Murder on the Orion Express

Long note at the beginning. It won't be like this every chapter, but to make up for it, I'm posting the prologue and first chapter together.

I've been meaning to get around to this story for months, but never found the time. I was starting to think I'd never get this off the ground, since the rise of COVID-19 was swamping me with work away from home. Due to the chaos, it was looking like I'd have an extended outlook for work, but then word came down and I was sent packing that same day. On the other hand, I've been able to check the mail and do some maintenance and upkeep, and log back in here.

I have been a longtime fan of Agatha Christie and Star Trek. The following is an adaptation of one of my all time favorite plots, set in the Star Trek universe. This is a slightly Alternate Universe Star Trek setting.

This should be fairly evident, but just so my bases are covered: I own neither Star Trek nor the source material for the plot. I made up a couple of my own species and the term phal, which is basically plot-driven space snow, but if anything seems familiar, it is probably because it is – they are not mine.

You may wonder at the descriptions of humans as suddenly more physically capable on the scale of sapient life. That is influence from reddit's HFY (Humanity, F*ck Yeah) page, where instead of humans being the obtuse weaklings of the galaxy, they are closer to space orcs. I couldn't help myself, although I did try to tone it down a bit. Humans are still flimsier than vulcans and klingons, but scarier for other species.

Feedback is always welcome, both for the story itself and for spelling and grammar.

Final bit here:

I decided for the sake of my sanity to ignore that differently sized planets in different systems and cultures will have their own systems for keeping time. I've kept the seven-day-week system, and I call them Monday, Tuesday, etc., in case it comes up. I am also ignoring time zones, because I don't even want to think about keeping a running spreadsheet of different chronologies for different planets and how that translates for the characters traveling through space. Time does come up, so when people say it's 9 at night, it means exactly what you think it does.

Hopefully everyone will simply enjoy the ride. Almost literally.

Prologue:

He periodically swore he was getting too old for his line of work. But, his planet had needed him. Then, it was his system. Now, it was several systems this end of the galactic quadrant.

Chronologically, he wasn't actually that old, but by almost any other metric, he was ancient. The old man rubbed at the corners of his eyes and drained his cup before booting his pad. Accessing this particular file had become his new normal.

Those damned kids better not have cocked things up. He didn't care if one of them was several years his senior, nor did he care that they'd all racked up more time in a wide variety of space and field operations than him at this point. If they succeeded, then this Old Man could finally think about actually retiring. If not, the delicate diplomatic ties he'd helped support might wither. He generally categorized people he worked with into two categories. Failures or martyrs. Those who succeeded were just failures or martyrs in the making. Besides, if those kids failed, who was he kidding? He'd realized some years back that he would likely die from someone seeking revenge. And to think, the very people who would conceivably end this Old Man's life were the very ones on conquest for justice from a different old man.

The pad booted and the file loaded.

Images of the crime scene felt familiar at this point. Old Man had studied these images to the point that he knew them better than the faces of his wife, children and two favorite mistresses. He lazily scrolled through the first autopsy report, and settled in to review the second one. Then the many police and medical reports. The filings, the pleadings. The news articles. The gossipy tabloids.

He nodded to his receptionist who entered to deliver the latest news. He stepped forward, placed the chips on Old Man's desk and took the liberty of replacing his thermos with a fresh one. Old Man appreciated his receptionist's ability to predict his own wants and needs before he'd even realized them. Instead of immediately leaving, however, the receptionist straightened and cleared his throat.

"Check the feed logs from the emergency station." The receptionist withdrew. Old Man clicked through on his monitor to check the station's feeds.

The returning vessel was, for lack of a better description, tattered. It's hull was intact, but had sustained severe damage and it's starboard coils were giving odd emissions and something on it's ventral facing was leaking something else, but the visual feed didn't show that angle.

Despite investing countless hours and shelving other projects for the last few months to this business, Old Man didn't actually worry for the ship. He didn't particularly worry for the people in it, for that matter. But he was worried, alright. Someone on the ship had engaged the ship's emergency protocols to send the vessel to the station designated for distress. And it was far earlier than he'd planned. He would need to see to this personally.

Getting there meant he had to pull strings, but the old man had been pulling strings for decades. Striding to the station's sick bay, he was briefed on the way by the medical officer who had already treated what he could and met him at the loading dock.

Old Man rounded the corner and stepped through as the door slid open. Two of the bodies were already covered out of antiquated sentiment. Everyone in the room had seen death before, so Old Man wasn't sure who the doctors and nurses were trying to protect. He zeroed in on the third bed.

