The Joy Machine 13 - Aeropolis-Two
Title: The Joy Machine
Author: Soledad
For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the secondary index page
Author’s notes:
I got the idea for the “payday” niches from Tutankhamon’s grave. Guarding his sarcophagus at all four corners were golden statues of goddesses, protecting the coffin with peculiarly spread arms. The gesture made the statues themselves look absolutely vulnerable, and that was the look I was going for when thinking about how “payday” might have been delivered.
Re: the banners that should have been in Marouk’s antechamber. The colours are from “The Star Fleet Technical Manual” by Franz Joseph. Apparently, the Federation emblem was red in the 23rd century, with silver stars and the elongated letters UFP in the middle.
CHAPTER 13 - AEROPOLIS - TWO
The landing party materialized in the foyer of Governor Marouk’s office - coordinates courtesy of the amazingly thorough Tellarites who had recorded just about every oh-so-tiny detail they’d managed to lay hand - or one should probably have said hoof - on. Both Geeta and the Denebians had assured that this was the only place (situated on the upmost level of the city-tower) with direct access to the roof where the atmospheric gliders were parked. That made perfect sense. People would have no chance to escape through the governor’s own office, even if they wanted. Of which Decker wasn’t sure, after what they’d heard during debrief.
In any case, the atmospheric gliders were the only means to leave Aeropolis, it seemed, aside from transporter technology; but the colonists of Thimsel didn’t use transporters. At least they hadn’t had any two years earlier when the Tellarites had left the planet. Or, to be more accurate, the Tellarites hadn’t seen any at work. Which still didn’t mean there really weren’t any. Decker chose to be very careful with his guesses.
The foyer was a spectacular room. One of its entire walls was a huge window, made of unbreakable transparent aluminium, polarized to filter the harsh sunlight to a pleasant level of warmth. In front of this window a semi-circle of low benches stood, made of some local stone, left intentionally rough and unpolished, but padded with flat, gold-patterned leather pillows. The benches half-encircled a small artificial pond, complete with fountain and the local equivalent of goldfish: palm-sized, iridescent creatures that glittered in the water like jewels. The water of the fountain not only kept the pale sea-roses - or whatever water plants they might be - sufficiently sprayed, it also produces a soothing sound.
“Artificial plants,” Xon declared after a fleeting glance, without the need of consulting his tricorder. “And the fish are holograms. I must admit, I cannot see the point.”
Decker shrugged. “Laziness. They’re pretty, and once the whole thing has been set up, they don’t require any further care.”
“But they are not real,” Xon said, obviously not getting the point. “They are illusions… or even less than that.”
“Human being can be completely happy living in illusions,” Decker assured him with a wry grin. “I know it must seem illogical for you, Lieutenant, but it’s not always a bad thing. Now, let’s try figure out what’s going on here, shall we?”
Xon shook his head in mild exasperation but followed his team deeper further into the foyer. Humans were exceedingly strange, illogical beings indeed. Sometimes he wondered how long it would take for him to start understanding them… if ever.
According to the rules, the silver-and-red banner of the Federation, the silver-and-blue banner of the United Nations of Earth, the yellow-orange-copper-and-brass banner of the Cygnus System and the purple-and-gold banner of the Alpha Centauri Concordium of Planets should have been displayed in the foyer, as these were the nations the original colonists had belonged to. (Denebians never displayed their banner on foreign planets.) None of those could be seen here, though. Instead, long and narrow cobalt banners were hanging from everywhere, with ornamental letters in gold, which Zara Jamal recognized as quotes from the Koran.
At the farthest end of the foyer a smoky, transparent glass wall divided the secretary’s office: a middle-sized room that looked like a well-equipped information centre, with a startling number of surveillance monitors. Behind the completely computerized desk a young, blonde woman was sitting in a rotating armchair, watching one of the monitors with such a single-minded concentration that she didn’t even noticed the arrival of the strangers. Behind the desk, there was a strange depression in the wall: man-sized and man-shaped, as if made for a person to stand in it, with both their arms half raised to the sides. There were similar niches along the wall opposite the floor-to-ceiling window. They uncomfortably reminded Decker of ghost stories about people being walled in alive.
As the automatic door hissed open, the secretary glanced up from her monitor. She was fairly young indeed, perhaps twenty-six or so, pretty and well-clad, in the fashion that had been popular on Earth just a couple of years earlier, her face pale and oval-shaped. But not even her smooth, even features could conceal the haunted look in her blue eyes, although otherwise her face seemed strangely… empty.
“The governor doesn’t accept any visitors,” she said automatically, like a well-programmed computer, without actually looking at the newcomers.
To the utter surprise of the landing party, Decker’s jaw fell literally.
“Danielle?” he asked, completely thunderstruck. “What are you doing here? Since when have you been here?”
The young woman looked at him with those strange, haunted eyes. There was barely any recognition in her glance.
“Will? Is that truly you? Have you come with the ship in orbit?“ She would have a soft, pleasant voice, had it not completely lacked any emotions. There was no true interest in her questions - it could have been voiced by a computer… and not a terribly advanced one.
“Of course I have,” it was hard for Decker to pull himself together; the last person he’d expected to find in Aeropolis would have been his fiancée. His ex-fiancée, apparently. His ex-fiancée who barely recognized him, by the look of things. “I’m First Officer of the Enterprise now. Just promoted to Lieutenant Commander before the launch of her new five-year-mission.”
He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was babbling like an idiot, and the sharp look Mohammed Jahma gave him warned him that he was giving away information, but this unexpected reunion had thrown him off-kilt a little. He’d all but given up on seeing Danielle ever again - and seeing her like this was ringing alarm bells in his head.
“The Enterprise?” Danielle echoed with the same flat indifference. “Kirk’s ship, then. The governor didn’t expect such… illustrious visitors.”
“Does that mean you’ve received our transmissions?” Decker asked sharply. The young woman shrugged.
“Of course. We’re not stupid, you know. We’re capable of using our own comm system.”
“Why haven’t you answered our hails, then?” Decker asked in exasperation.
“We’re not interested in contacts with other worlds,” Danielle replied indifferently. “We prefer to mind our own business and to be left alone. Besides, your timing couldn’t possibly be worse. Payday’s coming up; and we’ve been waiting for it long enough.”
