ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/startrek/adv2/turn13

Text File | 1994-09-10 | 39KB | 891 lines

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                           Star Trek: Play by E-Mail
                              The Forbidden Years
                               Campaign Write-up
===============================================================================
                                 Adventure #2
                              A Matter of Policy
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
                                   Turn #13
                                A Spy Among Us
===============================================================================
              Copyright 1994 Jim Vassilakos / All Rights Reserved
*******************************************************************************


  Cast & Crew
  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------
  ST-PBeM GameMaster       Jim Vassilakos      [e-mail]
  Lt. Bellasario           Alan Ward           [e-mail]
  Lt. T'lar                Ronnie Simonds      [e-mail]
  2nd Lt. Morchainte       Brian Chrisman      [e-mail]
  2nd Lt. Khemsa/Duran     Tony Hayes          [e-mail]


Stardate 6003.26 at 1830 hours: USS Excalibur, Sickbay
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gunner paces back and forth in the waiting room, wondering what in the world
ever possessed him to agree to an andorian Assistant Security Chief.

"No doubt it was the cute little antennae," T'lar offers.

"Do you mind!?"

"Well, it's not my fault that you humans tend to project your thoughts when you
get angry."

Gunner winces, "Maybe it's because we tend to use our emotions rather than
stuffing them where the sun doesn't shine."

T'lar raises an eyebrow but doesn't respond as Tsandzia casts her a warning
glance. It's neither the time nor place for an argument over who's species is
superior. Besides, such a discussion would be pointless. Tsandzia knows that
she herself would win, hands down. Silly vulcans and humans.

Gunner, however, doesn't think there's anything silly at all about the
situation. He himself had been suspicious of the gothmogs, but at least he
hadn't gotten himself trapped in a turbolift with one, sacrificing fingers in
order to stave off a kashan strangle-string. Khemsa had better have a good
story. If he started it with some racial slur... Gunner shakes his head,
refusing to believe a Star Fleet officer would stoop so low. The enlisted crew
are another matter, most of them coming from the Outworld Militia or other
fringe organizations. Too many are undisciplined, much like Gunner remembers
himself before the Academy. What would the Gunner of old do in the same
situation, he wonders, finally deciding that such speculation is pointless
until he learns exactly what happened.

When the door finally opens, O'Neil is there, protoplaser in hand.

"Lt. Bellasario. I trust the pain-killers have been working alright?"

Gunner cringes, "How did you find out?"

"I keep a careful inventory. When I found some missing... well... who else
could it be? Don't worry, Lieutenant. I don't mind you drugging yourself. Just
so long as do it under a doctor's supervision, and yes... I have been
supervising."

O'Neil walks away, a satisfied smirk on his face. Meanwhile, Lt. Khemsa makes a
fist with his newly reattached fingers, cringing in a vain effort to ward off
the pain. Gunner nods, knowing exactly how it feels.

"Well, Lieutenant. It seems you got yourself into a heap of trouble. Would you
care to enlighten me as to the exact nature of how you came to be minus several
digital appendages?"

"It not my fault, sir! There I was minding my own business in a bar having a
drink when this attractive girl comes on to me. You know what that's like,
sir."

"You're telling me this was over a woman!?!"

"No sir. I mean... I don't really know. She asked me to meet her in the park
after her shift. So next thing I know, we were talking and 'swimming' when
suddenly her belt exploded! I could have been killed as well! Then I saw one of
the gothmogs! I ran for help. Then I was ambushed and well..." Khemsa gestures
to his newly reattached fingers.

"Let me get this straight. Her grav belt explodes for no reason whatsoever, and
then these two gothmogs just sort of attack you out of the blue. Is that what
you're telling me, Lieutenant? Because if it is, I'll be straight-up with you.
I ain't buying it!"

"Sir, with all due respect, that's exactly what happened. I'm as bewildered by
this as anybody."

"Why didn't you call up the ship and just beam out?"

"I didn't have my communicator, sir. I figured this was shore leave, not a
landing party."

"You left without your communicator?"

"Sir, it was a date, and she was... er... she'd approached me, sir. Can you
honestly say that you would've taken yours?"

Gunner looks at him for an instant, wondering if Khemsa is really a betazoid
empath in disguise.

