Story:Bait and Switch/The Headhunt, Part II

FILE CLASSIFIED LAMBDA-5 ICARIAN BRIGHT GEPPETTO EYES ONLY

FILE REFERENCE ICARIAN BRIGHT GEPPETTO A-1. REQUEST CLEARANCE TO LIEUTENANT DUL’KRAH, CLAN KOREKH, FEDERATION STARFLEET c/o SECURITY DEPARTMENT, USS BAJOR NCC-97238

CLEARANCE GRANTED

Lore: Second prototype, Soong-type android, male personality. Direct predecessor to Data, Captain (retired), Federation Starfleet. First encountered by crew of USS Enterprise NCC-1701-D, stardate 41242.4. Deactivated by crew of USS Enterprise NCC-1701-D, stardate 47026.2. Subject disassembled after deactivation. Cranial unit transported to Facility 4028 secure storage by USS Repulse NCC-2544, stardate 47131.6.

Subject classified as clinical psychopath and to be considered extremely dangerous to anyone he encounters. Subject gained full access to Starfleet computer systems aboard USS Enterprise NCC-1701-D during initial encounter and acquired large quantity of sensitive information. Full extent of compromised security remains unknown.

Do not reactivate, under penalty of ten years’ incarceration.

I set the PADD to securely erase the file and hand it to Master Chief Kinlo as the device overwrites the dossier irretrievably with a random hash of ones and zeroes. “Do we have any idea why a Sicilian mafia family would be interested in the disembodied head of an android?”

The Warden answers, “I am not programmed to be a particularly deep thinker, Lieutenant. However, that file understates the scale of the security breach Lore represents. He got a full data dump off the Enterprise, including a large amount of highly classified information.”

“Ah. That would be immensely valuable on the black market, even forty or more years out-of-date. Warden, are any high-ranking officers of la Famiglia Motta incarcerated at this facility?”

The hologram rattles off, “Columba Ungaretti, inmate #72734, female, human/Orion genetic hybrid. Convicted on one count of premeditated murder, twelve counts of conspiracy to commit murder, six counts of conspiracy to commit piracy, and seven counts of miscellaneous racketeering, all in the capacity of caporegime for the Motta crime syndicate. Sentenced to life plus 150 years. Transferred to Facility 4028 from Tantalus Penal Colony to prevent incipient formation of Motta-affiliated prison gang under her control.”

“An impressive record. Have her transferred to an interrogation room.”

“Sir, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Kinlo asks. “She’s part Orion.”

“What is the expression Dr. Wirrpanda used once? ‘This is not my first rodeo.’”

“What’s a rodeo?” Elder Phohl asks, her left antenna quirking.

“I do not know, but this is not my first.”

Despite Kinlo’s misgivings I proceed with the interrogation. Holographic guards bring in an amber-haired woman with pale green skin, wearing an orange jumpsuit that seems to have been customized somewhat by its wearer, and shackled arm and leg. They wordlessly attach her shackles to the table and leave. “Columba Ungaretti?” I ask.

“What the hell are you supposed to be?” she asks.

“I am Dul’krah, Clan Korekh.”

“Oh, really? What the hell does that mean? That your name or your species?”

“Did you know there was a break-in at this facility earlier today?”

“Is that what all the noise was? Woke me up out of a sound sleep.”

“And that it was done at the behest of your own syndicate?”

“What?”

“It seems there is, as the humans say, no honor among thieves.”

“You’re lying.”

“My cyberwarfare consultant positively identified the work of Ronald ‘Erasmus Omega’ Harper in the virus attack against this installation’s computer system.”

She shrugs and leans back in her seat. “If it was, I got no grudge. Not like Facility 4028 publishes its prisoner lists; they wouldn’t’ve known I was here.”

I notice her subtly emphasizing her breasts as she leans back, and I detect a scent in the air reminiscent of elharu spice. Orion pheromones. I lean forward and place my arms on the table. “Your sexual trickery will not avail you, Signorina Ungaretti.”

“Oh, really? Is that so?”

“Before beginning this session, I had the chief medical officer of my starship inject me with anziothane-40.”

“Anza-what?”

“It is a chemical antagonist,” I respond in a conversational tone. “It binds to the same receptors as your pheromones, but does not activate them, thus blocking your biochemical abilities from taking effect. And without that, your form does not attract me: you have too few horns. Now, as to the reason for this visit, you are going to tell me where the Motta syndicate would take a trove of highly classified Starfleet data.”

“Let’s say I don’t. What do you do? Oh, that’s right, you’re Starfleet. You can’t do anything.” I wordlessly reach into the pocket of my jacket and retrieve the knife within. “What are you doing?” she says in a slightly worried tone.

