The lumpy rounded bulk of the Orion Slavemaster battleship swells in King Estmere's viewscreen. I feel the anticipation running through me. "Red alert," I order. Alarms start to howl.
"Launching Alpha. Launching Bravo," says Anthi Vihl crisply. The 871-metre bulk of the carrier shudders as the two Mesh Weaver frigates shoot from the launching bays. I check the tactical display. Goroke is swinging wide, deploying her auxiliary craft, coming in on the battleship's rear angle. Tapiola is moving out to the other side. The battleship is deploying its own auxiliaries -
"Zazaru. Get me a read on those small craft. I want to know if any of them's equipped for transporter penetration missions." The Orions use light raiding craft with precision transporters; that's the sort of ship we think took Ronnie. If our current target has those kinds of ships....
"Weapons range in five minutes," Anthi reports. "Launching Charlie. Launching Delta. Tactical telemetry coming through from Goroke and Tapiola."
"Skipper," says F'hon Tlaxx. "Hail coming in from the Orion ship."
I sit back. "On screen."
A wide green face appears on the viewer, the face of a man who might have been handsome, once, but who has let himself go to seed with high living and too much food. Fat lips spray outrage at me. "What is your problem? I am a legitimate entrepreneur! And Starfleet has no jurisdiction in Klingon space!"
"Tylha Shohl," I say, "commanding the USS King Estmere. Are you Surtus the Indefeasible?"
"Everyone in two quadrants knows who I am!"
"Stand down and prepare to be boarded."
"What? On what authority, Andorian?" Surtus's eyes glare at me through rolls of fat.
"My own. And the cooperation of the KDF. You will notice one of my consorts has KDF ID."
"The KDF has no right! My operations are entirely legal!"
"We're going to check that," I say grimly. "If you want to continue operating, you'll let us do it. Otherwise - well, we'll check anyway, once the shooting's over. I imagine that will be quite quickly."
Surtus's eyes dart from side to side. My guess is, he is reading a tactical display of his own. I'd hazard a further guess, that he doesn't much like what he's seeing.
"I am," he begins, and licks his full lips, and starts again, "I will... stand down. Under protest."
"Protest all you like." I hit my intercom panel. "Bulpli. Nozys. Sirip. Ready your tactical and security teams. Board and secure. Klerupiru, I want you and Amiga on computer analysis." What Klerupiru's instincts don't pick up on, the android science officer's computerized eyes will catch.
The Slavemaster's screens drop, its impulse drive powers down. Goroke's goat's-skull shape drifts in, to come to a halt about three kilometres aft of the battleship. I can see the scatter from her targeting pings on my tactical display; R'j is locking her crescent-wave disruptor batteries onto the Orion, and at that range they will cut an unshielded ship in half. I check King Estmere's plasma banks; they, too, are locked, and ready to burn the halves to ashes once R'j has finished.
"Zazaru. Begin scans. Full intensity and maximum penetration. I want to be able to read the labels on Surtus's underwear."
"If he's wearing any, sir, you'll have them," says the Trill science chief.
"Lots of data feeds coming in," says F'hon. "I think Tapiola has had the same idea."
"Good," I say, "then we can cross-check."
My intercom beeps for attention. "Security teams ready," says Bulpli Yulan's voice.
"All right. Beam over and commence search. Secure the Slavemaster's computer core - no one is to go near it until our data forensic teams are through with it. And use your imagination when looking for Surtus's hidden backups, too."
"On it, sir. Transporting now."
I sit back in the command chair and start fretting. This Surtus character is exactly the sort of person who might snatch Ronnie... and one of his private fleet of ships might be a match for the warp signature of the craft that took her. But it's all conjecture, at this point.
"Sir," says F'hon, "we have a hail... and an incoming vessel. It's the Falcon, sir."
Well, it's something to stop me from fretting. "Put them on."
The harried face of Ronnie's exec appears on the screen. "Commander Tallasa reporting from the USS Falcon, sir," she says. "We have permission from Starfleet Command to join your task group in the search for Vice Admiral Grau. If you'll have us, sir, that is." Her tone is wary. I still don't know Tallasa's personal history, whatever it was that cost her her family name... she is, naturally, guarded around other Andorians. But she's a good officer, for all that, and the Falcon's firepower could be a major asset for us.
