Chapter Text
Part One (Cont’d)
“Salvage?”
Sunek punctuated his question with a scoff that was loud enough to echo around the now mostly empty rec area. And his comment was backed up by a trio of less than enthusiastic looks from the rest of the Bounty’s crew, as Natasha revealed the results of her negotiation.
“Nope, nuh huh,” the Vulcan continued, “Salvage work is the worst. Creeping around some musty old shipwreck, probably in some stupid stinky spacesuit, just to steal stuff from a bunch of dead people? No thanks.”
“It’s not like that,” Natasha retorted, “This is more of a recovery mission. The ship’s out of power, the crew should still be alive. And it’s one job. We help out with this, and Commander Turanya says he’ll square off our debts. And we get the Bounty back.”
She paused and shrugged a concession.
“I mean, after we’re done with the salvage work, obviously. It’ll be a Flaxian-led operation using one of their cruisers.”
Sunek tutted and shook his head again. Further around the table, Jirel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “One salvage job? Really? And just like that, he’s gonna write off all that latinum?”
“You’re welcome,” Natasha replied with a smile, “And, guys, a little more positivity, maybe? I just saved the day here!”
The previously silent Klath grunted unhappily and folded his burly arms. “I am…forced to agree with the Vulcan,” he grimaced with extreme reluctance, “There is no honour in salvage work.”
“But there was honour in ferrying a bunch of fungus across the cosmos?” Natasha shot back with a knowing look.
Klath went to fire back an equally sharp response, but found that he didn’t really have one. In truth, he just didn’t like salvage work either.
“That is…not the point.”
Denella shrugged from her side of the table. “Well, I can’t say it’s what I’d choose to do, but I’d be up for some salvaging. Besides, it’s not like we have much of a choice, right?”
“Ah,” Natasha managed awkwardly, “Actually, you do have a choice. Because there’s something else Turanya wants from us.”
“Oh. Really?”
“Yeah. It’s some big engineering project down in the science labs. It’s fallen behind schedule and they need some extra hands. So I…offered our services with that as well. And in return, we’ll be allowed to complete repairs to the Bounty before we leave.”
That seemed to appease the engineer, leaving Natasha free to turn her attention back to the other three at the table, who all remained substantially less appeased.
“Ok, I get it, salvage work sucks. But I’m not hearing any better ideas.”
“Well, here’s one,” Sunek offered, “We had a good run on the Bounty and all, it was fun while it lasted, but I guess now we go our separate ways. Keep in touch. Maybe catch up in a few years, see how we’re all getting on—?”
“Shut up, Sunek,” Denella griped, “I’m getting my ship back.”
“Your ship?” Jirel asked with amusement.
“Whatever. I say we do this.”
Jirel looked back at Denella for a moment, then conceded the point with a nod. “In the absence of a plan that doesn’t involve salvage work, I guess I’m forced to agree.”
The three of them turned to Klath and Sunek. The Klingon grumbled slightly again, but offered a curt nod of his own. He was in.
“Ugh,” the remaining dissenting voice griped, “I’m still not going salvaging, you know.”
“Perfect,” Denella replied, “You can help me with the building work. Lots of heavy lifting, running around fetching me tools all day, long hours—”
Sunek jumped up from the table in an instant and turned to Jirel, snapping him the sharpest salute that anyone else at the table had ever seen.
“Reporting for salvage duty, sir!”
Jirel stifled a smile as he and the others stood up as well, preparing to depart.
“And you never know, Sunek,” he offered with an optimistic shrug, “Might end up being fun?”
* * * * *
As soon as he materialised on the transporter pad, Jirel immediately questioned how fun this particular mission was going to be.
He, Klath and Sunek stood on the raised pad and looked around the confines of the room. And at the trio of distinctly unimpressed Flaxians standing by the transporter controls.
Each of them possessed the usual facial ridges of their species, with a central silvery line of nodules running down their noses and wispy sensory tendrils hanging from their chins. But even by Flaxian standards, these three appeared especially tough and grizzled. They were dressed in sturdy black uniforms with silver communicator pins attached to their chests, and looked entirely ready and prepared for their recovery mission.
In comparison, the three newcomers couldn’t have looked less prepared for a recovery mission if they tried. They wore a variety of creased and mismatched tunics and trousers, and their dishevelled look was topped off by Sunek’s ever-chaotic hairstyle, and Klath’s unfriendly scowl.
It wasn’t all that hard to understand why the Flaxians looked so unimpressed with them.