That was a very peculiar statement, but before any of the visitors could have said anything, a long, melodic signal sounded from the hidden loudspeakers, resounding via the comm systems through the entire monstrous, five-hundred-floor building.
“Finally!” Danielle sighed in obvious relief, very much in the manner of a starving woman in at the sight of a seven-course-banquet laid out in front of her.
She rose from her chair and stepped back, directly into the niche behind her desk. In the moment her palms touched the wall, thin, elastic cables shot forth from hidden access ports and attached themselves to her temples. Automated shackles snapped free, fastening her wrists and ankles to the wall, immobilizing her efficiently. She didn’t seem to mind, though. Her eyes closed on their own, her entire body went slack, and every last bit of expression vanished from her blank face.
“Doc,” Decker said, frightened, “what’s happening with her?”
Dr, Noël hurried to her side, pulled up her eyelids and examined her pupils. They were so dilated that only a thin ring of blue could be seen from her irises. She seemed completely unaware of he examination, or, indeed, of the doctor’s very presence.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to learn anything else from her, at least not at the moment,” the neuropsychologist judged. “She’s very obviously an addict in an advanced phase of her addiction, whatever specific kind that might be. Do you know her, Mr. Decker?”
“Her name is Danielle DuMolin; we used to be betrothed,” Decker shook his head in shocked disbelief. “Well, technically, we still are; our engagement has never been officially annulled. What’s wrong with her, doctor? She seems just this side from being brain dead. She used to be such a warm, intelligent young woman!”
“I don’t doubt it, Commander,” the neuropsychologist replied sorrowfully. “Her current state is caused by her addiction. And I’m afraid if we don’t refer her to a psychiatric institute as soon as possible, it would be too late for her.”
“It is already too late,” a deep, somewhat dry voice said behind them. “I regret to say that her state is irreparable. And unfortunately, that is true for most other people on this planet.”
Mohammed Jahma whirled around like a startled cobra, ready to strike, phaser already in hand. Zara Jamal followed suit barely a heartbeat later. The newcomer, whose arrival none of them had heard, was a tall, wiry, bald-headed elderly man, whose gaunt face spoke of Egyptian ancestors. He was wearing a long, black robe with a high collar that looked like a funnel, emphasizing the suggestive, almost threatening air of his appearance. His thin moustache and short-trimmed, pointed goatee was not greying yet. Zara Jamal made an ancient warding gesture with her free hand and murmured something in her mother tongue.
That must have surprised the newcomer because his formerly theatrical glide became a lot more subdued at once.
“I didn’t know that other people have managed to escape the narrow-minded holiness of Medina as well,” he said in a fairly natural manner. “How did you get this far, daughter?”
“As a stowaway aboard a freighter,” Zara Jamal replied, performing the ceremonial bow that young people owed their elders. “Governor Marouk, I presume?”
“I’m called that, yes,” the Mephisto-like apparition nodded with dignity, obviously pleased with her. “Although I’m merely responsible for the delegation and evaluation of work here.”
“And who is responsible for Danielle’s state of mind?” Decker asked accusingly. “How did she end up here, and why hasn’t she returned to Earth as planned?”
“Ah,” Marouk said with a benevolent smile, “you must be Will Decker, then. I have heard about you. A great deal, in fact. Danielle’s father used to be an old business associate of mine, back on Rigel VI. She originally came to Thimsel to visit me and my family.”
“So you’re the one who’s hindered her in returning to me?” Decker asked through clenched teeth. Mohammed Jahma shot him another sharp look, but Marouk didn’t seem to take any offence.
“Nonsense, Commander,” he replied calmly. “The truth is, Danielle settled down on Thimsel so quickly, she liked it here so much, that she simply didn’t want to leave the planet anymore.”
“That still doesn’t explain why she hasn’t sent as much as a lifesign, all the time,” Decker said sullenly. “We were supposed to get married, for God’s sake!”
Marouk shrugged diplomatically and spread his hands.
“The people of Thimsel aren’t interested in contacts with other worlds,” that sounded like a mantra, drilled into anyone thoroughly. “I was fairly surprised by this reluctance myself, when I moved here a few years ago. But newcomers adjust to this attitude in an amazingly short time, as a rule.”
Xon glanced at Ilia. The Deltan shook her sleek, bald head with a tiny, barely visible gesture, signalling that the human was lying.
“Well, it is a known fact that social pressure from tightly organized societies can prove quite… overwhelming, especially for Terrans,” the young Vulcan said in a calm, neutral tone. Your predecessor, Dr. Ra’khal must have had a rather… unique vision about social order.”
For a moment, Marouk was honestly surprised, but he was eager to agree.
“That’s correct, Mr…” he trailed out.
“My name is Xon,” the Vulcan told him.
“My pleasure, Mr. Xon,” Marouk inclined his head. “You seem to have a good grasp on our situation. Governor Ra’khal’s ultimate goal was to build a disciplined, efficiently working colony. In order to reach that goal, he used… extraordinary methods, with long-lasting results, the effects of which can, unfortunately, no longer be repaired.”
“Was this the reason why Thimsel has not sent any official reports to the Federation authorities and also otherwise refrained from every contact with the rest of the Federation?” Xon asked in the same measured tone. “This has caused a certain degree of concern in Starfleet Headquarters as well as by the respective governments that had sent colonists to this planet. Nether have you fulfilled your acknowledged obligations towards the Federation, which fact has caused even more concern. This is not an independent world, Governor; this is a Terran colony. You cannot simply quit your contracts one-sidedly; and it would be naïve to think that - given enough time - the Federation would simply forget about you.”
“We never believed that,” Marouk replied in a benevolent manner, without as much as a blink of an eye, “but we were having… difficulties with the reorganizing of our mining industry. With so many people becoming unfit to do regular work, we had to switch to automated mining - and that took up a lot of time and resources.”
“Yet it has not hindered you in rising this city-tower,” Xon replied calmly. Marouk waved his hand elegantly.
“Oh, that was only possible due to the generous help of Ardana. You now, after the catastrophic failure of the agrarian projects of my predecessor, we needed new homes for our colonists. The government of Mu Leonis II, generously enough, not only provided us with the necessary technology, but also with the workers.”
