San Francisco
12/21/2199 – United Earth Calendar
Nightfall, and chill northern winds gusting across San Francisco Bay rapidly dropped temperatures over the city. The sudden cold snap went unnoticed by a Vulcan woman crouched behind the rooftop parapet of a major Starfleet contractor. Partially protected by huge environmental machinery, she pointed a sensor device at the penthouse window across the busy boulevard and found the readings unsatisfactory. She plucked a communicator from her belt and secured a channel to high orbit. "Mister Ragner, where is the surveillance data?"
"I'm working on it, Major." The swinish Tellarite comp-tech darted his hairy fingers across a complex set of colorful keypad sensors aboard the Federation Starship Shenandoah NCC-4010 in geosynchronous orbit overhead. "Apparently, the subject activated a privacy shield inside the room."
"Defeat it quickly, Lieutenant," she calmly replied. "Before something happens in there."
Reaching back in her last moments, the human female grabbed the headboard with one hand and surrendered to forces beyond her control. Her cosmetically painted face flushed with blood and hazel eyes rolled under thick black lashes. The rising moans escaping her ruby smeared mouth sounded painful.
The distinguished Vulcan watched dispassionately, his dark expressionless eyes never shifted under bangs of lustrous gray. Dressed in long robes of subtle tan print, he sat silently in a chair at the end of the bed once again fascinated by human weaknesses. A study in focus, as if commanded to observe the entire episode of human degradation.
Ignorant of his intense scrutiny, Lavender sat up and reached for her cell. "You must be rich or somebody important. Last minute appointments aren't cheap, and by the way, just because you didn't participate doesn't mean a discount. It's still a K." She held out the transaction app for his biometric print.
Tall and thin, the Vulcan gentleman rose gracefully from the chair and reached into his robe pocket. Ten plastic credit tiles dropped on the bed at her feet – a quickly diminishing form of payment, yet still accepted. His voice spoke with authority. "You may leave now. Our business is concluded."
The licensed escort panned disinterest and collected her fee. With prostitution only recently legalized, a lot of clients tried to stay out of the system, as if that helped in an era of mass technology. Funny, she thought, Andorians weren't shy at all. Their sordid tastes made humans look puritanical. This was her first Vulcan and she knew he'd ordered other girls from different agencies. Word like that gets around the business. "Mind if I use the toilet?"
He gestured in the direction and turned away. Lavender shrugged purple glittered shoulders, gathered her clothes off the floor and disappeared behind the bathroom door.
The Vulcan aristocrat left the ornate hotel bedroom filled with Earth's richest precious woods and entered the equally lavish living area. Tables, couches, and settees of cloying assemblage; he longed for his home in the southern city of Ski'rang. A six room domicile of natural, logical simplicity on the shore of Ferrin Lake where his wife and family waited for him. Soon he hoped, removing a small, intricately detailed metal box from the inner pocket of his robe. After a close examination of the item, he touched a comm device in his pointed ear.
"Talik, my guest is leaving."
"Yes, Sub-Ambassador."
Radiant glow from the Bay area washed away all but the brightest stars and the vacancy was filled by the flashing lights of crowded air traffic lanes. Huge rooftop sat-dishes and humming HVAC machinery blocked Major Ti'Mira's view of the recently reopened Golden Gate Bridge. Bright new orange framework glittered off a dark Pacific ocean, the memory of last year forgotten when four high-yield particle bombs efficiently dropped the center span into the water, along with 89 people. Terrorism claimed by Terra Prime, the violent separatist organization resurging one year after the imprisoned death of their founder, John Frederick Paxton.
Humans aren't alone in protesting the United Federation of Planets. Both the Andorians and Tellarites spawned their own fanatic extremist groups working to undermine the Charter. The Romulans challenged the coalition three decades ago by waging a five-year war and were still actively sabotaging Federation interests. And the rising Klingon threat; a race that sees enemies everywhere has increased their military presence along the neutral zone borders.
Trouble threatens in two quadrants and the Office of Federation Security has her following the socially inappropriate actions of a Vulcan delegate on the Federation Council. Illogical to say the least. Ti'Mira dressed warmly in a tight thermal suit patterned in dark camouflage. It fit her body strikingly well. Taller than most Vulcan females, she embraced an exotic golden face of full lips, finely contoured nose, dark eyes and short, brown bangs falling in layers across her forehead. She achieved the rank of major after 16 years with V'Shar, and despite assurances of a temporary reassignment to this investigative farce, anticipated a long tour before returning to a more familiar environment.
Lowering the surveillance device, Ti'Mira caught the last few bytes of Sub-Ambassador Savian's conversation with his paid companion. Controlling her disappointment required an effort. A prominent Vulcan publically purchasing a human prostitute only aided the species segregation ideology. She willingly admitted a certain bias on the subject. Her cousin's foolish indiscretion almost 50 years ago cost her family dearly. Based on the sub-ambassador's behavior, Ti'Mira questioned the Vulcan Administration's continued policy of ignoring the problem. Perhaps this interspecies alliance is moving in the wrong direction too fast. Aberrant relations often cross interspecies boundaries through prolonged contact, even against certain biological imperatives. Vulcans generally find mating a tedious requirement of procreation, except during pon farr when the blood boils.
Conversely, is it illogical behavior when a bond forms regardless of species? Her communicator identified an incoming transmission. "Go ahead."
"Looks like everything's wrapped up here, boss." Corrigan Stark stood on a ladder six doors from the Ambassador's hotel suite, his voice echoing in the HVAC conduit vent. "The heat distributor just passed through, no worse for wear. Maybe the envoy system just needed to clean out the old pipes."
"Thank you, special agent," Ti'Mira replied dryly at his crude code.
