Chapel and Priest: Husks part 10-12
Ten: Mudd sticks
Days spent at the spaceport sped by at warp speed. The busy back and forth of shuttles was a far cry from being in space, when hours could go by without much of interest passing through her earpiece. She got to know cargo jockeys through their take-off and landing spiel. It surprised her how many beings could ask for a date with a woman they’d never met. Many of the freighter pilots were regulars who met up in the SpacePort truck-stop. They liked fried food, and plenty of it.
Greasy as her meal looked, she had to eat. The search for salad was frequently fruitless, as was the search for fruit, so Uhura had a chocolate milkshake and fries. “Can we join you, Ma'am?” A dragging of chairs indicated the question was rhetorical, and she lifted her eyes to see three men taking the remaining seats around her table. Cupcake, the largest man, was in security, and joined at the hip with his friend Riley, a cargo jockey. They were accompanied by the transporter chief, Kyle.
“What in heaven's name are you eating, Riley?” She took the edge of the young pilot's plate and rotated it to get a better view of the meal. It looked a lot like barbecue wings, but the skin was green.
“It's Elasian water-fowl. Tastes like...”
“I know, I know, chicken.” Uhura waved a hand in dismissal.
“Uh? No, I was going to say Troyian water-fowl.” Uhura and Kyle laughed, and Cupcake gave Riley a playful punch on the arm.
“Busy day today,” Kyle flipped his communicator and scanned it.”Can't stay too long.” Of the three, he was the most serious, always polite and professional. Both he and Cupcake were ex-Starfleet but Cupcake was definitely the more rambunctious of the two. Uhura never asked why Cupcake had left the service, but there were rumours of some kind of altercation. Ex-Starfleet were common at the spaceport; Uhura's cover was tailor-made. Despite his mannerly exterior, Kyle wore a mischievous streak a mile wide and leaned back on his chair to be closer to his target of the day -- Cyrano, the truck-stop short order cook, who was bussing a nearby table -- a jowly, jovial man with a murky past. “Hey, we got a shipment of tribbles in today, on the transporter.”
Cyrano froze mid-wipe, and silverware clanged to the floor. Uhura heard every transmission; they'd had no such thing. “Kyle, don't be so cruel. Cyrano, he's just trying to get a rise out of you. Ignore him, sweetie.” One of Uhura's death-glare looks was directed at the transporter chief. “Leave the guy alone. He's doing his community service, isn't he?”
Lunch went by in a flash -- it always did, with the boys to entertain her. Apart from the camaraderie, another bonus of working at the spaceport was the number of unclaimed shipments. Sulu was chief of the NGPD fraud squad. If a shipment was the result of fraud, NGPD were instructed to destroy the goods. In actuality, handing the shipments out to the spaceport staff seemed as good a way of disposing of them as any.
Back at her station, a new message beeped at her, a voice mail from Sulu 'The Fence', who always contacted Uhura in advance if he thought there was good stuff to be got. He would scout out the containers and make sure she was first in line, even offering his opinion if the shipment was clothing. It was sad that confiscated shipments of good fashions were rare, but food was not; fraudsters seemed to go in for luxury food items.
Pressing the earpiece in tight, she listened. “Afternoon Uhura, just thought you'd want to know, there's a stasis container of genuine Jelly Doughnuts from New York City, Terra that appears to have no paperwork, can you keep an eye on it for me? Serial number is 15-20-0617.” Unbidden, a smile crept over her face at the message. 'No paperwork' was code for stolen and being disposed of. The serial number was the time, day and calendar week the container was to be opened and the contents distributed to waiting gannets.
**
On a day off from the spaceport, Uhura sat opposite Chekov at the Enterprise as he hacked through database records for every possible company on New Glasgow, looking for connections between the missing individuals. Empty doughnut wrappers littered his desk. Oh to be seventeen again, thought Uhura. After a month at the spaceport, her clothes had gotten tighter, and the wolf-whistles louder.
On the scuffed couch sat Spock, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, dotting a Padd with his stylus in movements so rapid the tip was a blur. Minutes passed in quiet labour, until Spock broke Nyota's concentration. “One of my ancestors once said, 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'”
“What have you got, Mister Spock?” Chekov's brow rose in a gesture of curiosity, and he leaned away from his monitor.
“Doctor McCoy took tissue samples from Miss Crest.” The surname jarred without its forename, did Crimson's publicist, or whoever named her, not think of that? “Her actual age is forty-six.”
“Wow! Forty-six? She is old enough to be my mama also!” Chekov rested his cheek on his fist and smiled with one side of his mouth.
“Mister Chekov, your precociously high IQ must tell you that your conversely low age makes this a possibility for approximately 43.4 percent of the adult human population of this planet.”
Ignoring the SpockStat (as McCoy had nicknamed them) Chekov asked, “What is unusual about that though? We already think she has been re-surfaced.”
“Indeed her recorded birth-date is as we expected. However the age of the muscle tissue samples is between nineteen and twenty-three Terran years.”
A colleague hadn't turned up for a shift the evening before, and Uhura had worked five extra hours, so she wasn't firing on all thrusters. “So you are saying what? A de-ageing process, or the woman isn't Crimson?”
“I have said nothing, Miss Uhura.”
“Well, do you have a hunch?” asked Chekov, “A guess?”
“My guess, Mister Chekov, would be valueless. I suggest we refrain from guessing and find some facts. If you will excuse me, I have an appointment with Jim. Carry on.”
“Wait, what about the DNA? Did you test it?” Chekov resembled Porthos, looking for a crumb from his master.
Spock gave an audible sigh and turned round from his path to the exit. Uhura wanted to scream at him for being so rude to Chekov. “Of course, all matched up with her birth records.”
“But those records could be tampered with.”
“As I have already said, Mister Chekov, let us find some facts.”
Uhura had never felt so much like sticking her tongue out at the Vulcan's retreating back, but a lapse in professionalism like that was no example for the Kid and she waited until the door closed. Probably her avoidance of Spock hadn't helped his mood, but making a decision on which way to jump seemed insurmountable. “So, what we have so far is: McCoy thinks Crimson Crest is 'unbalanced' after her recent re-surfacing, he and Spock think her muscle tissue is younger than it should be, the Captain has prowled round MediKhan on a 'hunch' and found nothing, and we now have seventeen missing beings pinned up on our board.”