“Ardana seems to lead a surprisingly extroverted life lately,” the young Vulcan commented innocently. “In any case, that explains how the population of Thimsel could have experienced such an enormous increase of numbers. I assume the Troglytes have come voluntarily.”
“Of course,” Marouk assured him. “In fact, they are deadly afraid of being sent back home. They’ve never had such a good life as here.”
Knowing the inhuman circumstances under which the Troglytes had to labour in the zienite mines of Ardana, Xon actually didn’t doubt that. He told so, according the truth. His declaration seemed to have put Marouk’s suspicion at ease, at least for the time being (people tended to take everything a Vulcan said for face value), and the governor even gave the Starfleet officers permission to visit the great industrial plants and see with their won eyes how the ore processing was making headway. As soon as the reorganization was completed, he said, Thimsel would be, once again, capable of fulfilling its obligations towards the Federation.
At the same time, he invited them to be his guests in Aeropolis for the time of their visit on Thimsel. This was an excellent chance - one they hadn’t hoped for, to be honest - so Decker called the Enterprise and got Kirk’s blessing. Seemingly delighted about this, Marouk ordered hostesses to the guest rooms of his residence to prepare everything for the unexpected visitors.
“Would you honour me with having dinner in my home tonight?” he then asked the guests politely. “We can discuss matters in more detail afterwards.”
“We are the ones who would be honoured,” Xon replied, instead of the still concerned and very tense Decker.
“Forgive us, Governor,” Zara Jamal bowed respectfully, “but Yeoman Jahma and I are practicing Muslims; we’re not allowed to participate in feasts during the Ramadan.”
“My family has kept the Faith in this far-away colony just as we have at home,” Marouk replied with an elegant bow of his own, “and thus we keep the Ramadan as well. Worry not, for this dinner is going to be a humble meal, served after sunset.”
“In that case we, too, accept the invitation gratefully,” Mohammed Jahma inclined his head.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The hostesses, sent by Governor Marouk to prepare the guest quarters, were small, Oriental-looking women, with sleek, snake-like limber bodies, and their triangular faces oddly reminded of the heads of cobras, due to their almond eyes, slanted pupils, broad cheekbones and somewhat abruptly tapering chins. They had short, thick, jet-black hair that formed a shiny helmet, low, smoky voices and very small, almost lipless mouths. They looked like humans, but at second sight it became very obvious that they were not.
Decker remembered what Lieutenant Osborne had told them about regular Orion women and had no doubts that these must have come with the freighters Geeta had mentioned - as cargo, most likely. The main race of Orions might not have rudimentary scales like the male specimens of the green savages, but they couldn’t have denied their reptilian origins, either, even though their evolution had taken a different turn somewhere along the way.
In any case, the hostesses had done an excellent job with the guest quarters. Not even a five-star hotel room on Earth - or on any holiday planet - could have been better than these. The luxury displayed here surprised some members of the landing party; the ones unfamiliar with Islamic customs.
“Hospitality is one of the pillars of our culture,” Zara Jamal explained. “It demands from the host to offer his best, no matter the costs.”
“it doesn’t’ hurt to be a bit suspicious, though,” Mohammed Jahma said, handing her a scanner nicknamed ‘bug detector’ among security people. “Take a look at the ladies’ quarters, I’ll check out the rest.”
A few minutes later both reported not having found any listening devices in any of the guest quarters.
“Unless they’re integrated in the walls by design, which I doubt, since ferroconcrete would interfere with them, the rooms are clean,” Mohammed Jahma declared. “Still, I suggest that during tactical discussions we use this.”
This was a ring with a large red stone. Mohammed Jahma pressed his thumb against the stone shortly, and its colour turned green.
“It’s activated now,” he said.
“What is this?” Dr. Noël examined the unusual piece of jewellery with interest. She had a thing for useful little gadgets that were far more than they looked.
“Precaution,” Mohammed Jahma replied. “The ‘stone’ is actually a miniature generator that emanates a scattering field… very useful when we’re unsure about listening devices.”
“It’s not part of the standard security equipment, though,” Zara Jamal added unnecessarily. “Where did you get it from, Moh?”
“Lieutenant Osborne lent it to me,” her fellow security officer replied. “He has it from his time with Intelligence, I guess. I never asked. But it comes handy now. I’d suggest that Lieutenant Ilia wear it; Deltans are known to like exotic jewellery, and are even allowed to wear those when in uniform.”
Ilia accepted without a word, and they all watched in amazement as the golden ring, formerly wide enough for the big fingers of the security officer, gradually adjusted its size to her much finer bones.
“Clever,” Dr. Noël said, impressed. “Brand new technology, right?”
“And most likely classified,” Decker added. “All right, people, now that we can speak freely, what are your first impressions?”
“I assume we have played our role convincingly, so far,” in typical Vulcan efficiency, Xon felt that it was his duty to summarize their experiences. “As long as Governor Marouk believes that he can mislead us, we have the opportunity to see through his schemes. However, you must be very careful, Commander. It’s my opinion that the governor thinks of you as a risk, because of your former relationship with Ms DuMolin. There is a chance of seventy-eight per cent that he might try to eliminate that risk by orchestrating a… an ‘unfortunate accident’ for you, and a seventy point two per cent chance that he will succeed.”
“We can protect you from a straightforward attack,” Mohammed Jahma added, “or so I hope anyway, since both Lieutenant Ilia and Dr. Noël are crack shots, and Vulcans are notoriously good at hand-to-hand combat. But as Lieutenant Xon has said, orchestrating an ‘accident’ wouldn’t be too hard in such a thoroughly controlled environment. Please, be very careful and go nowhere alone.”
“Do you really think he’d try to get me killed?” Decker couldn’t completely believe it. But the Nigerian was deadly serious.
“If he believes that your presence could threaten his position here, or loosen his grip on the people, yes, he would,” he said. “I have the feeling that here’s a lot at stake for him. I just can’t be sure what.”
“Perhaps Lieutenant Ilia can be of assistance,” the Vulcan turned to the Deltan. “Lieutenant, have your empathic senses received anything from Governor Marouk?”
“Not much,” Ilia replied thoughtfully. “I had to be very subtle, as a trained mind can easily detect telepathic probing, and he seems to have had excellent training. But one thing is certain: he doesn’t trust Mr. Decker. For the moment, however, he’s planning to make us believe that the production fallout was the result of the local… difficulties with industrial reorganization and blame it all on his predecessor. He’s trying to win our trust; if he can get us to send back a positive report to Federation authorities, he’ll be able to apply for the status of an independent colony during the next session of the Federation Council. By then, the required years of existence would be reached.”
