’t know what you’re talking about, Whoever You Are-”

“It’s ‘Whomever You Are’,” he corrected. “And your plan will fail. Captain Mistry’s little team possesses an eclectic range of talent and experience, and if there is a flaw, they will find it. We calculate you possess only a 1.8% probability of success, and only a 3.4% probability of avoiding custodial sentencing. It is with absolute certainty that you will not profit from this venture.

However, the Moonfleet is prepared to generously offer you recompense for services rendered: 20 bars of gold-pressed latinum.”

Kramer and Bunol straightened up, glanced at each other, Kramer whispering breathlessly, “That’s… that’s nearly two and a half million credits! That’s far more than what we’re asking for the statue from the Federation!”

“We don’t want the statue,” the Caller clarified. “We want you to kill Captain Mistry and her crew, and destroy her vessel.”

Kramer stepped back from the desk, as if the Caller was ready to reach across the Quadrant and grab him. “Kill? Are you kidding me? We’re not hit men! We don’t-”

But Bunol raised a hand for silence, his brow creasing heavily in thought before turning back to the screen. “Assuming that we might be interested in your offer -- and I’m not saying we are -- we don’t even know who you are! How do we know you’ll pay?”

Below the image of the tarot card, a series of numbers appeared. “I believe you’ll recognise this as the hidden account you have on Bolarus IX, along with the current balance in it… such as it is. We are prepared to transfer payment once we confirm that you have rendered what we have requested.”

Bunol leaned in, reading the numbers. Yes. yes, it certainly looked like their account; he never bothered asking how this Moonfleet was able to identify it, let alone access it.

“Is it true?” Kramer asked him.

Bunol nodded warily, but noted, “It still doesn’t mean we’ll get paid.”

“No,” the Caller admitted. “All that’s guaranteed is that you won’t get anything if you don’t do it.”

Kramer was shaking his head, sweat pouring from him. “No. No, Guyan, we can’t do it- we’re not killers- and Starfleet will be after us, for the rest of our lives, they’ll never stop!”

Bunol leaned forward again. “We’re not a starbase, we don’t have weapons any larger than hand phasers! How can we be expected to deal with the Starfleet people on board, and destroy a starship, too?”

The Caller sighed. “For 20 bars of gold-pressed latinum, you really should be able to do your own thinking. But if it helps: you also have at your disposal a telepathic mercenary, an electromagnetic catapult, and a singularity that consumes all matter… and evidence. It would not be the first Starfleet vessel lost to a spatial hazard. But I would recommend you come to a decision quickly. Captain Mistry will soon see through your deception. And she will not be pleased.”

“Why?” Kramer asked. “Why do you want her dead? Her ship destroyed?”

There was a pause, and then, “We will not call you again, and there will be no record of this transmission when it ends. But if you are successful, you will be rewarded beyond the dreams of avarice. Good luck, Gentlemen.”

The screen went dark.

Bunol stepped away, moving to the windows, while Kramer went to the drinks cabinet, downing a shot uncaringly before speaking again. “That- That did happen, didn’t I? I didn’t imagine it?”

“No,” Bunol said simply.

After a moment, Kramer set aside his glass and drew up to him, his face etched with concern. “You’re not really considering it, are you? I mean, I don’t mind fleecing the endless coffers of the Federation, but… this is murder.” He rested a hand on Bunol’s forearm. “We can’t just kill them.”

“No. We can’t.” He turned and kissed him on the cheek. “Go check on the others, see if they managed to get that recycler going again in Fabrications.”

Kramer stared warily at him, before nodding, swallowing and departing.

Bunol immediately returned to the desk, opening a channel. “Venner, I know you can’t speak freely with the Vulcans there, so just answer Yes or No. Are they still working there?”

“Yes.”

“Are they suspicious?”

“Yes.”

He nodded to himself; his pessimistic side expected this. And while he did not believe in miracles, he did believe in seizing what he could,  when he could. “Do you have your disruptor handy?”

There was a pause, before the reply. “Yes.”