"Lieutenant Khemsa, I will not allow you to draw focus away from the issue at
hand here!! You blatantly violated regulations, and furthermore, you are DAMN
lucky you were able to handle those gothmogs without ending up in a casket!!!
I will file a report on this, Lieutenant, and what becomes of this mess will be
up to the Commander. Am I understood?!"

"Yes."

"What was that, Lieutenant??"

"Yes sir!!"

"Very well." Gunner suddenly drops his voice to a whisper. "Now, off the
record. I admire your guts, Khemsa, or at least those which you have left after
this rather gory ordeal." Gunner smiles wryly, "But I want to keep you around.
You are a very valuable second, and I don't intend to lose you to the bean
counters in personnel. But you can't be running around making up the law as you
go along. Rules exist for a reason, to keep our BUTTS as safe and sound as
possible. Now what exactly was that short-lived girlfriend of yours up to
before she bought the farm? Let's work together on this and maybe we'll get
somewhere. I knew something was fishy about those gothmogs from the first
moment I laid eyes on them, and now I see that my instincts were dead center."

Khemsa nods, "Aye sir. If we're going to investigate their activities maybe we
should start by trying to find out who they were and why they were here. I have
a friend from my Academy days who might be able to help. Request permission to
send him their images and assorted particulars and see what he can dig up. He's
very good at this sort of thing."

"Permission granted. But please, let's keep this thing low key. No sense in
stirring up the station any more than we already have. Meanwhile, I'll do some
checking on my own."

Tsandzia nods from the corner of the room. "Perhaps we should visit the gothmog
vessel. It might have a few clues regarding what they were after."

"That's exactly what I intend to do. If you want to come along, feel more than
free."

As Gunner makes his way into the corridor, he stops short. "You find out where
their ship is, and I'll get us clearance."

"Got it." Tsandzia takes of at a medium gallop, task firmly in hand.

"Were you going to be needing the assistance of a telepath as well?" T'lar
inquires.

"Possibly, but first there's something I need to know."

"Concerning??"

"Well... uh. I don't know quite how to get into this. I'll cut right to the
chase. When I was in sickbay, did you, uh, buzz the saucer section in a shuttle
craft??"

T'Lar arches her infamous Vulcan eyebrow. "Buzz the saucer section?"

"Yeah, you know, a little fancy flying just 'cause, oh I don't know, because
your Vulcan mind needed a little stimulation."

"Such an action would be highly undisciplined. Just what are you suggesting?"

"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just asking an innocent question."

"Your question is purely illogical. Perhaps your medication made you suffer
from hallucinations. It is known to be a side effect of some of our stronger
drugs."

"Yeah, guess that's what it was. Imagine me," Gunner chuckles nervously,
"thinking you would do something like that. Well, you go ahead with Tsandzia,
and I'll meet up with you two at the Port Authority's Office." Gunner walks
away determined to die before he lets O'Neil within ten feet of him ever again.
That was too weird!!!

Of course, little does he know that what he's in for is even weirder.

"No, I'm sorry, the Commodore is not in his office. I'll be happy to take a
message and see that he gets it at the earliest possible convenience."

Gunner scowls, "I can't wait that long! Can you at least tell me where he is?"

"I have no idea. He's not on the station."

"You have no way of getting in contact with him?!"

"Well... is this an emergency?"

Gunner makes a face, "For me, it is."

"I'm sorry. You'll have to do better than that."

Gunner makes his way back aboard the Excalibur, hands tightly scrunched into
fists as he grumbles under his breath. "This is almost as annoying at hitting
my head against a computer. Where could the Commodore be?"

"........Commodore Ash is on the Holodeck."

Gunner looks up toward the ceiling, blinking his eyes.

"Uh... thank you, computer."

"........You are welcome."

Gunner raises his eyebrows, "It's polite, too. No wonder Tyran wants a transfer
so badly."

When Gunner makes it to the Holodeck, however, he sees the doors are locked,
and a "Do Not Disturb" sign is blinking ominously.

"Computer, override lock. Authorization: Bellasario, Theodore J."

"........lock override complete."

