STARTREK®: NEW EARTH - WAGON TRAIN TO THE STARS Read online

  Kilvennan’s shaggy hair plastered his forehead and picked at his eyes. His brown knit shirt, sweated into a sop, provided the only relief from the snapper burns. “Should be along here somewhere. This drone’s one of the older ones. Don’t know the tech very well . . .”

  “It’ll be in this direction.” Suddenly recognizing the layout, Kirk angled off to their right, the cyclospanner clunking in his hand with every crawling stride.

  “What if you’re wrong?” Kilvennan called after him. “We don’t have time—”

  “When I was seventeen my father got me a summer job on an industrial freighter. It had the same kind of cutting system. This looks familiar.”

  Coming up in front of them was a sizzling, stinking mass of scorched coils and a huge blackened area of bulkhead. The destroyed shield array!

  “Over there!” Kilvennan pointed through a web of cables. “Jesus, it’s red!”

  Raw overload pulsed through the side of the drone, turning the metal itself rosy with energy. A brief shuffle, and Kirk crouched before the phaser-torch relays.

  “Same basic components,” he assessed quickly. “Different arrangement. When I get the spanner in there and interrupt the Sherman-Kelly flow, you give it your family’s emergency shutdown code.” He bared his right arm and shoved the cyclospanner into the gap between the firing linkage and the coil housing.

  Kilvennan shielded his face with one hand. “This how you got famous? Backing people into corners and twisting until they squeal?”

  “Forty seconds,” Kirk counted. “Are you thinking about your children?”

  The privateer’s dark eyes grew clever. “If I comply, no charges against my mother.”

  “No deal.” Intense and uncharitable, Kirk winced hard all the way to his jaw as electrical activity rushed past his arm, buried to the elbow in the housing. “If your mother’s been enhancing her phaser capacity, she’s going to be held responsible. The Expedition’s going to make it to Belle Terre if I have to push it there. I don’t hear you squealing.”

  A huff of frustration blew from Kilvennan’s nostrils. “You son of a bitch . . . E-shut down, Webb GCX Trident Obstruct-Michael.”

  The cutting torches burped, and the whine of harassment suddenly evaporated. Around them, the drone ship stopped its relentless pulsing and went to neutral engines. The hum of the tractor beam faded with a miserable groan. The whine of overload faded away. The red metal cooled toward ugly gray.

  Relieved, Kirk slumped a little. “That was close. As soon as Spock confirms the power-down, he’ll beam us out of this sauna.”

  Instantly exhausted, Kilvennan let his throbbing head drop back against the coolant tubes. “You’re a bully, Captain Kirk.”

  Feeling his sandy hair going dark with perspiration, his face russet and blotchy, Kirk retrieved his burned arm from the housing. His forearm was scorched with a dozen electrical burns. His white knit sleeve smoldered. The cyclospanner thunked to the crawlway grid.

  “And don’t you ever forget it,” he piped.

  BELLETERRE COLONIAL EXPEDITION

  PRELIMINARY MANIFEST OF SHIP PARTICIPATION

  (TO BE REVISED UPON ADDITIONAL ENTRIES)