Bunol nodded. “The situation has altered… but we can still salvage this. Open the exhaust ports on the maneuvering thrusters and flood the area with plasma; that will disrupt their communications. Stand by.” He switched to another channel. “Caine! Bridger! Power up the Catapult! Ready the test module magazine and stand by!”

He paused before the last call. He wished it hadn’t come to this. But what could he do? “Mr Seirren… there’s been a change of plan…”

*

Mistry swallowed, looking to the others in wonder. This was… astounding! Every Starfleet Captain worth their salt dreamed of First Contact with a new race… and, if possible, avoid killing, getting killed, or starting a war.

And here she had hers! And what was more, it was the Iconians! Beings of legend! This was just the start! They were obviously still alive, somewhere, with the wisdom of hundreds of millennia-

The figure turned to one side. “Huh?”

Mistry watched, blinking. “Excuse me?”

It didn’t seem to respond, still looking to one side. “Yes. Yes, I can do that. Yes, all of them. It’ll cost double.”

She looked to S’Li. “What’s going on?”

The Caitian shrugged. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

She glanced at the others. Colossal and Thizheris were examining their probe consoles, the former confirming. “Still nothing being recorded, Captain. This would appear to be telepathically transmitted into our heads.”

The latter crossed his arms. “Then why do I feel like we’ve just been put on hold?”

Mistry looked back at the image, trying to mentally reach out to it. Her desire to make contact seemed to have triggered it before. “Greetings! I’m Captain-”

It turned back to her.

And she began falling. She cursed, arms flailing, immediately imagining some gravity failure, a hull breach, a transport beam into space. She reached for her wrist communicator to send a distress signal, but somehow couldn’t reach it.

She felt herself shrinking.

She felt herself growing.

Playing cards and teacups and books and pocket watches and top hats and chess pieces and rabbits fell with her.

What was going on? She thought to herself. Had something gone wrong with the telepathic communication with the Rabbit? Had she gone mad?

“I’m afraid so, Dear Captain,” S’Li, falling alongside her, grinning. “I am afraid so, you are entirely bonkers. but I will tell you a secret… all the best people are.”

“Professor!” She reached out for him, hoping they could hold onto each other, find some purchase to stop their fall.

But then he disappeared… except for his grin.

In the infinite distance, an electric guitar offered a familiar, hypnotic beat, and then another joined it in alternate Phrygian scales as a woman’s voice informed her that One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small / And the ones that mother gives you, don't do anything at all / Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall…

*

On the Bridge of the Harken, Commander Gallop had been taking the opportunity to allow the Engineering crew to run diagnostics on the warp core while they were scanning the Rabbit Hole, when his attention was drawn to an alert from the Helm.

He didn’t even have time to speak, when the ship was rocked by an impact, pitching hard to starboard, flinging crew from their chairs and slamming them into rails, stations, walls or each other, and the lights dimmed, leaving only the Red Alert flashing overhead.

Gallop felt something crack inside him as he hit the nearest rail -- one rib, maybe two, he thought, something he hadn’t experienced since his last tussle with a Klingon, before his kids were born -- but he bit back the pain to help Lt Ross back into her place at the Helm, shouting out, “Status!”

Behind him, Second Officer Lt al-Rad was holding onto the Ops station corners. “Collision! Something struck us! Deflector’s barely came up in time! Kinetic feedback damage to port nacelle and struts- INCOMI-!”

Another strike, another lurch, though they were more ready for it this time. But a quick glance on the damage control board told Gallop that they suffered further damage. “Wixtar! Raise the shields! Ross, get us moving! Katheer, what’s hitting us? Space debris? It can’t be enemy ships, we would have detected them, unless they were cloaked-”

“Only short-range sensors available,” Wixtar reported, his bald blue Bolian head covering in dark cerulean blood. “No enemy vessels- Commander, it’s Nerva, the Catapult-”

Another impact, another lurch, further alarms as the lights dimmed and chaos reigned.

“We’ve lost thrusters!” Ross shouted. “Shields down to 40%!”

