Star Trek: TNG Indstinguishable From Magic (20 page)

“I can do that,” she replied with a smile. “Just tell me when you’re ready.”

Nog used his free hand to manipulate the settings on a metallic globe until it chirped. He set it on the center pad, and straightened up, readying his rifle. “Mark.” Carolan tapped a control, and the sphere vanished almost immediately. Nog tensed, ready for his turn. “Energizing,” Carolan said, and a silver whirlwind turned the room around Nog into a dim bridge of Klingon architecture.

Two bodies were just hitting the floor, joining three that were already there, knocked down by the stun grenade that had beamed in first. Nog stepped over a groaning body that was slumped at his feet, just as the door to the neck section opened, and two Ferengi did double-takes in the doorway. They belatedly tried to raise phasers, but Nog and Kovac were faster, dropping the pair with well-placed shots on heavy stun.

A Nausicaan on the far side of the bridge was on his knees, but hadn’t quite gone all the way down under the stun grenade’s effect. He looked up at the sounds of footfalls and phaser fire, and froze. He had a Klingon disruptor pistol at his belt, but clearly thought better of going for it, as he was looking down the business ends of a couple of phaser rifles. Slowly and rather unsteadily, he raised his hands, but stayed on his knees.

While the Bolian security officer put restraints on the Nausicaan, Kovac bounded across to the door and hit the emergency seal, cutting off the bridge from anyone else who might try to come and investigate what was going on.

Nog quickly surveyed the bridge before slinging his rifle across his back. Like the bridges of most Klingon-built vessels, it was dimly lit in infernal tones, but the heavy shadows between the stout industrial furnishings weren’t hiding any conscious members of the crew. Apart from the two Ferengi who had been stunned next to the double-doors to the neck section, there were two more Ferengi, a human, and a Tellarite, all recumbent at various stations. They all wore simple but practical jerkins and jumpsuits, in various colors. Satisfied, Nog slapped his combadge. “Nog to
Challenger,
enemy bridge secure.”

Tyler Hunt took a few deep breaths in the instants between his stun grenade dematerializing and the transporter beam sweeping him across the void after it. It wasn’t fear, per se, but a habit he had long since gotten into, which he was vaguely convinced kept his nervousness at bay.

Then the silver and gray mist swirled around him, and the transporter room vanished, resolving into the much larger hall of a Klingon engineering deck. Harsh actinic lights illuminated both the elephantine generators and horizontal warp core, and three twitching bodies on the floor. Two of the semiconscious bodies were Ferengi, and the other was Klingon. They all wore basic jumpsuits, covered in scorch marks and chemical burns. Unfortunately, the bright lighting, presumably intended to reduce injuries while working on the complex machinery also happily illuminated Hunt and his security team.

A disruptor bolt flicked past Hunt’s head, and sent him diving to the floor. One of the security team with him picked off the gunman, a Nausicaan on an inspection cat-walk above, with a lucky shot. The heavy stun wasn’t quite enough to send the Nausicaan tumbling, but a second was. Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone.

Hunt rolled onto his side, loosing a couple of shots in the direction of the clatter of approaching boots. His instincts had served him well as a Klingon in furry civilian garb tumbled forward, unconscious before his body stopped running.

Gold and emerald beams slashed viciously through the air overhead, and Hunt could almost imagine that the whine of the weapons was really the screaming of the air as it was cut and scarred. Beside Hunt, Ensign Michaels’s thigh popped open with a puff of gases that used to be solid muscle and liquid blood. He fell with a grimace, still firing his rifle with one hand while trying to drag himself to cover with the other.

Hunt darted out, laying down covering fire in the direction of an equipment bay from where two shadowy figures were shooting at his men. The attackers were well-sheltered, and he couldn’t tell for sure what species they belonged to, but one was smaller than the other, and he thought the small one might well be a Ferengi. Hunt had to be more careful with his shooting than the enemy, as he was trying to shoot past the warp core and didn’t dare risk hitting it. Blowing up the ship with himself on board wasn’t the plan he had in mind to neutralize the
Challenger
’s foes.