“Clever,” Dr. Noël nodded, impressed against her will. “With the current population and industrial level Thimsel would indeed have the potential to achieve independent status. With a positive report from the Enterprise, Governor Marouk could become the legal ruler of this world.”
“Does he really believe to get away with such a deceit?” Mohammed Jahma shook his head incredulously.
“Actually, I would say his chances are quite good,” the Vulcan replied dryly, directing their attention at the standard information screen embedded in the wall. “Have you known who the Federation Undersecretary for Agrarian Affairs is in this sector?”
The others gathered in front of the screen, but the face - and the name that belonged to it - only said Dr. Noël something.
“Nilz Baris!” she exclaimed in surprise. “Isn’t he that idiot of a bureaucrat who wanted to ferry quadrotriticale to Sherman’s Planet, without realizing that his own aide, a surgically altered Klingon, had poisoned the seed?”
Decker, who’d heard about it for the first time, raised his head in interest. “Really? What’s happened to the Klingon?”
“He got his trial, was sentenced to lifelong imprisonment and sent to the penal colony Limbo, on the planet Magna,” Dr. Noël replied. “Undersecretary Baris was accused of dereliction of his duties and reassigned to Minerva, the administrative centre of this sector.”
“Is this Mr. Baris still on Minerva?” Ilia asked, starting to see the hidden connections.
“Apparently not,” Xon replied, after having downloaded the necessary information. “He seems to have moved to Thimsel, two and a half years ago. He is represented on Minerva by the commanding officer of the planetary Starbase located on Minerva, Commodore José Mendez.”
For a while, they were all digesting the news.
“The captain must be informed about this,” Dr. Noël said finally. “He and Mr. Baris parted, well, less than amiably - if Governor Marouk and Baris are doing business together, this is perhaps even bigger than we’ve thought.”
“I agree,” Xon nodded, “however, there is a chance of ninety-eight point six two per cent that our communication would be recorded - or even jammed.”
“We mustn’t raise any suspicions,” Zara Jamal emphasized. “I suggest that we report in personally.”
“And how do you intend to do that?” Decker asked.
“When we’ve left the governor’s quarters after dinner, I’ll initiate an emergency beam-out, using my transponder,” Zara explained. “If we’re lucky, I can beam out and back in without being noticed.”
“They will definitely notice any transporter activity,” Xon shook his head. “You cannot return, Yeoman. We can consider ourselves lucky if you get out in the first place.”
“And if someone asks for me?” she riposted.
“We shall tell them that you have suddenly gotten ill,” the Vulcan suggested, “and that an emergency transfer had to be asked for. Of course, it would be helpful if you were able to simulate a few symptoms.”
“Well, with a little help…” Zara Jamal turned to Dr. Noël. “Doc, could you shot me with something that would cause me a few hours of dyspnoea?”
“Sure,” Dr. Noël shrugged. “But how is that supposed to help you get out?”
“There’s a very peculiar kind of asthma known only among the inhabitants of Medina,” Zara Jamal explained. “A relatively high percentage of the people - strangely enough, mostly women - have a strong allergic reaction to the high concentration of fern spores that’s gathered by the seasonal winds, twice a local year. Since Governor Marouk comes from Medina, he’ll recognize my ‘illness’ at once.”
“Is that not dangerous?” Mohammed Jahma asked, clearly not liking the idea.
Zara Jamal patted his back like that of a big, friendly dog. She liked him, but his over-protectiveness was trying sometimes.
“You worry too much, Moh. I’ve used that trick before, and it always worked like a charm.”
“I still don’t like it,” Mohammed replied stubbornly. “You can set off a true attack - who knows how much you’re inclined to have the illness already?”
“I don’t,” Zara rolled her eyes. “I’d been thoroughly checked before I got accepted by Starfleet. Don’t fret, it’s perfectly safe. You don’t have to be so protective about me, just because I’m short and a woman. We don’t live in the twentieth century anymore.”
“The yeoman is correct,” Xon said. “It is an acceptable risk. And we need to inform the captain.”
Dr. Noël looked at Decker. “It’s your decision, sir… and, ultimately, your responsibility.”
“Can you do it?” Decker asked.
“Of course,” she answered with a shrug. “The how is not the problem. The health risk is.”
“How high is the risk?” Decker asked.
“Barely existent,” Dr. Noël replied, “but we can never tell with one hundred per cent certainty. Medicine is a less exact science than, say, mathematics.”
“I’m aware of that, sir,” Zara Jamal argued quietly. “And I volunteer. Dr. McCoy would know what to do. We need to do this.”
“Perhaps,” Decker admitted glumly. “I still don’t like it, Yeoman.”
“Neither do I, sir; as while it might not be dangerous, it’s definitely unpleasant. But we really don’t have that many choices,” the yeoman pointed out. “Besides, look at it from this angle: at least I’ll be out of harm’s way aboard the Enterprise.”
“If you live long enough to get there in the first place,” Decker sighed; then he gave in. “Very well, doctor; let’s give it a try.”
Dr. Noël sorted through her medkit, choosing the ingredients for a proper cocktail very carefully. This went against her interpretation of the Hippocratic Oath, but even she had to admit that the yeoman’s trick was probably the only way to alert the Enterprise about the suspected nature of Marouk’s machinations. Still, she didn’t have to like it, did she?
She loaded the hypospray with the finished cocktail and pressed the small injector against Zara’s neck. The instrument hissed like a snake while it emptied the not-quite-harmless substances into the yeoman’s system. Zara Jamal hold still during the short process and showed no reaction to the medicine so far.
“Done,” Dr. Noël said, clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing.
“How long until the cocktail causes the first symptoms?” Zara asked. The pretty doctor sighed.
“Four hours… perhaps a little longer.”
“Good,” Zara said. “There’s still almost as long until the local sunset. I’ll have a spectacular show in the middle of Governor Marouk’s dinner.”
“I wonder, though, who will be truly entertained,” Mohammed Jahma murmured.