Gallop gripped the arms of the Captain’s Chair. Nerva’s Catapult was firing things at them? What the Hell was going on? “Reinforce the shields! Contact the Landing Party, find out what’s happening! Ross, Evasive!”

He looked up at the flickering viewscreen, seeing the Nerva Catapult, which now looked very uncomfortably like a gun barrel, firing at them. He recalled his basic Academy instruction on the need for deflectors and shields in space, and how they were indispensable for most starships as even the most minute particles could cause serious damage to a ship when traveling at high enough velocities. He didn’t know what the Catapult was firing at them, and it was certainly not being propelled to warp speed, but it was obviously enough to do damage, even against shields.

Another impact, another lurch, and then Ross shouted, “We’re being knocked towards the Event Horizon of the Rabbit Hole!”

*

In Nerva’s Ops, T’Shak was noting a huge amount of computer processing time having been taken up recently for some undisclosed function, and she was analysing some of the details, which seemed to involve the Iconian script -- were the Nerva crew trying to decipher what was on the White Rabbit? -- when she felt Haluk stiffen beside her-

And then shove her forcefully out of her chair, making her fall to the floor, even as a disruptor bolt struck the station where she had sat, making it explode and burst into flames.

She twisted on the floor, trying to rise again as she watched Haluk rise and charge towards Venner, who was standing holding a disruptor pistol, and trying to hit the Vulcan male. Haluk’s face was one of cool composure, however, as his arms moved to block the pistol and his legs struck out to try and disable the large Human.

Then another human emerged from the nearby door behind Haluk and charged in to join the fray.

T’Shak helped herself back to her feet, recalling her basic training and the additional lessons learned from Mr Wixtar in Security. It was her duty, as a member of Starfleet; Mr Haluk was only a Civilian Advisor, despite the rumours-

Without looking behind him, Haluk produced something from the left sleeve of his jacket, and a small, silver cylinder appeared, and from it, a thin beam of phaser energy struck the new arrival, sending him sprawling.

A second later, his other hand shot up to Venner’s neck, pinching it and causing the man to drop like a sack of goods to the floor.

Haluk straightened up, collected Venner’s dropped disruptor and drew up his wrist communicator. “Haluk to Captain Mistry, respond.” After a moment, he continued. “Haluk to Harken, respond.” He looked to her. “Please try your own, Crewman.”

She complied, having no more success.

“The Captain and our associates will be in danger, we must proceed to them immediately.” He handed over the pen-shaped device. “The control is near the tip. There is enough charge remaining for six stun shots; be economical.”

She nodded. “This is non-standard equipment, Mr Haluk, as were your self-defence techniques.”

“Is there a point to your statement, Crewman?”

“Yes: are the rumours regarding your association-”

The Vulcan male almost sighed. “I have been asked 513 times if I am associated with the Vulcan Security Directorate as a so-called ‘secret agent’. For 513 times, I have denied it. It is vexing that people choose to believe such an outlandish notion.”

She nodded, suppressing her embarrassment at having brought up the subject. “Forgive me, Mr Haluk. I should have been enquiring about your status following that altercation.”

He adjusted the sleeves of his purple jacket. “I am shaken, but not stirred.”

*

Mistry kept falling into a swirling blackness, as if the Rabbit Hole outside had appeared here… wherever she was-

“OFF WITH HER HEAD!” Dzenabe shouted from a window without a house around it.

“!kcatta cihtapelet rednu era uoY” the White Knight informed her.

“Feed your head,” Colossale urged her, while sitting in a teapot.

She watched the White Rabbit bounce into view, his antennae dipping down as he checked his pocket watch. “The Admiral! The Admiral! Oh my dear paws! Oh my fur and whiskers! She’ll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are ferrets!” And then he leapt down upwards-

“How disappointing,” Dad noted sourly, adjusting his top hat and sipping his tea. “I warned you not to go into space, Audea. Not to put on a uniform. You could have been a Professor at Oxford, not a mindless tool of Starfleet. And now you’ll die.”