Chekov stretched one arm behind his head, rolled a doughnut wrapper one-handed into a ball, and finger-flicked it into the waste-basket. “I am so tired of this, I look at power companies, gym membership, grocery delivery, clothing stores, every single thing, and there is no pattern, nothing they have in common. Nothing. How are you getting on with the Herald's comm-tapping?”
Uhura's bottom lip stuck out and she puffed out a breath. “It's weird. Looks like they've got into the comm messages of the first few missing individuals, and their next-of-kin, but then the whole thing seemed to stop. Nothing since then.”
“That is odd. And who owns the Herald Enquirer?”
It was a rhetorical question, and they both chimed, “KhanCorp.”
“Are you thinking what I'm thinking, young Chekov?” Uhura tapped her chin in imitation of McCoy's customary contemplation pose.
“I think so, but I do not like it.” The boy steeled himself. “We have to talk to Harry Mudd.” Squirming in his seat, Chekov lowered his head and looked up at Uhura, his lips in a downward curve.
“Will you get those puppy-eyes off of me! It's not a job for a boy anyway. This is a job for a woman.” She affected a slight purr at the last word.
“Oh,” answered Chekov, all innocence, “so we will be sending Christine?”
Uhura threw her cigarette pack at him but it clipped Chekov's monitor and shot onto the floor behind his chair. A furry bolt of clacketty claws and panting streaked over the wood and seconds later, Porthos sat to attention by Uhura's leg, holding the pack in his mouth, tail wagging in a beagle version of again!
“Chekov, I do think this dog needs to go for a walk to...?”
Mudd's schedule was as predictable as the New Glasgow rain. Checking his watch, Chekov mentally ran through the journalist's day. “Nineteen forty-two. He will be at Finnegan's, eating.”
“Well, that's fine. I haven't eaten yet either. Come on Porthos, walkies!”
**
Finnegan's was the very cliché of a smoky, Irish dive. Words in Gaelic decorated the windows and Uhura wondered why their translations were thread, needles, chalk. It was a bar, not a nineteenth century tailors supplies. Probably Finnegan wasn't Irish at all, but he should have at least read an Irish dictionary. All was forgiven though, as it was one of only a few bars on the planet that allowed dogs, although, as a woman, Uhura had to endure Finnegan's blarney.
“Oh my, I recognise that wee dog, so I do. Isn't that Scotty's dog?” He knew full well it was Porthos, thought Uhura. “How has a lovely girl like you come to be with him now?”
“I'm a new communications officer at the port, I'm taking him for a walk.” She winked at Finnegan. “Well, that's what the engineer thinks.”
“What can I get you, darlin'?” He polished glasses using a fine Irish linen cloth in green and white plaid.
“I'll have a Bushmills, straight up, double.” For many years, Uhura harboured a secret talent that came in very useful in many situations. She could drink a Klingon under the table. Although the prune juice they insisted on mixing with their alcohol gave her horrible reflux.
After ordering a steak and onion sandwich, and a quarter-pint of Guinness in a bowl, which Finnegan assured her was Porthos' usual, she sprung open her compact and used the mirror to scan the patrons behind her. A description of Mudd was issued by Chekov, who painted him as 'a tall fat man with a moustache who looks as if he is dressed from the trunk of a travelling theatre company'. It was an apt portrait. Mudd sat alone at a small table wearing a suit that was garish in the grey light of New Glasgow, a lime shirt and a purple brocade tie.
How would she approach him? Hey Mudd. Someone put the thumbscrews on your comm-tap racket? No, that sounded like McCoy, plus how on earth would she explain how she knew that? Baiting him would be better. She pulled out a picture of an Orion girl, another tool given to her by McCoy along with her cigarettes; a forgery, a faked image. If you just want to get a conversation going, he'd told her, whip this picture out and ask if anyone has seen her, then steer the conversation round to the person you are really talking about, say she was last seen with them.
“Have you seen this girl?” Uhura brandished the picture at Finnegan who, to his credit, took it from her and gave it proper scrutiny.
“Oh isn't she a pretty one. I'm awful fond of that Orion dancing. I don't know her though. Why are you lookin' for her?” Finnegan leaned down close. “Is she having an affair with your husband?”
“I'm not married.” Gorn, she'd fallen straight into the bar-owner's trap, admitting she was single.
“Pity, I like a good cat-fight. Gives me a grand excuse to recycle the dirty water from the mop-bucket.” Finnegan roared with laughter at his own joke.
“My dear lady.” A shadow loomed over Uhura's space on the bar. “Am I to understand you are searching for a,” The voice lowered in volume - what was with all the theatrical whispering in this bar? “missing person?”
She spun on her bar stool. “Who's asking?”
“Harcourt Fenton Mudd at your service.” Sausage fingers brandished a holo-card, which she pinched between her neat manicured nails.
A cursory glance confirmed the identity of the flamboyant figure and she responded to his query. “I didn't say she was missing, I only asked if anyone had seen her.”
“Would you care to join me, my dear? Perhaps I can assist you in tracking your friend, ask a few people I know.”
Here was a man not built or upholstered for undercover work and yet, he seemed to get stories. Perhaps people felt sorry for him. He had the bluster of a grifter, but it seemed everyone saw through him, which made him a tragic figure. This too was probably an act; a double-bluff. “Why Mister Mudd, it would be a pleasure.” With a wiggle of her hips, Uhura slid from her stool, plate in one hand, drink in the other, and joined Mudd at his meal.
Several whiskeys later, she 'accidentally' let slip her interest in gossip, and that she'd heard rumours the staff at the Herald Enquirer tried to listen to messages on the missing individuals' comms, making sure she touched Mudd's arm often.
“Cerrrrrtainly not!” Mudd boomed, “We have ethics, you know.” A pudgy finger tapped his temple as he winked, and he gave a small hiccup. “Besides, the boss told us not to.”
“What, your editor on the Herald?”