"Permission granted. Welcome to the fray, Commander. We're searching this Orion battlewagon right now - if we turn anything up, I'll be sure to let you know."
"We have no Borg life signs detected," Zazaru reports. "Interestingly, we do have signs of Borg nanotechnology... possibly stored in stasis fields. Surtus might be running some smuggling racket involving quarantined technology."
In which case... he might want Ronnie, an atypical example of a liberated Borg, for reasons of his own. "I think we ought to have words with Surtus the Indefeasible," I say.
---
In the flesh... there is a lot of flesh. Surtus the Indefeasible is vast, nearly two metres tall, and surely more than that around. He doesn't just dominate his end of the briefing room table, he very nearly fills it.
"I will make a protest," he says. "I have friends at the very highest levels, and I promise you, you will regret that you meddled with me."
I snort. T'Pia looks unimpressed. R'j, lounging against the wall with elaborate unconcern, says, "How do you intend to contact them, from the afterlife?"
Surtus turns his face towards her. "You cannot -"
"S-s-s-s-s. I will have to wait until these strait-laced people from Starfleet leave, that is all. The Federation has a strong belief in diplomacy and the rights of sentients and the rule of law. You and I know, Surtus, that the Empire is more... pragmatic... about such things." She grins, and it is not a pretty sight. "With your body mass, you may present a puzzle for future astronomers. A rogue green moon, hanging in interstellar space...." She straightens up. "Enough of such pleasing fancies. Starfleet has questions for you. Answer them."
Surtus looks shifty. "I have done nothing that would be of interest to Starfleet -"
"There is the matter of the Borg devices in your storage rooms," says T'Pia. "Nine hundred and five millilitres of the Borg nanovirus, eight hundred and twenty assorted cybernetic assemblies -"
"And four hundred and fifty-three metres of fibro-neural interface cabling," I add. "Were you planning to knit your own Borg?"
"Borg technology is restricted for sound reasons," says T'Pia. "The destruction of your vessel may be indicated, as an urgent quarantine measure."
"It was sealed in stasis chambers!" Surtus protests. "The security was absolute!"
"Those have been the last words of many incautious persons who have meddled with Borg technology," says T'Pia.
"Or second-to-last," I add, "their last words being 'We are the Borg'. However, we're not necessarily interested in that."
"Though the artifacts in question will be confiscated and destroyed," says T'Pia. Surtus looks sick.
"Speaking of artifacts," says R'j, "the KDF has some interest in the contents of your other store rooms. You have many rare gems and artworks, the provenance of which must be investigated. And there is the matter of the Zosman nacre in hold 34-D. The Zosman purple oyster is an endangered species... should it become extinct, there would be no more nacre. The authorities on Zosma IV, therefore, exact stringent penalties against smugglers. The details - well, they need not concern us. Or, at least, they need not concern me."
Surtus is looking a distinctly unhealthy shade of green, now. Well, this is the sort of stuff you'd expect to find when you raid the ship of a mid-to-high level Syndicate goon... and our best efforts have turned up no trace of Ronnie. Enough of the threats, now for some concrete details. "The OSS Kebrul is one of your ships," I say.
"What?" says Surtus. "Yes. Yes, it is."
"Light raiding vessel with advanced transporter systems. Yes?"
"It's designed for fast pickups in possible combat conditions." Surtus is both relieved and wary, now.
"Where have you used it recently?" I ask.
"The Kebrul?" Surtus is obviously uncomfortable with this line of questioning. "It's... I've had some involvement with... certain parties. A fast ship was necessary, there."
"What parties?" raps R'j. "The Siohonin?"
"What? No! No, of course not. What do the Siohonin have that I might want?"
"They're offering about a planet's worth of rare metals to buy a particular Starfleet officer," I say. "A Starfleet officer who was recently kidnapped. By a fast ship, designed for fast pickups in combat conditions."
"Oh," says Surtus. "Oh, no. No. Not me. Whoever took your officer, it was not me."
My gaze locks with his. "Convince me."
"I -" Surtus licks his lips. His eyes scan each one of us in turn. "I... can make the Kebrul's logs available."