Jirel suppressed the urge to flinch as he stepped down from the transporter pad and held out a friendly hand to the Flaxians, turning on his winning space adventurer charm once again. “Hey there,” he grinned, “I’m Jirel. Someone ordered some salvage experts?”
The tallest of the Flaxians slowly looked down at Jirel’s outstretched hand, then back up at the hopeful smile on his face, without his expression softening one iota.
Behind Jirel, Klath stepped down from the pad as well, glaring darkly at the three distrusting figures that faced him. Sunek took another moment to compose himself before reluctantly stepping down. Someone who talked as much as he did knew it was best not to stand on active transporter pads for too long when someone was at the controls.
Eventually, just as Jirel’s jaw was starting to ache from the effort involved in maintaining the charming grin, and as he was starting to wonder if he needed to lean harder on the universal translator, the lead Flaxian tapped the combadge on his chest.
“Bridge,” he barked out in a deep voice, “The newbies are aboard. Set a direct course for the target. Maximum warp.”
“Confirmed,” the response came through the ether.
Satisfied that his order was being followed, the lead Flaxian clocked the comms link closed, then jerked his head in the direction of the door of the transporter room and began to walk. The three Bounty crew members followed, with the two other still-silent Flaxians bringing up the rear.
Mercifully, given the decidedly awkward atmosphere that was developing, their tour guide did at least start to talk to them once they were moving.
“I’m Captain Grinya,” he explained as they paced down a corridor outside the transporter room, “And this is my ship, the Ret Kol. Fifteen years service for the Flaxian Science Agency.”
“The ship or the captain?” Jirel offered good-naturedly.
He received a sharp glare from Grinya for his efforts, who then turned and led them down an identical second corridor.
“Firstly, understand that I am the leader of this entire operation. And that whatever I tell you to do is what you do. It may sound trivial, or easy, or even beneath you. But salvage work can be dangerous, believe me. Especially when people don’t do what they’re told to do.”
“Don’t worry, I always do as I’m told,” Sunek inevitably piped up, “Just not always exactly when I’m told to do it.”
The Vulcan’s weak attempt at breaking the ice fell on deaf ears, as Grinya continued.
“The three of you will be part of the initial boarding team, along with myself and Lieutenants Deroya and Kataya back there.”
Klath glanced back at the two Flaxians, one male and one female, that followed them. There was still no trace of warmth on their features.
“Is there a problem, Klingon?” the male Flaxian virtually spat at him.
Klath felt an innate urge to fight rising up inside of him at this immediate sign of confrontation, but in a break from tradition, he opted to suppress it. “No,” he replied in his most measured tone, “No problem.”
Jirel felt the atmosphere around the group drop another few degrees, as he gamely tried to find some sort of rapport with Captain Grinya. “So, what’s the mission? What are we…salvaging?”
Grinya’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t delay his reply. “Our target is a Flaxian transport, located three sectors away. Based on our sensor data, they’ve lost main power. Indeterminate lifesigns. No other ships detected in the area. Our mission is to recover and retrieve. Logs, survivors and…cargo.”
“What sort of cargo?”
Jirel wasn’t really all that interested in the answer, and was merely still trying to gamely make some sort of conversation. Still, Grinya’s jaw tightened another notch.
“Cargo that belongs to the Flaxian Science Agency,” he replied curtly.
Before the distinctly awkward conversation had a chance to progress any further, they arrived at a simple plain grey door, seemingly identical to all the other simple plain grey doors they had passed on their walk down the corridors of the Ret Kol so far.
Grinya pointed at the door with a slight sneer. “These will be your barracks for the trip. I thought it best to keep you separated from the rest of my crew as much as possible. For your own safety.”
He glanced over at Deroya and Kataya, and for the first time since the Bounty’s trio had arrived on board, the Flaxians all shared a sudden burst of laughter.
Mocking laughter, but laughter all the same.
Without needing to glance over to check, Jirel could already tell which of his colleagues was going to rise to that piece of obvious provocation.
“I do not need protection!”
Captain Grinya looked back at the snarling form of Klath and shrugged. “Maybe not,” he conceded, still smiling, “But plenty of my crew love a fight, Klingon. And I don’t want them having too much fun before we’ve finished our mission.”
Klath growled again as the three Flaxians allowed themselves another short burst of mocking laughter, before they walked back the way they had come, leaving the three newcomers alone.
Jirel realised that he’d been holding his breath for some time, and suddenly became very keenly aware that they were onboard an unfamiliar ship, surrounded by unfriendly people, warping away into space. He felt a long way from home all of a sudden.
“Is it just me?” Sunek asked from over the Trill’s shoulder with more than a trace of sarcasm, “Or are we nailing this so far?”