“No-no-no dear lady. The mayor. Oh,” his features sank into basset-hound disappointment. “I don't think I was supposed to say that.”
“Say what?” Uhura affected intoxication.
“What? What did I say?” slurred Mudd.
“I think it was 'let's have a cocktail' wasn't it?”
“Splendid! Yesh, a cocktail!” He rubbed his hands together in glee, then fell asleep at his seat, snoring with his mouth open. Harcourt Fenton Mudd was Uhura's new best pal.
It was after ten when she got back to the agency, only to be greeted by Spock, his arms folded. “You are late, and on an unauthorised mission. You went alone at a time when individuals are going missing.”
“We are autonomous here. I don't need your permission,” she swallowed. “Sir.” Porthos slunk beneath Chekov's desk and hid.
“Nevertheless, I will see you in my apartment now; please be good enough to follow me up.”
~~intermission~~
Eleven: And some may name my virtue vice
Once inside, he locked the door to a neat office behind his small sitting room, and pulled the roller-blind over its glazed upper panel.
“Sit.”
Another man would get a mouthful about her not being a Beagle, but this was the Vulcan's way, to be so direct as to be downright curt. His mood was so altered from the night on the terrace.
“I am experiencing an unfamiliar emotion.” His voice was tight, an undertone of anger.
She didn't ask, she would wait for him to volunteer further information.
He glided to his desk and opened a drawer using a keypad combination. A drug vial in a blister-pack was extracted, followed by a gleaming steel hypo. Using a thumbnail, he popped the blister and fitted the vial home, all the while displaying a minute tremor in his hands. For the first time in his company, Nyota was frightened. Her eyes darted to the instrument, now aligned on the desktop before him, and then to the exit.
“Why have you locked the door?”
“I wished to speak with you in private.” Sitting behind the desk, he withdrew a heavy link from his cuff. It dropped to the leather surface with a weighty clunk, and he began to roll his sleeve up. Never having seen so much as his forearm before, the act was an obscene intimacy. Mesmerised, she followed the play of his fingers turning fine cotton. Time slowed, her tongue trailed her lips until she withdrew it, embarrassed. The sleeve was now above his elbow, and taut tendons below his sallow skin worked in harmony as long fingers closed and opened repeatedly to make, then unmake, a fist. Olive ropes of vein rose on the surface of his inner arm. The other hand rooted about in the desk and found a narrow rubber strap with a toothed buckle. This he fitted above his elbow, tugging on the end to tighten it.
A further shock was in store as he bared his teeth in a grimace, inserted the strap between his lips and bit down on the end to keep it tight. He stroked his inner arm, patting the skin at the crook of the elbow; skin that was soft and smooth. Nyota chewed on her bottom lip, a suppressive tic, and gazed at his fingertips caressing his own flesh. Now his eyes were heavy-lidded, trance-like, and his Adam's apple swelled briefly in his neck as he swallowed in advance of a deep intake of air.
Light-headed, she was aware her breaths were too shallow, smoky tendrils crept through her pelvis, the room was too hot and stuffy, she could smell the wool of his coat, drying on the coat-stand. Her own eyes drooped, she leaned toward him...
The hiss of the hypo shot through her torpor, her eyes met with Spock's and as he glared straight at her, he groaned in release, throwing the hypo onto the desk.
For some seconds they gazed at each other, until she whispered, halting.
“What is that?”
His voice in retort was an octave lower, breathless, post-coital.
“In effect, pulmonary desiccant. My Vulcan physiology is ill-equipped to deal with the damp atmosphere of this planet. I must confess, the first minutes after administration are... altering. I adapt throughout the day to a reduced lung capacity and the sudden improvement in oxygen flow is always exhilarating.”
Could he sense the state she was in? Low in her stomach, every nerve ending was on fire. “You felt an emotion?” Her own voice emerged cracked, and low.
“Indeed, when you were late returning from your mission, I experienced anger. I have felt momentary anger before, but I could find no cause for it on this occasion. On examining the emotion, I found it to be wrapped about a kernel of,” he paused, attempting to regulate his breath and leaned back on the chair, “anxiety. I was anxious regarding your safe return.” The commander stopped speaking. He put his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his forefinger across his top lip. Silence grew, punctuated only by his heavy breath, its swell pushing them apart until at last, he spoke again.
“After your unexpected posting to the Farragut, I was surprised to feel your absence acutely, a speck of grit in the soft tissue of my mind. Over time it has become a pearl which I guard, and cherish. I am afraid I did not explain this adequately at Jim's soiree.”
Despite her relative sobriety, Nyota found herself crossing the space between them with a drunkard's sway; he stayed stock-still. With shaking hands she pushed up the roll of his shirt-sleeve to reveal the strap. His skin spilled warmth onto hers, and she was clumsy in freeing the teeth on the buckle. Seconds passed like minutes as he stared up at her, still breathing hard, his nostrils flared. A trickle of sweat made its way between her breasts, and she was conscious of their outline beneath the thin silk of her blouse. She placed the strap on the desk, feeling foolish, bloodless, in fight or flight mode.
The commander's hand slid round her back, pulling her up to the chair, between his knees. All her senses narrowed to that one area where heat burned through satin, then moved down over the curve of her rear, down the back of her leg, and on to the hem of her crepe skirt, fingers pushing it up, the lining slippery against her silk stockings. Nyota stopped breathing; an iron fist gripped her innards, and she pulled him to her until his forehead rested on her upper abdomen, and his voice reverberated through her ribcage.
“Nyota -”
Loud banging on the glass door panel, accompanied by the rattling door-knob, caused Nyota to jump out of her skin, and Spock to push his chair back.
“What in Gorn's name you doin' in there? Chekov thinks he's found something. Git downstairs. Now!”
~~intermission~~
Twelve: And when the truth goes BANG the shouts splatter out
Of course, Spock was his cool self as they entered the front office. The banging beat of his heart didn't hammer in his chest. He didn't smooth down his clothes, flustered, or run two hands over his head to check each hair was in place. Uhura debated hanging back, but would that look more suspicious? Instead she followed Spock in, hopeful that her demeanour appeared normal.
