Chapter Text
Part One (Cont’d)
Natasha had been feeling pretty good about her negotiating skills after her initial meeting with Commander Turanya. To the point that she hadn’t thought twice about offering to help Denella with the engineering side of things back onboard the Reja Gar station.
Unfortunately for her, she hadn’t been the only one impressed with her skills. It turned out that she’d also made quite an impression on Turanya himself.
“You know, I had no idea that you were ex-Starfleet when we met earlier. We’re always on the lookout for extra researchers at the Flaxian Science Agency.”
The oily Flaxian walked alongside her as she carried the crate of engineering parts along one of the labyrinth of corridors inside the station, contributing the bulk of the work to a conversation that Natasha had no interest in having. He had offered to carry the crate for her, and she had been hoping that her polite but firm rejection of that offer would have been enough of a hint that she would rather have been left alone. But apparently Jirel wasn’t the only one whose negotiating skills had their limits.
She walked through the door to the science lab where Denella was working, followed by her unshakable Flaxian shadow.
The Orion engineer glanced up from where she was working at a bank of computer consoles on the far side of the room, and caught the meaning behind Natasha’s knowing glare as soon as she saw it.
“Seriously,” Turanya continued, having caught none of the meaning, “With your qualifications and experience, you’d have the pick of the projects out here.”
Natasha placed the crate down with a thud and turned back to the Flaxian, trying to maintain a significantly more polite tone than the situation merited. “Again, that’s a very kind offer, Commander Turanya. But as I’ve already told you, I’m a doctor, not a scientist.”
“Psh,” Turanya replied, his powers of awkward flirtation apparently unaffected by her comment, “Mere technicalities. As a medic, you have to know so much about so many different species out here in this galaxy of ours, you’re basically a biologist.”
“Hmm. Never had to treat a Flaxian before, actually,” she mused, maintaining her polite tone, before pointedly adding, “Yet.”
If Turanya was taken aback by that comment, he didn’t let it show. Instead, he broke into a cheery smile and wagged a tendriled finger at her. “You’re spunky. I like that.”
Natasha fought off the urge to roll her eyes, and settled on sending a second knowing glare in Denella’s direction, who offered an apologetic shrug back.
“Tell you what,” the Flaxian commander continued unabashed, “How about we discuss all of this further. Over dinner? You know, the station commander’s dining area on Reja Gar gives an incredible view of the Plavian nebula…”
Natasha let out a tired sigh. Inside, she considered the sad fact that there was definitely a part of her that had fallen for this sort of boastful behaviour in the past. Not just her ex-husband Cameron, but more recently with Mizar Bal, a Ktarian who had turned out to be a criminal mastermind. Or even Jirel himself, when she had first arrived on the Bounty.
Still, she also noted that all of those men in her past had at least a modicum of charm to back up their more boastful side. Which was a department in which Turanya was entirely lacking.
“Honestly,” she said eventually, with a firmer tone, “Thanks for the kind offer, but I really think I’m better off where I am.”
“You’re homeless,” the Flaxian pointed out.
She offered him a smile and a gentle pat on his shoulder. “Yep. I am. So, you let that sink in as you’re watching that nebula of yours over dinner, ok?”
Turanya looked a little offended for a moment, before his scaly face creased into another wide grin and he wagged another finger at her. “You’re spunky,” he repeated, as he shook his head and made for the exit to the lab, “I…really like that…”
As the door closed, Natasha let out another sigh, this time of relief. Then she walked over to where Denella was still working.
“Hear that? I’m spunky.”
The Orion engineer offered a sympathetic smile, but had no interest in poking fun at the unwanted attention that the other woman was receiving. After all, she had plenty of experience of having to deal with that sort of thing. So, instead, she turned her attention back to their work. Because she had some more pressing issues on her mind.
“I wanted to talk to you about all this,” she said, gesturing around the lab.
The room they were in was distinctly more modern than the rest of the interior of Reja Gar that they had seen so far, indicating that this was part of some new flagship scientific endeavour that had been designed from the ground up.
It was divided into two distinct areas. The main part, where they were standing, was clearly the main laboratory. It was filled with banks of computers, testing equipment and the like, all of which Denella was currently setting up.
And then there was the other, smaller section of the room. It was partitioned off by a stout metal frame that was evidently designed to house a forcefield of some kind. And it was this part that Denella had some issues about.
“What exactly are we building here again?”