Gunner enters, only to feel his jaw drop toward somewhere near his knees.
Commodore Ash is there, sure enough, leaning back in his blue and white jockey
shorts, studying a poker hand: two eights, two jacks, and an ace. He licks his
lips with anticipation as he studies the nubile form of Commander Elineva who
is down to her satin panties and bra. Ash turns around suddenly, a somewhat
stunned look on his face.

"Lieutenant. How good of you to join us."

"S... s... sirs."

"No, the singular will be quite suffice. The Commander here is only part of the
program. Not in the flesh, as it were. Nevertheless, I decided that I would
take your good Captain's advice and see just how realistic these simulations
can be. Have to admit... I'm not disappointed in the least. Oh, would you mind
coming in all the way? I'd hate to have some crewmember wander by with the door
wide open like that."

Gunner forces himself forward two steps, allowing the door to slide shut behind
him.

"St... stri... strip poker, sir?"

"Your powers of observation do you credit, Mr. Bellasario. I might say that
your father would be proud, but then, knowing James, he'd probably say
something like 'Let's get on with the game, damn all.' Oh, yes. Your father was
not a man for intrusions."

"Sir, I must apologize. I had no idea..."

"No apology required, Lieutenant. Just do me one favor. Keep it to yourself."

"Absolutely, sir. Uh... you mind making a copy of the program for me after you
get the bugs worked out?"

"Well, it could take some time. I've got lots of beta-testing to attend to, you
understand. Now, may I assume you barged-in for reasons other than those
pertaining to personal entertainment??"

"Sir, one of my finest officers was nearly assassinated today. I am naturally
inclined to investigate this matter to the furthest extent possible. I would
ask that I be allowed access to any information concerning the two Gothmogs and
to board the vessel they came here on and search it, if it is still here."

"You realize of course, Theodore, that this request of yours is highly
irregular."

"Yes but..."

Before Gunner can utter another word, the Commodore sweeps up his hands,
"Permission granted."

"Sir, with all do respect..." Gunner blinks. "Thank you, sir!!"

"Oh, don't thank me. If there's one thing I learned from your father, it's that
arguing with anyone of the last name 'Bellasario' is an exercise in futility.
I'll let the Port Authority know you'll be on your way. Carry on. And remember,
Lieutenant... mum's the word."


Stardate 6003.26 at 1900 hours: USS Excalibur, Khemsa's Quarters
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Khemsa enters his quarters, his hands bandaged and numb.

"Computer, lock the door."

"........Door secure."

"Computer, activate facial image reconstruction program. Subject is a male
gothmog." For the next several minutes, while the faces are still fresh in his
mind, Khemsa describes his gothmog attackers as the computer generates three-
dimensional images of the pair. No doubt, Albuquerque Security already knows
who they are. Nonetheless, he doesn't like going through normal channels, even
when his cover is as good as shot.

"Computer, establish a link with the station's computer core. Search all banks
to determine if there are any records pertaining to the two individuals just
described."

"........Search complete."

"Who are they."

"........Hrag eth Mogg and Skarben eth Mogg."

"According to what source."

"........Outer Rim Passports."

ORP's are notoriously unreliable. Unfortunately, for many of the outcasts and
refugees filtering across the triangle boarders, there's no way to verify even
their citizenship much less their names.

"How did they get here?"

"OFM Cassiopeia, registry number 165924."

An Orion Free Merchant. It figures.

"Is that vessel still in port?"

"Negative. Cassiopeia departed stardate 6003.24 at 1200 hours."

"Was a flight plan logged?"

"Negative."

Khemsa grits his teeth, knowing a lost cause when he sees one.

"Computer, save transcript and images to personal account, standard encryption.
Replicator make: Coffee, black, hot." Khemsa discovered the wondrous effects of
coffee during his time at a special branch of the Academy. Using the insides of
his wrists, he carries the steaming drink to the table where he keeps his
portable computer handy. Luckily, the container is fairly resistant to heat.
Suddenly, however, he realizes that not only does he not have any way of
snapping the chip into its port without the use of his hands, but there's no
way to get it out of it's polymer sheath without some delicate work with a
laser scalpel. He has all the equipment he needs. He just doesn't have the use
of his hands, at least, not until the local anesthetic wears off.

'Damn gothmogs!', Khemsa thinks to himself. "Computer, time?"

