Surefoot 32: Criminal Acts

"USS Surefoot-A, Captain's Log, Stardate 49611.84, Captain Esek Hrelle, commanding: we were en route to join the Fleet at the Sherman sector when we detected something strange while passing the Farius system: a vessel with obvious difficulties but not broadcasting a distress signal. Our initial contact with them produced a response assuring us that everything was fine and that we didn't need to approach them.

As this response sounded remarkably like my cub assuring me that he wasn't flooding the bathroom and that I didn't have to come in and investigate, I've decided to ignore them and draw nearer anyway."

"What the Hell...?"

Lt Commander Zawati had transferred over to serve as temporary First Officer a week ago, and in that time the Wakandan had proved to be of dry wit and general unflappability. Thus her uncharacteristic exclamation drew Hrelle's attention, making him turn his chair to face her station. "What's up?"

Her walnut-skinned brow furrowed with alarm. "Captain, we're close enough now to get better readings on the vessel... I'm reading about 3000 people over there, and based on the carbon monoxide levels they've had a total failure of their life support systems!"

He spun back in place, his tail twitching in alarm through the hole in the back of his seat. "Red Alert! Initiate Emergency Aid Protocols, send a Priority Three distress signal to any vessels in the immediate area!"

As his crew snapped into action and the apple-red lighting strip running around the perimeter of the Bridge ceiling flashed to life, he stared at the vessel onscreen: a basic carrier design, with a crescent shape wrapped around a much larger detachable cylindrical module, like a bird attempting to fly away with a pipe. It looked vaguely Ferengi in design, and more for industrial use than ferrying people. "Identification?"

"Its registry beam IDs it as the Ferengi ore carrier Easy Money," Zawati reported.

An ore carrier? he asked himself, setting that aside for now. "Prepare Away teams, Medical, Security and Engineering complements with environmental masks; they'll identify the most critical to beam over to us. And hail them again."

"They're hailing us, Sir. Onscreen."

The image of the carrier was replaced by the less-appealing image of a bulbous, peach-coloured head with fangs, beady eyes and DaiMon rank insignia. "What are you doing? This is a violation of Intergalactic Law! Leave or suffer the consequences!"

"Excuse me, DaiMon...?"

"Plent! I told you, go!"

"Firstly, DaiMon Plent, there's no such thing as Intergalactic Law. Secondly, if we leave, you'll be suffering the consequences. The life support systems in your carrier module have failed, and three thousand people are going to suffocate."

"We didn't ask you to assist! There was no agreement finalised!"

Hrelle's furred brow furrowed - and then he understood. "There is no charge to be levied on you for this rescue effort."

Plent blinked. "No charge?"

"Not one thin slip of latinum. All we want to do is help."

Then the Ferengi's face broke into a jagged smile. "Then by all means, come, come! Praise Starfleet! Praise the heroes of Surefoot! Praise-"

"Praise later. Just come to a full stop and we'll be there in a few minutes. Surefoot out." Louder now, he ordered, "Continue on course, full speed ahead." He turned to face Zawati, who was staring up at the screen as if still seeing Plent there. "Your first interaction with Ferengi, Olivia?"

The woman seemed to snap herself out of her distraction. "Sorry, Sir. Yes, yes, Sir. I- I've heard a lot about them, their obsession with profit. But to see how willing he was to risk the lives of his passengers over the thought of having to pay us to help them... I didn't expect them to be so heartless-"

"They're not generally like that," he admitted, "Killing customers and potential customers tends to be frowned upon by them as bad business sense. Unless they're in the arms business, of course."

Then her attention was drawn to an alert on her board. "Captain, we're receiving a response from a Starfleet vessel, coming to assist, ETA 8 minutes."

"Which vessel?"

"The USS Starsong, commanded by Captain-"

"Weynik!" he finished, allowing his Happy Tail to swish behind him. His old buddy was coming! That was just the cure for his funk following his absence from his wife and cubs! "Lt Commander, send my thanks, as well as the following message: 'Glad you're coming, Short Round, you can stay for dinner, and use one of Misha's old high chairs'." At her expression he added, "Go on."

The woman looked at him while she added the text and transmitted. They shared glances, until a reply arrived.

"Well?" he asked, grinning. "What did he say?"

Zawati stared in disbelief at her screen, before throwing her hands up in surrender, shaking her head and walking away.

Curious, he took her place at the station and read.