Bones stood behind the boy's desk; Charlie and Scotty were off duty, so would be briefed later. “Chekov -- tell us what you got.”
“I was looking at the wrong angle with the database records. I read a journal article about a data migration that did not work. New Glasgow Uniwersity, NGU, got a new student system and the data migration did not have accurate specification. Many deleted records were stored. They were 'ghosts', but the migration queries were not set up correctly and the 'ghosts' were resurrected. Many students who graduated years before were back in the database.”
“I have been searching for records on a system. I should have been looking at records not on a system.” The youngster gave a slow nod.
Everyone was blank and silent until Spock said, “Explain, Mister Chekov.”
“All service suppliers have records for customers; active or inactive. If some person stops using a beauty parlour or power company, they still keep all data. Sometimes, so they can send annoying messages to get them to use the service again. All of the companies used by members of the public on New Glasgow keep customer records - even if a customer dies - even NGU keeps all records now, putting an 'inactive' flag or something like that on the record. For data mining, statistics, marketing…many reasons.”
Uhura had the feeling a but was on its way.
“But a small branch of MediKhan, TransForm, has sewenteen ghost records, deleted by an amateur in an attempt to pretend that certain customers had never been there. They are our missing individuals. What is most incriminating is that they were deleted before they were reported missing. In most cases, about twenty-four hours before.”
“Mudd told me Khan put a stop to The Enquirer's comm-tapping. It's all pointing to him,” said Uhura.
A thud signalled Christine's collapse onto a battered couch. “I know that clinic. We used to joke about it. All the girls who go in come out with the same nose. We call it KhanForm. What about Crimson's birth DNA records, Chekov?”
“I have looked, if they are false, they are wery good. Of course, that does not mean they have not been tampered with. I need to look - ”
Some commotion in the hallway halted Chekov mid-stream. Scotty and Charlene's raised voices could be heard on the other side of the door, and the discussion sounded heated.
“It's fine Scotty, I'm fine.”
“You bloody well are not fine, this has gone on long enough now. I'm not standing by and watching without doing something. Are ye worried? I'm sure it's nothing. Let's just ask - ”
“Just leave it, will you? I promise I'm OK.”
“No. Are you deaf, woman? I will not leave it, you'll see McCoy right now.”
Scotty burst through the door, his hand clamped about Charlie's slim upper arm; her bearing was that of a recalcitrant terrier forced to go walkies. Unperturbed by the audience, he deposited her in the middle of the room then turned on his heel and leant his weight against the door, barring any escape.
Their explosives expert was a rabbit caught in headlights; her face ashy, and her eyes glazed.
“What in tarnation is going on here?” McCoy stretched himself out to his full height.
“Sorry, I tried to do this discreet-like, but, well, it didnae work. Charlie's no' well. For the last week she's been fast asleep at 2100 hours, and this evening she passed out in the bathroom.”
Uhura scanned Charlie's face for clues. Had she been younger, she would have pegged her for a pregnant teenager being made to face her parents, or a young bride forced to marry a man who was not the father of her child. Pure fear blazed in Charlie's eyes until a cold trickle of discomfort seemed to run down the walls of the office.
They all saw it, Scotty marching Charlene to her execution. Uhura's heart lurched as McCoy said in a fatherly, too-cheerful manner, “Charlie, come with me into the good office.”
Satisfied his goal was achieved, Scotty nodded to Charlene. “It's for your own good, love. I'm only doing it to help.”
Through the closing crack in the door, a cornered Charlene looked out, the expression on her face a blank-eyed, beaten resignation; the anticipation of a noose about the neck. Was Charlie really sick? Perhaps she’d kept her condition from Scotty in order to spare him?
At least McCoy was discreet. Scotty perched on the small chair where clients waited, rubbing his palm on one knee in a compulsive action, his face flushed and his mouth set in a line.
“Eh, sorry about that, sorry tae interrupt, like. I reckoned it had gone far enough, she's rubbish at going to the doctor. I'm worried about her.”
“It's all right Scotty,” Christine patted the engineer's knee. “I'm sure you did the right thing. Gorn knows McCoy is the last person to go to a doctor. He'll understand Charlie's reluctance.”
Chekov made an ill-advised joke; he was only seventeen after all. “Perhaps she is expecting a baby!”
Poor Scotty's face was scrutinised by the women in the room, who looked for any betrayal of how he might feel. “Eh, aye well I did think about that, but the way she's acting, I don't think so. Unless,” he stared at a point in the distance, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick, “unless it's no'...” The ending of the sentence fell away.
Time passed, Chekov explained again his theory about the ghosts in the machine and Scotty listened, his eyes staring out of the window at the rain hammering on the glass.
A creak drew attention to the door. McCoy stuck his head round. “Mister Scott, can you come in please.” Uhura's diaphragm rose at his tone, he sounded like a proper doctor - not a detective-doctor - a doctor who was imparting difficult information.
This time, nobody spoke and a charged hush settled on the group. Chekov crept over to a console and began to work, Chapel pretended to look at a Padd and Uhura picked at a loose thread at the front seam of her skirt, trying to calm the double-blow to her nerves from the encounter with Spock, and fear for what was going on with Charlie. Spock too was settled at a console, so Uhura walked over to him and feigned interest, desperate for any distraction. “What are you looking at?”
Before he had time to react, a fearsome tide of swearing streamed through the flung-open door to the good office, it banged back on its hinges and Scotty blustered through, fit to be tied. He crossed the outer office in three strides and left, slamming the door so hard that a Padd near the edge of Christine's desk crashed to the floor, the screen splintering into icy shards. Porthos skittered to the door, and whined and scratched until Chekov rose and opened it so the beagle could follow his master.
Aside from the Russian, nobody moved, but Uhura heard quiet crying through the open door, and the low voice of McCoy:
“Charlie, what do you want to do sweetheart? It's your call.”