She gasped, her head pounding. “I don’t think-”

“Then you shouldn’t talk,” he advised, turning to face a mirror that offered no reflection.

“OFF WITH HER HEAD!”

Logic and proportion had fallen sloppy dead. She had to get away-

“How do you run from what is inside your head?” the Cat’s Grin asked her.

“!niatpaC, regnad ni er’uoY” the White Knight bellowed in her face. “!eciov ym no sucoF”

The pounding was getting louder, more insistent, suffusing her very being.

“Feed your head!”

*

On the Harken, Gallop swallowed his fear at the sight of the Rabbit Hole, looking ready to swallow them up. He swiveled in the Captain’s chair to face the Tactical station, having already worked out that they were beyond the range of phasers. “Mr Wixtar! Arm photon torpedoes! Target the Catapult! Destroy it!”

The Bolian took a moment to look at him, saying nothing but complying.

Gallop read the look easily enough. There was a risk that the damage they inflict could affect not just the Catapult, but the main station. They could lose everyone onboard, including the Captain.

But they had no choice.

*

Outside, a volley of torpedoes, glimmering with red coruscating energy, banked and swooped as one towards the cylindrical structure.

Another test module was propelled from it, striking one of the torpedoes and destroying it, and itself.

The other three torpedoes continued, flaring even more brightly, as if prepared to avenge their fallen comrade.

They succeeded. The Catapult erupted in a growing blossom of fire that swept upwards, upwards…

...Until safety features on Nerva automatically jettisoned the Catapult array from the main body of the station, before the destruction reached it.

*

On the Harken, Gallop swallowed. 8 P “Report!”

“No casualties, minor injuries only,” Al-Rad responded, “Minor damage on Decks 2 and 3 Aft Port, shields at Minimal but holding, Port thruster down, but starboard thruster still online-”

“Is that enough to get us away from that damn hole and back to the Landing Party, Ross?”

“If it’s not, I’ll get out and push, Sir!”

*

In the Radio Shack, Nola helped herself back to her feet and moved to help those who had been thrown around like leaves in a storm. “Is everyone alright? Anyone hurt?” She moved to the scientists, getting Leavitt back to her feet. “Are you okay, Doctor?”

Leavitt nodded. “Thanks, Kiddo. You’d better get back and send the status report to Damage Control.”

Nola swallowed; yes, that was SOP during Red Alert! She turned back, seeing Dzenabe assist some of the fallen crewmembers. “Are you okay, Doctor?”

The other woman glared at her over her shoulder. “Mind your own business, Underling.”

Nola looked back at Leavitt, who stopped recalibrating the sensor grid to quip, “Sounds like she’s warming up to you.”

*

The thundering suffused her being, and she kept falling.

And she was alone surrounded by strangers she knew ripping her to pieces ripping her and putting her together again and Dad was there hating her hating her for not taking that tenure at Oxford screw you Dad I’ll do what I want and the cards and chessmen were swarming around and if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall Tell 'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the call-

“...niatpaC raeD”

falling falling falling falling falling falling falling falling

“Dear Captain… focus on my voice...”

The voice became a light, a signal, repetition, pulse, pattern. Order. Stability.

“That’s it. Keep focusing-”

Mistry sat up, gasping, her head feeling like it had just had a warp core breach. She glanced around, seeing S’Li, Colossale and Thizheris standing or kneeling around her, along with Dr Morgan, running a medical tricorder sensor wand in her face. Mistry slapped it away. “Get that bloody thing out of my face.”

Morgan drew back, grunting. “You’re back to your charming self. Thanks to the Professor.”

Mistry frowned, looking to the Caitian. “You? What did you do?”

S’Li shrugged, smiling self-deprecatingly. “In my Salad Days, I indulged heavily in certain… less than legal recreational pastimes… including telepathic trips. You learn to recognise and shake it off after time.”

Thizheris grunted. “That’s probably the only instance I’ve heard you refer to Salads.”

“He was the first of us attacked to fight off the effects,” Colossale reported.