Chapter 14 - Prodigal Daughters
For visuals: Yeoman Zara Jamal
Dr. Helen Noël:
Author: Soledad
For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the secondary index page
Author’s notes:
I got the idea for the “payday” niches from Tutankhamon’s grave. Guarding his sarcophagus at all four corners were golden statues of goddesses, protecting the coffin with peculiarly spread arms. The gesture made the statues themselves look absolutely vulnerable, and that was the look I was going for when thinking about how “payday” might have been delivered.
Re: the banners that should have been in Marouk’s antechamber. The colours are from “The Star Fleet Technical Manual” by Franz Joseph. Apparently, the Federation emblem was red in the 23rd century, with silver stars and the elongated letters UFP in the middle.
CHAPTER 13 - AEROPOLIS - TWO
The landing party materialized in the foyer of Governor Marouk’s office - coordinates courtesy of the amazingly thorough Tellarites who had recorded just about every oh-so-tiny detail they’d managed to lay hand - or one should probably have said hoof - on. Both Geeta and the Denebians had assured that this was the only place (situated on the upmost level of the city-tower) with direct access to the roof where the atmospheric gliders were parked. That made perfect sense. People would have no chance to escape through the governor’s own office, even if they wanted. Of which Decker wasn’t sure, after what they’d heard during debrief.
In any case, the atmospheric gliders were the only means to leave Aeropolis, it seemed, aside from transporter technology; but the colonists of Thimsel didn’t use transporters. At least they hadn’t had any two years earlier when the Tellarites had left the planet. Or, to be more accurate, the Tellarites hadn’t seen any at work. Which still didn’t mean there really weren’t any. Decker chose to be very careful with his guesses.
The foyer was a spectacular room. One of its entire walls was a huge window, made of unbreakable transparent aluminium, polarized to filter the harsh sunlight to a pleasant level of warmth. In front of this window a semi-circle of low benches stood, made of some local stone, left intentionally rough and unpolished, but padded with flat, gold-patterned leather pillows. The benches half-encircled a small artificial pond, complete with fountain and the local equivalent of goldfish: palm-sized, iridescent creatures that glittered in the water like jewels. The water of the fountain not only kept the pale sea-roses - or whatever water plants they might be - sufficiently sprayed, it also produces a soothing sound.
“Artificial plants,” Xon declared after a fleeting glance, without the need of consulting his tricorder. “And the fish are holograms. I must admit, I cannot see the point.”
Decker shrugged. “Laziness. They’re pretty, and once the whole thing has been set up, they don’t require any further care.”
“But they are not real,” Xon said, obviously not getting the point. “They are illusions… or even less than that.”
“Human being can be completely happy living in illusions,” Decker assured him with a wry grin. “I know it must seem illogical for you, Lieutenant, but it’s not always a bad thing. Now, let’s try figure out what’s going on here, shall we?”
Xon shook his head in mild exasperation but followed his team deeper further into the foyer. Humans were exceedingly strange, illogical beings indeed. Sometimes he wondered how long it would take for him to start understanding them… if ever.
According to the rules, the silver-and-red banner of the Federation, the silver-and-blue banner of the United Nations of Earth, the yellow-orange-copper-and-brass banner of the Cygnus System and the purple-and-gold banner of the Alpha Centauri Concordium of Planets should have been displayed in the foyer, as these were the nations the original colonists had belonged to. (Denebians never displayed their banner on foreign planets.) None of those could be seen here, though. Instead, long and narrow cobalt banners were hanging from everywhere, with ornamental letters in gold, which Zara Jamal recognized as quotes from the Koran.
At the farthest end of the foyer a smoky, transparent glass wall divided the secretary’s office: a middle-sized room that looked like a well-equipped information centre, with a startling number of surveillance monitors. Behind the completely computerized desk a young, blonde woman was sitting in a rotating armchair, watching one of the monitors with such a single-minded concentration that she didn’t even noticed the arrival of the strangers. Behind the desk, there was a strange depression in the wall: man-sized and man-shaped, as if made for a person to stand in it, with both their arms half raised to the sides. There were similar niches along the wall opposite the floor-to-ceiling window. They uncomfortably reminded Decker of ghost stories about people being walled in alive.
As the automatic door hissed open, the secretary glanced up from her monitor. She was fairly young indeed, perhaps twenty-six or so, pretty and well-clad, in the fashion that had been popular on Earth just a couple of years earlier, her face pale and oval-shaped. But not even her smooth, even features could conceal the haunted look in her blue eyes, although otherwise her face seemed strangely… empty.
“The governor doesn’t accept any visitors,” she said automatically, like a well-programmed computer, without actually looking at the newcomers.
To the utter surprise of the landing party, Decker’s jaw fell literally.
“Danielle?” he asked, completely thunderstruck. “What are you doing here? Since when have you been here?”
The young woman looked at him with those strange, haunted eyes. There was barely any recognition in her glance.
“Will? Is that truly you? Have you come with the ship in orbit?“ She would have a soft, pleasant voice, had it not completely lacked any emotions. There was no true interest in her questions - it could have been voiced by a computer… and not a terribly advanced one.
“Of course I have,” it was hard for Decker to pull himself together; the last person he’d expected to find in Aeropolis would have been his fiancée. His ex-fiancée, apparently. His ex-fiancée who barely recognized him, by the look of things. “I’m First Officer of the Enterprise now. Just promoted to Lieutenant Commander before the launch of her new five-year-mission.”
He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was babbling like an idiot, and the sharp look Mohammed Jahma gave him warned him that he was giving away information, but this unexpected reunion had thrown him off-kilt a little. He’d all but given up on seeing Danielle ever again - and seeing her like this was ringing alarm bells in his head.
“The Enterprise?” Danielle echoed with the same flat indifference. “Kirk’s ship, then. The governor didn’t expect such… illustrious visitors.”
“Does that mean you’ve received our transmissions?” Decker asked sharply. The young woman shrugged.
“Of course. We’re not stupid, you know. We’re capable of using our own comm system.”
“Why haven’t you answered our hails, then?” Decker asked in exasperation.
“We’re not interested in contacts with other worlds,” Danielle replied indifferently. “We prefer to mind our own business and to be left alone. Besides, your timing couldn’t possibly be worse. Payday’s coming up; and we’ve been waiting for it long enough.”