~~intermission~~
Awesome fanmix With our Rain Washed Histories by
i_am_32_flavors
Beautiful character art by
theoreticalpixy
[ Part 1-3] [ Part 4-6] [ Part 7-9] [ Part 10-12] [ Part 13-15] [ Part 16-17] [ Part 18-end]
Days spent at the spaceport sped by at warp speed. The busy back and forth of shuttles was a far cry from being in space, when hours could go by without much of interest passing through her earpiece. She got to know cargo jockeys through their take-off and landing spiel. It surprised her how many beings could ask for a date with a woman they’d never met. Many of the freighter pilots were regulars who met up in the SpacePort truck-stop. They liked fried food, and plenty of it.
Greasy as her meal looked, she had to eat. The search for salad was frequently fruitless, as was the search for fruit, so Uhura had a chocolate milkshake and fries. “Can we join you, Ma'am?” A dragging of chairs indicated the question was rhetorical, and she lifted her eyes to see three men taking the remaining seats around her table. Cupcake, the largest man, was in security, and joined at the hip with his friend Riley, a cargo jockey. They were accompanied by the transporter chief, Kyle.
“What in heaven's name are you eating, Riley?” She took the edge of the young pilot's plate and rotated it to get a better view of the meal. It looked a lot like barbecue wings, but the skin was green.
“It's Elasian water-fowl. Tastes like...”
“I know, I know, chicken.” Uhura waved a hand in dismissal.
“Uh? No, I was going to say Troyian water-fowl.” Uhura and Kyle laughed, and Cupcake gave Riley a playful punch on the arm.
“Busy day today,” Kyle flipped his communicator and scanned it.”Can't stay too long.” Of the three, he was the most serious, always polite and professional. Both he and Cupcake were ex-Starfleet but Cupcake was definitely the more rambunctious of the two. Uhura never asked why Cupcake had left the service, but there were rumours of some kind of altercation. Ex-Starfleet were common at the spaceport; Uhura's cover was tailor-made. Despite his mannerly exterior, Kyle wore a mischievous streak a mile wide and leaned back on his chair to be closer to his target of the day -- Cyrano, the truck-stop short order cook, who was bussing a nearby table -- a jowly, jovial man with a murky past. “Hey, we got a shipment of tribbles in today, on the transporter.”
Cyrano froze mid-wipe, and silverware clanged to the floor. Uhura heard every transmission; they'd had no such thing. “Kyle, don't be so cruel. Cyrano, he's just trying to get a rise out of you. Ignore him, sweetie.” One of Uhura's death-glare looks was directed at the transporter chief. “Leave the guy alone. He's doing his community service, isn't he?”
Lunch went by in a flash -- it always did, with the boys to entertain her. Apart from the camaraderie, another bonus of working at the spaceport was the number of unclaimed shipments. Sulu was chief of the NGPD fraud squad. If a shipment was the result of fraud, NGPD were instructed to destroy the goods. In actuality, handing the shipments out to the spaceport staff seemed as good a way of disposing of them as any.
Back at her station, a new message beeped at her, a voice mail from Sulu 'The Fence', who always contacted Uhura in advance if he thought there was good stuff to be got. He would scout out the containers and make sure she was first in line, even offering his opinion if the shipment was clothing. It was sad that confiscated shipments of good fashions were rare, but food was not; fraudsters seemed to go in for luxury food items.
Pressing the earpiece in tight, she listened. “Afternoon Uhura, just thought you'd want to know, there's a stasis container of genuine Jelly Doughnuts from New York City, Terra that appears to have no paperwork, can you keep an eye on it for me? Serial number is 15-20-0617.” Unbidden, a smile crept over her face at the message. 'No paperwork' was code for stolen and being disposed of. The serial number was the time, day and calendar week the container was to be opened and the contents distributed to waiting gannets.
**
On a day off from the spaceport, Uhura sat opposite Chekov at the Enterprise as he hacked through database records for every possible company on New Glasgow, looking for connections between the missing individuals. Empty doughnut wrappers littered his desk. Oh to be seventeen again, thought Uhura. After a month at the spaceport, her clothes had gotten tighter, and the wolf-whistles louder.
On the scuffed couch sat Spock, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, dotting a Padd with his stylus in movements so rapid the tip was a blur. Minutes passed in quiet labour, until Spock broke Nyota's concentration. “One of my ancestors once said, 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'”
“What have you got, Mister Spock?” Chekov's brow rose in a gesture of curiosity, and he leaned away from his monitor.
“Doctor McCoy took tissue samples from Miss Crest.” The surname jarred without its forename, did Crimson's publicist, or whoever named her, not think of that? “Her actual age is forty-six.”
“Wow! Forty-six? She is old enough to be my mama also!” Chekov rested his cheek on his fist and smiled with one side of his mouth.
“Mister Chekov, your precociously high IQ must tell you that your conversely low age makes this a possibility for approximately 43.4 percent of the adult human population of this planet.”
Ignoring the SpockStat (as McCoy had nicknamed them) Chekov asked, “What is unusual about that though? We already think she has been re-surfaced.”
“Indeed her recorded birth-date is as we expected. However the age of the muscle tissue samples is between nineteen and twenty-three Terran years.”
A colleague hadn't turned up for a shift the evening before, and Uhura had worked five extra hours, so she wasn't firing on all thrusters. “So you are saying what? A de-ageing process, or the woman isn't Crimson?”
“I have said nothing, Miss Uhura.”
“Well, do you have a hunch?” asked Chekov, “A guess?”
“My guess, Mister Chekov, would be valueless. I suggest we refrain from guessing and find some facts. If you will excuse me, I have an appointment with Jim. Carry on.”
“Wait, what about the DNA? Did you test it?” Chekov resembled Porthos, looking for a crumb from his master.
Spock gave an audible sigh and turned round from his path to the exit. Uhura wanted to scream at him for being so rude to Chekov. “Of course, all matched up with her birth records.”
“But those records could be tampered with.”
“As I have already said, Mister Chekov, let us find some facts.”
Uhura had never felt so much like sticking her tongue out at the Vulcan's retreating back, but a lapse in professionalism like that was no example for the Kid and she waited until the door closed. Probably her avoidance of Spock hadn't helped his mood, but making a decision on which way to jump seemed insurmountable. “So, what we have so far is: McCoy thinks Crimson Crest is 'unbalanced' after her recent re-surfacing, he and Spock think her muscle tissue is younger than it should be, the Captain has prowled round MediKhan on a 'hunch' and found nothing, and we now have seventeen missing beings pinned up on our board.”