“Attacked?” That put her on alert, making her rise to her feet… and see Lt Wixtar standing there with several Security crewmembers, phasers drawn. “Lieutenant! Report!”

The Bolian straightened up. “With the assistance of Mr Haluk and Crewman T’Shak, we’ve taken control of Nerva, Ma’am, and have the crew in custody. We’re just waiting to find out what’s going on.”

Mistry nodded, glancing up at the now-silent, now-inanimate statue. “So am I...”

*

Epilogue:

“USS Harken, Captain’s Log, Stardate 2320.58: We, and our ship, have recovered from the actions of Malik Kramer and his group, which started as a swindle, and ended in attempted murder. The Arkarians have been notified, and they are sending a ship and crew to take custody of Nerva, while we convey the criminals to the USS Skylark for their eventual transport and trial at Starbase 25. Under guidance from Mr Colossale, a neuroblocker has been fitted onto the Lethean mercenary Seirren to suppress his telepathic abilities.

Kramer and his partner have talked about an unknown party contacting them at the eleventh hour and offering them a fortune for our deaths, but a check of their station communication logs can find no evidence of this… though Mr Haluk’s subsequent diagnostics found evidence of some sophisticated redaction programs at work. But as there are no records or rumours anywhere of this ‘Moonfleet’, it will have to be a mystery for someone else to solve.

As will be the true origins of the statue, now in one of our cargo holds, taken as evidence for the Nerva Crew’s trial. It may not have any telepathic properties, but it’s still made of neutronium, an element so rare that most sensor technology outside of Starfleet wouldn’t even recognise it; ironically, Kramer could have made a substantial legitimate profit from it if he’d known.

But it’s another mystery for someone else to unravel. I’ve had enough of chasing rabbits.

And now can resume our normal duties… after I take care of some ship’s business...”

*

Dzenabe stood in front of the Captain’s desk, arms crossed, watching and waiting impatiently.

Mistry sat behind her desk, working on a PADD in hand, never looking up, until finally the Wakandan spoke up. “Captain, let us just-”

Mistry still didn’t look up... but raised a finger, its meaning obvious. Now she rose to her feet, setting the PADD down on the desk. “I need your assistance on something, Kisdi. Have a look at these, would you?”

Dzenabe grunted, unfolded her arms and lifted up the PADD, examining the display.

“What do you see?” Mistry invited.

The Wakandan frowned. “There appears to be two Command reports on this. Reports created by you.”

“Yes. Both start out identically, detailing an incident that occurred in the Radio Shack of this ship on 2320.55, where you insulted, harassed and threatened a member of my crew, despite my previous warning to you.”

The scientist grunted. “Crewman Brice’s account-“

“Crewman Brice has not contributed to this report,” Mistry informed her coldly. “These are witness statements from Dr Leavitt, and Engineering Crewmen Santiago, Riiyoun, Singleton and Bowler, who were present assisting you and Dr Leavitt with the sensor analysis.

The reports also detail what I believe to be the cause of your present attitude: the decision taken by Starfleet Intelligence to refuse to allow you to publish an article in the Journal of Subspace Research because it would reveal classified information about our mission two months ago assisting the Cosmostrator.”

Dzenabe bristled. “It was unjust! My analysis of the subspace fluctuations we experienced would have advanced our understanding of transwarp physics!”

Mistry nodded. “Having read it, I agree. It might even have made you a nominee for the next Zee-Magnees Prize in Subspace Physics. But it would have also revealed classified information about the Cosmostrator and its activities in the Typhon Expanse. That’s why your article was rejected, at least for the time being... and on my recommendation, I should point out.”

The Wakandan’s brow furrowed. “I cannot be expected to muzzle myself on account of some arbitrary bureaucratic objection!”

“Actually, that is precisely what you’re expected to do. It was thoroughly explained to each of you before you agreed, of your own free wills, to serve onboard: that there will be incidents, missions, details that you will not be able to disclose, whether it’s in letters home or in prospective articles. I know it can be difficult, but that’s part of the price we pay. I appreciate your frustration and disappointment.