"........1912 Hours."

"Hmm... Crewman Weise should be on duty on this deck. Computer, open comm,
Khemsa to Weise."

"........Routing channel. Standby."

"Weise here, Sir."

"When your patrol brings you near my quarters, could you stop by for a minute?
I need your assistance."

"Aye sir. I'll be by shortly."

"Thanks, Khemsa out."

A few minutes later the doorbell beeps. "Computer, identify."

"Crewman Joanne Weise, Security."

"Release lock."

"Lock released."

Loudly, "Come!"

The door opens and Crewman Weise enters. "Reporting as requested."

Gesturing with his bandaged hands, "You may have heard that I had... what was
the word the Chief used for it... an 'incident' on the station."

"Yes sir. How are your hands?"

"Momentarily useless but otherwise as good as can be expected. I have this ROM
chip that I want put into my portable but..."  He gestures to his hands again.

"Oh, sure, no problem, sir... uh... what kind of sheath is this?"

"Polymer. It's a rather important chip. You'll need to cut it open with the
laser in the top drawer." Khemsa motions toward his dresser.

"Uh... okay." She takes a minute performing the task, almost frying the chip in
the process.

"Do it slowly."

"Aye sir. Whoever designed this sheath wasn't thinking about the end-user."

"No, they were thinking about security."

Within a few minutes, Crewman Weise has the chip out of its sheath and inserted
into the portable. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir?"

"No, thank you. I've already interfered with your duties more than I should."

"Oh, it's no problem. You get some rest, sir."  She leaves.

Khemsa looks at his hands and thinks to himself that her idea isn't such a bad
one. Unfortunately, business comes first. Too bad they didn't grant him an
assistant for this assignment. He could very much use Weise's help, but she has
neither the clearance nor the need to know.

"Computer, secure the door again."

"........Door secure."

Unfortunately his portable doesn't have voice recognition, so he's resigned to
entering his commands by typing with the tip of his dagger held between two
wrists. He transfers the ROM data to free memory, then double-decrypts it as
per the girl's instruction.

"Finally. Let's see what this is all about."

          -------------------------------------------------------
          Subject: Sarin of the Vulcan House of Thrisanna,
                   Federation Envoy to Klingons Empire,
                   Department of Interstellar Relations.

          *** Suspected of transferring forbidden technology. ***

          If he is not acting independently, find out who he is
          taking his orders from. Determine location of shipment
          if possible. Authorization to terminate subject is
          granted. Do not allow him to meet with the Klingons.

          Warning: Subject may suspect assassins.

          Destroy these orders now.
          -------------------------------------------------------

"A Vulcan?" the Andorian sighs. "It's a sad time when you can't trust the
Vulcans. Computer, stealth login, Lt. Cmdr. Duran, first name: Tarkine, clan:
Andron. Pass-phrase: solo-gambit-alpha three-two-one-zero alpha."

"........Pass-phrase and voice authentication confirmed."

"Computer, create project file named 'Blackblade'. This is a classified
project."

"........Please state access procedures."

"Voice authentication. My profiles are online. Notify me of unauthorized access
attempts. All contents, data, transactions, and command histories are
restricted and should be encrypted. Project classification level is Top Secret.
Further, restrict access attempts to myself except on pain of death, clearance
ashley-zero-zero-zero. Confirm security parameters."

"......Access via voice authentication. Authorized access is restricted to
yourself. All related information is encrypted. On pain of death, security
classification reverts to Top Secret."

"Excellent, now search all databanks, then make a secure link with the
station's computer, and search all their databanks. Compile all available data
on Sarin of the Vulcan House of Thrisanna. Note any cross references with
either of the two gothmogs described earlier. Display when ready."

Duran settles down for a long boring read. Profiles are still best left to
sentient perusal unless one can define the parameters. At this point he isn't
looking for anything in specific. He wants to learn the general nature of his
target, a search for clues as to exactly what is going on... and more
importantly, why.

While waiting for the computer to compile the data and start the display, Duran
uses his dagger to pop the chip out of the portable. He carefully positions it
underneath the dagger, then pushes down hard, destroying the chip and, in the
process, clumsily cutting a sizable hole in his table. He then flushes the
portable's volatile memory, switching if off with an elbow.