Chekov stretched one arm behind his head, rolled a doughnut wrapper one-handed into a ball, and finger-flicked it into the waste-basket. “I am so tired of this, I look at power companies, gym membership, grocery delivery, clothing stores, every single thing, and there is no pattern, nothing they have in common. Nothing. How are you getting on with the Herald's comm-tapping?”
Uhura's bottom lip stuck out and she puffed out a breath. “It's weird. Looks like they've got into the comm messages of the first few missing individuals, and their next-of-kin, but then the whole thing seemed to stop. Nothing since then.”
“That is odd. And who owns the Herald Enquirer?”
It was a rhetorical question, and they both chimed, “KhanCorp.”
“Are you thinking what I'm thinking, young Chekov?” Uhura tapped her chin in imitation of McCoy's customary contemplation pose.
“I think so, but I do not like it.” The boy steeled himself. “We have to talk to Harry Mudd.” Squirming in his seat, Chekov lowered his head and looked up at Uhura, his lips in a downward curve.
“Will you get those puppy-eyes off of me! It's not a job for a boy anyway. This is a job for a woman.” She affected a slight purr at the last word.
“Oh,” answered Chekov, all innocence, “so we will be sending Christine?”
Uhura threw her cigarette pack at him but it clipped Chekov's monitor and shot onto the floor behind his chair. A furry bolt of clacketty claws and panting streaked over the wood and seconds later, Porthos sat to attention by Uhura's leg, holding the pack in his mouth, tail wagging in a beagle version of again!
“Chekov, I do think this dog needs to go for a walk to...?”
Mudd's schedule was as predictable as the New Glasgow rain. Checking his watch, Chekov mentally ran through the journalist's day. “Nineteen forty-two. He will be at Finnegan's, eating.”
“Well, that's fine. I haven't eaten yet either. Come on Porthos, walkies!”
**
Finnegan's was the very cliché of a smoky, Irish dive. Words in Gaelic decorated the windows and Uhura wondered why their translations were thread, needles, chalk. It was a bar, not a nineteenth century tailors supplies. Probably Finnegan wasn't Irish at all, but he should have at least read an Irish dictionary. All was forgiven though, as it was one of only a few bars on the planet that allowed dogs, although, as a woman, Uhura had to endure Finnegan's blarney.
“Oh my, I recognise that wee dog, so I do. Isn't that Scotty's dog?” He knew full well it was Porthos, thought Uhura. “How has a lovely girl like you come to be with him now?”
“I'm a new communications officer at the port, I'm taking him for a walk.” She winked at Finnegan. “Well, that's what the engineer thinks.”
“What can I get you, darlin'?” He polished glasses using a fine Irish linen cloth in green and white plaid.
“I'll have a Bushmills, straight up, double.” For many years, Uhura harboured a secret talent that came in very useful in many situations. She could drink a Klingon under the table. Although the prune juice they insisted on mixing with their alcohol gave her horrible reflux.
After ordering a steak and onion sandwich, and a quarter-pint of Guinness in a bowl, which Finnegan assured her was Porthos' usual, she sprung open her compact and used the mirror to scan the patrons behind her. A description of Mudd was issued by Chekov, who painted him as 'a tall fat man with a moustache who looks as if he is dressed from the trunk of a travelling theatre company'. It was an apt portrait. Mudd sat alone at a small table wearing a suit that was garish in the grey light of New Glasgow, a lime shirt and a purple brocade tie.
How would she approach him? Hey Mudd. Someone put the thumbscrews on your comm-tap racket? No, that sounded like McCoy, plus how on earth would she explain how she knew that? Baiting him would be better. She pulled out a picture of an Orion girl, another tool given to her by McCoy along with her cigarettes; a forgery, a faked image. If you just want to get a conversation going, he'd told her, whip this picture out and ask if anyone has seen her, then steer the conversation round to the person you are really talking about, say she was last seen with them.
“Have you seen this girl?” Uhura brandished the picture at Finnegan who, to his credit, took it from her and gave it proper scrutiny.
“Oh isn't she a pretty one. I'm awful fond of that Orion dancing. I don't know her though. Why are you lookin' for her?” Finnegan leaned down close. “Is she having an affair with your husband?”
“I'm not married.” Gorn, she'd fallen straight into the bar-owner's trap, admitting she was single.
“Pity, I like a good cat-fight. Gives me a grand excuse to recycle the dirty water from the mop-bucket.” Finnegan roared with laughter at his own joke.
“My dear lady.” A shadow loomed over Uhura's space on the bar. “Am I to understand you are searching for a,” The voice lowered in volume - what was with all the theatrical whispering in this bar? “missing person?”
She spun on her bar stool. “Who's asking?”
“Harcourt Fenton Mudd at your service.” Sausage fingers brandished a holo-card, which she pinched between her neat manicured nails.
A cursory glance confirmed the identity of the flamboyant figure and she responded to his query. “I didn't say she was missing, I only asked if anyone had seen her.”
“Would you care to join me, my dear? Perhaps I can assist you in tracking your friend, ask a few people I know.”
Here was a man not built or upholstered for undercover work and yet, he seemed to get stories. Perhaps people felt sorry for him. He had the bluster of a grifter, but it seemed everyone saw through him, which made him a tragic figure. This too was probably an act; a double-bluff. “Why Mister Mudd, it would be a pleasure.” With a wiggle of her hips, Uhura slid from her stool, plate in one hand, drink in the other, and joined Mudd at his meal.
Several whiskeys later, she 'accidentally' let slip her interest in gossip, and that she'd heard rumours the staff at the Herald Enquirer tried to listen to messages on the missing individuals' comms, making sure she touched Mudd's arm often.
“Cerrrrrtainly not!” Mudd boomed, “We have ethics, you know.” A pudgy finger tapped his temple as he winked, and he gave a small hiccup. “Besides, the boss told us not to.”
“What, your editor on the Herald?”