I don’t appreciate that you would take it out on an innocent.”

Mistry rose to her feet. “The two reports on that PADD have different endings: in the first report, you tell me that agree that you were in the wrong, and that you promise to apologise publicly to Crewman Brice.

In the second report, your stubborn refusal to swallow your pride and do the right thing leads me to immediately suspend your Security rating, and arrange for your return to your homeworld. Naturally, this incident, and my revocation of your Security rating, will remain on your personnel record, and may adversely affect any future projects directly or indirectly involving Starfleet or the Federation Science Council.”

“What?”

“Of course, you can always return to Wakanda to continue your research… assuming you’ve been forgiven for that little incident that delayed their moon terraforming project by twenty years.”

Dzenabe’s expression went taut. “You would do that to me? Cripple my career away from this paltry little vessel of yours? Because of some child who doesn’t have a fiftieth of my intellect or worth to you?”

Mistry raised her chin. “No, I would do that to you because you’re a nasty bitch who thinks superior intellect automatically equates to superior value. Who thinks her talents, her triumphs, her lineage, makes her immune to the consideration of the feelings of others.

Maybe back on Wakanda. But not on this paltry little vessel of mine.

And as gifted and as worthwhile as you have been, and could keep on being, continuing to protect untold millions even if you don’t get any public recognition for your efforts, there’s still something to be said for decency. And humility. I’ll remind you of the Wakandan proverb: ‘The sun shines down equally on mighty palaces and humble huts’.”

Dzenabe scowled… though with it came concession. “I do not need to hear primitive homespun aphorisms from you, Captain. But... I will make my apologies to your underling, in public. And I will curb my stridency so as to avoid further distasteful meetings such as this.” She handed back the PADD. “Will that sate you?”

Mistry paused, and then accepted the PADD. “Me? Maybe. But you have to start remembering it isn’t just you and me onboard.”

*

Leavitt threw some chips into the pot. “Yeah, she was practically ready to knock the poor kid to the ground, before Nola stood up to her.”

Colossale rearranged the cards in his hand, before reaching for his tiny glass of tranya. “If only you had recorded it, it would have been most entertaining.”

Haluk matched Leavitt’s bet, maintaining his usual poker face. “I fail to appreciate the entertainment value of traumatic emotional conflict.”

“It’s there when you get to see someone like Dzenabe get put in her place,” Leavitt chuckled, taking another swig of her beer before asking, “So when’s the wedding? And will your spymasters attend in disguise?”

The Vulcan looked to her. “And I fail to appreciate the human need to tease. Crewman T’Shak and I are mere colleagues, and I am not a member of the V’Shar. Your repeated jibes are indicative of some form of mental illness.”

“Teasing as a habit is not confined to humans,” Thizheris informed him, discarding his hand. “However they do show an expertise at being foolish.” He looked to S’Li, on his right. “Wouldn’t you agree, Professor?”

Leavitt looked up, smiling. “Raise or fold, Putty Tat.”

S’Li stared at nothing in particular, before asking, “Did she frighten her?”

“Hmm? Who?”

The Caitian’s gaze met Leavitt’s. “Dzenabe? Did she frighten Nola?”

Leavitt stopped and drank again. “Yeah, but that’s not surprising. Kisdi could make a Klingon soil his trousers.”

Colossale and Thezheris laughed. S’Li didn’t. “She shouldn’t have done that. Nola’s just a cub. She reminds me of my granddaughter, Ma’Sala. Ma’Sala has just joined the Caitian Planetary Navy. They’re both full of fire and spirit. They should be supported by their elders, not intimidated.”

Haluk raised an eyebrow. “I do not condone Dr Dzenabe’s attitude or actions, but I have no doubt that Captain Mistry will resolve the issue effectively.”

The Mess Hall doors parted, and Dzenabe strode in, ignoring her fellow scientists and the few others present at that time of evening as she proceeded to the food synthesizers.