  NOTE: MANIFEST DOES NOT INCLUDE PRIVATE VESSELS WITHOUT PUBLIC DUTY ASSIGNMENT

  SOURCE: OFFICE OF THE GOVERNOR, COLONY BELLETERRE PROJECT OCCULT STAR SYSTEM, SAGITTARIAN STAR CLUSTER

  AUTHORITY: UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS COLONIAL MAGISTRATE OFFICE OF SETTLEMENT

  SHIP NAME

  CLASSIFICATION

  OWNER/AUTHORITY

  MASTER

  YUKON

  CONESTOGA

  UFP LEASE

  BATTERSEY

  OREGON TRAIL

  CONESTOGA

  UFP LEASE

  TRAUTNER

  LEWIS AND CLARK

  CONESTOGA

  PRIVATE

  MAITLAND

  MANDRAKE ANACHRONAE

  CONESTOGA

  PRIVATE

  RAMPION

  PROMONTORY POINT

  CONESTOGA

  UFP LEASE

  HARVEY

  NORTHWEST PASSAGE

  CONESTOGA

  UFP LEASE

  BURCH

  HAMPTON ROADS

  CONESTOGA

  PRIVATE

  NICKLE

  COMANCHE

  CONESTOGA

  UFP LEASE

  GEGLIO

  LAKOTA

  CONESTOGA

  CORPORATE

  BRANCH

  SACAJAWEA

  CONESTOGA

  CORPORATE

  KATT

  COLUNGA

  MULE ROUNDHOUSE

  GRAYMARK ENG. HQ

  M. SCOTT

  HUNTER’S MOON

  ENFORCEMENT

  PRIVATEER

  KILVENNAN

  ROYAL YORK

  ENFORCEMENT

  PRIVATEER

  GILLESPIE

  ZAVADA

  ENFORCEMENT

  PRIVATEER

  SHEPPARD

  RATTLESNAKE

  ENFORCEMENT

  PRIVATEER

  SUNN

  POLYNESIAN

  CONESTOGA TENDER

  UFP LEASE

  MARKS

  MABLE STEVENS

  VIP TRANSPORT

  PRIVATE

  CHALKER

  AMERICAN ROVER

  PATHFINDER

  PRIVATE

  SMITH/GLASS

  J. Carpenter,

  Spec. Agent

  TWILIGHT SENTINEL

  CORONER SHIP

  PRIVATE

  NELSON

  BROTHER’S KEEPER

  MERCY SHIP

  STARFLEET LEASE

  SKAERBAEK

  PANDORA’S BOX

  INDUSTRIAL

  PRIVATE

  BLAINE

  CRYSTOBEL

  COMMERCIAL PILOT

  PRIVATE

  WEBB

  WEBB ONE–NINE

  FACTORY DRONES

  CRYSTOBEL

  AUTOPILOT

  MACEDON

  COMMERCIAL TOW

  CORPORATE

  WALTERS

  IROQUOIS

  INDUSTRIAL

  CORPORATE

  ISRAEL

  RED BARN

  CATTLESHIP

  CORPORATE

  KEJ

  QUINCY B. HOBBS

  CATTLESHIP/DAIRY

  PRIVATE

  SEMPATI

  NORMANDY

  FARM SHIP (BOTANICAL)

  PRIVATE

  MAXMILLIAN

  UNCLE JAKE’S POCKET

  HOTEL VESSEL

  PRIVATE

  DURANT

  NORFOLK REBEL

  TUGANTINE

  PRIVATE

  BRIGGS

  KALEONAHE

  MINE SHIP

  PRIVATE

  FOLSTER

  FOGGY DEW

  DAIRY BARGE

  PRIVATE

  MEKO

  HEIDI

  RANCH BARGE

  PRIVATE

  DVORAK

  ANNIE B

  RANCH BARGE

  PRIVATE

  FORSMARK

  CHARGER

  EQUINE STABLE

  PRIVATE

  BROWN

  BLACK SWAN

  GARDEN SHIP

  PRIVATE

  GAINES

  OLYMPIAN

  ORGAN LAB

  UFP LEASE

  GUE

  UFP OFFICIAL ESCORT

  IMPELLER

  CUTTER

  STARFLEET

  MERKLING

  ENTERPRISE

  STARSHIP

  STARFLEET

  KIRK

  REPUBLIC

  CUTTER

  STARFLEET

  DESALLE

  BEOWULF

  COMBAT SUPPORT TENDER

  STARFLEET

  AUSTIN

  ADDENDUM: BE AWARE—THIS IS ONLY A PRELIMINARY I. E. PART
IAL MANIFEST. UNTIL TWO (2) WEEKS PRIOR TO LAUNCH DATE ROSTER IS OPEN FOR ADDITIONS AND DELETIONS. COMMANDS MAY ALSO CHANGE.

  NOT LISTED: SINGLE-FAMILY PRIVATE VESSELS, MULE TENDERS, RUNABOUTS.

  * * *

  COMMAND DUTY ROSTER—FIRST AND SECOND OFFICERS

  Senior First Officer: SPOCK, Cdr.

  Duty Station: Starship Enterprise

  RESPONSIBILITIES:

  All ships’ manifests.

  Licensure and qualifications.

  Customs, warrants, liens.

  Letters of Indemnity, contracts, clauses.

  Insurance, special interests.

  Charters, Port Risk Policies.

  Builders’ certificates.

  Clearances, releases, registries.

  SECONDARY:

  Coordinate with Lt. Cdr. Uhura, Chief Safety Officer.

  All safety drills, communications.

  * * *

  COMMAND DUTY ROSTER—MASTER OF THE HOLD

  Chief Inspector and Chartering Broker: DANIEL MERKLING, Capt.

  Duty Station: Starfleet Cutter Impeller

  RESPONSIBILITIES:

  Payload manifests.

  Coordinate all baggage masters.

  Warp trim.

  Stowage.

  Obstructions.

  Coordinate with Federation Bureau of Shipping.

  * * *

  COMMAND DUTY ROSTER—STRESSMASTER

  Chief Inspector: RAY AUSTIN, Capt.

  Duty Station: Starfleet Combat Support Tender Beowulf

  RESPONSIBILITIES:

  Oversee all lines, cables, antigravs, clamps, fittings, gates, doors, coamings, straps, hitches, bolts, restraining gear, cargo nets, storage hammocks, bulkheads, gammonings, hydraulics, magnetics, mesh, gangways, fusion welds, corrugated bulkheads.

  Oversee above for space-emergency tolerance.

  Retrofit all ships for universal docking collars.

  * * *

  COMMAND DUTY ROSTER—REARGUARD

  Senior Readguardsman: ANTON (Tony) DeSALLE, Capt.

  Duty Station: Starfleet Cutter Republic

  RESPONSIBILITIES:

  Rearguard coordinator.

  All recruiting and training of reserves.

  Policing of restricted areas.

  Flexible response.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Cluster Z-80, Sagittarian Stellar Group

  United Federation of Planets Catalogue: Star System “Occult”

  Planet Four: “Belle Terre”

  “HOLY SMOKE, Dogan! You’re always in your own world! Wake up! We have red alert!”

  Ah, double-deep space. Demonic possession for the frustrated few.

  The survey scout’s deck smelled from overworked sensors and burned circuits. Broiled boards all over the deck, cluttered with tools and cable parts, same as always. Nobody minded doing the work, but nobody cleaned up either. Normal enough. Helm on standby, manned, no tractors, engines idle, thrusters zero, weapons cold, artificial gravity nominal, life-support green, cargo doors shut, hatches clamped, spark blinds hanging on the consoles, radiation sheets draped here and there with armholes gawking open, so on, so on, so on. So why the red alert?

  Over there, trembling on his stool like a bug on a griddle, the twitchy analyst cranked around from his sensor displays and barked, “Dogan! Come here!”

  “Clam up. My head’s drummin’.”

  A deep sucking breath—clears the skull like a wire brush. Good long suck on the pipe . . . this was a good pipe. Teakwood, Tidewater tobacco. His last pinch or two of the old broadleaf.

  Mitch Dogan trundled out of the narrow companion-way, thinking about old wrestling holds. He’d sure do some of ’em different if he had the past back for a couple minutes.

  The red-alert panels flashed in his face. His own voice, high-pitched and gravelly, banged through his skull worse than the warning alarm. His bathrobe dragged behind him, picking up bits of dirt and metal shavings. The undercooked feeling of getting rousted in the middle of the night churned his stomach. He tried to reconstruct the dream he’d been having when they woke him up.

  At three feet two, with arms as thick as his chest, he was like three barrels strapped together, with feet. Still drowsy, he shuffled along the circular ramp that went all the way around the bridge. Up here on the ramp, he could be at eye level with his crewmates. They’d built it for him few years back. Sure made a difference.

  He paused just starboard of the main screen and communed with a worn poster showing an exaggerated flicker-animate picture of himself, eyes flaring, arms flexed, lips curled back, red hair up like a zombie, short legs twisted, with Anchorhead McHale squished between his knees. Mitch “The Barrel” Dogan! New Chicago’s answer to high-yield neutronium! Hoot! Hoot! Hoot!

  Ten years ago, yeh. The glory days on Altus IV, suckin’ tourist credits to the tune of raving crowds, living on company-bred prime rib instead of cold rations. Oh, yeh! Them was the days!

  Eh, anyway, a sports figure’s career is always short, no pun intended. But them really was the days.