And nearly peed from laughing.

"Captain's Log, Supplemental: with the combined efforts of both the Surefoot and the Starsong, we have managed to identify the source of the life support malfunction and treat those most seriously affected, thankfully with no reported fatalities. Not that listening to the reports from my staff was any more reassuring."

"I'd like to take the ones responsible for that mess over there and make them sit on a red-hot branding iron," Doc Masterson declared in disgust. "They were slowly choking to death over there! And those damn Ferengi were happy to let them do it!"

"And if they hadn't died from suffocation," Chief Grev continued beside him at the conference table. "They would have from theta radiation poisoning; they damaged their own auxiliary power cores in the conversion to passenger ferrying, and their radiometric converters couldn't handle the output enough to prevent contamination. We removed some of the more dangerous cores, and will dispose of them per procedure when we're done here."

Hrelle glanced out the windows at the Easy Money, whose module dwarfed even the adjacent Starsong. "Where were they headed?"

"Regulus," C'Rash replied. "The nearest inhabitable system."

"They wouldn't have made it," Grev added. "If they had continued any farther from Farius Prime, they would have been too late to even return to their starting point."

"But why? Why were they so desperate to flee that they would risk their lives in a converted ore carrier module?"

"The War," C'Rash informed him sourly. "They're fleeing from the War with the Klingons."

He turned to face her. "What? Farius Prime isn't on the front lines! Yes, they're relatively close to the Imperial Border, but the Klingons have made no move to take over this sector!"

"I interviewed more than a few of the passengers," the sable-furred Caitian continued. "They all paid huge amounts of money for passage. The news services on Farius are filled with sensationalist warnings about an imminent Klingon invasion, death camps, theragen nerve gas bombs. There's panic on the planet, apparently."

"But the Federation News Service operates there, they must be reporting the truth!"

"Apparently that's just considered propaganda." She shrugged. "Fake news."

Hrelle shook his head. "What about DaiMon Plent? What does he have to say about his ship?"

"Surprisingly, he doesn't own the ship. The Easy Money is one of eight in a fleet owned by Maractor Movers on Farius Prime. They had a long-running contract supplying topaline to the Klingons until the War started. Then a month ago they moved into the refugee business, moving people from here to Regulus - for a price, of course."

"A needless price."

The door slid open, and Zawati entered with several Starfleet personnel. "Captain Hrelle, I've brought-"

"A puppy! You brought me a puppy!" He rushed up to the one with Captain's pips on his collar, a metre-high Roylan with swept-back aquamarine scales on his head, beady black stalked eyes and a hooked nose, and swept him up in his arms, spinning in place. "I'm gonna call him Scraps! I'll teach him tricks and we'll go off and have adventures together!" He grinned at the man in his arms, before setting him down again. "Hello, Little Buddy! How are ya?"

Captain Weynik grasped the side of Hrelle's desk, shaking the dizziness from his head. "I hope you don't hold your piece as tightly as you do me."

"No, mine's much bigger than you. And been held by more women."

"Now there's an image to have trapped in your head," C'Rash quipped, aware of the new female Caitian among Weynik's party, like herself wearing the gold colours of either Operations, Engineering or- no, the honey-furred beauty was definitely Security, the way she carried herself. And with a slightly familiar scent...

Hrelle hadn't noticed, however, still grinning at his fellow captain. "Look at you! It's been ages!" He made a measuring gesture with his hand over Weynik's head. "I told you, you need to work on gaining height, not weight! I could barely lift you up!"

"Next time wrap me in pitta bread, I bet you'll have no trouble then, Squab."

"Me, Squab? You're the Squab!"

"No, you're the Squab!"

"No, YOU'RE the Squab!"

"What's a Squab?" Masterson asked Grev, who responded with a shrug.

"No, YOU'RE the Squab!"

"No, YOU'RE the Squab!

"Captain," Zawati attempted.

And was ignored. "No, YOU'RE the Squab!"

"No, YOU'RE the Squab!"

Zawati looked to one of the Starsong crew, a Vulcan male with Lieutenant Commander's pips and Operations Gold colours like herself. "Will this be much longer, Mr Sorek?"

"Not in my experience, Ms Zawati, no."

Suddenly Hrelle held up a hand, beaming. "Family Time Out! How's Naida?"

"Fine, thanks, apart from her questionable taste in boyfriends. You make sure that son of yours remains a gentleman with her."