"What happened?" The doctor had told Old Man that the vessel's only survivor shouldn't be trying to talk, but both he and the survivor didn't give a damn.

"There was a trap." The survivor's voice was hoarse. His eyes flicked to his two companions, both dead. He swallowed and refused to look at the shadow standing at the foot of his bed, instead focusing on Old Man. "We realized too late, and set it off." Without a word, the mute shadow turned and left. Old Man was disappointed, to be honest. Old Man had always thought the shadow would have a bit more fight in him. He listened to the rest of the survivor's report.

"So you failed. Shame." Old Man had never bothered to sugarcoat things before, and he wasn't about to start. He stretched his neck from getting a crick. "Had you and your friends realized a bit sooner, we might have kept the trail alive. It's well and dead now," Old Man glanced at the shrouded figures next to them.

"No, it isn't." They both turned to the determined face of another of the survivor's friends. How different everyone looked in person, from the Old Man's files. Old Man's files pictured bright, eager faces. Old Man was familiar with the dynamic. He'd made a career of signing off on sending bright, eager faces to meet premature deaths. Those who managed to avoid such endings returned stressed and sad. "Take a look."

Old Man accepted the pad with live footage of a holding cell. So, they weren't failures, after all. He mentally re-filed the two dead as martyrs.

Chapter 1

An Important Passenger on the Taurus Express

It was torturous early on a winter's morning on the planet Sy'xenia. Alongside the docking platform at Al'reshdhury stood the merchant-class passenger liner, grandly designated in galactic guides as the Taurus Express. It included a kitchen and dining-capable bay, a suite of sleeping berths and additional coaches.

By the step leading up to the sleeping berth section of the vessel stood a young Axanar lieutenant, resplendent in uniform, conversing with a small Xoisk man muffled up to the ears of whom nothing was visible but a wind-chilled nose and the two points of upward-curled brows.

The breeze circulated a biting cold, and this job of seeing off a distinguished stranger was not one to be envied, but Lieutenant Dounosc was determined to perform his part. It wasn't the cold, but the undesirable hour that challenged the lieutenant. Graceful phrases fell from his lips in well-studied Xoisk. Lieutenant Dounosc had had to reboot his Xoisk language program on his study tablet and practice the accent. He had forgotten how tiring it was to remember to stick in pleasantries at every conceivable juncture of conversation. Xoisk culture dictated that manners and politeness ruled nearly every form of social and professional interaction. The lieutenant had stayed up until the early hours and crammed on as many pleasantries, compliments and small talk points as possible. And here he was, mere hours later, regurgitating them. He was fairly certain he was enunciating respectable Xoisk pronunciation.

He was still in the dark when it came to this whole affair. There had been rumors, of course, as there always were in such cases. The General's temper had grown worse and everyone was on edge. And then this funny little Xoisk stranger came all the way from Federation space or somewhere thereabouts. There had been a week – a week of tight lips. And then certain things had happened. A very distinguished officer beyond reproach had committed suicide, another had suddenly resigned and run off with their sweetheart. Yet another remained on duty, numbly going about their duties. The most determined gossips had not been able to coax answers from them. But the matter, mysterious as it was, seemed closed. Anxious faces had suddenly lost their anxiety and several military precautions were relaxed. And the General, Lieutenant Dounosc's own particular General, had suddenly looked years younger and moved with invisible weights removed.

Dounosc had overheard part of a conversation between him and the stranger.

"You have saved us, old friend," said the General emotionally, his bushy white mustache trembling as he spoke. "You have saved the honor of the Axanar Army – you have averted bloodshed! How can I thank you for agreeing to come? To help? You have come so far to help a friend from so long ago-"

And then the stranger, named Hilus Plormot, had broken in to make a fitting reply, dramatically saying, "Think nothing of it, I seem to remember that you saved my life, once."

Then the General had made an equally dramatic and emotional reply to that, exclaiming:

"You would have done the same for me," and the two gabled on with more mention of Axanar, of Xoisk, of glory, of honor and the two of them, feeding off of each other's bluster, reached a point of such kindred things that they embraced each other again.

As to what the matter had all been about, Lieutenant Dounosc was still in the dark, but to him had been delegated the duty of seeing off Plormot by the Taurus Express, and he was carrying it out with all the zeal and ardor befitting a young officer with a promising career ahead of him. During this mysterious matter, Dounosc had worried he had hung his star on the wrong general – indeed, in the wrong sector – but now it seemed to have cleared up, his prospects for a career of promotions seemed secure once more.