That was a very peculiar statement, but before any of the visitors could have said anything, a long, melodic signal sounded from the hidden loudspeakers, resounding via the comm systems through the entire monstrous, five-hundred-floor building.
“Finally!” Danielle sighed in obvious relief, very much in the manner of a starving woman in at the sight of a seven-course-banquet laid out in front of her.
She rose from her chair and stepped back, directly into the niche behind her desk. In the moment her palms touched the wall, thin, elastic cables shot forth from hidden access ports and attached themselves to her temples. Automated shackles snapped free, fastening her wrists and ankles to the wall, immobilizing her efficiently. She didn’t seem to mind, though. Her eyes closed on their own, her entire body went slack, and every last bit of expression vanished from her blank face.
“Doc,” Decker said, frightened, “what’s happening with her?”
Dr, Noël hurried to her side, pulled up her eyelids and examined her pupils. They were so dilated that only a thin ring of blue could be seen from her irises. She seemed completely unaware of he examination, or, indeed, of the doctor’s very presence.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to learn anything else from her, at least not at the moment,” the neuropsychologist judged. “She’s very obviously an addict in an advanced phase of her addiction, whatever specific kind that might be. Do you know her, Mr. Decker?”
“Her name is Danielle DuMolin; we used to be betrothed,” Decker shook his head in shocked disbelief. “Well, technically, we still are; our engagement has never been officially annulled. What’s wrong with her, doctor? She seems just this side from being brain dead. She used to be such a warm, intelligent young woman!”
“I don’t doubt it, Commander,” the neuropsychologist replied sorrowfully. “Her current state is caused by her addiction. And I’m afraid if we don’t refer her to a psychiatric institute as soon as possible, it would be too late for her.”
“It is already too late,” a deep, somewhat dry voice said behind them. “I regret to say that her state is irreparable. And unfortunately, that is true for most other people on this planet.”
Mohammed Jahma whirled around like a startled cobra, ready to strike, phaser already in hand. Zara Jamal followed suit barely a heartbeat later. The newcomer, whose arrival none of them had heard, was a tall, wiry, bald-headed elderly man, whose gaunt face spoke of Egyptian ancestors. He was wearing a long, black robe with a high collar that looked like a funnel, emphasizing the suggestive, almost threatening air of his appearance. His thin moustache and short-trimmed, pointed goatee was not greying yet. Zara Jamal made an ancient warding gesture with her free hand and murmured something in her mother tongue.
That must have surprised the newcomer because his formerly theatrical glide became a lot more subdued at once.
“I didn’t know that other people have managed to escape the narrow-minded holiness of Medina as well,” he said in a fairly natural manner. “How did you get this far, daughter?”
“As a stowaway aboard a freighter,” Zara Jamal replied, performing the ceremonial bow that young people owed their elders. “Governor Marouk, I presume?”
“I’m called that, yes,” the Mephisto-like apparition nodded with dignity, obviously pleased with her. “Although I’m merely responsible for the delegation and evaluation of work here.”
“And who is responsible for Danielle’s state of mind?” Decker asked accusingly. “How did she end up here, and why hasn’t she returned to Earth as planned?”
“Ah,” Marouk said with a benevolent smile, “you must be Will Decker, then. I have heard about you. A great deal, in fact. Danielle’s father used to be an old business associate of mine, back on Rigel VI. She originally came to Thimsel to visit me and my family.”
“So you’re the one who’s hindered her in returning to me?” Decker asked through clenched teeth. Mohammed Jahma shot him another sharp look, but Marouk didn’t seem to take any offence.
“Nonsense, Commander,” he replied calmly. “The truth is, Danielle settled down on Thimsel so quickly, she liked it here so much, that she simply didn’t want to leave the planet anymore.”
“That still doesn’t explain why she hasn’t sent as much as a lifesign, all the time,” Decker said sullenly. “We were supposed to get married, for God’s sake!”
Marouk shrugged diplomatically and spread his hands.
“The people of Thimsel aren’t interested in contacts with other worlds,” that sounded like a mantra, drilled into anyone thoroughly. “I was fairly surprised by this reluctance myself, when I moved here a few years ago. But newcomers adjust to this attitude in an amazingly short time, as a rule.”
Xon glanced at Ilia. The Deltan shook her sleek, bald head with a tiny, barely visible gesture, signalling that the human was lying.
“Well, it is a known fact that social pressure from tightly organized societies can prove quite… overwhelming, especially for Terrans,” the young Vulcan said in a calm, neutral tone. Your predecessor, Dr. Ra’khal must have had a rather… unique vision about social order.”
For a moment, Marouk was honestly surprised, but he was eager to agree.
“That’s correct, Mr…” he trailed out.
“My name is Xon,” the Vulcan told him.
“My pleasure, Mr. Xon,” Marouk inclined his head. “You seem to have a good grasp on our situation. Governor Ra’khal’s ultimate goal was to build a disciplined, efficiently working colony. In order to reach that goal, he used… extraordinary methods, with long-lasting results, the effects of which can, unfortunately, no longer be repaired.”
“Was this the reason why Thimsel has not sent any official reports to the Federation authorities and also otherwise refrained from every contact with the rest of the Federation?” Xon asked in the same measured tone. “This has caused a certain degree of concern in Starfleet Headquarters as well as by the respective governments that had sent colonists to this planet. Nether have you fulfilled your acknowledged obligations towards the Federation, which fact has caused even more concern. This is not an independent world, Governor; this is a Terran colony. You cannot simply quit your contracts one-sidedly; and it would be naïve to think that - given enough time - the Federation would simply forget about you.”
“We never believed that,” Marouk replied in a benevolent manner, without as much as a blink of an eye, “but we were having… difficulties with the reorganizing of our mining industry. With so many people becoming unfit to do regular work, we had to switch to automated mining - and that took up a lot of time and resources.”
“Yet it has not hindered you in rising this city-tower,” Xon replied calmly. Marouk waved his hand elegantly.
“Oh, that was only possible due to the generous help of Ardana. You now, after the catastrophic failure of the agrarian projects of my predecessor, we needed new homes for our colonists. The government of Mu Leonis II, generously enough, not only provided us with the necessary technology, but also with the workers.”
“Ardana seems to lead a surprisingly extroverted life lately,” the young Vulcan commented innocently. “In any case, that explains how the population of Thimsel could have experienced such an enormous increase of numbers. I assume the Troglytes have come voluntarily.”