  While Dogan rubbed away the cobwebs, the agitated science analyst finally had enough and slammed one coiled appendage on the ramp behind where the command chair used to be before they swapped it for a used low-gain generator. “Dogan! Pay attention to work! The quake moon’s mass is changing! It reads hollow inside!”

  “Slime down, smart boy,” Dogan waved a thick hand. “Anybody seen my eyedrops? Marvin, did I leave my eyedrops on the helm? You didn’t stick ’em some-place I ain’t gonna look for a million credits, did you, you skinny bottom-feeder?”

  The helmsman shrugged over his knob of a shoulder and scratched his big square chin. “Roib put some on his toenails.”

  “I know you’re lying because he ain’t got toes.”

  “What’re you wearing your robe for?”

  “I got a chill—what’d you care? Holy smoke, somebody turn off the stinkin’ alert bell! Who turned that thing on anyway? I didn’t even get a chance to go to the head. What’d we have red alert for, hanging here in the middle of nothing, can’t even move a hundred meters because of Gamma Night?”

  Emil Pashke, busy at his cartography station, pointed across to the science array. “Roib made us turn it on.”

  Dogan grunted. “Him again, like a hangnail. Roob, you punk, listen to me. You ain’t trained right. You wake me up at zero—what is it?—four hundred lousy hours, and what you got to tell me is a moon’s mass is changing right while we’re looking at it? Three years running this pothole tank around the survey beat and you still ain’t got a clue what rises from hell when some insensitive spud wakes me up from my beauty sleep?”

  Roib’s three pool-table-green eyes rolled, then settled into a scowl. “The mass . . . is changing.”

  “Every couple of seconds, yeh.” While the rest of the crew waited to see what would happen, Dogan abused his eyes with a knotty knuckle. “We got this Class-M planet, we got nine moons, nice pretty little star system, newly catalogued star, and the Federation making big bets on whatever we tell ’em next. The Fed wants this system surveyed for a new colony, the farthest away ever, and we send ’em a survey that says the biggest moon is slipping in and out of its own mass. Then they put us in a paper room and feed us apple-sauce, no cinnamon. Why don’t you stand up and do ‘Swan Lake’ for us. Eh? Marvin’ll dance the girl’s part. Eh? Eh?”

  Laughter boomed around the crew at Roib’s expense. Dogan scratched his beard and took bows, blinking now that his eyes weren’t stinging so much. Around the bridge, the only active screens were the local ones, about a third of what the bridge had to offer. These “windows” showed whatever the short-range sensors could pick up, not much more than the crew would see if they looked out a porthole. No magnification, no enhancement. When the sensors woke up at Gamma Dawn, they’d be able to count the cells on local fauna down there on the new planet, but not till then.

  When the stir died down, Dogan turned away from the frustrat
ed analyst and looked at the bored quarter-master. “Hey, Grady, call the galley and tell that toothless wonder of a cook that if he don’t defrost some of the meat we hunted down on that funny brown planet two months ago, I’m gonna come down there and introduce him to a whole new way to fry flesh. And tell him I’m tired of mushrooms. No more mushrooms. Throw’m right out.”

  “But I like mushrooms,” Grady rebutted, leaning on his elbows and yawning.

  “Yeh? Let’s have a party. We’ll wallpaper Grady’s rack with mushrooms. Roob can reach both ends of the deck at the same—”

  “Dogan!” Roib screeched. “Work! We have to notify Starfleet!

  “Starfleet? What’d you want to tip off those prima donnas for? They’ll just laugh. I bin an independent contractor for longer than mosta those bootlickers been alive.” Dogan lumbered to that side of the bridge and peered Roib right in the eyes. Well, two of them, anyway. “Ever since I known you, kid, you think every blip on the scanner is something new and exciting and it never is. You always keep thinking you’ll find the big wonder. Forget it. We’re a survey unit. Everything we do is dull. Get used to it.”

  Roib’s shuddering dropped away, replaced by annoyance. His voice lost its chime. “Being around you, I’m already used to dull.”

  “Whatever you’re reading, you made a mistake,” Dogan insisted. “You don’t have spatial bodies this dense that are hollow inside. You don’t have ’em. Got it? Baby physics. There ain’t no such thing.”