Lieutenant Dubosc broke the silence. "Tomorrow evening, you will be in St'aldor."

It was not the first time he made this observation. He would ordinarily be disappointed with his own lack of interpersonal skill but he'd been standing sill for too long, and this man was both a stranger and a strange man. Moreover, conversations on the platform, before the departure of a vessel, are understood to be somewhat repetitive in character.

"That is so," agreed Plormot. He graciously kept up the charade that conversations with strangers on platforms weren't the awkward affairs that they were.

"And you plan to stay there a few days, is that right?"

"Yes, that is so. St'aldor is a city I have never visited. It would be a pity to pass through at light speed and not see the sights." The little Xoisk chuckled in a vain attempt to cover how cold he felt. "For once, I have no planned itinerary. I shall be a proper tourist for at least a small while."

"The Pillars of Wisdom, they are extraordinary," said Lieutenant Dounosc, who had never seen them. In truth, he had no use for the relics of ancient alien religion, but this particular site had been one of the few to stick to his memory. Even his dismissive attitude towards ancient things had given way to the romantic imaginations of stories of people long gone, tethered to the present through such a breathtaking landmark. He shook himself. He had a General to impress.

Another cold wind came whistling down the platform. The Xoisk man shivered and both politely did not acknowledge their shared discomfort. Lieutenant Dounosc snuck a quick glance at his watch. Only five minutes more. But he couldn't be caught acting bored now; not when that could be the last impression left with the stranger who held sway with his General. He hurried to start up conversation anew.

"There won't be many people traveling this time of year," he said, glancing up at the Taurus Express vessel, which sat quiet while staff prepared her for voyage. Soon, it would be fully prepped and he could see the stranger board the vessel and retreat to warmth.

"That is so," agreed Plormot. It was indeed true. This region of space had historically been a crossroads for all of the known regions of the galaxy. Wars, prosperity, enlightenment and all manner of social and societal revolution had washed over the region. Meanwhile, alien peoples held fast to long-held traditions and mingled among strange new neighbors. Time had not always been kind to the region, and recent years were no exception. To add to changing times and political shifts in power, phal storms periodically came through – a holdover from a star with unique properties that had collapsed several millennia ago.

Phal – a dusty, chalky substance, was released into the quadrant as a result. Depending on trajectory patterns and numerous other factors, phal would float through the void of space, relatively harmless. During the more "wintry" seasons of the quadrant, phal would collect into a blizzard. Unprepared vessels caught up in phal storms were frequently left drifting, phal collecting into every exhaust core and docking porthole, cutting off communications and rending the vessel dead in the void.

"Let us hope you will not be phalled up in the Taurus!" Lieutenant Dounosc joked.

"That happens?" It became clear the strange Xoisk was not accustomed to the realities of travel in this region. Phal storms could be serious occurrences anywhere within the next several parsecs.

"Yes. It has not happened yet this season, but the season is young."

"Let us hope, then," said Plormot. "The galactic void condition reports from Federation space, they tell of poor conditions overall."

"Very bad. In the Batrau region, there are reports of phal storms."

"In Antaran space, too, I have heard."

"Ah, well," Lieutenant Dounosc floundered for something to fill the ensuing silence. "Tomorrow evening at seven-forty you will be in orbit around Cophrates." Another ancient planet of renown.

"Yes," Plormot was also desperate to maintain dignified conversation, driven by the cold. "The Pillars of Wisdom, I have heard are very fine."

"Wonderful, I think."

Above them, the curtains of one of the sleeping berths twitched aside and a young human looked out.

Hannah Lee achingly rubbed her temples. She had not slept much since she left Ghavad the previous Thursday. Not on the vessel from Suelok nor in the hotel at Morvud, nor last night on the Taurus Express had she slept properly. Now, weary of lying wakeful in her compartment which had become overheated, she peered out.

This must be Al'reshdhury, on Sy'xenia. Nothing to see, of course. She'd missed that opportunity when the Taurus Express was orbiting Sy'xenia. She could only see the long, poorly lit platform with staffers jockeying back and forth, shouting in Axanarian, sometimes cursing in lesser-known dialects to avoid being told off by supervisors. The two men below her window were speaking … Xoisk? Judging by the Axanarian military man's efforts to form his lips, he was speaking in a second or third language. The smaller man fit the description of a typical Xoisk, as much as could be expected, all bundled up like that.

But the prominent nose poking out from the folds of his scarf, the impressively full brows expressively responding to his Axanarian companion made her fairly confident in her estimations. Checking the compartment's control module and smiling faintly, she wasn't sure when she'd seen anyone so heavily bundled for temperatures that hovered at just above freezing. She again massaged her temples and envied the crisp air and plumes of frozen breath from the two men below while she sweltered in stuffed quarters. With the exception of Andorians, why did so many species, from Vulcans to Sighnarhians insist on such warm environmental settings?

The ship's purser had come up to the two men. The vessel was about to depart. The passenger had better mount the extended gangway so the ship could depart. The little man removed his hat to bid farewell, revealing a Xoisk head, so ovular and shaped like an egg. Through the ache in her head, Hannah Lee smiled again. She'd only ever seen Xoisk people from afar before, and in pictures, but they all had hats, full heads of hair or were too distant to pick up details. This man had thinning hair, revealing the true shape of his cranium. By human standards, he was somewhat comical; one would find it difficult to take him seriously.

Lieutenant Dounosc was delivering his parting speech. He had thought it out, inwardly rehearsed it, beforehand and had saved it until the last moments. It was dignified and polished. Plormot could not be one-upped, and he launched into a gracious response. Both ignored the ship's purser who stood aside and allowed the display of hospitality trade with displays of upmost thanks for hospitality.

"This way, sir," the purser gently encouraged the little Xoisk man once his response came to a pause. The purser had smoothly timed breaking in to discourage any further flourishes of gallantry.

With a dramatic air of bittersweet emotions Mr. Plormot ascended the gangway, the purser dutifully following. Plormot waved with some solemnity and Lieutenant Dounosc returned with an equally grave salute. At the purser's deft signal to the pilot, the vessel jerked and withdrew the gangway, sealing hatches and firing up launch sequences. Neither Plormot nor the purser viewed the Lieutenant Dounosc as he stamped his feet to renew feeling in them before beginning an undignified scamper back to warmer refuge.

"There you are, sir." The purser gave a well-practiced flourish to reveal Plormot's sleeping compartment, with his luggage neatly arranged and his berth ready for a lie down. Once the purser had received a tip of several credits into a suggestive hand, he became brisk and down to business. He collected Hilus Plormot's ticket and passcard, and verified that he would disembark in St'aldor.

"There are not many people traveling this region at this time, no?" Plormot asked, reflecting on what he had learned from Lieutenant Dounosc of the fluctuating amounts of phal in the region and it's effects on travel patterns.

"No, sir. I have only two other passengers – both human as it were. A Lieutenant traveling from Kaleshdu and a young woman from Ghavad. Do you require anything, sir?"

Plormot requested a bottle of Vadu – a popular form of water rich in minerals that aid Xoisk physiology during stressful periods such as space travel or illness. Traveling with humans aboard, the Vadu would be especially welcome.

Plormot, like many species, likely most if one were to be honest, had never been been fully at ease around humans. They were from a death world, for one thing; their home planet hosted madness as far as climates, tectonics and gravity were concerned. Granted, using the term death world to describe humanity's home planet was misleading; it's harsh extremes had somehow launched a biosphere teaming with life. Then again, the madness of their planet had resulted in no less than six – six, imagine! - mass extinctions, so perhaps the term was most fitting. At least the Vulcans, for all their superior strength and even more crushing gravity, had the decency to hail from a planet with consistent climate environments. Earth, from what he knew, sounded like a nightmarish world, and they apparently lived all over the place. And they were omnivorous, having descended from predators willing to eat … seemingly everything.

Vulcans had forgone animal proteins from their diets in another era. Denobulans had, as far as he was aware, always been vegetarian, with the occasional supplements of animal byproducts; eggs and the like. Xoisk males like himself evolved to process only plant-based forms of nutrition while females supplemented their diets with the occasional dose of larvae during critical stages of development.

Meanwhile, humans had pursued their prey relentlessly. Plormot gave an internal shiver, this time unrelated to the chill from outside. Imagine chasing something so far and for such a time that the prey simply collapses! The horror. The humans had moved on to lab-grown and replicated meats and would grandly assure their galactic neighbors that they would never dream of killing and eating an innocent animal these days, let alone a fellow sentient.