“No-no-no dear lady. The mayor. Oh,” his features sank into basset-hound disappointment. “I don't think I was supposed to say that.”
“Say what?” Uhura affected intoxication.
“What? What did I say?” slurred Mudd.
“I think it was 'let's have a cocktail' wasn't it?”
“Splendid! Yesh, a cocktail!” He rubbed his hands together in glee, then fell asleep at his seat, snoring with his mouth open. Harcourt Fenton Mudd was Uhura's new best pal.
It was after ten when she got back to the agency, only to be greeted by Spock, his arms folded. “You are late, and on an unauthorised mission. You went alone at a time when individuals are going missing.”
“We are autonomous here. I don't need your permission,” she swallowed. “Sir.” Porthos slunk beneath Chekov's desk and hid.
“Nevertheless, I will see you in my apartment now; please be good enough to follow me up.”
~~intermission~~
Eleven: And some may name my virtue vice
Once inside, he locked the door to a neat office behind his small sitting room, and pulled the roller-blind over its glazed upper panel.
“Sit.”
Another man would get a mouthful about her not being a Beagle, but this was the Vulcan's way, to be so direct as to be downright curt. His mood was so altered from the night on the terrace.
“I am experiencing an unfamiliar emotion.” His voice was tight, an undertone of anger.
She didn't ask, she would wait for him to volunteer further information.
He glided to his desk and opened a drawer using a keypad combination. A drug vial in a blister-pack was extracted, followed by a gleaming steel hypo. Using a thumbnail, he popped the blister and fitted the vial home, all the while displaying a minute tremor in his hands. For the first time in his company, Nyota was frightened. Her eyes darted to the instrument, now aligned on the desktop before him, and then to the exit.
“Why have you locked the door?”
“I wished to speak with you in private.” Sitting behind the desk, he withdrew a heavy link from his cuff. It dropped to the leather surface with a weighty clunk, and he began to roll his sleeve up. Never having seen so much as his forearm before, the act was an obscene intimacy. Mesmerised, she followed the play of his fingers turning fine cotton. Time slowed, her tongue trailed her lips until she withdrew it, embarrassed. The sleeve was now above his elbow, and taut tendons below his sallow skin worked in harmony as long fingers closed and opened repeatedly to make, then unmake, a fist. Olive ropes of vein rose on the surface of his inner arm. The other hand rooted about in the desk and found a narrow rubber strap with a toothed buckle. This he fitted above his elbow, tugging on the end to tighten it.
A further shock was in store as he bared his teeth in a grimace, inserted the strap between his lips and bit down on the end to keep it tight. He stroked his inner arm, patting the skin at the crook of the elbow; skin that was soft and smooth. Nyota chewed on her bottom lip, a suppressive tic, and gazed at his fingertips caressing his own flesh. Now his eyes were heavy-lidded, trance-like, and his Adam's apple swelled briefly in his neck as he swallowed in advance of a deep intake of air.
Light-headed, she was aware her breaths were too shallow, smoky tendrils crept through her pelvis, the room was too hot and stuffy, she could smell the wool of his coat, drying on the coat-stand. Her own eyes drooped, she leaned toward him...
The hiss of the hypo shot through her torpor, her eyes met with Spock's and as he glared straight at her, he groaned in release, throwing the hypo onto the desk.
For some seconds they gazed at each other, until she whispered, halting.
“What is that?”
His voice in retort was an octave lower, breathless, post-coital.
“In effect, pulmonary desiccant. My Vulcan physiology is ill-equipped to deal with the damp atmosphere of this planet. I must confess, the first minutes after administration are... altering. I adapt throughout the day to a reduced lung capacity and the sudden improvement in oxygen flow is always exhilarating.”
Could he sense the state she was in? Low in her stomach, every nerve ending was on fire. “You felt an emotion?” Her own voice emerged cracked, and low.
“Indeed, when you were late returning from your mission, I experienced anger. I have felt momentary anger before, but I could find no cause for it on this occasion. On examining the emotion, I found it to be wrapped about a kernel of,” he paused, attempting to regulate his breath and leaned back on the chair, “anxiety. I was anxious regarding your safe return.” The commander stopped speaking. He put his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his forefinger across his top lip. Silence grew, punctuated only by his heavy breath, its swell pushing them apart until at last, he spoke again.
“After your unexpected posting to the Farragut, I was surprised to feel your absence acutely, a speck of grit in the soft tissue of my mind. Over time it has become a pearl which I guard, and cherish. I am afraid I did not explain this adequately at Jim's soiree.”
Despite her relative sobriety, Nyota found herself crossing the space between them with a drunkard's sway; he stayed stock-still. With shaking hands she pushed up the roll of his shirt-sleeve to reveal the strap. His skin spilled warmth onto hers, and she was clumsy in freeing the teeth on the buckle. Seconds passed like minutes as he stared up at her, still breathing hard, his nostrils flared. A trickle of sweat made its way between her breasts, and she was conscious of their outline beneath the thin silk of her blouse. She placed the strap on the desk, feeling foolish, bloodless, in fight or flight mode.
The commander's hand slid round her back, pulling her up to the chair, between his knees. All her senses narrowed to that one area where heat burned through satin, then moved down over the curve of her rear, down the back of her leg, and on to the hem of her crepe skirt, fingers pushing it up, the lining slippery against her silk stockings. Nyota stopped breathing; an iron fist gripped her innards, and she pulled him to her until his forehead rested on her upper abdomen, and his voice reverberated through her ribcage.
“Nyota -”
Loud banging on the glass door panel, accompanied by the rattling door-knob, caused Nyota to jump out of her skin, and Spock to push his chair back.
“What in Gorn's name you doin' in there? Chekov thinks he's found something. Git downstairs. Now!”
~~intermission~~
Twelve: And when the truth goes BANG the shouts splatter out
Of course, Spock was his cool self as they entered the front office. The banging beat of his heart didn't hammer in his chest. He didn't smooth down his clothes, flustered, or run two hands over his head to check each hair was in place. Uhura debated hanging back, but would that look more suspicious? Instead she followed Spock in, hopeful that her demeanour appeared normal.
Bones stood behind the boy's desk; Charlie and Scotty were off duty, so would be briefed later. “Chekov -- tell us what you got.”
“I was looking at the wrong angle with the database records. I read a journal article about a data migration that did not work. New Glasgow Uniwersity, NGU, got a new student system and the data migration did not have accurate specification. Many deleted records were stored. They were 'ghosts', but the migration queries were not set up correctly and the 'ghosts' were resurrected. Many students who graduated years before were back in the database.”
“I have been searching for records on a system. I should have been looking at records not on a system.” The youngster gave a slow nod.
Everyone was blank and silent until Spock said, “Explain, Mister Chekov.”
“All service suppliers have records for customers; active or inactive. If some person stops using a beauty parlour or power company, they still keep all data. Sometimes, so they can send annoying messages to get them to use the service again. All of the companies used by members of the public on New Glasgow keep customer records - even if a customer dies - even NGU keeps all records now, putting an 'inactive' flag or something like that on the record. For data mining, statistics, marketing…many reasons.”
Uhura had the feeling a but was on its way.
“But a small branch of MediKhan, TransForm, has sewenteen ghost records, deleted by an amateur in an attempt to pretend that certain customers had never been there. They are our missing individuals. What is most incriminating is that they were deleted before they were reported missing. In most cases, about twenty-four hours before.”
“Mudd told me Khan put a stop to The Enquirer's comm-tapping. It's all pointing to him,” said Uhura.
A thud signalled Christine's collapse onto a battered couch. “I know that clinic. We used to joke about it. All the girls who go in come out with the same nose. We call it KhanForm. What about Crimson's birth DNA records, Chekov?”
“I have looked, if they are false, they are wery good. Of course, that does not mean they have not been tampered with. I need to look - ”
Some commotion in the hallway halted Chekov mid-stream. Scotty and Charlene's raised voices could be heard on the other side of the door, and the discussion sounded heated.
“It's fine Scotty, I'm fine.”
“You bloody well are not fine, this has gone on long enough now. I'm not standing by and watching without doing something. Are ye worried? I'm sure it's nothing. Let's just ask - ”
“Just leave it, will you? I promise I'm OK.”
“No. Are you deaf, woman? I will not leave it, you'll see McCoy right now.”
Scotty burst through the door, his hand clamped about Charlie's slim upper arm; her bearing was that of a recalcitrant terrier forced to go walkies. Unperturbed by the audience, he deposited her in the middle of the room then turned on his heel and leant his weight against the door, barring any escape.
Their explosives expert was a rabbit caught in headlights; her face ashy, and her eyes glazed.
“What in tarnation is going on here?” McCoy stretched himself out to his full height.
“Sorry, I tried to do this discreet-like, but, well, it didnae work. Charlie's no' well. For the last week she's been fast asleep at 2100 hours, and this evening she passed out in the bathroom.”
Uhura scanned Charlie's face for clues. Had she been younger, she would have pegged her for a pregnant teenager being made to face her parents, or a young bride forced to marry a man who was not the father of her child. Pure fear blazed in Charlie's eyes until a cold trickle of discomfort seemed to run down the walls of the office.
They all saw it, Scotty marching Charlene to her execution. Uhura's heart lurched as McCoy said in a fatherly, too-cheerful manner, “Charlie, come with me into the good office.”
Satisfied his goal was achieved, Scotty nodded to Charlene. “It's for your own good, love. I'm only doing it to help.”
Through the closing crack in the door, a cornered Charlene looked out, the expression on her face a blank-eyed, beaten resignation; the anticipation of a noose about the neck. Was Charlie really sick? Perhaps she’d kept her condition from Scotty in order to spare him?
At least McCoy was discreet. Scotty perched on the small chair where clients waited, rubbing his palm on one knee in a compulsive action, his face flushed and his mouth set in a line.
“Eh, sorry about that, sorry tae interrupt, like. I reckoned it had gone far enough, she's rubbish at going to the doctor. I'm worried about her.”
“It's all right Scotty,” Christine patted the engineer's knee. “I'm sure you did the right thing. Gorn knows McCoy is the last person to go to a doctor. He'll understand Charlie's reluctance.”
Chekov made an ill-advised joke; he was only seventeen after all. “Perhaps she is expecting a baby!”
Poor Scotty's face was scrutinised by the women in the room, who looked for any betrayal of how he might feel. “Eh, aye well I did think about that, but the way she's acting, I don't think so. Unless,” he stared at a point in the distance, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick, “unless it's no'...” The ending of the sentence fell away.
Time passed, Chekov explained again his theory about the ghosts in the machine and Scotty listened, his eyes staring out of the window at the rain hammering on the glass.
A creak drew attention to the door. McCoy stuck his head round. “Mister Scott, can you come in please.” Uhura's diaphragm rose at his tone, he sounded like a proper doctor - not a detective-doctor - a doctor who was imparting difficult information.
This time, nobody spoke and a charged hush settled on the group. Chekov crept over to a console and began to work, Chapel pretended to look at a Padd and Uhura picked at a loose thread at the front seam of her skirt, trying to calm the double-blow to her nerves from the encounter with Spock, and fear for what was going on with Charlie. Spock too was settled at a console, so Uhura walked over to him and feigned interest, desperate for any distraction. “What are you looking at?”
Before he had time to react, a fearsome tide of swearing streamed through the flung-open door to the good office, it banged back on its hinges and Scotty blustered through, fit to be tied. He crossed the outer office in three strides and left, slamming the door so hard that a Padd near the edge of Christine's desk crashed to the floor, the screen splintering into icy shards. Porthos skittered to the door, and whined and scratched until Chekov rose and opened it so the beagle could follow his master.
Aside from the Russian, nobody moved, but Uhura heard quiet crying through the open door, and the low voice of McCoy:
“Charlie, what do you want to do sweetheart? It's your call.”
~~intermission~~
Awesome fanmix With our Rain Washed Histories by
i_am_32_flavors
Beautiful character art by
theoreticalpixy
[ Part 1-3] [ Part 4-6] [ Part 7-9] [ Part 10-12] [ Part 13-15] [ Part 16-17] [ Part 18-end]