After that, he gets some food and more coffee. Once the display comes up, Duran
gives one final order, "Computer, if I do not page a screen or otherwise
initiate activity for more than thirty minutes, save the data, clear the
screen, and log me out."


Stardate 6003.26 at 1930 hours: Albuquerque Customs Office
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What took you?"

Bellasario takes a deep breath, trying not to think about anything in
particular with T'lar in the immediate vicinity. "You wouldn't believe me if I
told you. Did you find anything out?"

Tsandzia nods, "Turns out our gothmog friends were on board the Cassiopeia, an
Orion trading ship."

"Have you checked the flight plans?"

"There are none, but computer logs show that the ship's navigator placed some
ads in the electronic bulletin, asking if anybody was interested in going to
Gamma Rigel III."

"Oviedo?" Gunner has many memories of Gamma Rigel III, also known as Oviedo by
the locals. One of numerous pleasure-planets in the Orion sphere, it's a
favorite port for sailors and ruffians of various breeds. It has even refused
membership in the Federation, mainly due to the abundant use of slaves on the
planet, slaves not so much for menial labor as for fierce and decadent
pleasures. Even a small quota of Klingon vessels have been allowed to visit the
planet on a rotating basis, traveling a pre-specified route and submitting to
Federation customs inspection, all in a gesture of goodwill and cooperation.

Tsandzia continues, "I'm going to inquire directly about the cargo which was
off-loaded. Most likely nothing of importance, but it's something to look at.
I'm trying to get a ship's manifest right now. By the way, if you happen to run
across the Commodore again, you might suggest to him that we signal Cassiopeia
to either halt where she is and await an escort or turn around and head back."

Bellasario shakes his head, "For what? Transporting gothmogs? That's not
exactly an arrestable offense. Besides, telling them to come back will probably
just make them run away even faster." He takes a look at the ship's specs.
According to the numbers, it can haul ass at warp 10, but normal max cruise is
warp 8. "Yeah, definitely built for speed. They'll probably be cruising at warp
5 to reduce engine wear. But if they decide they have a need for speed, they'll
use it. You can bet on that."

"Well, if we go after them, we should be able to catch them before they reach
Oviedo." She smiles, double-tasking between Bellasario and the display
terminal, "We can just give them a quick customs check. No arrests necessary."

"It would be a good test of the Excalibur's engines. But I can't realistically
suggest something like this unless we have something more to go on. Were they
doing anything suspicious while they were here?"

"The Cassiopeia stayed in port for about a day, just picking up passengers and
unloading some cargo for another vessel to pick up. All rather routine."

"The cargo's still here?"

"Affirmative. The manifest says it's Arsethian gobble-mongers. Biological
constructs."

"I know what they are."

"They're currently owned by a local broker, a human by the name of Yaphet
Uhamba. His office is down by the Epsilon Docking Moors. With your permission,
I'd like to go talk to him. Maybe he can tell us something about the
Cassiopeia, something that might warrant an impromptu inspection."

"Well, why don't we both go talk to..." *beep* Gunner grabs the communicator
off his belt, flipping the thing open with a flick of his wrist. "Bellasario
here."

"Chief," the voice is Khemsa's. "I've been doing some poking around and have
uncovered a few facts regarding those Gothmogs. Nothing particularly
significant though. Have you uncovered anything interesting?"

The image of Commander Elineva from the Holodeck comes to mind and again
Bellasario wonders if his second can read minds, "We've uncovered a few things.
Feeling up to a quick briefing?"

"Yes sir. At your convenience."

Gunner absent-mindedly wonders how accurate the image of Nienna was. Surely the
Holodeck would have to improvise from what little data was available, and the
technology is, after all, still somewhat experimental. Even so, it was a rather
*revealing* look at his CO. Suddenly Gunner realizes that T'lar is giving him
an odd stare, and he quickly wipes the grin from his face. If Star Fleet hasn't
written any regulations concerning the use of the device, he figures that he'd
better do it for them. With this blood-sucking vulcan lurking around, he feels
like he's on thin ice.

"Sir, need I remind you that we vulcans are vegetarians?"

"Mind your own thoughts, Lieutenant!"

