Recipe for Success 4

 Ronnie

It works like a charm. Some of the enemy ships hung back, suspecting we were up to something when we filed the flight plan; others moved, but too late, as we vanished into transwarp. The screens were completely clear when we flashed up to the first transwarp gateway - it looked like the enemy transwarp-capable ships all took the hint and zoomed off in the direction of Earth, where they will have some 'splainin' to do when they drop out of subspace. Deliciously enemy-free space for the next two jumps....

And now there's a grubby little asteroid in front of us, with a disused lab base on it. A disused Starfleet lab base, in fact, although it's been taken over by a much more disreputable researcher - our new friend Professor Mophel. He had to have some sort of lab to work from, and it didn't take long to persuade him to tell us where it was.

Saval and I beam over with Nibb and Mophel, on the grounds that Saval is monitoring the science stuff, and I don't trust either of them out of my sight. Nibb is clutching his stack of Grent to his chest. Mophel has a PADD in his hand and the light of Science in his eye. Worrying.

"What we need," I say, as we step off the transporter pad, "is proof of concept. All those guys out there, they are trying to stop you from doing this. Once you've actually done it, there's no point them trying any more." I hope. Well, I'm being charitable, here, I have no great hopes of Mophel's gadget actually working, and an abject failure will be just as good at getting the opposition to back off.

"I can commence preparations at once," says Mophel. "Everything is as I left it."

Considering the state of the place, that's not saying much. The base was mothballed once Science Division had finished whatever they were doing, but it's now showing signs of having been lived in, by someone too caught up in the adventures of pure intellect to bother cleaning. Mophel potters off down a corridor, past a stack of empty food containers which is starting to whiff a bit. I follow, into what looks like a fair-sized control room, overlooking a lab which has been stocked with distinctly non-Starfleet machinery. Massive science-y things stand around, occasionally emitting bleeps and sparks; in the centre of the room, a single transporter pad stands in the middle of a rat's nest of cabling, a formidable-looking emitter pointed at it from the ceiling.

Mophel is trying to pry the containers of Grent out of Nibb's arms, and Nibb, being a Ferengi, is instinctively refusing to part with stuff he's paid for. Saval is inspecting the control room with an expression of mild alarm and distaste. "I must have the samples for the genetic analyzer," Mophel says, and Nibb reluctantly lets go.

On his home turf, and with his life's work ready to go, Mophel has clearly developed a taste for theatre. He deposits the Grent bits in a large transparent container, and sweeps his fingers over a bank of switches with a flourish. "The devices in the main lab must be configured manually, while I monitor the overall process from here," he says. "For this purpose, I have designed and built my Transtatorized Independent Mechanoid Multifunction Ideomotor Effector, or TIMMIE." He presses a button with another flourish, and a locker at the side of the room springs open, revealing what is possibly the least convincing humanoid robot I've ever seen. It steps out of the locker with a clank, and surveys the room with a single red glowing eye.

"TIMMIE, go to the lab and engage the primary converters," Mophel says. I wait for the robot to reply I think you said - destroy all humans, but instead it turns and lumbers out of the room. Amazing.

My combadge chirps, and I slap it. "Yo. Hit me."

"Sensor contact inbound," Talassa's voice says. Darn. "We don't have a fix on the ship's type or capabilities yet, but it's broadcasting Ferengi diplomatic credentials." Double darn. We're not allowed to shoot those.

"OK. Establish contact and make nice. I'll try and hurry things up down here." I look in a hurry-up sort of way at Mophel.

"TIMMIE is engaging the primary converters," he says.

The robot is pulling levers and throwing switches on some piece of apparatus in the lab, fair enough. A shudder runs through the deckplates, as of heavy engineering starting up somewhere. The robot pulls a big impressive-looking lever. There is a bang, and a brilliant flash of light.

When my vision comes back, and the ringing in my ears stops, Mophel is at his controls, looking a bit hangdog. I peer into the lab. There is a fair amount of smoke, but all the machines are lit up and seem to be doing something. The robot, though, is mostly lying on the floor. One arm is hanging from that last lever, and I can't see where its head went, but the rest of it is on the floor.

"Corrosion on the final contact points," Mophel explains glumly. "It cleared once the circuit was established, and the lab's equipment is fully operational, but -" He shakes his head. "We're going to need another TIMMIE."

"I don't think we've got time," I say. I don't want to say what I've got to say next, but - "It's just a matter of throwing the right switches, isn't it? Can you talk me through it, if I go down there?"

"Oh." Mophel blinks. "Yes. The individual units are clearly labelled, I thought it best that way, so... yes."

Triple darn. "Terrific," I say. "OK, on my way. Point me at the next thing you want interfered with." And I dash out of the control room, down a short flight of steps, and into the main lab. It is humming. Also bleeping, whining and whistling, but mainly humming. There is clearly a lot of juice in Mophel's circuitry, I just hope he's wired it up properly. TIMMIE's fate does not fill me with confidence.

"We need to increase power," Mophel's voice booms out at me over the PA system. "Step up the reactor output three more notches."

I head for a black columnar thing labelled REACTOR, since Mophel is evidently a fan of the old Batman show. It has controls, set up in a way I vaguely understand. I twist a hopeful-looking knob until it's clicked three times.

"Excellent," Mophel says. The transporter pad has started to glow. "Next, throw open the switches on the sonic oscillator."

Another one that's clearly labelled, and something even I can manage. I throw open the switches. Well, I throw open five out of six switches, and then I'm flat on my back, as the sixth throws itself open in a small bang and a burst of sparks.

"I didn't expect that," Mophel's voice says. "It's probably some sort of ultrasonic magnetic effect."

"I'm fine," I say, brushing out a smouldering spot on the front of my uniform. "Thanks for asking." The emitter over the transporter pad is pulsing with light and shuddering visibly.

"Only one step remains." The booming voice is tense with excitement. "The particle flow configurator."

Well, it's labelled. "Got it," I say, heading for it. "What do you need?"

"Reverse the polarity of the neutron flow." Oh, he has got to be pulling my leg.

But there is an interface on the gadget, and it shows a whole lot of particles, and I can pick out NEUTRON and reverse the polarity of its flow. There is a clunk and a bang from somewhere, and an alarming shower of sparks from the ceiling. Mophel clearly has the mad scientist routine down pat, or at least the mad part of it. A blinding beam of light strikes down from the main emitter onto the transporter pad.

"Engaging genetic sequencers!" Mophel's voice is exultant. "Superimposing matter-stream waveform! Annular confinement at one hundred per cent! Integrators are in balance! Commencing materialization sequence - now!"

The transporter's whine rises to a shriek. My one eye is watering from the blinding light - and then the light fades, and the noise dies down. I hazard a glance at the transporter pad, and - Mercy of Heaven, what is that shape behind the parting smoke?

---

Nibb, Mophel and Saval come clattering down the steps, to stare at the thing on the transporter pad. Saval has his tricorder out, and his eyebrow quirked.

Nibb is the first to speak. "That's not Grent!" he wails. "I know! I've seen pictures! Grent was - taller -" He grinds to a halt.

"Fascinating," Saval murmurs.

Grand Nagus Grent, or what's meant to be Grand Nagus Grent, says "mmmooooorrp?"

"I'm not quite sure what went wrong," Mophel says sadly.

The tribble is not particularly impressive, even as tribbles go. It's small, and a sort of brindled beige colour, and it inches over to the edge of the transporter pad, rubs up against Saval's boot, decides it's not edible, and goes "mmmooooorrp?" again, in a sad sort of way, as if it's come into a world that's full of not-food things and is generally unjust to tribbles.

"As I believe I explained, sir," says Saval, "the central concept of Professor Mophel's theory is sadly not tenable. Even the reintegration of the signal to produce this relatively simple life form is remarkable - the odds against it are of the order of millions to one."

"Or maybe it did work," I say, "and the Ferengi are really just shaved tribbles."

Even the tribble doesn't look impressed. Mophel, though, gets a thoughtful look. "Perhaps there is something in the genome sequencing," he muses. "I must construct a cladistic map, to identify the latest common ancestor between the species...." Good luck with that one, I think.

My combadge chirps at me again. "It didn't work," I say cheerfully as I hit it.

"It - oh," says Talassa's voice. She pauses. "I guess that might help," she says. "We have a positive ID and a hail from a Ferengi Commerce Authority diplomatic cruiser. I think we're going to have to talk our way out of this one, sir."

"OK, OK, let's talk." I look around the lab. This is a Starfleet facility, there should be a comms station, unless Mophel has buried it under a mountain of litter - "There we are. Viewscreen." I point. "Gather round, everyone! Talassa, get Leo to patch the Ferengi through, we'll see where we can go from there."

It takes a couple of minutes, but soon the screen goes live, and a Ferengi face fills it, a Ferengi face with an FCA tattoo over one eyebrow and a really nasty sneer. "This is Liquidator Strimp of the Commerce Authority," he says. "Am I in contact with DaiMon Nibb?"

"Well, he's here," I say. Nibb hasn't said a word for a while; he seems dazed, possibly shell-shocked. I suppose he's effectively paid for the galaxy's most expensive tribble, so it's no wonder he's out of sorts.

"Good," says Strimp. "A warrant has been purchased for DaiMon Nibb's arrest, on charges of misfeasance, malfeasance, fraud, defalcation, misrepresentation, and grave-robbing." A very ugly smile spreads across his face. "Please tell me he's resisting arrest. My security squads get all antsy when they don't have a proper workout."

Animation floods back into Nibb's concussed face. "I'm innocent!" he wails. "This is a frame! A travesty of justice!" He turns to me, wild-eyed. "You're with Starfleet! You have to help me!"

"Calm down, everyone," I say. I have a beatific feeling of relief flooding over me. "Like you say, I'm Starfleet, and I will act in accordance with the best traditions thereof. Strimp. Your warrant's for Nibb, right? No one else?"

"That is correct," says Strimp in guarded tones.

"Well, then," I say, "this is clearly an internal Ferengi matter, and the Prime Directive means that Starfleet can't possibly intervene. Have fun sorting it all out yourselves. Talassa? Two to beam up." Mophel can take care of himself.

Nibb stares at me, aghast. "Don't worry," I say, as I start to sparkle and fade away, "I'm sure Grand Nagus Grent will explain everything."