The raven-haired MACO officer smirked, occasionally tapping on a metal pipe to perpetuate his subtle disguise in case anyone else walks by his surveillance position. The Council ratified an experimental branch of Federation Security called 'Department 7' consisting of agents belonging to the four founding members and unaligned with any military forces. Team members suspended their military affiliations and were referred to as 'special agents.' Possibly because it signified a Federation alliance of equality, something that rarely happened in reality. Ti'Mira's diverse team generally used rank titles along established lines of authority and familiarity – unless she's irked. Strong and confident in blue hotel maintenance coveralls, Core suspected her eyes were closed in quick meditation during the momentary silence. Most Vulcans disdainfully ignore him.
As a Syrannite, Ti'Mira gained many insights from the Kir'Shara, the lost teachings of Surak discovered by Jonathan Archer in the Forge wastelands. The applied disciplines helped. Her transfer to the OFS and extended human proximity has proven more punishment than promotion, especially with this human. Stark will not disrupt her balance. This development concerning a Vulcan emissary to the Federation Council lends credence to Councilor Henry Archer's accusation of murder.
"Orders?" asked Stark over her comlink.
"Were you able to record the encounter from your position?"
"Sound only," he replied, disconnecting the security feed tap. "It's really not that bad."
Bad enough, thought Ti'Mira, ignoring his attempted encouragement. It was difficult to predict what behavior to expect from her second-in-command. "Have Lieutenant Vrill follow the young woman back to her agency. You and Baran stay with the ambassador and make sure he returns safely to the Vulcan embassy. I want everyone back to our command center when the targets are secured. I'll be there after meeting with Councilor Archer."
As it usually happens, the Federation placed a human buffer between three disagreeable species, but unlike everyone's childhood hero, Core had very little diplomatic skill and enjoyed provocation on any level. In fact, he was quite sure the admiral would have thrown him in the brig had he ever served aboard the NX-01 Enterprise. Lucky his Military Assault Command Operations, MACO commander on Earth had the same sense of playful sarcasm. Replacing the vent grill, Core left the borrowed ladder standing in the hall and walked to the elevator, speaking softly into his communicator. "I should be with you for backup, boss. I'm just across the street. Vrill can handle the man."
Boss, not a title she preferred, yet accurate enough to allow under the circumstances. Ti'Mira packed the electronic gear into a small case and walked across the rooftop to a sleek, tandem-rider aircraft parked near the south ledge of the building. "Just follow my instructions, Mister Stark."
Elevator music highlighted her expected rejection. "Understood, but the Orion Syndicate did try to kill you a back few lunar cycles."
"Yes, I remember." She had planned to pursuit the matter until this came along. Ti'Mira locked her equipment case in a molded storage compartment of the sky bike. "However, we are now on Earth and the risk is negligible."
"With all due respect, the Syndicate has the incentive and credit to hire an assassin anywhere in the two quadrants, especially right here at home."
"Your concern is noted," she replied. "Do as I order."
Unsurprised at limits of Vulcan stubbornness, he implemented his plan. The elevator door opened on a grand hotel lobby filled with holiday guests. Core avoided the crowds and strolled to a position near the rear security desk where private transporter pads serviced VIP clientele. According to previous surveillance, Savian was expected to depart from here. Several people including an elderly Andorian couple in long robes were just preparing to beam out. "Yes ma'am. Then with your permission, I'd like to send Vrill with Baran to watch the heater. It's broken down twice before, we should make sure it returns safely. I can watch the envoy myself. It has enough protection, especially with me there."
Ti'Mira donned a black tactical helmet, threw a leg over the saddle and engaged the energy safety harness. Straps of blue pastel light formed across her chest. Tapping panel contacts charged the power systems and the heat retainer. "Are you capable of following the sub-ambassador without compromising our mission?"
Question his competence; an insult to the male ego of every species, and purposely so. Stark's personality tended to push the boundaries of the most widely accepted social conduct, even for a human. The lax discipline puzzled her. Forced to approve a human as her first officer, she picked him based on an impressive record with MACO. From her knowledge, it was not an organization receptive to unorthodox behavior from an officer. Having little contact with aliens during her 61 years on Vulcan, his bold humor and brash dynamics baffled Ti'Mira more than any other species met so far. Her harsh treatment was meant to temper his conduct into something professional and more understandable. Instead, he deftly negated her effort. "Perfectly capable, boss. I'll even tuck him into bed if you like."
Perhaps it might be easier to simply replace him. She activated the helmet's graphic navigation display and confirmed the preflight checklist. "Do it your way, Mister Stark. Be aware that Sub-Ambassador Savian, second Vulcan delegate to the Federation Council, is now your responsibility alone."
Core grinned at how easily that worked. "Trust me."
"That is a challenging goal, Captain." Increasing power, the craft rose above the parapet and Ti'Mira engaged the thruster drive, smoothly blending into the brilliant lights streaking across San Francisco.
Three rooftops west, a figure stood in the shadows watching the sky-bike disappear into air traffic between the tall buildings. A Vulcan from all evidence, dark bangs and pointed ears, only his pale blue eyes hidden behind dark lenses marked any difference. The device in his hand analyzed her emissions signature and he studied a map display of the city. Predicting her destination after a few moments, he switched to the confirmed data records based on her captured image.
The Vulcan dashed lightly up a flight of stairs to a black, low-orbit vessel waiting on the landing pad. A hatch slid open on his approach and the small craft swallowed him. In moments, whining thrusters lifted the runabout off the platform. The ship melted into the sky lanes over San Francisco and disappeared off the tracking radar, unseen by two dead security guards lying beneath the landing platform.
Another busy Saturday night on Fremont Street a few blocks from Fisherman's Wharf and Federation citizens with a high credit reserve flew thruster vehicles that streaked along the boulevard thirty meters above the paved roadway. The average settled for electric ground cars to cruise the three block shopping district brilliantly lit by holiday neon lights and colorful animated holographs. Christmas-spirited groups strolled in the cold air, crowding the sidewalks, dance clubs and cafes in celebration of the approaching 23rd century.