“A research facility,” Natasha shrugged as she glanced around and gestured to the partitioned area, “Commander Turanya said they’re going to build an arboretum in there and complete a long-term study of plant growth patterns in artificial gravity.”
Denella didn’t seem at all convinced by this, even as Natasha continued.
“Actually, it sounds really fascinating. They’re going to test out a range of atmospheric conditions, and there’s a real potential for the results to apply to long-range terraforming projects. If you can adapt the required plant life to the planetary conditions en route, that would shave decades off the time it usually takes to—”
“Are you sure you’re not a scientist?” Denella asked with a wryly amused look, “Because you can definitely talk like one.”
Natasha looked a little sheepish, as the Orion turned back to the fenced-off area.
“Anyway, my point is: Why does an arboretum need a type-45 forcefield to be installed?”
“Like I said,” Natasha replied, “They’re going to test out—”
“Different atmospheric conditions, I know. But you can achieve atmospheric containment with just about any old forcefield. Why specify one so powerful?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I dunno,” Denella admitted with a shrug, “But it kinda feels like Commander Turanya has asked me to build a cage.”
Natasha looked back at the fenced-off section of the lab, and suddenly felt unnerved.
* * * * *
Jirel felt like he was flying.
In fact, he was flying. For a brief moment. He sailed across the mess hall of the Flaxian cruiser Ret Kol in a graceful arc, momentarily freed from the confines of the ship’s artificial gravity. Until his impromptu flight was brought to a significantly less graceful end by the form of one of the stout metal tables inside the mess hall, which the Trill landed on in a pained heap.
Today’s lunch was proving to be a very eventful meal on the Ret Kol.
Breathing heavily, and wincing from the pain of the impact, he managed to roll away across several unfinished meals, before dropping back to his feet and refocusing on the fight. He barely had time to note Klath on the other side of the room, growling in exertion as he lifted a burly Flaxian over his shoulders and threw him to the ground. Or Sunek, who was in the middle of sprinting down the length of one of the other tables, pursued by three other Flaxians.
Because as soon as Jirel got back to his feet, he found himself having to evade a punch being thrown at his face, and failing to evade a second one thrown at his stomach.
He wheezed in pain as the shot connected, but managed to connect with a punch of his own to momentarily daze his own opponent.
The fight had been on the cards ever since they had arrived onboard the Ret Kol.
While the trio of Bounty crew members had mostly kept themselves to themselves onboard, as per Captain Grinya’s suggestion, they had occasionally mingled with the rest of the crew, at mealtimes and during mission briefings. And there had always been plenty of needle between the grizzled salvage veterans and the strangers in their midst. It was fair to say that the Ret Kol’s crew didn’t have much respect for them, and Jirel had to admit that they hadn’t done a great job in earning any.
And with each passing mealtime over the two day voyage, the tension in the air had ratcheted up a notch and the glares they got had become more adversarial.
Until lunchtime today, when an especially large member of the Ret Kol’s engineering team had casually walked up to where Klath was sitting and deposited a large helping of spit directly into the Klingon’s ration of Flaxian stew.
That action had proved to be more than enough to get things going.
As he evaded another punch, Jirel heard Klath roar in satisfaction again, accompanied by the sound of another Flaxian body being slammed into something substantial. At least someone was enjoying themselves.
Klath spun around from the latest enemy he had dispatched and grappled with another Flaxian who charged at him. He recognised him as Lieutenant Kataya, from when they had beamed aboard. The Flaxian seemed to revel in their scuffle.
The Klingon gritted his teeth as he was slammed back against the wall of the mess hall, still relishing the fight despite the surge of pain that lanced through him.
Further across the room, Sunek found himself cornered by Lieutenant Deroya, the female Flaxian they had met when they had beamed aboard. He whipped his head one way and then the other to avoid a couple of swings of her fists as he panted in exertion.
“Um, guys,” he shouted out, “Can we all just clarify what the rules are here? Are we in a ‘it’s ok to hit a woman’ kinda scenario, or—?”
Before Sunek got any further, Deroya threw a punch that connected with the Vulcan’s side, and followed it up with a kick to what was almost universally established across humanoid species as being the part of their body they least appreciated being kicked in.
“Ok,” Sunek managed to cough, as his eyes widened in pain, “That…is definitely against the rules.”
Jirel himself was busily embarking on his second flight of the afternoon, having been launched back across the room by his new fighting partner onto another of the mess hall’s tables. This time, he couldn’t stop himself from sliding clean off the sturdy piece of furniture in a clattering pile of arms, legs, metal canteen plates and leftovers. He wearily groaned where he landed, as a sizeable portion of Flaxian stew landed in his hair.