Still, upon encountering humans, Plormot's ancestral instincts never failed to give him an initial discomfiture until his higher processing could wrestle it away and treat them as he would treat any other sentient being. It couldn't be easy being met by the only other deathworlders, Vulcans and Andorians, and to be looked down upon by both. And Klingons had been entirely dismissive. Then to turn to other galactic neighbors and have a fearful reception.

Vulcans had promptly spread word that humans were turbulent omnivorous heathens from another, even more horrific deathworld. A single human's mouth could host an oral biome that consisted of at least six billion bacteria. Once humans had gotten around to greeting everyone, they were met with fear and suspicion. To their credit, they didn't seem to take it too personally. And as it happened, such a turbulent planet had given rise to myriad languages and cultures, some of them suitably temperate and non-threatening.

Having boarded the Taurus at such an early time local time, Plormot had not been able to sleep as much as normal, so he happily curled into his berth and slept.

Waking at half-past nine, he left his quarters in search of the dining cabin. While making his way, he pondered how long it would take to make contact with the humans on board. He had met his fair share before, of course … still.

The only other occupant at the moment was a young woman – the one referenced by the purser. She was slim and dark. Plormot was somewhat familiar with human stages of development, and she seemed both a grown adult and fairly young – perhaps in her mid twenties? It was difficult to tell with her. There was a cool efficiency in the way she ate her breakfast and in the way she called to the attendant to bring her more tea, which demonstrated a cultured knowledge of the quadrant and of traveling.

Hilus Plormot, with nothing else to do, amused himself by covertly studying her.

He hypothesized she was the sort of woman who could take care of herself with perfect ease wherever she went. She had an ingrained poise and efficiency. He appreciated the beauty of her features, human though they were, and the delicate tone of her skin. He liked that her hair, shiny and dark, was neat. It was rather severely gathered and pinned into a polished twist. And her eyes – cool, impersonal and dark. But she was cold, Plormot's romantic side decided, and too efficient and stoic to be a pretty woman.

Another person entered the restaurant car. The lieutenant coming from Kaleshdu. He was a very tall man of an indeterminate age – a very aged man in his late twenties? A well-aged thirty-something? His profiled face exuded both a gleaming intelligence and a weary sense of duty. And Plormot amended his estimation of the man's height. He was certainly taller than Plormot himself, but that would not be difficult for a human, or several other species. Xoisk physiology was one of the shorter ones in the known quadrant. He was likely average or perhaps even slight for a human male, but gave the impression of grand height due to his lean frame and confident carriage.

The human gave a nod to the girl. "Morning, Miss Lee."

"Good morning, Lieutenant Keller." The lieutenant was standing with a hand on the back of the chair opposite her.

"Any objections?" he asked.

"Of course not. Please sit." He sat with some ginger awkwardness, favoring his left side, and a corner of Plormot's mind began imagining how he had come to be injured. Perhaps in the line of duty? Perhaps it was why he traveled alone in a passenger vessel, rather than a troop vessel. He hadn't walked with any particular limp as far as Plormot had noticed. The lieutenant ordered eggs and coffee.

The human lieutenant's eyes swept the room, resting for a moment on Hilus Plormot, but they passed on with indifference. Plormot knew that the predatory omnivore had said to himself: "Only some small alien. Not a threat."

The two humans were not particularly talkative, contrary to the Vulcan description of an overly emotional species who wore their hearts on their sleeves for everything. Plormot chuckled to himself. Most of the humans he'd met had fallen short of Vulcan description. Perhaps it spoke to a Vulcan sense of gossipy drama than of any of their descriptions of others. The pointy-eared ascetics were condescending to just about everyone. Humans were certainly more emotional than Vulcans, and were entirely inscrutable to Curleskans, which was a fairly low bar. To the rest of the galaxy, humans were less notable for their emotions than for their glaring diversity within the one species.

That disastrous planet had given rise to all sorts of ethnic groups, religions, dozens of civilizations and cultural categories, with dozens more subcategories each, and hundreds of languages. Part of the galaxy's shock and reserve towards humans was nested in the realization that an omnivorous predator species could come with such physical variety. Some had evolved perfecting their hunting in the deserts, others tundras, jungles and everything in between. Some were quite small while others were absolutely gargantuan – and it was all due to their ancestral lineage of breeding into predators specialized for all manner of harsh environments. An entire species of highly specialized pursuit predators unleashed into the galaxy at large had caused quite the stir.