One building along the seasoned street glaringly displayed computer graphics of happy smiling people in all sizes, shapes and species. One the many registered escort services recently legalized and controlled by the State of California in the Earth year 2199. The realistic characters danced across tall glass windows fronting the overstaffed agency. An easy source of employment for anyone willing to follow incredibly strict guidelines and constant monitoring – a sense of money over morality helps. Escort services were a true interspecies alliance without discrimination. Humanity developed eclectic tastes during this period of adjustment to normalized alien contact.
A black Electro rolled to a silent stop in front of the Talisman Model Agency and a large man in a dark suit exited the right rear door. He turned and assisted the young escort out onto the sidewalk, then climbed back inside. The vehicle pulled away, leaving the purple-wigged hooker checking her appointment log on the brightly lit street. Passing tourists stared and giggled behind gloved hands, some thinking her odd costume another part of the holiday festivities. Lavender, her professional name, liked the attention and ignored the underlying derision of those who knew her true career path.
"Excuse me." The voice of an angel washed over her in tones of love. A shadowy, hypnotic presence had stopped next to her and the young escort melted into instant adoration.
"I think I love you," Lavender whispered in awe.
"Press your finger here," the alien short ordered, covertly holding out a sensor pad. The girl complied breathlessly, heart pounding while her biometrics uploaded. "Alicia Leigh Hanson, nineteen years old and already a whore," the Mesmer read, almost purring. "I think I like this planet."
Alicia/Lavender swelled with passionate devotion. A hooded man standing in the nearby shadows cleared his throat to hurry things along. Mystifying and irresistible, the alien female moved closer and red eyes glowed from within her shaded hood. A hint of pale skin in the holiday lights and her breath caressed the young escort's face, enthralling her will. "Now Alicia, you will tell me everything about your last . . . purchased mating."
The painted prostitute gasped in excitement, desperate to break State confidentiality laws for the love of her life. "Yes, anything you want."
"I know," the siren smiled contentedly, that familiar sense of total control fulfilling an ancient genetic imperative. It made her hungry, but business first. "Start from when you were first contacted about the Vulcan."
Idling in geosynchronous orbit over San Francisco for the last three days put the entire crew in a lethargic mood. Maxwell Hardin listlessly read the ship's status reports from the center chair surrounded on all sides by control station consoles. 35 members aboard the USS Shenandoah and only he wore the gold shirt of Starfleet captain. The rest of the crew wore engineer red, with the exception of three bioscience officers in light blue uniforms. Virtually every aspect of a starship's operational management falls under the engineering division and each specialty is specified by the collar insignia. From warp propulsion to tactical systems, food replicators to waste recycling, if it controls some aspect of the ship, it's engineering.
Katrina Kolov worked at her tactical station, thinking along the same lines as their passenger, Maj. Ti'Mira. With increasing tensions between the Federation and the Klingon Empire, and Starfleet enforcing tighter navigational restrictions throughout Terran space, they place a powerful resource like the Shenandoah on taxi service. Fresh out of factory space dock, the nicknamed Shannon marks her first assignment ushering Fed cops around for three weeks of complete tedium.
The lieutenant wore the latest Starfleet uniform for women, a short red dress accessorized with a wide black belt, boots and leggings – completely impractical in her opinion. Already an hour on-duty, the bored 33-year-old tactical officer assisted Starfleet Orbital Defense with monitoring for unauthorized traffic against the increased amount of commercial and private ships constantly traversing through Earth space. Any unassigned vessels were immediately stopped and boarded by patrol ships. So far, a runabout on an incorrect flight path and two unauthorized teens in daddy's low-orbit sedan have highlighted their three day tour of duty here.
So naturally a sudden alert from the console drew her hopeful excitement. Instead, Kolov swore softly and quickly ran slim fingers over the console pads attempting to identify and track an anomalous signal burst that lasted less than half a second. "Captain," she reported. "Sensors just detected a thruster signature fifteen hundred kilometers off the port bow at .43 duration. Sir, there is no spacecraft identified on that trajectory."
Hardin glanced up from the padd and his raised brows requested further clarification.
"I'll run diagnostics." Katrina bent over the monitors, chestnut brown ponytail falling over her shoulder.
The veteran captain rotated his chair toward the woman stationed on his right in a blue dress uniform. "Giana?"
Lt. Giana Castillo received her Starfleet commission by attaining advanced medical degrees in Xeno-biology, a highly coveted specialty these days. At 29, it made her the youngest of Shenandoah's three science officers and least experienced bridge officer which required a complete knowledge of all command operations. Giana currently studied tactical procedures under Katrina's instruction.
"Computer confirms an ion reading from the forward emissions sensor array," the ship's science officer replied working her board. "It matches drive signatures similar to Vulcan warp engines. Nothing detected on any other tracking sensors." She gazed up with hazel green eyes and short black hair. "No sign of any ship, sir."
"Captain," said Lt. Kolov. "The computer's now saying it was a sensor glitch."
Max Hardin tapped his armchair console for confirmation. A tall, rugged man of 51, he spent his life in Starfleet, from high school cadet to captain for the last 9 years. "Well, unless the Vulcans are using Suliban stealth technology, I'd have to agree with the computer. Who would have guessed? A brand new starship having technical bugs."
Lt. Derek Smith sitting at the forward station disliked his second posting aboard a Starfleet vessel. He spent three years aboard the Endeavor, one of the latest galaxy-class starships. The Shannon is a nice ship, but it felt like a step down for an experienced helm and navigation officer. The 30-year-old New Yorker turned his head to speak. "Captain, a .43 second ion trace also corresponds to a Vulcan impulse burst just before engaging warp drive."
Hardin looked around at his 'first shift' bridge crew. "Katrina, are there any depleting outbound trails?"
"Negative. I've run every scanning parameter. According to the sensor logs, there was nothing out there."
"Giana, did SOD pick up the mysterious signature?"
"No, sir, but they were letting us cover this sector," Castillo replied.