I do not respond, instead drawing the knife and leaning back to pick at the ends of my talons, all the while staring at her. Here my semi-reptilian physiology works in my favor: my people have nictitating membranes in addition to eyelids, and being stared at by two seemingly lidless vertical slit pupils has a discomfiting effect on most mammals. I am also very clearly much larger and stronger than her, and the presence of the knife is yet another tool: violence perceived is violence achieved. Now it becomes a waiting game. Stripped of her physiological bonuses and with no hope of escape shackled to the table, she will break.

To Ungaretti’s credit, she lasts thirty-eight minutes and sets a new record for mammals’ endurance under my gaze, but in the end I learn what I wish to know. Dr. Wirrpanda is waiting on the other side of the door to give me the antidote, and scolds me for testing my luck with such a dangerous toxin as anziothane-40. I will likely regret it in the morning, but only slightly.

“Captain,” Master Chief Wiggin announces, “I’m picking up a warp signature ahead. They’re doing warp seven, and on the right vector.”

“Time to overhaul?” Great Elder Kanril asks.

“Ten minutes, thirty seconds.”

“Conn, true up our course to get us onto their tail. Let’s climb right up his tailpipe.”

“Aye, Captain,” Lieutenant Park confirms.

“Tess, battle stations.”

The Bajor has now been underway for 39 hours along the course given us by Columba Ungaretti. Being a much more capable vessel than the ancient Brisbane, we were given the task of pursuing the thieves.

I reach for the intercom at the console I have been seated at. I do not usually stay on the bridge, but I requested it this time. “This is Lieutenant Korekh. Boarding party, report to the armory.” I am already armed, and armored as well:  my old Ver Eshalakh uniform contains armorweave capable of defeating most energy pistols, and can stop a knife.

“I’m going with you.”

“That is not necessary, Captain.”

“Yes, it is,” and she gets up from her chair and looks over at me. “You know my style, Dul’krah.”

I do, very well. Kanril is the sort of great elder who refuses to order her crew to do anything she herself is unwilling to attempt. I am told it is why she took the MACO training course early last year, before she was given the Bajor. “It is, of course, up to you, Captain.”

We wait. Presently I speak up. “Captain, I have a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“When I interviewed Commander Stadi I detected a peculiar note of … disdain in her voice when she spoke of the augments.”

“Non-therapeutic genetic alterations are illegal in Federation space.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Kanril sighs. “The humans, and a couple other species but mainly the humans, have issues with augments. Something about genetically altered dictators causing problems on Earth back in the 1990s. They’re terrified that if they let that kind of enhancement happen, they’ll end up with another Acahuana Huamán or Khan Singh.”

“And so they automatically ascribe the worst possible intent to anyone with genetic augmentation?”

“Oh, it’s worse,” Elder Phohl chimes in. “Getting augs is illegal, having someone augged is illegal, and anyone who gets augged anyway is barred from Starfleet and public office. No wonder a lot of them turn criminal—folks like the Mottas actually appreciate them.”

“In that case, I should clearly not be here.” At a confused look from Kanril and Phohl, I explain. “All of my people are genetically augmented. Our immune systems and DNA and cellular repair functions are vastly more effective than yours, we are resistant to most toxins, and we can subsist on materials that most would not even consider edible.”

“When did this happen?”

“According to our histories it dates back to the aftermath of the Great Clan War. It was the only way the few remaining clans were able to survive the plagues, famine, and radiation that permeated Dar Klatus. Most of us still died.”

“I’m no lawyer, but I think that falls under the exception for therapeutic gene-mods,” Elder Riyannis points out.

“That is entirely beside the point, sir. It is nothing less than legislative discrimination, and therefore it is not only morally abhorrent under all Federation principles that I am aware of, but also unconstitutional under the discrimination clauses of the Articles of Federation.”

Kanril adds, “And on the purely practical side, augmentation’s about the only way for the physically weaker species like humans and Bajorans to compete with, say, a Vulcan or a Klingon. Never mind lightworlders like the Elaysians. Unfortunately because of how much influence the humans have in the Federation political climate, I don’t think anybody’s ever had the guts to try for a legal challenge, not even the few openly augmented Starfleet officers like Captain Bashir. It’s stupid, it’s militarily counterproductive, and, yes, it’s unconstitutional, but them’s the rules. Master Chief, how far out are we?”

“Five minutes left, ma’am.”

At overhaul minus two minutes, Wiggin calls out, “Captain, we’re close enough to identify, and you’re not going to believe this. The target’s a Constitution-class heavy cruiser, Enterprise-class Mark III spec.”

“What?”

“Oh, it gets better. It’s the tactical command cruiser sub-variant.”

“That’s impossible: there was only one of those built,” Elder Riyannis points out, then her eyes widen.

“Sher hahr kosst,” Kanril breathes. “It’s the Enterprise-A.”

“That ship was supposed to have been scrapped in 2293,” Elder Reshek says.