"Aye sir."

"Sir?"

"No, not you, Khemsa. Look, meet me in the security conference room in fifteen
minutes. We can review our facts and see if a picture starts to emerge. Gunner
out." Gunner closes the channel. "T'lar, you and Tsandzia can check out this
Mr. Uhamba. Put that Vulcan Psi of yours to some good use for a change."

"Aye, sir."


Stardate 6003.26 at 1940 hours: USS Excalibur, Khemsa's Quarters
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Duran puts down his communicator and sighs, wondering vaguely whether or not
Bellasario could have turned up much more than the computer did. According to
the Public Persons' Profile Database, Sarin has been a federation envoy to the
Klingons for many years. There are no cross-references with the gothmogs in
question, although he has been notably pro-klingon in his reports to superiors
in the Department of Interstellar Relations. In those reports which Duran has
access to, Sarin seems to be constantly pointing-out the klingon perspective:
how without federation aid they would probably all starve to death or die at
the hands of the infamous though little-known Kinshaya, which SFIC believes is
being supported surreptitiously by the Romulan Star Empire. This is almost an
insanity, as the Kinshaya are thought to be unreasoning in their hatred of all
other forms of life, including Romulan, and here the Romulans are helping them
to defeat their old enemies, the Klingons. A lot of this stuff gets hashed and
rehashed by the Star Fleet rumormill, however, the precise details and scope of
the conflict are all Top Secret. Nobody except the people in SFIC really know
just how close the rumormill is to the truth. The answer, of course, is very
close. Damn bullseye, in fact.

It seems as though Sarin may have adopted the Klingons as a pet-cause, over-
stepping his bounds of authority. If so, he wouldn't be the first vulcan to
break the law in favor of his personal dictates of logic. He's scheduled to
meet with the Klingon Ambassador Xharik at Odieva in a few days, however, the
flight plan of his ship, the USS Typhoon, takes him right by Albuquerque
Station for re-fueling. Being a senior federation representative, he might even
want to meet with the officers who were aboard the Phobos (as had Commodore
Ash) in order to learn more about the Borg.

The Excalibur, however, is supposed to be making performance tests. It is,
after all, a prototype, and Star Fleet won't like it sitting about a Star Base
while it could be out refining its key systems. No doubt, this is probably on
LeBonk's mind. Unfortunately, the Excalibur is also the only federation
starship in this vicinity that can be reasonably expected to catch the
Cassiopeia, if that proves to be a viable alternative.

Also unfortunate is that fact that the files don't really delve into Sarin's
personal life. They concentrate mainly on his professional papers, speeches,
and the treaties he's helped forge, the most major of which won the Federation
the strategic belt of space between the Klingon and Orion territories for the
purposes of cutting-off the Klingon market to Orion slavers. Why the federation
has been pushing the issue so far as to intervene in the economies of foreign
powers, Duran has no idea.

"Computer, display Sarin's itinerary. Specifically, when he will arrive at this
station, how long will he be staying, what has he planned for his stay. Also
what is the maximum time he could remain here and still make it to Odieva on
time."

"........Those records are not available at this time."

"Not available?" Duran grits his teeth. "Why are the records unavailable?"

"........Unable to process."

"Is the Typhoon adhering to its flight plan?"

"........Negative."

"For what reason is the Typhoon deviating from its flight plan?"

"........That information is not currently available."

"What about Sarin's itinerary?"

"........Information unavailable."

Duran grits his teeth, wondering what good the computer is if nobody is
entering in the data he needs. Then his eyes narrow as he realizes that the
reason the information isn't there is probably due to matters of security.
Still, something gnaws at the back of his mind. Something that he's certain
he's overlooked. And whatever it is, the computer isn't going to help him find
it. At least, not until he knows what he's looking for.

"Computer, logoff."

"Logoff confirmed."


Stardate 6003.26 at 1945 hours: Albuquerque Station, Turbotram
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

T'lar stares out a window watching various spaceships hanging in dock, some of
them partially cannibalized, others completely gutted. It's a visual metaphor
for some of the thoughts she's been picking up, bits and pieces of images,
words, feelings, like a giant jigsaw puzzle, none of them making sense.