Grabbing Michaels’s free arm, Hunt hauled him behind a dense metal buttress. He lobbed another stun grenade down the hall, and heard some satisfying thuds. Moving cautiously forward, he found that the last resistance was now safely unconscious. “Hunt to
Challenger,
medical transport required. Beam Michaels directly to sickbay.” He could hear the sound of the transporter beam even as he continued. “Engineering and auxiliary control secure. The ship is ours.”

Nog and Hunt walked along the line of cells in the
Challenger
’s brig, looking at the crew of the captured vessel. Some of them were still aboard her, confined to quarters, but a Starfleet security team was also on board. The most vital components of the engines and weapons had been removed, and the replicator system destroyed. The crew would have to sit where they were until Starfleet came for them.

The bridge crew had been comprised of three Klingons, two Nausicaans, and six Ferengi, including the captain. Nog was surprised to see the Ferengi in charge of the attack. It just wasn’t the Ferengi way, though he knew there were mercenaries among his people. The Klingons and Nausicaans had resisted talking for a short while, but finally admitted that the Ferengi were in charge of the ship. Hunt and Nog both believed them.

“Getting the Ferengi to talk might be more difficult,” Nog said as they walked.

“I’d have thought the Klingons or Nausicaans would have kept quiet longer,” Hunt admitted.

“They’re just mercenaries,” Nog pointed out. “There’s no family or cultural loyalty for them. It’s just a job.”

“I see what you mean.”

“But it will be a different matter with the Ferengi. They’ll keep their mouths shut as long as it profits them.”

“Then we have to convince them that talking will be a better idea.”

Nog was already thinking along those lines. “I think I know how to handle them. But first I need to change out of my uniform.”

When he returned to the brig, Nog was wearing his finest and most garish civilian suit, which had been a present—at
a very reasonable price—from his father. He nodded to the looming human guard. “Let me into number three.”

The guard deactivated the forcefield holding the Ferengi captain, allowing Nog to enter. The captain was thick-set with small lobes and blunt teeth. Nog gave him the broadest, coldest smile he could manage. “So, Captain Kren, isn’t it?”

Kren glowered at him. “What if it is? And who are you, anyway?”

“Who I am isn’t important,” Nog said dismissively. “What is important is the profit you’ve been earning.” He leaned in threateningly as he spoke.

“What profit would that be?”

“The profit that I’m sure you haven’t declared, or paid taxes on.”

“We’re a long way from Ferenginar, and you’re not wearing a liquidator’s medal,” Kren said dismissively, a hint of uncertainty hiding in his tone.

“Ah.” Nog understood. “You think the FCA can’t reach you here?”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing aboard this hew-mon ship, but—”

“Is that what they told you?”

“What?” Kren froze.

“They told you this was a hew-mon ship. A Starfleet ship.”

Kren nodded toward the uniformed guard. “Starfleet.”

Nog let his grin widen, and shook his head slowly. “Oh, the ship is ex-Starfleet, an older model, and there is a Starfleet crew aboard, but it’s so much more valuable than that.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, and Kren did likewise. “You know the FCA now has treaties in place with the Federation.” Kren nodded. “We have a ship exchange
program also. This is my ship, and I don’t like you trying to depreciate it by damaging the finish!” Nog ended with a yell.

“But—”

“No buts, Kren! Didn’t they tell you who you would be dealing with?”

“Starfleet engineers—”

“Do I look like a Starfleet engineer?” Kren shook his head, his eyes wide and confused. “Who do I look like?” Nog asked, suddenly quiet and calm.

Kren thought hard. “I dunno. I suppose you look a bit like—”

“Nog, son of Rom.”

Kren brightened. “Yeah, that’s right. You look a bit like the son of the Grand Nagus—” He blanched. “Actually, you look
exactly
like the son of the Nagus.”

“That’s because I am!”

Kren panicked. “But Daimon Bok said that—” And Nog had his answers.

As they returned to the bridge and went on through to the conference room, Hunt shook his head in amazement. “That Ferengi is terrified of you. In fact, they all are . . .”

“Good. If they respect us, we’ll get further, right?” Uncomfortable with the issue, Nog flashed a faltering smile.

“Right, but it’s not just respect. I can’t put my finger on it, but they look at you the way a prisoner might look at an executioner. A bribable executioner, now that I think about it . . .”

“Don’t worry, sir, I’m not bribable. Or an executioner.”

“I know, and I’m not worried. Just wondering what so impressed them.”