The fight had finally been knocked out of him. But before his adversary could take advantage, and before the fight could escalate even further, the door to the mess hall opened.
The dozen brawling individuals stopped in the middle of whatever they were doing, and a collection of dazed Flaxians, a snarling Klingon, a wheezing Vulcan and a Trill covered in leftover stew all watched as Captain Grinya strode in, flanked by his second in command, Lieutenant Rondya.
For a moment, there was silence, as the grizzled captain surveyed the scene of carnage in front of him with a look that suggested this wasn’t the first time he’d walked in on this sort of thing.
That suggestion was confirmed moments later, when the Flaxian captain’s face creased into an amused smile. “I told you my crew loved a fight, didn’t I, Klingon?” he offered in Klath’s direction.
Still panting from the exertion of the battle, and working on controlling the blood lust that still boiled away inside, Klath mustered a curt nod back and nothing more.
He was surprised to feel a supportive pat on his shoulder at the same time, and was more surprised to turn and find Lieutenant Kataya respectfully smiling back at him.
“I’d heard Klingons fight well,” he grunted, “But I’d never gotten the chance to see it until now. You didn’t disappoint.”
Klath wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so he fired off another of his curt nods. A motion that he hoped conveyed succinctly enough that he’d enjoyed himself as well.
“Still,” Captain Grinya barked out, getting everyone’s attention back to him, “There’s no more time for fun and games. We’re closing on our target. Lifesign readings are still indeterminate, so we’re now treating this as a priority alpha situation. Beam-in team, be ready in the transporter room in precisely fifteen minutes. Full spacesuits.”
He glanced at Jirel, just as a particularly large dollop of Flaxian stew dropped from his hair onto the deck below.
“In the meantime, get yourselves cleaned up. Newbie.”
* * * * *
Fifteen and a half minutes later, a completely stew-free Jirel led Klath and Sunek into the Ret Kol’s transporter room. And Sunek was still complaining.
“All I’m saying is below the belt is…below the belt! They literally named the thing after the thing!”
“Shut up, Sunek,” Jirel sighed.
All three of them were now clad in form-fitting Flaxian-spec spacesuits, replicated by their hosts to their exact dimensions to allow for full mobility. Each carried their bulky transparent helmets in their hands for the time being.
The three Flaxian members of the beam-in team were already in position on the transporter pad, clad in their own grey spacesuits with helmets locked in position. The faces of Captain Grinya and Lieutenants Deroya and Kataya were visible through their visors. And none of them looked happy to have been kept waiting, nor to be getting treated to another rant from Sunek.
“And another thing,” the Vulcan continued, gesturing to his helmet, “How come we need all this? They can’t scan that crate to check for an air supply over there? What kind of useless operation—”
“I said,” Jirel sighed, feeling a trio of glares burning into him from on the pad, “Shut up, Sunek.”
“What? It’d take five seconds for them to—”
“Our scans indicate an atmosphere,” Captain Grinya interjected, his voice oddly distorted as it came through a speaker on the outside of his sealed helmet, “The suits are a precaution. Until we ascertain exactly what has happened over there. And, just in case this wasn’t clear, they are a requisite precaution.”
The tall Flaxian stepped off the pad with a heavy footstep and stood towering over the wiry form of the Vulcan.
“Now, put your damn helmet on and get onto the damn transporter pad. Now.”
For a brief moment, Sunek considered firing off the comeback that was forming in the back of his mind. But eventually decided better of it. Instead, he reluctantly fixed his helmet into position, as Jirel and Klath did the same. As the three of them stepped onto the pad and turned back, the Flaxian transporter operator walked over to them and wordlessly offered out three bulky phaser rifles.
“Better take one of those each,” Grinya continued, his voice now oddly echoing around their individual helmets over the inter-suit comms link, “Again, precautionary.”
Each of the Bounty crew members took one of the heavy rifles. A modular and industrial design that none of them were entirely familiar with. Jirel noted now that the three Flaxian members of the beam-in team already carried their own versions of the weapon.
As Klath quickly familiarised himself with the controls, Jirel once again heard Sunek’s voice drifting over the comms link.
“Lotta phasers for a simple salvage mission, aren't there?”
Jirel declined to tell the Vulcan to shut up again.
Instead, and not for the first time since he had arrived onboard the Rel Kol, he suppressed a gulp.
End of Part One