“Charming as ever,” Leavitt noted, looking at S’Li again. “I said Raise or Fold, Professor.”

The Caitian’s eyes were on the back of Dzenabe as he set his cards down. “I fold. Please excuse me.” He rose to his feet, took his cane and proceeded to the synthesizers as well.

Thizheris frowned at the departure, reached across and picked up S’Li’s cards.

“That is unethical,” Haluk commented.

“I don’t care.” The Andorian’s antennae rose as he showed them the cards. “He folded with a Full House...”

All eyes at the table followed S’Li as he hobbled up to Dzenabe, tapping her on the shoulder with the head of his cane. “Doctor, may I have a word with you, please? It’s about Crewman Brice.”

Dzenabe’s posture stiffened, and she never turned around as she replied, “I am not in the mood, Caitian. If you value your fat furry hide, return to your game.”

“I won’t stand to have her bullied!” he declared, raising his voice. “Is that clear, Doctor?”

Dzenabe turned, reaching out to shove him out of the way-

S’Li was quicker, dodging and swinging out his free arm, claws extended, catching the woman across her right cheek and sending her sprawling to the floor.

The other scientists at the game table rose, but before anyone could say or do anything more, S’Li grabbed the hooked handle of his cane, twisted and pulled… drawing out a thin black blade almost a metre long, the pointed tip close to Dzenabe’s face.

The woman clutched the side of her feet where he had raked her, eyes wide with pain and fury. “You animal! How dare you? Get that blade out of my face or I’ll snap it in two!”

He didn’t move; none of his typical slowness or shakiness was in view. “This is a blade forged by the Guild of the Kaetini on Cait. Forged from a metal beyond your ken. 

You will not snap it in two.

And you will not harass or threaten Crewman Brice again.

She is under my protection.

And a Caitian protecting a cub is a fierce thing indeed.”

He stepped back, watching her intently as he carefully sheathed the blade back into his cane and secured it. “Disregard that at your own peril.”

He turned and departed. As the doors closed, Dzenabe rose up, touching the claw marks gingerly before glaring furiously at her fellow scientists. “I’ll have him arrested! Thrown off the ship!”

“For what?” Leavitt countered coolly. “I saw you tripping over his feet as you pushed past him, he reached out to catch you and keep from falling, and accidentally scratched your face.”

“That sounds about right,” Thizheris agreed.

“He is a doddery old thing, isn’t he?” Colossale added with a chuckle, raising his glass to Dzenabe in mock salute.

She looked in disbelief to Haluk now, who sat back and assessed her, steepling his fingers. “I cannot condone Professor S’Li’s actions before, or my colleagues’ actions now, any more than I can condone yours… but I do note that the first two are the direct result of the last. In social as well as scientific situations, actions beget reactions. You would do well to remember that, should you choose to continue to function with others.”

*

In the corridor, Nola walked with T’Shak. “So, was it exciting to see him in action?”

“Excitement is an emotion. I am a Vulcan.”

Nola nudged her. “So, the answer is Yes?”

T’Shak did not respond.

“You could thank me, for arranging it all.”

T’Shak nodded. “Thank you, for arranging to put me in danger from criminals.”

Nola was about to respond, when she saw S’Li leaning against a wall, using his cane for support and trying to catch his breath. She rushed up to him. “Professor, are you okay? Should I call Sickbay?”

The Caitian straightened up, reaching up and adjusting his spectacles. “Dear Cub, it’s good to see you! No, no intervention from Sickbay is required, I’m just suffering from a mild case of dyspepsia. Too much fried food tonight. I’m just going to have an early night.”

Nola nodded, smiling. “Well, okay then, I’ll escort you to your quarters.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that, you’re off-duty.” He tried to wave her off.

But Nola slipped an arm around his, grinning. “That’s okay, I don’t consider taking care of my favourite Caitian as duty. And don’t try to put me off, either; I can be a tough little firecracker when I want to be.”

He chuckled, leaning on his cane as they walked together. “So I’ve heard, Dear Cub. So I’ve heard...”