They sat down with the rest of the senior staff around the table. Nog explained that Kren had given up the identity of his paymaster as another Ferengi criminal, Daimon Bok, and that he had three cloaked ships, two of which were now with the
Intrepid
for reasons that had apparently never been explained to Kren and his mercenary crew.

Scotty sat back in his seat and mulled the information over. “Nog, do you know this Daimon Bok?”

“Not personally. I do know that he’s twice tried to kill Captain Picard. After the second attempt, he served time at Rog Prison before buying his way out.”

“I’m more curious,” Hunt said, “as to how a disgraced former daimon could still swing the kind of power that would enable him to get hold of cloaked ships and crews.”

“I did a little digging about his prison time in Ferengi records. During his incarceration, he made contact with the Shadow Treasurers.”

“The who?” Hunt asked, looking as mystified as everyone else at the table.

“The Ferengi criminal underworld.”

Hunt blinked in surprise. “The Ferengi have an underworld? Isn’t that an oxymoron? No offense.”

“None taken.”

Scotty tapped on the tabletop. “How dangerous is this Daimon Bok, Nog?”

“To the Ferengi he is like a . . .”

“Traitor?” Hunt suggested.

“Worse. His quest for revenge went against everything a Ferengi believes in.”

“Ah, a heretic, then.”

Nog nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Bok is a heretic for putting revenge before profit.”

“I’m sure there are Ferengi over the years who’ve been
wronged, or think they have, and gone looking for revenge,” Leah said.

“Of course,” Nog agreed. “But Ferengi get revenge by costing their enemies profit, not by trying to kill people at the expense of their own opportunities for profit.”

“So, he’s unstable.”

“Very. He’s obsessed with Captain Picard.”

Scotty stood. “Then let’s not leave him alone with
Intrepid.
We’ll rejoin the drive section, and get back to the Agni Cluster as fast as we can.” He adjourned the meeting with a nod.

Qat’qa held back until everyone except she and Nog had left the room, then blocked the door to keep Nog in. “Hunt says the Ferengi were scared of you.”

“I guess they’re just not used—”

“To warrior Ferengi? No. You must have at least suggested cutting off lobes, or—”

Nog sighed. “They’re afraid I might tell my father about them.”

“Your father? The ex-engineer?”

“Yes.”

“Why would they be afraid of you telling your father?”

“Because he’s . . . Well, because he’s now the Grand Nagus.”

“The Grand—” Qat’qa’s eyes widened, stunned. “The Grand Nagus? Your father is the Grand Nagus?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell us?”

“No, and I don’t want you telling people either,” Nog said with urgency.

“Are you not proud of him?”

“Of course I’m proud of him! But I don’t want people to think I got where I am because of his influence. It was his
career as an engineer that inspired me to become a Starfleet engineer, and that was long before he became Grand Nagus. He was a private contractor, and then, a member of the Bajoran Militia.”

“As an engineer, not a soldier.”

Nog grunted. “You haven’t met my father. My uncle Quark always called him an idiot, because he didn’t have the knack for turning a profit. But he did have the courage to know what he could do, to dare to be a different kind of Ferengi—with a different kind of project. That’s what inspired me.”

“You have courage.” Qat’qa nodded toward his bio-synthetic leg, a consequence of combat during the Dominion War. “And you wish to be judged only by your actions.” Qat’qa smiled approvingly. “A Ferengi who has earned scars, and honor, and wisdom, in war. She stepped through the door, onto the bridge. “I shall see if I can find you a better battle.”

I
ntrepid
cruised through space, away from the Agni Cluster. Stripped of their combadges, Geordi La Forge and Reg Barclay were taking apart an intercom in her mess hall. “If we can tap into a subspace link,” Geordi was saying, “we might be able to contact
Challenger.”

“They’re probably out of range,” Barclay predicted gloomily.

“They’ll be coming after us.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Rasmussen’s voice said from the doorway. Geordi had the urge to go for his throat, but the Klingon who was standing behind him with a disruptor
rifle discouraged such notions. “We have a ship laying false warp trails.”

“You’ll—” La Forge was about to say “never get away with this,” but then realized how stupid the cliché sounded. He decided to see whether Rasmussen was still in a chatty mood, which his presence suggested he probably was. “How did Bok know where to find
Intrepid
?”