Chapter 2 - Szish

It involved a few checks and rechecks of the schematics before Daniya was able to get the Gorn ship aloft. "It handles differently," she observed, "almost like a shuttle, rather than a starship. It's a nimble craft."

"How large is it?" Crita inquired.

"The levels are each about twenty-six hundred meters in circumference," replied the merchant. He consulted his PADD. "There are thirty bunks on the bottom level. They are all large enough for two. The cargo areas can accept a few metric tons of freight – more if the crew is small."

"Where are the automated controls?" Daniya asked.

"Here," he pressed something under her console, and a smaller board came up. "Punch in the coordinates on the main display and set the speed there as well. Then set this display to automatic. The system will then ask you when you wish to be alerted before arrival, and how you wish to handle communications hails, possible acts of aggression, and so forth."

"Pretty damn slick," Mack whistled through her teeth. "Who was the guy who had it built in the first place?"

"He was a Gorn named Szish."

"You said he had died," Mack reminded him. "Do you know how?"

He was about to answer her when the vessel took a hit. "What the hell was that?" Mack asked, a bit of anger in her voice. Crita looked scared.

"I – oh, no," moaned the Kreetassan.

"Get Tactical up and running!" Mack commanded. "Daniya, get us back to Perseus, as quick as you can, okay?"

"Right," answered the Orion mix, a greenish blur as she worked.

The Kreetassan hit the controls at a nearby console and it sprang to life. "Hmm, now, let's see." They were hit again.

"You don't have time to make it pretty!" Mack yelled. "Which is Communications?" The Kreetassan pointed. She fumbled around with the display until it lit up. "Crita, can you run this?" Her voice was a lot gentler.

"I think so." White fluffy hands pressed switches and then she placed a small device in her large triangular-shaped ear. "Unidentified vessel!" she called out. "This is the … oh, what is the name of this ship?"

Mack looked back. "Uh, I dunno. The Cookie!"

"All right. Uh, this is the Cookie," announced the Daranaean, surprisingly calmly. "We are just riding around, and our motives are peaceful ones. Why are you attacking?"

She hit another switch and the front viewing screen switched to an image of a blue and magenta face with orangey horns sticking out all around it. "Szish! Where is he?!" thundered the person who was, evidently, the other ship's captain.

"He's dead!" Mack yelled back.

"Oh?" The bluish-magenta guy with horns motioned to a colleague. "Power down weapons." He turned to face Mack. "You are the new captain, then?"

"Who the hell are you?" she asked. She could see the Tactical display in the front of that station, and was endeavoring to teach it to herself as she spoke. "I don't know any Imvari."

"I am Skoloth. I believe you have a little something that belongs to me. A female such as yourself surely understands the … injustice of such a situation."

"I know lots of things," Mack replied, a bit peevishly, "I understand more than most. So cut the crap, and don't try to flatter me. What the hell do you want?" she snarled.

"You are anxious," Skoloth observed, "and a bit … nervous. All of this is completely understandable when it's your first command." His tone was patronizing.

Daniya glanced around and set the ship to automatic for a moment. She tapped out a message on her console. He's bluffing. She sent it to all of the consoles on the Bridge, even the unmanned ones.

Mack glanced down when she saw a tiny flash out of the corner of her eye. She read the brief message. "I don't think we've got anything more to say."

"No?" asked Skoloth. "Such a pity, for one so young to die today, and for such a … trivial … article."

"If it was so trivial," Mack countered, "you wouldn't have been firing at us. And definitely not so close to a Federation Trading Post." She stood up and turned, so as to face away from Skoloth and toward Crita. She made a throat-slashing gesture, hoping the Daranaean knew what she meant.

Crita hit a few keys on the Communications console. She then tapped out a message: I can't tell if the sound is really off.

Mack nodded at her. She turned to face the main screen again. She smiled. "We'll be back at Perseus soon. And then we'll be under Federation protection."

Daniya sent a message. ETA is 14 minutes.

Mack glanced at it. "Our ETA is less than ten minutes. So relax, Skoloth. Unless you feel like hanging around with nosy, nasty Federation types."

He gestured to her – apparently the sound truly had been off. "Get him back," Mack told Crita.

Crita hit some more switches. "Listen," Mack said as soon as she got the nod. "I'm sure you don't want any trouble. We'll be back at Perseus in uh, less than ten minutes. The Federation gives new meaning to the term nosy. You don't want 'em snooping around, now, do ya?"

"Hand over the article," Skoloth offered, "or we open fire again."

"We have nothing more to say," Mack replied. "Crita?"

White fluffy hands worked the controls, and the connection was cut. "We're clear."

"Take Tactical," Mack told the Kreetassan, who balked. "C'mon! Ya wanna stay alive long enough to sell this boat, right?" He got up and she began to run to the back. The ship was rocked. "Daniya!" Mack yelled back. "You're in charge!" Mack broke into the kind of run she had used, long ago, to steal second base. Her destination was the ionization diffuser.

She overshot it slightly, and then turned on a dime. Just like pivoting to turn a double play, she mused for the briefest fraction of a second.

She hurriedly sat down at the station. "Uh, main viewer, where the hell are ya?" A little fumbling around and she found its controls. She grabbed the joystick and turned it. Nothing. "Dammit, why aren't you on?"

They were hit again, and she could feel as the ship was turned hard to starboard. She flipped a switch and the console sprang to life. "Okay, okay, sixteen red, two green, that's good, that's good." She pulled up and swiveled the joystick around and the numbers changed. This time, it was eleven red and four green. "Okay, a few dropped outta range, or maybe they cloaked. Let's try the mimic routine." She hit a few more switches and turned the joystick again. "Six blue, ten red, no green, okay, okay, where the hell is communications?"

The question was answered for her with a chime and a flash on a display in front of her. It was another written message from Crita – that guy is calling back, and he's asking for you.

"Huh." She tapped out and sent a quick message of her own –tell him I have the article, and I left in an escape pod. You don't know where I went and you can't reach me.

Mack looked back at the console. "Okay, I need to extend the diffusive field, he said." She pulled down on a lever and swiveled the joystick again. "There, you! Vissian freighter! You're gonna be the Cookie."

The freighter was visible on the main viewer. It was between them and the Imvari vessel. She pulled the joystick around again and the view shimmered a bit. And then it appeared as if they were looking in a mirror, for the freighter suddenly looked like it could be a dead ringer for the little Gorn vessel.

There was another written message. This one was from Daniya –what are you doing back there? They stopped firing at us, and started up on what I guess is still a Vissian freighter.

Tell you when we get inwas Mack's written reply as she pulled the joystick and lever down, turning off the diffuser. Unmolested, they returned to Perseus. The ship glided smoothly back into the bay. Mack returned to the Bridge. "I see the … article … was effective," observed the Kreetassan, a little smugly.

"Why the hell didn't ya tell me it was stolen?" Mack yelled in return.

"What? What was stolen?" Crita asked, bewildered.

"That thing," Daniya concluded, "it's what those Imvari were looking for. You used it to somehow get them to go after that Vissian freighter instead."

"Well?" Mack asked the merchant, tapping her foot in impatience.

"I, I, look," he stammered, "It's not like that. The, the article isn't stolen. But it is quite in demand, as you can see."

"There are others like it, aren't there?" Mack asked sharply. "Right?"

The Kreetassan sighed. "That, unfortunately, is the issue right there. Szish was an inventor. The, the article, much like this ship, is a one of a kind piece."

"Do tell," Mack was still impatient.

"There are how many ship designs out there?" began the merchant. "But none other has retracted nacelles such as this. The wishbone configuration is also a unique design. There have been numerous modifications made."

"What kinds of modifications?" Daniya asked.

"Are you associates?" asked the merchant. "This negotiation should be confidential."

"No," Crita replied, a bit emboldened. "We were fired upon. I, I think that gives us the right to, to hear at least some of it."

Mack drew a breath. "Can you excuse us a sec?" she asked the Kreetassan.

"By all means. I shall go to this ship's Sick Bay to wait." He departed.

Once he was safely out of earshot, Mack confided, "Truth is, he's got a point. If you're going to hear the secrets of this boat, well, you should be more than just acquaintances from the local bar."

"I'd still like to know what endangered me," Daniya stated.

"Huh," Mack decided, "Fair enough. Uh, grab your PADDs."

"Okay," replied Crita, fishing it out of her pouch.

"I'm going to tell you who I am. And what I'm thinking of doing. And then you can decide if you want to work with me. And if you do," Mack offered, "then I'm happy to have our friend below decks spill his guts in front of you. But if not, it stays a mystery to you. I gotta protect myself. Fair enough?"

Daniya nodded, and then Crita did as well.

"All right. My real first name isn't that important. I've always disliked it, and I don't use it professionally. But you can run a search under my middle name, which I do use professionally – Dana MacKenzie."

Crita and Daniya started clicking around on their PADDs. "It says here," stated the Daranaean, "that you played, uh, something calledshortstop for the Titan Bluebirds."

"That was a good twenty years ago," Mack confirmed. "I also filled in at second from time to time."

"There's, uh, there's more," Daniya pointed out. She and Crita read the remainder in silence. The part-Orion looked up. "You must've just gotten here."

"Today, yeah, I did," Mack confirmed, "I traded away the PADD they gave me. I got myself an older model, but at least I know for sure that it doesn't have a tracer on it. Checked my bank accounts, too, while the transport pulled in here this morning. I've got everything from nearly twenty years ago, plus interest. So don't worry, I can afford the boat, along with some modifications of my own. The unique stuff is driving the price up, but it's also a white elephant. So that can drive the price right back down, I figure."

She took a breath before continuing. "He's dying to unload it, so I'm pretty confident I can bargain him down to a more reasonable figure."

"And your intended business?" inquired the green woman.

"Do you know what barnstorming is?" Mack inquired.

"Not a clue," Daniya admitted. "You?"

"Me? Oh, no," Crita answered a little absently. She was still reading. "From what I can gather, you've been through a lot, Dana."

"Call me Mack, please. But, yeah, I guess I have. I dunno." She looked a bit uncomfortable, a far cry from her earlier swagger. "I compartmentalized it. And I suppose I still do. So forgive me if I don't talk about it all that much."

"We're still relative strangers," Daniya pointed out, "so there's no need to be apologetic. But please tell us what this, this barnstorming is."

"A few hundred years ago, on Earth, baseball was played by professionals, but also by semi-pros. Keep in mind, there were talented people who were kept out of the pros due to prejudice. They had to go somewhere, and they really wanted to play. And so they found a way."

"Which was?" Daniya asked, small smile playing on her lips.

"I'm getting to that. See, most pro teams were based in a particular city or town. But some teams traveled. But barnstormers were generally not considered to be pro, and they really didn't have a home field at all. They would head from town to town, and would stop somewhere, and it would be an event," Mack explained. "The locals would put up their better amateur players, tickets would be sold – the whole shebang. The traveling team would sleep in people's houses, or on the side of the road, or in the bus, or even in barns – hence the term. They'd usually stay some place for a week or so and practice and then play the big game. It was slow traveling then, so they needed to get a place to play and practice for a little while and stretch their legs."

"I can imagine," nodded the fluffy woman.

"Anyway, our intrepid travelers would get a percentage of the gate and then move onto the next town. Sometimes local boys would join up and follow 'em right outta town. For guys who didn't really have prospects, and didn't want to spend their lives in coal mines or steel mills, barnstorming had to have looked pretty glamorous."

"Did the opposite ever happen?" Crita inquired.

"It must have," Mack agreed, "You know, they might fall in love with a town, or a woman in it or whatever, I suppose. Eventually, I guess we all get old enough and we wanna put down roots. And like I said, this was slow travel – it must have started off in wagons and then eventually it was buses. It pretty much stopped when professional baseball became racially integrated in 1947."

"So you wish to play baseball again?" Crita asked.

"Not just that and not just me. See, I figure there's a market out there. People would love to see sports competitions. And in this scenario, it's not just baseball. It's local sports, whatever they are."

"Local?" inquired the green-skinned woman.

"I'm thinking of traveling not just from city to city, but from planet to planet and system to system, see. There'd be a team of around, I dunno, fifty people. They'd have all sorts of skills and abilities. And they'd be all sorts of species."

"You mentioned earlier, something about gambling," Crita pointed out.

Mack explained, "There might be betting. And we can wager for ourselves to win. But not to lose – I don't want anybody betting on themselves to lose, and then throwing games. It's dishonorable. Just do a search on the 1919 Chicago Black Sox Scandal and you'll know what I'm talking about."

"What will you do with the ship?" Daniya inquired.

"Aside from getting from place to place, this'll be our training facility. We'll have a holodeck for practice sessions. We could use the middle level's perimeter for a running track. I want a kitchen and a garden, too – they could be on that floor. I guess cargo can be moved somewhere else, maybe to the top level."

"A kitchen? A garden?" Daniya asked, "Those things will devour your free time, if you don't watch it."

"I know," Mack admitted, "but we'll try to make time. I want all this," she gestured vaguely, "because it's how you build a team. So we go to Tellar or Bajor or wherever, and we play. It's an event, just like it was a few hundred years ago on Earth. We get a piece of the gate. Maybe we eventually start peddling merchandise. And we sometimes wager on ourselves to win –at least we don't bet when we figure it's a pretty foregone conclusion that we'd lose."

"The crew should be larger," Daniya pointed out. "I am no engineer. Plus you will need a person at Tactical, and a physician. I cannot do those things."

"Are you saying you'll do it?" Mack asked.

"I am saying, it is intriguing," replied the part-Orion. "And I am, I admit, more than a little tired of constantly being hired out. I am also sick of men trying to paw at me. Would you paw at me?"

"I don't swing that way," Mack replied. "You?" she asked the Daranaean.

"Me? Oh, no, of course not. I was raised with good Daranaean third caste manners." She paused. "I am but an artist. I fear there is little need for me here."

"There's a lot of need for you here," Mack explained. "First off, remember I mentioned a logo? Well, we'll need one. We'll need uniforms, too, and for all sorts of things. One day, you'd be designing, I dunno, mountain climbing gear. The next day it might be swimsuits."

"Still, that is limited, yes?" asked the fluffy woman. She tilted her head and looked particularly canid at that instant.

"I won't tell you it's not," Mack admitted, "but you can run Communications, right? And, well, I get the feeling someone like you would help to keep us all sane."

"There would be large men, yes?" Crita was a little fearful. "I am; it could be …."

"Tell you what," Mack offered, "I will do my best to bring in people who won't worry you, okay? But recognize there are some violent sports in the galaxy."

"There are competitions to the death," Daniya pointed out.

"We won't do those," Mack decided. "And I won't have anybody competing where the prize is a marriage, or a slave, either. We'll just be playing for good old-fashioned credits, or latinum, or Calafan Los."

"Or Daranaean Stonds?" Crita inquired.

"Those, too," Mack smiled. "So, do we have a deal?" Their six hands joined together – green, fluffy white and the color of coffee with heavy cream. "I guess this means yes."