“The Motta syndicate has been active in this region since the 2230s,” I note. “They may have altered the breaker yard records. Now we know how they can stand up to Starfleet’s patrol vessels. They have one of our capital ships.”

Kanril gets a look on her face I do not recognize. “No, they don’t. They’ve got a hundred-twenty-five-year-old museum piece with some newer tech bolted on. Ensign Esplin, open a hailing channel.”

“Channel open.”

“USS Enterprise, or whatever you’re calling yourself these days, this is USS Bajor. Drop to sublight immediately and heave to. Repeat, you are ordered to release control of your helm and prepare to be boarded.”

“Sir, they’re accelerating! Now at warp 7.5, 8, 8.5—”

“Conn, take us to warp 9.95 and get us within a hundred klicks. Match velocities as you close.”

The power of intimidation is a tool we in the Ver Eshalakh prize very highly. I used it two days ago in interrogating Columba Ungaretti, and decades ago when I was crew on a patrol cutter, we used it against smugglers and pirates who thought the Dar Klatus system could be their safe haven. And for a starship captain, there are few things more frightening than the sight we must now present to the Mottas’ captain: a vastly more powerful ship, more than twice the former Starfleet flagship’s size and seven times her mass, effortlessly charging up their wake as if they are standing still. “We’re in range, sir,” Park announces. “Target’s delta-v is dropping. Warp 9.2 and holding. I think they’ve topped out their SIF.”

“Tess,” Kanril orders, “fire a pair of quantum torpedoes across his bow, set for detonation thirty klicks ahead of him.”

“Ready, ma’am.”

“Fire.” On the tactical plot taking up the viewscreen, two torpedoes scream out of the forward torpedo tube, past the Enterprise on either side, and detonate in a pair of flashes. “Bajor to Enterprise, consider that your final warning. Next time we fire for effect.”

“No response, ma’am,” Esplin says.

Wiggin says, “I’m reading some serious strain to their warp drive. The Connie was never meant to go this fast.” He pauses, then shouts, “I’m reading an energy buildup! They’re shooting back at us, Captain!”

Twin blue beams lance out of the Constitution-class starship’s aft phaser emitters and crash into the forward lobe of our warp field in a spectacular display of exotic particles. What remains is so weakened by the passage that Elder Phohl does not bother calling out how little damage it did to our shields. “I don’t think they’re taking the hint, Captain,” she remarks dryly.

“Yeah, and if they keep this up they’re going to spread themselves across half a light-year even if we don’t do anything. Tess, take the gloves off and target their warp drive. You may fire at will.”

“I have a lock. Firing.”

A searing orange lance erupts from the dorsal phaser array and slams into the Enterprise’s aft shields. The first shot is deflected, but two more from above and below our saucer quickly follow. The enemy shield glitters and collapses and another spear of particles smashes into the starboard nacelle and pierces through it. A second rakes across the saucer and a shield projector vanishes in a secondary explosion, while a third transects the engineering hull, and yet a fourth rips through the port nacelle pylon. The target goes into a flat spin and its warp field collapses with a thunderstorm of released energy as the Bajor blows past. “Crash translate, now!” Kanril orders Park, and with an even more spectacular starburst on the viewscreen we emerge onto a severely blue-shifted starfield. “Conn, come about!”

“Coming about! Range to target, four light-minutes!”

“Are they mobile at all?” Phohl checks.

“No, sir,” Wiggin replies. “They’re dead in the water. Good shooting, Commander.”

“Lieutenant,” Kanril orders the helmsman, “take us in. Lock on target and microjump us into phaser range.”

“Conn, aye. Warp 3 in five, four, three, two, one, mark!” The Bajor bolts past the speed of light for six seconds and emerges less than a hundred kilometers from the vessel lying helpless in the void between stars.

“Relative stop. Hail them again, Ensign.”

“Channel open.”

“USS Enterprise, this is USS Bajor. You’re done. Last chance to surrender before we board and add ‘resisting arrest’ to your fast-growing rap sheet.”

Still the enemy crew says nothing. “Master Chief Wiggin,” I ask, “could something be wrong with their communications?”

“That’s not the problem, sir. There’s just nobody over there to answer the hail. I’ve got no life signs at all.”

“That’s not possible,” Kanril says in disbelief. “I studied the Connie for my Kobayashi Maru. You can’t run it unmanned. You can only barely run it with just the command staff.”

“Sir,” Wiggin answers in a grave tone, “I didn’t say ‘no life forms’, I said ‘no life signs’.”

“Everyone’s dead?”

“I didn’t think I hit it that hard,” Phohl remarks.

“Let’s go over and take a look.”