“Of course,” Marouk assured him. “In fact, they are deadly afraid of being sent back home. They’ve never had such a good life as here.”
Knowing the inhuman circumstances under which the Troglytes had to labour in the zienite mines of Ardana, Xon actually didn’t doubt that. He told so, according the truth. His declaration seemed to have put Marouk’s suspicion at ease, at least for the time being (people tended to take everything a Vulcan said for face value), and the governor even gave the Starfleet officers permission to visit the great industrial plants and see with their won eyes how the ore processing was making headway. As soon as the reorganization was completed, he said, Thimsel would be, once again, capable of fulfilling its obligations towards the Federation.
At the same time, he invited them to be his guests in Aeropolis for the time of their visit on Thimsel. This was an excellent chance - one they hadn’t hoped for, to be honest - so Decker called the Enterprise and got Kirk’s blessing. Seemingly delighted about this, Marouk ordered hostesses to the guest rooms of his residence to prepare everything for the unexpected visitors.
“Would you honour me with having dinner in my home tonight?” he then asked the guests politely. “We can discuss matters in more detail afterwards.”
“We are the ones who would be honoured,” Xon replied, instead of the still concerned and very tense Decker.
“Forgive us, Governor,” Zara Jamal bowed respectfully, “but Yeoman Jahma and I are practicing Muslims; we’re not allowed to participate in feasts during the Ramadan.”
“My family has kept the Faith in this far-away colony just as we have at home,” Marouk replied with an elegant bow of his own, “and thus we keep the Ramadan as well. Worry not, for this dinner is going to be a humble meal, served after sunset.”
“In that case we, too, accept the invitation gratefully,” Mohammed Jahma inclined his head.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The hostesses, sent by Governor Marouk to prepare the guest quarters, were small, Oriental-looking women, with sleek, snake-like limber bodies, and their triangular faces oddly reminded of the heads of cobras, due to their almond eyes, slanted pupils, broad cheekbones and somewhat abruptly tapering chins. They had short, thick, jet-black hair that formed a shiny helmet, low, smoky voices and very small, almost lipless mouths. They looked like humans, but at second sight it became very obvious that they were not.
Decker remembered what Lieutenant Osborne had told them about regular Orion women and had no doubts that these must have come with the freighters Geeta had mentioned - as cargo, most likely. The main race of Orions might not have rudimentary scales like the male specimens of the green savages, but they couldn’t have denied their reptilian origins, either, even though their evolution had taken a different turn somewhere along the way.
In any case, the hostesses had done an excellent job with the guest quarters. Not even a five-star hotel room on Earth - or on any holiday planet - could have been better than these. The luxury displayed here surprised some members of the landing party; the ones unfamiliar with Islamic customs.
“Hospitality is one of the pillars of our culture,” Zara Jamal explained. “It demands from the host to offer his best, no matter the costs.”
“it doesn’t’ hurt to be a bit suspicious, though,” Mohammed Jahma said, handing her a scanner nicknamed ‘bug detector’ among security people. “Take a look at the ladies’ quarters, I’ll check out the rest.”
A few minutes later both reported not having found any listening devices in any of the guest quarters.
“Unless they’re integrated in the walls by design, which I doubt, since ferroconcrete would interfere with them, the rooms are clean,” Mohammed Jahma declared. “Still, I suggest that during tactical discussions we use this.”
This was a ring with a large red stone. Mohammed Jahma pressed his thumb against the stone shortly, and its colour turned green.
“It’s activated now,” he said.
“What is this?” Dr. Noël examined the unusual piece of jewellery with interest. She had a thing for useful little gadgets that were far more than they looked.
“Precaution,” Mohammed Jahma replied. “The ‘stone’ is actually a miniature generator that emanates a scattering field… very useful when we’re unsure about listening devices.”
“It’s not part of the standard security equipment, though,” Zara Jamal added unnecessarily. “Where did you get it from, Moh?”
“Lieutenant Osborne lent it to me,” her fellow security officer replied. “He has it from his time with Intelligence, I guess. I never asked. But it comes handy now. I’d suggest that Lieutenant Ilia wear it; Deltans are known to like exotic jewellery, and are even allowed to wear those when in uniform.”
Ilia accepted without a word, and they all watched in amazement as the golden ring, formerly wide enough for the big fingers of the security officer, gradually adjusted its size to her much finer bones.
“Clever,” Dr. Noël said, impressed. “Brand new technology, right?”
“And most likely classified,” Decker added. “All right, people, now that we can speak freely, what are your first impressions?”
“I assume we have played our role convincingly, so far,” in typical Vulcan efficiency, Xon felt that it was his duty to summarize their experiences. “As long as Governor Marouk believes that he can mislead us, we have the opportunity to see through his schemes. However, you must be very careful, Commander. It’s my opinion that the governor thinks of you as a risk, because of your former relationship with Ms DuMolin. There is a chance of seventy-eight per cent that he might try to eliminate that risk by orchestrating a… an ‘unfortunate accident’ for you, and a seventy point two per cent chance that he will succeed.”
“We can protect you from a straightforward attack,” Mohammed Jahma added, “or so I hope anyway, since both Lieutenant Ilia and Dr. Noël are crack shots, and Vulcans are notoriously good at hand-to-hand combat. But as Lieutenant Xon has said, orchestrating an ‘accident’ wouldn’t be too hard in such a thoroughly controlled environment. Please, be very careful and go nowhere alone.”
“Do you really think he’d try to get me killed?” Decker couldn’t completely believe it. But the Nigerian was deadly serious.
“If he believes that your presence could threaten his position here, or loosen his grip on the people, yes, he would,” he said. “I have the feeling that here’s a lot at stake for him. I just can’t be sure what.”
“Perhaps Lieutenant Ilia can be of assistance,” the Vulcan turned to the Deltan. “Lieutenant, have your empathic senses received anything from Governor Marouk?”
“Not much,” Ilia replied thoughtfully. “I had to be very subtle, as a trained mind can easily detect telepathic probing, and he seems to have had excellent training. But one thing is certain: he doesn’t trust Mr. Decker. For the moment, however, he’s planning to make us believe that the production fallout was the result of the local… difficulties with industrial reorganization and blame it all on his predecessor. He’s trying to win our trust; if he can get us to send back a positive report to Federation authorities, he’ll be able to apply for the status of an independent colony during the next session of the Federation Council. By then, the required years of existence would be reached.”