"You know... the hardest thing is distinguishing between imagination and
reality. Humans have such a way of lying... even to themselves."

Tsandzia nods, "Not just humans. It's quite suspicious that Khemsa didn't have
a clue what was going on."

"You think Bellasario let him off too easy." It's a statement, not a question.

Tsandzia shrugs, "Well, if you just think about it, you'll notice that there
are only two real possibilities. Either Khemsa was the intended recipient of
that assassination attempt, or he wasn't." Tsandzia stops a second to mentally
kicks herself for being so vocally observant.

"Such bursts of wisdom. We ought to catch these on crystal and save them for
future generations."

"Yes, I see your comprehension of humor is improving. You've finally mastered
the art of sarcasm. Now, where was I?"

"Khemsa... intended victim."

"Right. Okay. If he wasn't the intended victim, we had better find out who was.
If he was the intended victim, we had better find out what makes him so
special. I mean, how many Andorians have come into Albuquerque station in the
last.... ohhh... three days?"

"A statistical analysis?"

Tsandzia nods, "Let's suppose that the Excalibur has something on the order of
five-hundred to a thousand people."

"Seven-hundred and fifty," T'lar corrects, "including those who couldn't make
it." Obviously, she's referring to the transferees who were aboard the Phobos.
Only one of the four survived: Turak. And he wasn't exactly in the best of
shape when he got there. T'lar wonders if anybody smelled "bacon" aboard the
Excalibur.

"Fine," Tsandzia proceeds, "and let's say the station has 2000, and suppose the
other ships in the area have another 2000, just as a rough guesstimate." The
turbotram door slides open. "So we're talking about roughly 5000 people. And
let's say that... oh... 5% of those are andorian. So we've got something on
the order of 250 andorians. Okay, that's quite a few more than I can count on
my fingers and toes, obviously, but they're still not all that common. I mean,
they stand out."

T'lar casts her friend a cool glance, "Your point?"

"I dunno. I guess there is room for the 'it was all a big mistake' hypothesis.
I don't like it, though."

"What don't you like about it?"

Tsandzia considers the question as they make their way through the corridors of
the Epsilon Docking Moors. Outside the portholes, numerous starships are
jumbled: a fat-bellied merchant, a small Vulcan scout ship, a reconnaissance
buoy, and even a one-man gib.

"Call it a gut instinct. I just don't like it. It's weak."

"Weak?"

"T'lar, did you happen to feel that Khemsa knew something more than what he
said? I mean, perhaps there was something bothering him. He seems to be a self-
motivated guy. I wouldn't be surprised if he held back details that might give
us clues so he could check them out himself." She sighs, "That's something I
might do."

"As a dictate of logic, it is generally unwise to assume that all people think
the same way you do."

"I agree... but what else am I supposed to do? Assassination attempts just
aren't random events. It's not like he accidentally fell down a turboshaft. Two
gothmogs tried to kill him. There's something very suspicious about the whole
arrangement. And not only was it an assassination attempt, it was a successful
one, on that girl anyway. These things don't happen to just anybody... at
least, they've never happened to me."

T'lar stops as she spots the outer door to Uhamba's office. "For your sake,
Tsandzia, I hope they never do."

When they get inside, a tall human of african descent is pacing back and forth,
talking to a headset. "...That's right. I can parcel out one or two, but if you
want the discount, you're going to have to buy the whole lot." He looks up,
"No, they're not insured. Hold on a sec, okay?"

"Lieutenant Morchainte, Star Base Security," Tsandzia lies. "We'd like to ask
you a few questions about the Cassiopeia shipment."

"Uh... Marty, something just came up. I'll call you back." He takes the head-
set off and tosses it on the couch. "Have a seat. Would you like a cup of
coffee?"

"We prefer to stand. And no, we just want answers. I assume that you're aware
of the recent incident concerning two gothmogs and..."

"Look, I didn't have anything to do with those two. I was just buying Syd's
constructs. And that's the last business I'm doing with that son-of-a-bitch
until he cleans up his shit."

"Cleans up his... shit?" T'lar inquires.

"Hey, this ain't the first time I've been bent over a barrel on account of that
fool. He thinks he's the galaxy's savior for dispossessed losers or something.
I knew he did time for spinning false ID's, but he said that was over. So what
am I supposed to do? Personally investigate every passenger that comes off the
Cass? I don't have time for that. You tell your boss that's his job. All I do
is buy, sell, and warehouse. And if you'll excuse me, I've got some of the
middle one to attend to."


Stardate 6003.26 at 1950 hours: USS Excalibur, Security Conference Room
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gunner stares out a porthole, watching the Albuquerque spin gently in the deep
of space. Duran enters a moment later, the Andorian's hand trapped within a
virtual cocoon of bandages.

"Have a seat, Khemsa."

"Aye sir."

"How's the hand?"

"Well... it's seen better days. Any word on the gothmogs?"

Gunner smiles, "Well, the Cassiopeia, the Orion Free Merchant they arrived on,
left port and has a good jump on us. Now, of course, we can't just go chasing
after a vessel with no warrant... that goes against SOP, Gunner winks and
nudges Khemsa. But if they were in violation of something... I don't know...
perhaps if their warp coils were found to be operating outside normal safety
parameters for use inside of habitable systems or something, then we might have
a case for boarding the vessel. After all, on a new ship like this... some of
the sensors probably have a few kinks that'll need ironing out. You get my
drift, Khemsa?"

"Yes sir, I do."

"Considering the ship left port after dropping off two murderers, I'd say we
have a fairly warm trail to follow. Either they were extremely sloppy in
identifying their targets and were forced to move quicker than they had
originally planned. Or perhaps they want us to follow their ship into some sort
of trap."

"Sir, with all due respect, we have no reason..."

"I have been in this business for a number of years, Khemsa. I know by now to
always expect the unexpected."

"Yes sir, I was only..."

"I know, and you're right. It looks on the surface like a sloppy assassination
attempt, and for now that's what we have to assume based on all the facts. But
I believe there is still a lot we don't know about this incident, and I for one
intend to get to the bottom of it."

"Agreed, sir."

"Good! We found out that the Cassiopeia left a shipment of bio-constructs in
the custody of a Mr. Uhamba, a local broker. Lieutenants T'lar and Morchainte
are looking into this individual even as we speak." Gunner snaps open his
communicator. "Bellasario to Lt. Morchainte."

"Lt. Morchainte here."

"Say, Tsandzia, are you in the mood for a leisurely stroll down by the docking
moors."

"Any particular moors you had in mind??"

"Oh, I don't know, the Epsilon moors are nice this time of day. We could look
up a mutual soon-to-be acquaintance."

"Why Gunner, I thought you'd never ask. But, I'm sorry to inform you that
you're a bit late."

"What did you find out?"

"Can we switch to a secure channel?"

Gunner nods, wondering if there are any secure channels around a fueling
station. "For all the good it does us. Setting-up code Alpha-One. Okay, what
have you got for me?"

"The Owner of the Cassiopeia is a Tiburon by the name of Sydney Narciscus."

"A tiburon?" Gunner thinks back to the last time he'd met a tiburon. It was on
Starbase 11. He went to bed with a woman and woke up with a man. Without doubt,
the most harrowing sexual experience of his entire life. The tiburon are
wonderful people, very respectful of all forms of life. They're vegetarians, in
fact, lending them something in common with the vulcans. But they all have one
fatal quirk. They switch genders like a red-head switches her moods,
unpredictably and often with disastrous consequences.

"Tell me more about this tiburon?"

"Narciscus once served six years in a Federation penitentiary. He got caught
manufacturing false ID's for various interstellar misfits who were trying to
enter federation society. My guess is that he's up to his old tricks. But
considering that he's a tiburon, I wouldn't place bets that he knew about what
the gothmogs were planning to do."

"Nonetheless, they may of left behind some sort of evidence about who they were
working for. I'd like to meet with you, T'lar, and the Captain on the bridge.
If nothing else, we'll at least be able to catch Narciscus before he cranks out
any more of these false ID's. Bellasario out." Gunner pockets his communicator
and looks at Duran.

"You get some rest, Lieutenant. And belay that sensor recalibration idea. I've
got a power-meeting to attend to."


                      _   /|        Jim Vassilakos
                      \`o_O'        [e-mail]
                        ( )         [e-mail]
                         U          Riverside, California

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