Kanril, Riyannis, an assault unit numbering fourteen, and myself materialize on the command deck, Kanril in her fully sealed MACO battle armor, the rest of us in vacsuits. The entire bridge is thinly covered in a reddish goo. I hear somebody mutter, “What the …”

“Where the hell is the crew?” McMillan wonders aloud. “And what the hell is this shit?” she adds, prodding a lumpy section of the goo.

I stoop down and pass a tricorder over it, as does one of the other humans in the boarding party. “L.T.,” he says, “this shit is the crew.”

McMillan turns green and vomits all over the helm control console. “What did this?” K’lak asks as he kneels beside his mate.

“Momentary power loss to the inertial dampeners,” I answer grimly. “I saw it once before. It was something I hoped to never see again.”

“Battle damage?” Kanril asks.

“Likely.”

“On the bright side, they didn’t feel a thing,” Riyannis comments in a faux cheerful tone.

Kanril glares at the Trill, then turns to the rest of us. “The ship’s too big for just us to search for Lore’s head without a map. Chief Kinlo, can you get into the computers?”

Kinlo examines one of the consoles and taps in a few commands, then shakes her head. “Not with the gear I brought with me. Most of the functions are biometrically locked.”

“Captain,” I ask, “where are the VIP quarters aboard a ship of this class?”

The great elder thinks for a moment. “Deck 6, I think.” I hear a faint hiss in the background. “Do you hear something?”

Then I see a white vapor begin to billow out from the life support ducts. “Gas!” I shout. “Seal your suits!” I lower my faceplate, then jerk McMillan to her feet and slam her faceplate closed.

“Comm check,” Kanril’s voice comes through the speakers in my helmet.

“Check,” I reply as the status display on the helmet HUD comes online.

“Tricorder says it’s anesthizine,” Riyannis comments. “That’ll be the Enterprise’s crowd-control systems. Seriously outdated now that vacsuits are a thing.”

Kanril starts to say, “Nobody’s alive. That’s—”

“Impossible?” the Trill interrupts. “Ma’am, that’s the third time in the last fifteen minutes somebody’s said that and, uh, it’s been possible every time.”

“The turbolifts are likely not safe,” K’lak says, hefting his phaser rifle. “We should take the Jefferies tubes to deck 6.”

A six-story climb later we emerge on the deck in question. The lights are out and anesthizine gas billows throughout the corridor, a malevolent fog illuminated only by the lamps on our helmets and the flashlights on our rifles’ optics. Kanril takes point, leading the way down the sternward corridor, and Senior Chief Athezra brings up the rear.

We reach a door labeled “VIP Quarters 1” and begin palming access panels. Door number four refuses to open and Kanril and I slice a torso-sized hole in it with sustained beams from our rifles. I eject the partially drained power cell and insert another, then we step through the hole.

“Oh, they didn’t,” Kanril complains. Lore’s head is connected to a console.

“QIp petaQpu’!” Master Chief Kinlo snarls. “How could they be so stupid as to give a Soong-type android access to their computer core? Lore’s in control of the Enterprise.”

“Well, he won’t be commanding her for very long,” Kanril says, before raising her rifle and putting a burst into the console. The head has just enough time to say something uncomplimentary before she steps in, flicks its power switch, and unplugs the cables. “Well, this is a fine mess. Kanril to Bajor, package recovered. Beam us back and inform Starfleet Command that we’ve also recovered the Enterprise-A. They can do whatever they like with it, once they’ve swabbed the decks.”

Back on the bridge, Kanril orders the Enterprise tractored for a warp tow. “Command’s arguing about whether to turn her into a museum ship or a training vessel for the Academy. We’ve been ordered to take her to the yards at 40 Eri ASAP for repairs in the meantime.”

“I do not think you need me for that, Captain.”

“No, I don’t. I need you and whomever you need to take Lore back to Facility 4028. Actually, I need you to toss it into a star. Command wants him at 4028.”

“I will require a ship.”

“The Brisbane’s on an intercept course. We’ll drop you off with them in the Glyrhond and you’ll take the runabout to meet us at Vulcan.”

“That is acceptable. If I may be excused, I must begin packing.”

“Dismissed, Dul’krah. And good work.”

THE END

Author's Notes
See that? That's what's supposed to happen when you send a 23rd century ship up against a 25th century ship. Kiss my pretty Bajoran backside, T5 Connie crowd.

The fight scene in this chapter is based heavily on the USS Vengeance's attack on the Enterprise in, with Eleya and the Bajor standing in for Admiral. That shot of the Vengeance barreling up behind the fleeing Enterprise is one of the things that stuck with me from the JJverse. Say what you will about the writing and scale issues, but he's got the imagery cold.

And that's also what's supposed to happen if the s on a ship fail under high-delta-v conditions. No Star Trek shake, no crewmen calling out damage reports. Instead, as loves to remind us in the  novels, everybody on the ship is instantly turned into something resembling chunky salsa. Minor structural damage.