“Clever,” Dr. Noël nodded, impressed against her will. “With the current population and industrial level Thimsel would indeed have the potential to achieve independent status. With a positive report from the Enterprise, Governor Marouk could become the legal ruler of this world.”
“Does he really believe to get away with such a deceit?” Mohammed Jahma shook his head incredulously.
“Actually, I would say his chances are quite good,” the Vulcan replied dryly, directing their attention at the standard information screen embedded in the wall. “Have you known who the Federation Undersecretary for Agrarian Affairs is in this sector?”
The others gathered in front of the screen, but the face - and the name that belonged to it - only said Dr. Noël something.
“Nilz Baris!” she exclaimed in surprise. “Isn’t he that idiot of a bureaucrat who wanted to ferry quadrotriticale to Sherman’s Planet, without realizing that his own aide, a surgically altered Klingon, had poisoned the seed?”
Decker, who’d heard about it for the first time, raised his head in interest. “Really? What’s happened to the Klingon?”
“He got his trial, was sentenced to lifelong imprisonment and sent to the penal colony Limbo, on the planet Magna,” Dr. Noël replied. “Undersecretary Baris was accused of dereliction of his duties and reassigned to Minerva, the administrative centre of this sector.”
“Is this Mr. Baris still on Minerva?” Ilia asked, starting to see the hidden connections.
“Apparently not,” Xon replied, after having downloaded the necessary information. “He seems to have moved to Thimsel, two and a half years ago. He is represented on Minerva by the commanding officer of the planetary Starbase located on Minerva, Commodore José Mendez.”
For a while, they were all digesting the news.
“The captain must be informed about this,” Dr. Noël said finally. “He and Mr. Baris parted, well, less than amiably - if Governor Marouk and Baris are doing business together, this is perhaps even bigger than we’ve thought.”
“I agree,” Xon nodded, “however, there is a chance of ninety-eight point six two per cent that our communication would be recorded - or even jammed.”
“We mustn’t raise any suspicions,” Zara Jamal emphasized. “I suggest that we report in personally.”
“And how do you intend to do that?” Decker asked.
“When we’ve left the governor’s quarters after dinner, I’ll initiate an emergency beam-out, using my transponder,” Zara explained. “If we’re lucky, I can beam out and back in without being noticed.”
“They will definitely notice any transporter activity,” Xon shook his head. “You cannot return, Yeoman. We can consider ourselves lucky if you get out in the first place.”
“And if someone asks for me?” she riposted.
“We shall tell them that you have suddenly gotten ill,” the Vulcan suggested, “and that an emergency transfer had to be asked for. Of course, it would be helpful if you were able to simulate a few symptoms.”
“Well, with a little help…” Zara Jamal turned to Dr. Noël. “Doc, could you shot me with something that would cause me a few hours of dyspnoea?”
“Sure,” Dr. Noël shrugged. “But how is that supposed to help you get out?”
“There’s a very peculiar kind of asthma known only among the inhabitants of Medina,” Zara Jamal explained. “A relatively high percentage of the people - strangely enough, mostly women - have a strong allergic reaction to the high concentration of fern spores that’s gathered by the seasonal winds, twice a local year. Since Governor Marouk comes from Medina, he’ll recognize my ‘illness’ at once.”
“Is that not dangerous?” Mohammed Jahma asked, clearly not liking the idea.
Zara Jamal patted his back like that of a big, friendly dog. She liked him, but his over-protectiveness was trying sometimes.
“You worry too much, Moh. I’ve used that trick before, and it always worked like a charm.”
“I still don’t like it,” Mohammed replied stubbornly. “You can set off a true attack - who knows how much you’re inclined to have the illness already?”
“I don’t,” Zara rolled her eyes. “I’d been thoroughly checked before I got accepted by Starfleet. Don’t fret, it’s perfectly safe. You don’t have to be so protective about me, just because I’m short and a woman. We don’t live in the twentieth century anymore.”
“The yeoman is correct,” Xon said. “It is an acceptable risk. And we need to inform the captain.”
Dr. Noël looked at Decker. “It’s your decision, sir… and, ultimately, your responsibility.”
“Can you do it?” Decker asked.
“Of course,” she answered with a shrug. “The how is not the problem. The health risk is.”
“How high is the risk?” Decker asked.
“Barely existent,” Dr. Noël replied, “but we can never tell with one hundred per cent certainty. Medicine is a less exact science than, say, mathematics.”
“I’m aware of that, sir,” Zara Jamal argued quietly. “And I volunteer. Dr. McCoy would know what to do. We need to do this.”
“Perhaps,” Decker admitted glumly. “I still don’t like it, Yeoman.”
“Neither do I, sir; as while it might not be dangerous, it’s definitely unpleasant. But we really don’t have that many choices,” the yeoman pointed out. “Besides, look at it from this angle: at least I’ll be out of harm’s way aboard the Enterprise.”
“If you live long enough to get there in the first place,” Decker sighed; then he gave in. “Very well, doctor; let’s give it a try.”
Dr. Noël sorted through her medkit, choosing the ingredients for a proper cocktail very carefully. This went against her interpretation of the Hippocratic Oath, but even she had to admit that the yeoman’s trick was probably the only way to alert the Enterprise about the suspected nature of Marouk’s machinations. Still, she didn’t have to like it, did she?
She loaded the hypospray with the finished cocktail and pressed the small injector against Zara’s neck. The instrument hissed like a snake while it emptied the not-quite-harmless substances into the yeoman’s system. Zara Jamal hold still during the short process and showed no reaction to the medicine so far.
“Done,” Dr. Noël said, clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing.
“How long until the cocktail causes the first symptoms?” Zara asked. The pretty doctor sighed.
“Four hours… perhaps a little longer.”
“Good,” Zara said. “There’s still almost as long until the local sunset. I’ll have a spectacular show in the middle of Governor Marouk’s dinner.”
“I wonder, though, who will be truly entertained,” Mohammed Jahma murmured.
Chapter 14 - Prodigal Daughters
For visuals: Yeoman Zara Jamal
Dr. Helen Noël: