"Cloak is - stable," Goota reports. "Separation is - constant at thirty - kellicams."
"No further evasive manoeuvres?" I ask.
"Negative." The android's voice is completely steady, though her hands are constantly moving on the controls. The complexity of her task must be taxing even her positronic brain, though. I lean forward, studying the dot on the screen. After the initial flurry of quick course changes, our target must now be convinced that he has lost us.
Laska, at the science console, is cursing steadily in an undertone. She does not have a positronic brain, and her task - analysing our target's warp field so that Goota can hold us in position - is nearly as complex. Still, she is managing. I am fortunate, since I am now a pirate, to have such a capable crew.
The dot on the screen is a Talaxian Drexia-class freighter, small and harmless. It is, however, the only thing to depart from the 54 Eridani system since our abortive probe, and it is a Delta Quadrant design, which suggests either Thrang or the Kobali. A single burst from Nuru-Or's armament would turn it into drifting space dust, but we would learn nothing from that; our plan, therefore, is to follow it and find out what it is doing.
"Something," Laska mutters.
"What?" I ask.
"Subspace radio emissions...." Laska's craggy face is screwed into a frown of concentration. "Looks like random noise, but it isn't... several layers of fractal encryption. That ship is signalling."
"S-s-s-s-s. Signalling what, and to whom?"
"Don't know." But, from the expression on her face, she has some ideas.
"Target is - changing course," says Goota. "Compensating."
I do not even feel the course change. "New heading?" I ask.
"One one four mark six. If there are no - further changes, that will take the target to - frontier outpost at Rakur Aretta."
"S-s-s-s-s." I call up my data libraries on the command console. It is the sort of task I would normally delegate to Laska, but she is evidently busy. I input a query and study the results. "Class two base, one class L world, numerous commercial holdings owned by a variety of Great Houses...."
"More signals," Laska mutters. "I think I see...."
"Tell me when you are sure," I say. I do not see what is important at Rakur Aretta... but we do not even know if this ship's mission is important at all. All we know is, we must do something. Rrueo has her own mission - and that took some time to arrange - but Shalo and I have been unable to do anything, except hang at the fringe of the system and evade the High Council's patrols, for so long now....
"Approaching system boundary of - Rakur Aretta. Target is - slowing. Compensating. Ready to drop out of warp."
I wait. On the screen, the streaking stars slow, turn back into points.
"Got it," Laska says with evident satisfaction.
"Tell me."
She nods. "The ship is transmitting encrypted bursts on low-band subspace channels - the channels used by ship transponders and automated traffic control systems. It's tripping some sort of hard-coded subroutine in the Imperial control networks. Whenever it sends one of those bursts, the ship is automatically identified and cleared as scheduled traffic."
"S-s-s-s-s. A useful trick, to smooth the way. It reeks of Kalevar Thrang - we know he passes through Imperial space like the wind, going wherever he wishes...."
"Thrang isn't on that ship, though," says Laska. "I have clear reads on all the life signs - one Lethean, seven Orions, eight Thexemians."
"A typical selection of Thrang's lackeys," I mutter. "But what is their purpose here?"
"A single volley might make that irrelevant," Laska muses.
"No. We need information. Corpses, we may have at any time, but corpses offer no answers. S-s-s-s-s. Is the cloak still stable?"
"Confirmed," says Goota.
"A detail analysis of their warp contrail would show up our presence," says Laska. "But I can see no reason why anyone should make such an analysis."
"So. We stay concealed, we follow this one... at least as far as their destination here... perhaps beyond, if it may be useful."
---
At impulse speeds, the trip across the system takes very nearly as long as the journey from 54 Eridani. Laska takes the opportunity to sleep for a few hours: she needs it. Goota, fortunately, does not.
The Drexia is not heading for either the military base or the sole marginally-habitable planet, but for a small mining station orbiting an outer-system ice giant. Curious. I interrogate the database, seeking more information. I wish I could use subspace to requisition Imperial Intelligence files, but there are sound reasons why that is impractical.
"Curious," I remark aloud.
Goota remains silent, absorbed in her work, but Siowershoe is on the bridge, and she says, "Sir?"
"The station. A commercial facility, owned by the House of Kungan. A staging point for helium-3 extraction from the outer atmosphere of the ice giant. A place of no conceivable importance."
"An ideal spot for illicit transactions, then," Siowershoe says.
"S-s-s-s-s. Perhaps. But what? Whatever it is, it is not without importance... that ship was very keen to try to shake us off. And it is working for Thrang, there can be no reasonable doubt of that. What does he want here?"
"A rendezvous point. Someone or something is being transshipped." Siowershoe's flat, long-eared face is thoughtful. "Perhaps we should examine the records of the station. It may have received a visitor of some kind, in the recent past."
"A possibility. S-s-s-s-s." I consider the options. If the Drexia simply returns to 54 Eridani, what do I learn? Unless I take it on its return journey... but I have no guarantee of obtaining information; that little ship would be too easily reduced to useless space dust. "Yes. A distinct possibility. We have found the next link in a chain, so we shall test it."
"Test what, sir?" Laska has returned to the bridge.
"The station that our target is visiting. We will know its purpose. The advantage of an orbital station is, it cannot run from us." I grin at her. "Let us see, too, if you have interpreted those code signals correctly, and if they will work for us as well. S-s-s-s-s. To be logged as legitimate traffic, that would be even more useful than the battle cloak."