I force a laugh. "I'm not interested in reading fiction," I say.
"They... can be verified. The Kebrul suffered heavy damage. It has been in spacedock for over a month, repairs will not be complete for some weeks. It -" Surtus takes a deep breath. "The ship was intercepted by Republic forces during its - mission. It only just escaped -"
"Republic forces," says R'j thoughtfully. "I can think of some reasons why the Republic might fire on an Orion ship. How loud were these 'certain parties' of yours?"
"How loud?" He looks baffled.
"S-s-s-s-s. Let me suggest a possibility. I suspect they were not very loud at all. I would even guess that they were silent."
A silent enemy... "Is that it?" I ask. "You were running captive test subjects to the Elachi?"
"The monsters pay well," says Surtus. "And it was only dregs - people who would never be missed, of no use even to themselves -"
"I withdraw my earlier threat," says R'j. "I will not pollute the heavens with your carcass, Surtus."
I say nothing. I'm weighing up the comparative virtues of shooting him here and now, or passing the transcript of this session over to Republic Intelligence.
"Do you possess any ships with similar characteristics to the Kebrul?" T'Pia asks.
"No," says Surtus. "How often do you think I need a fast, cloaked raider?"
"Do you know anyone who does possess a similar ship?" T'Pia is polite, calm, and quite relentless.
Surtus licks his lips again. "There... there are many Syndicate operatives who - who might find a use for such craft. But not many who are good enough - my transporter operators are the finest in Orion space. The finest. I paid for the finest. Others have to be content with my leavings...."
"Others such as whom?" says T'Pia.
"Understand," says R'j, "we have names. We merely seek confirmation. We have wasted time and effort on you already, we do not wish to waste more."
"I can think of no one who might have had dealings with the Siohonin," says Surtus. "They are a minor species that has risen in rebellion... and they have no respect for females. How should we Orions find common cause with them?" Well, he has a point there, I suppose.
"The Siohonin hired Gorn mercenaries, at first," says T'Pia. "Does this datum suggest anything to you?"
"Wait," says Surtus. "Wait. The Gorn?" His huge round face screws itself up in exaggerated concentration. "The Gorn. The House of Vuon was always greatly concerned with the Gorn, and I know Matron Khevnitra tried to outbid me for those transporter operators...."
I glance at R'j. Her silvery eyes are wary.
"S-s-s-s-s. Yes, this name is known to us. Now," she purrs, "convince us that you name her for valid reasons, and not as some vendetta of your own."
---
The interrogation drags on, and on, for what seems like hours. Details to be verified, checked against the Slavemaster's computer core and other sources....
I feel exhausted when I finally emerge from the briefing room. I still don't know what to do about Surtus. The man is not indefeasible, so much as unspeakable. But, then, he's a successful Orion entrepreneur.... Sometimes, I think Starfleet should make more value judgments about alien cultures. If there was ever a case for violating the Prime Directive, the Orion criminal empire is it.
I'm heading for my quarters when the intercom chimes at me again. "Calling Vice Admiral Shohl," says F'hon's voice.
I sigh, and head for one of the data stalagmites that line the corridors. "Shohl here," I say.
"I have Admiral Semok for you on subspace, sir," says F'hon.
I straighten myself up. "Put him through."
"Vice Admiral Shohl." Semok's mild face appears on the small screen. "Do you have any news?"
"Nothing definite yet, sir, I'm afraid. We have intercepted one known Orion criminal, and we've found evidence of a great deal of illegal activity - but none of it relating to Vice Admiral Grau. He has given us partial confirmation of another lead, though, and we're moving to follow it up."
"I am gratified to hear it," says Semok. "It is the opinion of Starfleet Command that Vice Admiral Grau's importance to the Siohonin needs to be explained as quickly and completely as possible. Also, there is activity in the Stygmalian Rift which needs investigation. Such investigations could, no doubt, benefit from her insight."
"The Rift has gone live?" I ask, aghast.
"There is activity. It has not yet reached the level at which the Rift became a navigational hazard. However, it is the matter of the Siohonin which concerns us most immediately." His normally impassive face takes on a grave and troubled look. "Siohonin military forces have engaged in hostile acts against the Federation. They have occupied the colony planets Sorella IX and Farnon's World."
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