"Don't worry, Short Round, Kami will teach him how to curb that raging charisma he got from... me..." He sniffed the air, looking to the Starsong Caitian, his tail flicking. "Who are you? You're familiar."

"Literally." She smiled and strode up to him, holding out a hand. "I'm Captain Weynik's Tactical/Security Officer, Lt Cmdr Calli Hrelle."

He blinked, leaving her hand unshaken. "Hrelle?" He drew in closer, sniffing around her head, neck and underarms.

Zawati looked at Sorek again. "Is this normal?"

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "Our Caitian CMO has been known to behave similarly, though that is for diagnostic purposes. Admittedly she does exhibit a high degree of accuracy at such times."

Hrelle drew back, frowning. "You're one of Uncle Msuma's cubs?"

She beamed. "Got it in one, Cousin."

Now he beamed back and hugged her. "Awesome! We can't have enough Caitians in Starfleet!" He leaned in and in a mock-confidential tone clearly meant for everyone in the room to hear, he added, "There's far too many humans in it for my liking." He winked at Zawati, before asking Calli, "How's your Papa doing? I haven't seen him since my Mama's funeral! Does he still keep scratching his balls all the time?"

"As much as I'd love to hear more about the itchiness of my Tactical Officer's father's nethers," Weynik interrupted. "Perhaps we can finish this up and continue on our way to the Fleet before my father starts calling looking for us?"

Hrelle returned to business. "Have the repairs been made to the transport ship?"

Weynik looked to his Operations Officer. "Mr Sorek?"

The Vulcan turned to the group. "Our Engineering crew have completed fabricating additional life support recyclers to supplement the repaired equipment on the vessel."

Chief Grev grunted. "We could have done that."

Sorek looked to him. "Undoubtedly, Chief. But not with our speed. The Starsong's fabricators and resources are superior to your own."

"Eh? Boastful pup!"

"With respect, Sir, it is not boastful to state the facts-"

The Tellarite offered an elaborate curse that the Vulcan seemingly understood, given his raised eyebrow.

A curse that Weynik obviously understood, too. "I'd pay real money to see that attempted, Chief, but maybe another time. If we're done here-"

"We're not," Hrelle announced. As attention returned to him, he continued. "The company that owns this ship has others, all ferrying people from Farius Prime in the mistaken belief that the Klingons are about to sweep in and take over. And if the rest of the ships in their fleet are as crappy as this one was, another potential disaster is just around the corner. I intend to head in and try to straighten things out before we go."

"Captain," Zawati ventured. "We are required in the Sherman Sector-"

"We're required where lives are at risk, Lieutenant Commander," he clarified, leaning against his desk. "And the last report from the Fleet indicates that the Klingons haven't made any moves into that sector - yet. They can spare us a day or two here." He looked to Weynik. "Thanks for the help here, Captain. You don't have to stick around."

The Roylan regarded his friend, before shaking his head. "I think we'll come along, Captain. You might need our help... again."

Hrelle smiled. "When have I ever refused help?"

"Every time I offered to help you finish a shuris-topped pizza."

"Too true. Let's head to Farius Prime. Ms Zawati, show our guests back to the Transporter Room. Everyone else: dismissed."

He watched his crew and guests file out, Weynik giving him a Thumbs Up as he was the last to leave. The door slid shut.

But not before the Roylan called back in, "You're the Squab!"

"No, YOU'RE-" But the door slid shut, leaving Hrelle to finish in a curse.

"Captain's Log, Supplemental: The Surefoot and Starsong have entered orbit around Farius Prime, where our analysis of the planet's most popular media channel confirms the scaremongering mentioned by the passengers on the Easy Money. It is disturbing that so many people might be swayed by just one source of information, without seeking to gain corroboration from other sources.

It is doubly disturbing to learn more about that one source of information..."

"Maractor Media?" Hrelle repeated. "Maractor? Why is that familiar?"

"It's the same name as the company that owns the transport ships," Zawati reported, calling up the image of an older Ferengi male on her screen. "According to the planetary financial database, he owns both, and a few other diverse businesses here. In fact, he is one of the wealthiest individuals on the planet."

Hrelle grunted; Farius Prime was an independent world, but that meant the likes of the Orion Syndicate would have a hold here, and no doubt someone with that amount of power and influence would be connected to them in some way. "What a coincidence. Try to contact Mr Maractor. I'd like to have a word with him."