"A magic shield of invisibility against bureaucrats. Quite." Laska takes her station. "The target is approaching transporter range of the station."
"They may need to dock physically. Remember the compressed decalithium."
"The target is signalling the station... exchanging recognition handshakes." Laska hunches over her console. "Data burst transmission from the station... and a transporter signal. Well, if it's compressed decalithium, we'll know, when the freighter explodes." She shakes her head. "Transport complete. Another data handshake, looks like a sign-off...."
"Target is - coming about," says Goota. "Heading for - Eridani sector. Exact details to - follow."
"Never mind. Ease us away. Maintain cloak. Wait until the Drexia is clear of the system, and then we will go in to the station."
---
The interior of the station is bare, bleak, functional. The House of Kungan does not waste money on fripperies, not out here. Well, and why should they?
One good thing, already; Laska was right about the codes, and they work for us. They worked well enough, in fact, to let me decloak Nuru-Or and take her into a docking port at the station. The station's staff - it has a permanent staff of twelve - apparently did not notice. My belief is, they are all in disfavour with the House of Kungan, and are leaving everything to the automated systems, while they themselves count the minutes to the end of their tour of duty.
I stalk along the corridors, flanked by two of my engineering crew, M'Rel and the Lethean, Nubir. They should be equal to any technical challenges - and the three of us will be able to cope with any security, I am sure of that.
"We will secure the computer core, first," I say, "then go to the transporter room and obtain its logs."
"Both areas should be defended," says M'Rel. He lifts his disruptor rifle, and the scars on his face rearrange themselves into a worrying grin.
"Should be," I say. "Security seems lax, though." But my hands rest on the weapons at my belt, ready for action.
The station is, at least, a standard design: I was able to obtain plans without difficulty. We go along one more corridor, down a steeply-sloping ramp, around a corner - and Nubir stops, and raises one hand. "I feel a mind," he says. "Wait."
I wait. Nubir's hellish Lethean eyes seem to glaze over for a few seconds - then his demon mask of a face contorts in an expression of pleasure. "Sleeping," he says. "Now, he will sleep many hours more, regardless of all else."
"Cheating," says M'Rel with a rueful look.
"S-s-s-s-s. It makes things simpler." I stride to the door of the computer room: it is not locked. Inside, a single Klingon lies sprawled and comatose on the floor. "You two. Set up the secure download to Nuru-Or and drain this thing. I want everything it knows." I kick the limp figure on the floor. "And exercise more vigilance than this one. I will go to the transporter room and obtain the logs."
The transporter room is off the next corridor along - they will hear me if I call for help, though I do not intend to shout if I can avoid it. There is no sign of life as I make my way along the corridors. Slack and inattentive - if I am right, and the staff here are being punished, they deserve it.
The transporter room appears unattended. I spare a brief glance at the pads - standard designs, they tell me nothing - and go to the console. The logs are unsecured. I am downloading them to my tricorder when a detail catches my eye, and I frown, and pause the rapidly-scrolling display.
Klingon transporter systems are rugged, direct and simple - they lack many of the complex safety features that the Federation considers essential. But, recently, the logs show two personnel transports that were hedged about with unusual safety precautions. Personnel who should not be lost to a simple transporter accident, then - VIPs, certainly. What would a Klingon dignitary be doing, visiting an obscure station like this? The appended codes look, to my admittedly untutored eye, like High Council IDs -
"Remain where you are. Make no sudden movements. Do not reach for your weapons."
Well, now, this is embarrassing. The voice behind me is that of a Klingon, evidently some member of staff who is more alert than most. And after my words to Nubir and M'Rel - they will chaff me for it, I am sure of that. I am almost irritated.
"Turn around. Slowly."
I turn. Slowly, because the speaker has told me to... and because I am concentrating, letting the force build within my brain.
The Klingon is a young male in nondescript work leathers, holding a worn but perfectly adequate disruptor pistol. He squints suspiciously at me. "Who are you? And why are you here?"
"R'j Bl'k'," I answer. "Dahar Master and honorary General in the Klingon Defense Force, Adept of the Seven Greater Dodecagons, Guardian of the Cycle of M'tt'-kk'ri, Knight-Acolyte of the Phocine Temple -" the recitation is puzzling him, and his aim is wavering away from me "- and, most importantly in this context, Harbinger of the Grand Maelstrom."
And I release the force which has been building in my mind. The psychokinetic bolt plucks him off his feet and hurls him against the bulkhead. He drops to the floor. He is shaken and hurt and confused, but still conscious; by the time he has recovered himself, though, he is looking into my eyes, over the barrel of his own disruptor.
"I am here as part of an investigation ordered by the Chancellor," I tell him. "I can obtain all the information I need from your logs, but I am curious, and somewhat pressed for time. Perhaps you can aid me. Members of the High Council came here. Did they, by any chance, bring something with them?"
He stares at me. Then he clears his throat. I have evidently not underestimated his courage or his loyalty.
"High Councillors T'Khal and Dillan," he says. "They brought a cargo for transshipment - it was beamed out of here - only a short while ago - they brought bloodwine, too, as a gift -"
So that partly accounts for the absence of security: the staff are all sodden with bloodwine. "What was this cargo?"
He shakes his head. "I do not understand - nothing of importance," he says. "Only a corpse."
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