Hardin pondered a moment. "I'm going with a sensor glitch. Send the log to Chief Verholtz, let him analyze it when he has a minute."
His tactical officer complied, transmitting the report next door to the Computer Command Center. "I think he has a little extra time, sir."
"Yes, Lieutenant," he side-glanced her. "I know chauffeuring Federation cops around the quadrant isn't fighting Klingons. You're free to request a transfer in three more weeks."
"No, sir, I love the Shannon. She is a beautiful vessel." Katrina's hasty defense produced a shade of Russian accent, something she swore to erase. Calming with a quick breath, she continued. "I just feel Starfleet is wasting a valuable resource."
"Chauffeuring Fed cops," he agreed. "You think I haven't mentioned it to the admiral?"
"If I may, sir," said Giana. "This is my first posting aboard any space vessel, much less a corvette warship. Personally, I'm glad I have a chance to learn the bridge systems before we head into combat situations."
"This is the first posting for a lot of our crew," the captain remarked.
"Twelve," Katrina stated dryly. "I take it back. I'm glad we're not in battle."
"It's an easy shakedown," said Hardin. "A chance to work out any problems."
Chief engineer Tyson Quinn entered through the bulkhead door directly aft of the command chair and plopped down at his station, tapping away at the console.
"Captain, we have a problem," he said without ceremony. His cropped black hair and rugged ebony face belonged on a veteran MACO, not a warp engine genius.
"See what I mean?" He swiveled his chair around. "What problem, Commander?"
"Pressure's building up in the anti-matter injectors," reported the huge man.
"What? Onscreen." Quinn put the engineering schematic on the main viewer. The complicated data readings emphasized an increasing redline indicator over the dilithium chamber diagram. "We've been sitting in geo-sync for the last three days and overloading the magnetic intermix containment field," said his chief engineer and executive officer. "This baby's a thoroughbred, not a cow, sir."
Hardin squinted at the odd farm analogy. "Excuse me?"
"Sorry, Captain," smiled the LCDR, fingers still working the touchpads. "This is the first Starfleet warp reactor based on shared Andorian technology and it's designed to provide a better power/ratio curve as we approach warp eight."
"This part I know, Ty."
After the Romulan War ended almost four decades ago, Starfleet began producing more combat-ready vessels as a precaution against the rising Klingon threat. Advanced AI automation allowed three crew shifts to operate and monitor the small Talon-class corvette on 24 hour basis. NCC-4010 sported the most advanced weaponry and heaviest defense shield generator available, topped by the first warp-8 hybrid engine, with Andorian help. Unlike the Vulcans, they were a race willing to share technology, and greater speed meant a greater advantage. The crew paid close attention to the chief engineer explain their new engine's design flaws.
"Apparently, some of the simulations were off by a few calculations," he finished. "I've got Ferris and Markham modifying the field integrity grids and anti-matter intakes, but we need to ventilate the injectors, and soon."
Hardin, a trained engineer, drew his own conclusion. "Which means either discharging anti-matter plasma into Earth's atmosphere or shutting down the warp reactor to prevent an overload. Two situations I'd like to avoid."
"We can dock with the orbital repair station, sir," Kolov suggested. "Let them cycle our anti-matter and clear the isolation system."
"Those guys will hold Shannon for a week," contributed Smith.
"I suggest we go to warp," said Quinn. "It'll release the intermix pressure and my guys can make the containment modifications on the fly. I've already consulted with Gant at Fleet Development and he's in agreement."
"I like it. Giana, contact Starfleet Command for permission to leave orbit."
"I recommend at least six hours at maximum warp," said Quinn. "This new engine needs to stretch or we're looking at serious damage."
"Sir," interrupted Lt. Castillo. "A message from Admiral Water's on your chair."
Hating coincidences, Max stared at the armrest monitor – hesitancy was an odd sensation for him. Cautious apprehension, even fear is normal for someone responsible for other lives. Did the 'incident' last year shake his confidence? Everything happened according to regs and Starfleet exonerated him, even assigned him a new command. So what was it? He transferred navigational data to Ens. Smith's console and shared the news.
"It looks like we might get some action after all. While we're out fixing a faulty warp engine, the admiral wants us to run a quick patrol along the Klingon Neutral Zone and check on reports of unidentified electronic signals picked up by long-range sensors. Giana, acknowledge Starfleet orders and notify Major Ti'Mira of our departure. She knows where to reach us if a problem arises. Derek, lay in those coordinates and break orbit, one-quarter thrusters. Katrina, please notify the crew to all stations and let's prep for warp."
The Shenandoah quickly slid away from the dazzling blue planet. Derek announced a 1000 kilometers distance and Hardin questioned his chief engineer on the ship's readiness.
"Let's start out at four and work our way up," Quinn suggested.
"You heard the man, Mister Smith, engage warp factor four."
The low-slung nacelles flashed bright blue. A rapid power surge created an invisible energy bubble around the starship and allowed instant acceleration through the light barrier. After a confirmed ETA and all systems running optimal, Hardin rose from the command chair. "XO, you have the con. I'll be in my ready room getting more details on our mission."
After acknowledging Lt. Castillo's message from the Shenandoah, Ti'Mira glanced around at the décor in Henry Archer's waiting room. He somehow managed to subtly mock Vulcan form in a failed melding of two alien cultures. Her second visit to his office and she still found it slightly offensive. Many of her associates speculated that the Federation Council Representative purposely intended this discomforting effect on all Vulcan visitors. Such as the soft black cushioned seats curling the sitter into an uncomfortable hunched position. Consequently, Ti'Mira sat on the edge, back straight and hands on her knees.
Three human data techs in busty green Starfleet blouses worked at console stations behind a white, curving acrylic desk. With cosmetic enhancements a button away, most humans with extra credit molded themselves into some fantasy of cultural perfection. It's her understanding they always have. Six information screens were inset on a Vulcan-inspired wall carving above them, further example of Archer's odd homage.
One of the perfected assistants informed Ti'Mira that the councilor was ready to see her now. She acknowledged, rising from the chair and subconsciously tugging her khaki V'Shar jacket tighter across her own chest. The office door slid open and Henry Archer bid her to a burgundy wingback chair set before his faux-wood desk. Pale and scholarly at 31, he looked nothing like his famous father, retired Admiral Jonathan Archer. How can any son measure up to the man who not only saved Earth, but the entire quadrant from an interdimensional threat? Ti'Mira understood the complication of family genetics, being connected to this man by a thin, yet disagreeable relationship.
"I read your recommendation to the council, Special Agent." Archer said critically. "You've had three days and this killer is still loose in the city. This is a very delicate political situation and I expected more from Federation Security."
Ti'Mira patiently restated the facts in that same document. "Councilor, the Starfleet Intelligence reports are incomplete and quite possibly inaccurate. According to the evidence, both females were murdered before visiting the Royal Bay, facts supported by hotel surveillance which my team recovered on our first day. Your forensic technicians found no evidence from the sub-ambassador's suite, nor from any from the bodies. No biological traces, prints, or fibers; the only connection is that the victims were scheduled to meet with him prior to their deaths."
"Not just two escorts," he almost sneered.
"Yes, Councilor," she continued unaffected. "We confirmed the SI reports that his aide, Talik, scheduled five appointments over the last two weeks. None of which were from the same agencies. The first victim worked at the Red Zone here in San Francisco, the other victim worked out of the People's Choice agency in Oakland. Tonight's appointment returned safely back to the Talisman agency. Other than profession, there is no direct correlation between the escorts, their agencies or the sub-ambassador."
Archer leaned back in his desk chair, displeased. "I know you find this assignment distasteful. Murder on your planet is rare and the thought of any Vulcan involved in such a heinous crime must be disturbing. Still, you're now a member of the Federation and your job is to protect the alliance charter. At the very least Savian's sexual practices deserve closer inspection."
Ti'Mira replied impassively. "The sub-ambassador's preferences are not strictly illegal by current Vulcan law and certainly not by yours, Councilor. Any further investigation risks violating the alliance charter concerning diplomatic immunity. If you wish to solve these murders, I suggest the San Francisco Police Department start looking for another perpetrator, possibly a criminal who resents legalized prostitution. You have my report and recommendation. Unless these local crimes have terrorist ties, they are simply not Department Seven jurisdiction."
Archer spent enough time around Vulcans to recognize their subtle facial expressions. They do excel at suppressing emotions, making them difficult to read, but not impossible. He devoted time in understanding his alien colleagues, and his enemies. Interspecies mating nearly ruined her family, too.
"You know this is a special favor for my father," he said.
"I am aware of that," she replied. "It is the only reason I agreed to investigate the allegations. Admiral Archer is a great man."
"Intrepid explorer," Henry recited. "Champion of the Xindi Threat, former Ambassador to Andoria and ex-President of the Federation Council who I believe is currently vacationing on some undisclosed planet with his ever-present companion, your cousin T'Pol. It's important to him that the Vulcan High Council remain stable, especially during your planet's recent troubles. First Minister T'Pau appointed Savian to the Federation Council, and now his unorthodox behavior could greatly impact her already tenuous position."
The Kir'Shara seriously affected the Vulcan political climate. The militaristic remnants of the old High Command were swept out of authority under First Minister T'Pau's new leadership. A great pioneer of gender equality, her policies eventually aided Ti'Mira in her quick rise within the Security Directorate.
Recently, a member of the Vulcan High Council named Kilor has gained a reputation with his extreme isolationist principles. Much of it referenced unorthodox Vulcan/human relationships and verged on a Terra Prime level of rhetoric. It catered to a large percentage of the population who considered the old ways in the best interests of traditional Vulcan culture, before the Federation increased interaction between the two species. Even Ti'Mira pondered the advantages of limited contact based on her own discomfort with close human association.
She blandly ignored his remark concerning her cousin who notoriously broke more than just interspecies barriers. A child at the time, Ti'Mira knew the story quite well since their fathers were brothers. First, Sub-commander T'Pol requested a permanent posting aboard the human starship Enterprise and helped destroy the sacred P'Jem monastery. Then, she resigned her commission with the High Command and entered the Delphic Expanse against their wishes. When offered a chance to return, she instead joined Starfleet and ultimately, divorced her husband Koss to mate with human Charles Tucker. That inconceivable misstep resulted in a hybrid offspring used by Paxton in Terra Prime's first attack over forty years ago. Ti'Mira's infamous cousin crossed far too many Vulcan lines.
After Tucker allegedly died in 2161, T'Pol became a Starfleet captain and fared well during the Romulan War. She eventually became chief advisor and closest confidant to Jonathan Archer throughout his political career, and even during his short marriage. Rumors say Henry still blames her for his mother's death, a contention dividing father and son long ago.
Ti'Mira offered a tilted head and challenging dark eyes. "Perhaps I should report my findings directly to the Admiral."
"Follow D7 protocol, Major," sneered Councilor Archer. "You will continue this investigation until the council makes a decision on your recommendation. I don't care how you do it, just clear up this up."
Sixteen levels beneath the councilor's office, a basement tactical room under the United Federation of Planets - North American Headquarters consisted of a windowless box with six clear acrylic desks each with an elaborate computer station. In matters of Federation concern, Dept. 7 was an interspecies terrorist enforcement branch that superseded local authority on all four founding planets. Other members such as Denobula and Rigel came with a butt-full of restrictions, but in Stark's experience it was still one of the few things on which the Council ever agreed. Four OFS agents sat filing reports and researching new lines of inquiry while waiting for Ti'Mira. Even Ragner, his image on a floating holo-monitor, was busy at his console aboard the Shenandoah. With the escort safely returned, and in light of what they learned, the case had reached a decision point.
Corrigan Stark relaxed on a brown fabric sofa, legs stretched and crossed, hands behind his head exhibiting muscled arms. Changed out of hotel coveralls, he wore a tight black tee shirt that defined his broad chest and dark denim jeans over black boots. A black shadow of late night bristle on his square jaw portrayed a caricature of noir suave. "Ragner," he yelled at the hovering vid. "Anything on the box? Ragner!"
Onscreen, the short Tellarite looked up and sneered. "Oh, sorry, sir, I thought you were asleep. No sir, I have nothing since receiving the information exactly two minutes ago. You do realize, sir, we are currently heading for the Klingon Neutral Zone . . . sir."
Each repeated title implied deep disrespect and a touch of loathing. Typical Tellarite and Core loved it. "Are you bragging, Lieutenant? Cuz' I hate braggarts."
Ragner squinted in exasperation. "I will comm when I actually have something, sir."
The screen vanished and Stark chuckled. "That boy's coming along fine."
"Your prodding always helps," said Sahron'Vrill Rashon from his desk, twitching both his antennae in Stark's direction, a sign of annoyance. The Andorian Imperial Guard assigned to the new OFS team dressed in Earth style of dark blue hoodie jacket, buttoned gray shirt and black shiny pants. It went well with his light blue skin, short muscular frame and white hair neatly combed back atop a broad, stern face and piercing pale-blue eyes. Young for an OFS agent, his presence on the team created friction with Ti'Mira, two enemies of centuries-old conflict. Perhaps the Vulcan beauty doesn't realize how much of that grudge Core deflects on himself with his "inappropriate humor."
Stark remained undisturbed; commanding, confident and patient. "Since when did you become a fan of Tellarites, Vrill? Insult is part of their culture and he loves me. Besides, two minutes is more than enough time to find information in the Federation database, and the fact that there's nothing means something."
"I'm not questioning the validity of the intel we gathered, Captain," the Andorian replied arrogantly, rejecting Stark's constant confusion. "Just your method of authority."
"My method?" Core sat up and sharpened his tone.
"Vrill," Baran's synthesized voice circumvented another confrontation. " I'm curious. Are officers of the Imperial Guard allowed to question their superior officers?"
With her hood down, the fourth member of their team revealed the strange pale humanoid features of her species. She was completely devoid of hair, not even lashes marred the porcelain smooth, ashen skin around her bright red eyes. A Hollywood nightmare with a fatal attraction.
Early Vulcan explorers discovered the planet Udora circling a star on the other side of the Andromeda galaxy several decades ago. The inhabitants were sentient, industrialized and aggressive, not unlike humans along the same era. After intensive orbital study, they discovered that roughly one-in-ten thousand Udorans possessed a natural ability to mesmerize and control prey by the vibration patterns produced in their throats. Evolution had wisely decided not to effect other Udorans, or else the Khal race would likely have been hunted and exterminated.
It wasn't until the Vulcans came along and discovered their ability of persuasion affected other sentient species in the galaxy. So potent it nearly forced the captain to kill the 'specimen' they had gathered or risk losing control of his ship. The influence ceased once he was isolated, preventing that incident. Years later, their scientists finally developed a counteragent against the diabolically-designed vocal chords. Now, the Khal were a highly valued secret, even from the Udora government.
Unable to implant a Universal Translator without risking her unique gift, Baran spoke thru the stylish collar device in a delayed vocal simulation and received an Udoran translation through a comm in her webbed ear. Synthesizing the speech actually supported the chemical counteragent in preventing her from controlling everyone in the room. Of course, she was restricted from ever using her ability without authorization, a condition of being here. Stark found the overlapping vocal delay irritatingly tedious.
"Of course not," Vrill replied, antennae drooping slightly. "But he is not a Guardsman."
Core smoothly gained his feet. "Stand down, Lieutenant. In this unit, I am your superior officer and my method of authority is not yours to question. That privilege belongs to Major Ti'Mira," he said, noticeably easing his tone while pouring coffee from the dispenser.
The Udoran presented him with a smile of brilliantly white, very sharp pointed teeth behind blood red lips. A terrorizing expression often the subject of his jokes, and another of the Andorian's peeves. "Vrill," she said. "I enjoy Core's sense of humor. Have you not heard me call him 'snack'?"
"I like 'meat' better," said Stark, nodding at his steaming mug. "It sounds dirtier."
"I like meat, too," she implied, the synthetic voice attempting sexy.
"Is there something going on here?" demanded Vrill.
Stark groaned and rubbed his late night whiskers, returning to the sofa. "Vrill, when are you going to catch on, mate? It's her game. Maybe you need another booster shot."
The Andorian bristled at the implication, stretching his antennae and puffing his chest for a response.
"Captain Stark's right." They all turned in surprise. Desta Arnsdotir, the diminutive Federation computer tech, usually kept out of their conversations. She considered her talents more attuned with Ragner, establishing data and communication links on whatever planet the D7 team might operate in the future. Other than a two-week training indoctrination on Vulcan in which they all participated, this was their first assignment. "About the game, I mean," she continued, brushing mousy Icelandic hair out of her brown eyes. "Udoran females enjoy males fighting over them, it's a part of their cultural evolution. I find it entertaining."
"Thank you," Core and Baran chimed for different reasons.
"Have fun, Vrill," said the Mesmer.
"Ignore her," advised Stark. "She'll get tired of playing."
"Oh, you play just fine." Baran stretched sensually. "And it makes me very tired."
"See?" He waved his free palm at the brooding Andorian, secretly glad of his own immunization shot.
The bunker door slid open and Ti'Mira entered. Vrill's antennae sagged, animosity trumping arousal. She directed Desta to lock down the bunker and ordered a report. Core initiated a holo-screen containing four separate video angles.
"All participants are back to their respective locations safe and sound, no incidents, nor suspicion of further incidents. Major, we've been here three days and the police reports are obviously rot. Neither girl showed for their appointment nor did Savian or Talik leave the suite at any time while the murders took place. The sub-ambassador had nothing to do with the murders, at least not directly. Though, it's possible they happened because of his . . . proclivities."
Her same thoughts poorly presented. Ti'Mira deadpanned impatience, or did she just imagine his smirk? "You believe someone is attempting to discredit the sub-ambassador."
He shrugged. "Vulcan law says he's not breaking anything more than an unspoken taboo, so his personal actions are hardly newsworthy unless there's two murders connected."
"Interesting hypothesis," said Vrill, enjoying this assignment from the start. Embarrassing a Vulcan diplomat would score highly with the Andorian Guard.
"The question is," Stark went on. "Does it involve us? I recommend we let local law enforcement handle their own garbage. Our mission statement says seek and destroy terrorist organizations throughout the five sectors, not solve hooker murders for politicians."
Ti'Mira's dark eyes roamed over her team and returned to Stark. "That was my recommendation to the Federation Council as well," she said. "Not verbatim of course."
"Great," he replied, clapping and happily washing his hands. Core replaced the screen with personal and criminal records of his subject. "I have a very promising lead on Braxus Prime that actually deals with D7 issues."
"Braxus Prime?" questioned Vrill. "The back-planet smuggler?"
"Talo Kinloc, an Orion smuggler with ties to Klingon raiders operating just outside Federation space. I think he has info on Ti'Mira's . . . the major's assassination attempt. "
"I looked at your intel," said the Andorian. "There's a Klingon death warrant on him."
"I know, it's a perfect cover."
"I agree," Ti'Mira said.
"You do?" Stark asked, continuously surprised by her.
"Yes, I also read the report and it's worth further investigation. However, until the council makes a decision on my recommendation, we continue to focus on our current mission."
She tapped a set of pads on her desk and Ragner's face replaced the smuggler files on the floating photon particle screen.
"Major," the furry Tellarite grunt/greeted.
"Lieutenant, let's go over the update I received on the way here. I thought SI records stated the sub-ambassador began his appointments two weeks ago?"
"Yes, according to the reports we received from the initial investigators. Desta recovered a deleted file in the SFPD database. A police officer's surveillance records relating to the sub-ambassador's activities a week prior to the official record."
Ti'Mira turned to Desta. "Any report of escort visitations during that lost week, dead or alive?"
"The data tracks are too dispersed for recovery," she replied. "However, there are no reports of dead or missing escorts during the unaccounted week, nor any independent sex workers I can find. I'm still searching."
"Deliberately or accidentally deleted, it still doesn't implicate Savian," Core pointed out.
"Thank you, Desta." Ti'Mira turned on the Udoran female. "Now, tell me about this box and how you obtained the information from an Earth citizen without an authorization warrant."
Baran shrank under her hard gaze. Unlike the several other planets under membership consideration, Udora barely met the Federation's minimum standards of industrialized classification. They were far from achieving space flight as a developing civilization, yet their two moons contained vast deposits of dilithium ore. In light of the growing Klingon threat and a desperate need for anti-matter, the Council made an exception to the newly ratified Prime Directive of non-interference. Udora quickly grew into a booming society with the influx of modern technology. Since the Federation Council recently established an interspecies investigative agency, they allowed Baran and her unique ability to participate in their grand experiment pending a decision. The Udoran leadership watched her performance carefully.
"Is that the reason why you wanted Baran with Vrill'L tonight?" she accused Stark. "So you could risk damaging our investigation."
He knew the consequences. "Major, the Council allowed her to be a part of this team for a reason. Your own First Minister supported the decision, and I saw an opportunity. If I'd asked your permission on the spot, you would have denied it based more on the ramifications than the results. This was our best chance of attaining information without government lawyers coming out our asses. People can't lie to her, and the fact is, boss, she uncovered new intel. Without eating the informant I might add."
Ti'Mira glared at him and Stark tried for contrite. "I apologize, Major. The decision wasn't mine to make. Regardless of the immediacy, in the future I will clear my actions through the proper chain of command."
That sounded extremely prepared. Still, the results are what count. "You are my First Officer and I expect you to make wise field decisions as the situation requires. My annoyance, as always, is from your attempted humor, and yes, the possible ramifications that might yet still occur." Ti'Mira released a breath thru her nose. "Play the recording."
Baran tapped her console and holo-vid displayed an angle from Vrill's position several meters away. Even though they were roughly the same height, the Udoran dominated the escort into a quivering fawn – predator and prey, and disturbing to watch. The slightly shrill voice of Alicia Hanson passionately described the evening, directed by Baran's incredibly magnetic, unfiltered voice. She had obviously removed the collar device and even a recording stirred Core's libido in spite of inoculations. He surreptitiously watched Ti'Mira for any signs of life.
Alicia explained how she had no idea her client was a Vulcan until arriving at the hotel. He only watched, as lots of clients do, and paid full price in credit chips before she left. Baran suspected the girl had more information and prodded harder, accusing her of holding back. After pitiful pleas of denial and devotion, a terrible groan erupted from the girl. Ti'Mira glared and the Udoran paused the replay. "That was not me, Major. Listen to the rest."
The prostitute released a shaky breath on the recording and struggled to remember dressing for her appointment when she found a small box in her locker at the agency. Her words shook with pain, torturously describing it as ring-sized and intricately etched in silver. It belonged to the Vulcan and she gave it to him the right after she arrived. Baran asked how she knew the box belonged to the client. Alicia, almost sobbing by now, replied she just did.
"I stopped there," said Baran. "It was getting dangerous. I had to dig pretty deep for that. Major, someone implanted an imperative action that unconsciously commanded her to give the box specifically to Savian, and then buried the memory."
"That's hell of an ability," Core scowled. "Who can do that?"
"One of your people, perhaps?" Vrill asked Baran. "The Aenar on my planet eventually became telepathic."
"I have never met another Khal," she replied. "It is forbidden on my planet, but anything is possible. I myself must maintain a proximity contact at all times, and I cannot manipulate memory."
"Maybe it's a Vulcan," suggested Stark glibly. "You guys have telepathic traits."
Her expression had other suggestions . "Stop speculating and focus on the box. It may provide the answers we seek."
Ragner complied. "I ran a secured search on the astral-net and picked up some chatter about the Satisma cartel using similar boxes."
She released her patented blank stare on him. "Do you suspect Sub-Ambassador Savian of narcotic smuggling as well?"
"I didn't say that, Major," the Tellarite said defensively. "I'm just reporting information. There isn't a lot of reference to suspicious metal ring boxes."
"You know," intervened Stark. "The timing was bothering me, but now I think I have it; seven hookers - seven boxes. Assuming the sub-ambassador received escorts during the missing week, it calculates into a girl every three days over a period of twenty-one days starting on December First."
"Obsessively precise in all things," Vrill sneered. "Just like a Vulcan."
Stark glared. Ti'Mira signaled him to ignore it.
"At this point," she observed. "We have no confirmation of any other appointments during the missing week, only a deleted surveillance report. Further, we have no reason to suspect the box is connected to the murders, or even if more than one exists. According to SI reports, no boxes were recovered from the two victims."
"Like I trust Starfleet Intelligence now," said Stark. "Although, I am intrigued by these new developments."
Ti'Mira nodded agreement. "Councilor Archer will likely delay the council's decision on my recommendation. Tomorrow I will clear warrants to re-interview every witness on the record, visit the crime scenes and talk to all investigators involved if necessary. Vrill, contact the agencies of the three surviving escorts that completed their appointments. Use the warrant and bring them in for questioning."
"Should be easy enough," the Andorian answered, speaking with the power of their new office. "They either cooperate or lose their license. The liberal State of California has no choice."
"Simply find out if any of them delivered a box." She paused and directed her words at the Udoran. "They will likely bring a legal representative. If they have the same buried memories, I suggest you retrieve them as gently as possible and within strict Department Seven protocols. An interview warrant will not save you from prosecution for violating the mental stability of a Federation citizen beyond the scope of our investigation."
"Fear not, Major," she purred. "They will love me for it."
Ti'Mira gazed stonily at the hairless beauty and flicked her annoyance at Stark. "Why am I suddenly regretting your idea to include her on this team?"
A wry smile crossed Corrigan Stark's face. As the leader of this merry band, the final decision was actually hers. "She'll be fine, boss. Baran's very clever."
The famous Vulcan brow lingered. "Yes, I've read the report of your association together. Let's hope it's less destructive this time. Ragner and Allen, contact every Bay Area escort agency, even those already listed in the report. We need confirmation on any of their workers providing service to the sub-ambassador during the missing week, likely scheduled through his aide. I also want deep background data on everyone involved; civilians, law enforcement and even councilmembers and their staff. Look for any possible political motives to vilify a member of the Federation Council, particularly in this manner."
"Is that all, Major?" the Tellarite grunted on the hovering screen.
"That's a lot of people, ma'am," agreed Desta. "It could take a while."
She continued unsympathetic. "You both will also need to keep searching the SI/NYPD databases for any files connected to the ambassador; deleted, encrypted or hidden, and you will be careful researching the box over social information grids. The murderer is currently unaware of our knowledge. It's an advantage I would like to keep."
Stark introduced another possibility. "My sources are checking into any recent Terra Prime activity. Killing prostitutes that service Vulcans sounds exactly like something they'd do. Nothing so far, but it might need a personal touch. You want me to contact her?"
"Of course, Mister Stark," Ti'Mira replied smoothly. "However, I will require you coherent at zero-eight hundred tomorrow morning."
He actually planned on sleeping the few remaining hours. "I'll take a vitamin. May I ask what I'll be doing?"
"Questioning Sub-Ambassador Savian about his involvement."
That threw Core off-balance. "All due respect, he's just going to hide behind diplomatic immunity, especially with an emotional subspecies like me."
"I have my reasons," she replied, ignoring his passive aggression. "Everyone get some rest. We'll start fresh tomorrow. Keep the OFS database updated on your progress. Dismissed."
After two hours, the USS Shenandoah cruised toward the Federation/Klingon border at a spectacular warp 7.5. A slight departure from standard Starfleet designs mounted her smaller disk section atop a reconfigured conical fuselage superstructure, allowing space for the new prototype engine and heavier tactical systems. New ovoid warp nacelles trimmed in Starfleet blue and yellow slanted downward on short angled pylons.
LCDR Tyson Quinn oversaw the bridge from his engineering station, foregoing the captain's chair for better observation of the warp field output. A shift of ten specialists monitored and controlled the Shenandoah's complex quantum electronics integration during high-warp operations. Three in the Computer Command Center directly behind the bridge and eight in the engine room two decks below, all of them carefully supervised by Chief Operations Technician Gunnar Verholtz, computer genius – his own title. A Tellarite tech sitting in the ops section has disagreed with that claim many times.
"Time to waypoint?" Quinn asked loudly across the bridge.
"Eighteen minutes," replied Ens. Smith, raising his face from the helm.
"Commander," reported Kolov. "Long range sensors detect the electronic anomaly ahead – ETA five minutes."
"Can you identify the source?"
"It's a vessel. I'm scanning the database for a match . . . negative, sir, nothing corresponds with that configuration."
"Really," said Quinn, puzzled. "Castillo, can you get bio readings from here?"
"Working, sir, it's heavily shielded. I'm modulating harmonics . . . got it." The young medical doctor looked up from her console. "Confirmed human."
"They've detected us," said Kolov. "They're running, sir
"All stations tactical alert," ordered LCDR Quinn, jumping up and hovering over the helmsman. "Stay with them, Smith, they're in restricted space. Castillo, brief the captain on his way to the bridge, then get Starfleet Command."
End Chapter One -