The Wakandan woman started to reply, but then examined an update on her board. "Actually, Captain, he's sent us a message: you're invited to his corporate headquarters in Crescent City in one hour, to have him thank you for your help with the Easy Money."

Hrelle grunted; when he had obtained further information from the DaiMon of the Easy Money, they detected that the Ferengi had sent a coded message back to Farius Prime, no doubt warning his boss of their imminent arrival. "Send confirmation of my arrival. And invite Captain Weynik to accompany me."

"Aye, Sir."

"Oh, and also: inform him that he's the Squab."

She looked to him. "Sir, may I speak freely?"

"Of course."

"Sir, don't you think that, given the level of responsibility both you and Captain Weynik bear, that you should act a little more... adult?"

Hrelle smiled. "As a hero of mine once said, 'There's no point being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes.'"

He beamed down into a business plaza that festooned with the images and name of Maractor, along with floating holoadvertisements for his various enterprises, with Weynik appearing beside him. The area was clean - but if he looked outside of it, he could see squalor, kept back by armed guards.

An advertisement caught his eye. "Opiods? Aren't they addictive, illegal?"

"Not here," Weynik noted with a scowl. "Maractor Medicines is apparently booming with tranquiliser sales, given all the anxiety about the War. Of course, according to my Operations Officer's research, there's also an 80% increase in deaths reported from overdoses, but Maractor Media is convinced that's just a coincidence."

Another commercial made his jaw drop. "And personal firearms, from Maractor Munitions?"

Weynik nodded. "With a 62% rise in deaths from accidents and incidents."

"Another coincidence?"

"If you listen to the right news, yes."

The Captains' attention was drawn to the approach of a tall, thin human in a dark sober suit and receding silver hair, who smiled politely. "Gentlemen! I am Mr Elchee, Mr Maractor's assistant! He wanted to welcome you to Farius Prime personally, so he sent me!!" He beckoned them. "Please, Mr Maractor is eager to thank you!"

They entered a pristine, spacious lobby with more images of the Ferengi, before proceeding to a private lift. Once inside, Weynik asked, "And how long have you worked for Maractor?"

"Oh, for the last three years. He's an amazing businessman. Such lobes on him. I've learned a lot."

"Really?" Hrelle asked. "And you don't mind that he's deceiving and fleecing your people?"

The man twitched, but continued to stare ahead as the lift's transparent windows offered a view of the city outside during the ascent. "Oh, I'm sure you're wrong, Captain. Mr Maractor offers a wealth of products and services to his customers, all at reasonable costs."

Hrelle studied the man's scent and body language; he was clearly concerned, if not agitated by the notion, but kept his true feelings hidden as best he could. "Reasonable? Three thousand people, innocent families, almost died in one of his ships, needlessly evacuating them from a planet that is not in imminent danger of invasion!"

Elchee kept his poker face fixed. "I'm sure you're wrong, Captain. Mr Maractor is an amazing businessman."

Hrelle was ready to argue further, until Weynik nudged him, his eyestalks pointing upwards to a corner of the lift ceiling. Hrelle glanced up, seeing the monitoring devices in place.

They emerged into an open-plan area that was as much a further shrine to the owner as it was a business area. And at the centre, on a low plush couch of crushed velvet that was raised enough so visitors still had to look up, a Ferengi with greying tufts of ear hair and rich Tholian silk robes reclined, attended by scantily-clad females of many races offering him wine, grub worms or a massage of his huge lobes. He sat up, beaming, his arms wide. "Ahh, the heroes of the hour! Come, come! Sit, take off your boots, let my women attend you! Wine for our guests! Vraxoin! Grubs!"

"Thank you, no," Weynik said in disgust. "I am-"

"Captain Weynik," Maractor finished, pointing at him. "Of the Starsong, and your big-boned companion is Captain Hrelle of the Surefoot."

Hrelle let himself get distracted by the scent of the two hulking Hupryians standing nearby, silent but present. "You know of us?"

"Of course! And why not, after all you've done for me and those poor unfortunate people on my transport? I owe you..." But then he quickly added, "My gratitude. Nothing more, of course, I didn't ask you to step in, no contract was stipulated-"

"We didn't come looking for payment," Weynik informed him. "We came to find out if the other ships you're using to transport people are just as bad as the one we helped fix."

The Ferengi peered at him. "Why? Are you looking to help upgrade those as well? If so, then by all means, I'll arrange-"