Reap the Whirlwind

BelHoQ looked up from Krom’s latest report and scowled at Bohica. “Was that supposed to be a threat?” Before the effete Borzhan could answer, BelHoQ picked up the heaviest knick-knack on the man’s desk and threw it at him. The lumpy block of glazed ceramic caromed off Bohica’s broad forehead, knocked his spectacles off his face, and dropped the man unconscious to the deck. BelHoQ waved over two of his soldiers and pointed at the administrator. “Take him below.”

The warriors obeyed without speaking. As they dragged the Borzhan out of his office, Lieutenant Tonar walked in. “We have them, Commander. Three saboteurs.”

He bared his fangs with anticipation. “Where?”

“They were in a secured docking bay, trying to sneak aboard an impounded ship.” He walked to one of the office’s security monitors and switched it to a different internal feed. An image of the docking bay appeared, showing the three prisoners and the heavily armed squad of Klingon troops that had captured them. “We checked their identities,” he said as he walked back to the desk. “All three are wanted criminals who worked for the man who owned that ship.” Tonar handed a printed report to BelHoQ, who looked it over. “Our men found evidence that the suspects have been living aboard the impounded vessel, in scan-shielded hidden compartments under the deck plates.”

“Broon,” said BelHoQ, reading the name of the ship’s proprietor, a reputed arms dealer and interstellar racketeer who had been arrested several weeks earlier for possession of a stolen Imperial Klingon deep-space probe—one that had been deployed to chart the Jinoteur system. “Interesting,” the first officer said, thinking aloud. “It seems that Broon—or perhaps whatever criminal syndicate he works for—has an interest in the Jinoteur system. And they feel strongly enough about it to risk sabotaging our ship.” He cast a pointed stare at Tonar. “We have linked them directly to the sabotage, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” Tonar said. “A search of their ship uncovered several spare parts like the ones used to damage our sensor array—including some in the process of being disguised and a few failed pieces that look like early attempts.”

BelHoQ nodded with satisfaction. Hard evidence and solid indication of premeditated action. He couldn’t have asked for more, especially in so short a time. “Well done,” he said.

“Do you or the captain wish to question them?” asked Tonar.

“No,” he replied. “We’ve lost enough time as it is. File a complete report—and make sure you record the execution.”

The distant shrieks of disruptors echoed in the corridors.

“Sounds like Broon’s boys just got dusted,” said Delmark, a nondescript Orion man with dark hair, a lean physique, and a complexion of an especially deep hue of green.

His two comrades walked with him in a corridor above the hangar deck. Tarris, an Elasian woman with caramel-colored skin and snow-white hair, asked, “What if the Klingons keep investigating?” Her large, almond-shaped eyes harbored anxiety. “It won’t take a genius to realize those three couldn’t have accessed the station’s sewage-treatment system.”

“The Klingons won’t even think of that,” said Laëchem, a fair-haired Zibalian man with brilliant indigo and vermilion facial tattoos. “They have someone to blame, and now they have a schedule to keep. As long as we don’t hit them again, we should be in the clear.”

Delmark nodded. “I agree. It’s time to lay low.” Glancing out an observation window at the Klingon battle cruiser Zin’za, he added, “How long do you think it’ll take them to swab out the lower decks?”

“Weeks,” Laëchem said with a smirk.

All three accomplices chuckled. They stifled their mirth as a squad of Klingon warriors double-timed past them, on their way back to the ship. Tarris remarked, “Looks like they’re almost ready to go.” She checked her chrono. “Only eleven hours late…. Ganz won’t be happy about that.”

“It’s the best we can do,” Delmark said. “Besides, I think he’ll forgive us when he hears that one of his biggest rivals is both down for the count and taking the heat for our handiwork.”

Much to Captain Kutal’s relief, the Zin’za cleared moorings without further incident and navigated swiftly clear of commercial traffic in the Borzha system. Less than an hour after BelHoQ had imposed a much-deserved death sentence on the saboteurs, the Klingon warship was hurtling through space at maximum warp toward Jinoteur.

A disgusting reek permeated every compartment. Officers throughout the ship were much more vigilant than usual for any sign of insubordination. Any error, no matter how slight, by enlisted perso

The officers, at least, had the benefit of raiding the medical supplies for help. Each of the senior officers wore a smear of white ointment under his nose. The sharply medicinal salve was used by the ship’s surgeon principally for blocking the smell of decay while he performed autopsies. Now that the interior of the Zin’za smelled like something that had crawled up the back end of a targ and died, the ointment had become the most popular substance on the ship.

As successful as the salve was in blocking the ship’s pervasive stink, it also obliterated desirable odors. As Kutal and several of his top officers sat down in the mess hall, he expected his evening meal to lack much of its normal flavor.

Then the food slots opened, the officers saw their meals, and in unison Kutal and his men howled with rage.

Platters were heaped with spoiled Pipius claws, rotting bregit lung, and mold-covered heart of targ. Steins overflowed with sewage-tainted warnog. Dishes of rokeg blood pie crawled with bugs. Skewers of zilm’kach melted into orange slag.

The gagh was dead.

Kutal’s men hurled their trays of inedible food against the walls. The crashing trays were not loud enough to drown out the chorus of Klingon vulgarities echoing through the ship.

Picking up a fistful of the expired serpent worms, Kutal looked at the ruined delicacy and shook his head in dismay at this final insult. “Who would be so ruthless?”

19

Through the dense silhouette of the Jinoteur forest, the sky paled with early morning light. Niwara gathered up the perimeter security devices that had helped protect the site next to the river, where she and Terrell had camped for the night. The first officer busied himself securing their packs for travel.

“How much longer do you want to continue downriver?” she asked, hoping that he would not be hasty to abandon the search.

He looked at the brown water flowing past, then peered downriver as if looking there for the answer. “As long as we can,” he said, “or until the captain orders us back.”

A gentle pass of Niwara’s nimble paw powered down the last sensor device. It retracted into itself, becoming compact for storage and transport. She picked it up and tossed it into her secondary pack. At the riverside, Terrell adjusted the settings on his tricorder. “Still no sign of her,” he said. He looked worried as he added, “And the interference is getting worse.”

“What’s it from?” She squinted at the shafts of white light that cut through the jungle at shallow angles. “Is it solar?”

Looking skyward, Terrell said, “I don’t know.” He put away the tricorder. “I can’t tell if it’s natural or artificial. All I can say for sure is that it’s intense and it’s everywhere.”

Niwara cinched shut her spare pack and was about to walk over and claim her main pack from Terrell when a change in the air bristled her whiskers. An ozone smell and a galvanic tingle made the fur on her tail stand at attention. She stood absolutely still, searching with her ears, her eyes, and her nose. Terrell noticed her hyperalert state and remained quiet. With slow, cautious motions he reopened his pack, then drew his type-2 phaser from his belt. Together they waited.