The other humans he'd met were certainly not the exaggerated caricatures the Vulcans had described, nor were they the dishonorable weaklings of Andorian opinion. In Plormot's experience, these two were rather reserved, though, even by human standards. They exchanged a few brief pleasantries – a very Xoisk trait, Plormot thought with approval, pleasantries – and then the girl stood and went back to her compartment.

At lunch the other two again shared a table. Again, they both completely ignored the third passenger, Plormot. But they seemed to have warmed to each other some and their conversation was more animated than at breakfast. Lieutenant Keller talked of the Qarund people of the region in Kaleshdu where he'd been stationed. He occasionally asked the girl a few questions about Ghavad where, it was revealed, she had been in a post as an instructor. In the course of conversation they discovered some mutual friends, and their conversation became friendlier and less reserved.

Before, the lieutenant seemed to have been asking questions as a way to test her. Perhaps it was a question of worthiness. He seemed to Plormot to be a very rigid man, but the woman had answered with that same unruffled efficiency Plormot had come to expect from her. By the time their mutual friends had surfaced, Keller had seemed satisfied. They discussed old Charlie Somebody and Beth Someone Else. The Lieutenant inquired whether she was going straight through to Federation space or whether she was stopping in St'aldor.

"No, I'm going straight through." Her response was again correct and efficient.

"Isn't that rather a pity?" There was a sense he was back to testing her again.

"I came out this way on my way to Ghavad. I spent several days in St'aldor then." Such a well-traveled woman, Plormot wondered. It was rare for humans to make it this far out, being so new to the galactic stage. That was quickly changing, but for a young lone female to be so well traveled this far out was an accomplishment, indeed.

"Oh, I see. Well, if I may say so, I'm glad you are going through, because I am." He made a clumsy bow as he stood, flushing as he did so. Humans blushed a pinkish color. She evenly responded that that would be nice. He accompanied her back to her compartment.

'He is susceptible, this Lieutenant,' thought Hilus Plormot to himself with deep amusement. 'Hopping the void, it is as dangerous as anywhere!'

Later they passed through the magnificent scenery of the Taurus sector. They gathered in the observation deck, with large viewing ports that nearly spanned the walls, they looked out towards the Psillysian Gates, a phenomena of extraordinarily beautiful coronal clouds emanating from a highly turbulent star. A sigh from the woman. Plormot was standing near them and heard her murmur:

"It's so beautiful! I just wish ..."

"Yes?"

"I wish I could enjoy it."

Keller did not answer immediately. The line of his jaw tensed and struck a stern, grim visage.

"I wish you were out of all this," he finally answered.

"Stop, please. Not now."

"It's just," he shot a slightly annoyed glance in Plormot's direction. "I don't like the idea of your being a traveling instructor – careening around the galaxy to teach the brats of whomever pays the most. It's not yet entirely safe for lone humans, and I'm sure you could earn a decent amount at a proper establishment."

She laughed with an unusual hint of abandon.

"Don't worry about that. The lone damsel in distress is an antiquated myth. It's my employers who are often afraid of me." They said no more. Keller was seemed to be hiding shame from his outburst.

It was rather an odd scene he had witnessed, and Plormot pondered on it. He decided to file it away so he could remember this thought later. Turning curious conversations over in his mind often helped him pass the time.

They arrived at Ahuok that night about half-past eleven. The two human travelers got out to stretch their legs, pacing up and down the cold, slippery platform.

At first, Plormot contentedly watched the teeming activity of the station through his compartment view port. Then, he reasoned it would be another day or so before he would get to breathe true atmosphere. He fastidiously prepared, given his Xoisk preferences for warm and balmy environments. He dressed as he had when waiting with the Axanar lieutenant to board the Taurus Express. He layered on several coats, scarves and mufflers and, glancing at the miserably damp conditions outside, pulled on boots. He stepped carefully down the gangway to the station platform and began to pace its length. Beyond the bow of the ship, he spied two figures shrouded in the vessel's shadow. The voice of the human male told Plormot of both their identities.

"Darling -" He was interrupted.

"No. Not now. When it's done. When it's behind us. Then ..." she trailed off.

Plormot turned away. He was nosy by nature, and sorely wished to stay and eavesdrop on drama. He equally knew, however, that for all their famed gregariousness, humans valued their privacy. They would not take kindly to a little alien spying on their obvious attempt to carry on a discussion in private. Still, what he had heard would entertain him for now, to turn over and over in his head. He had hardly recognized that cool, efficient voice of Miss Lee. Curious.

The next day he wondered whether they had quarreled. They spoke very little to each other. The girl, he thought, looked tired. She would occasionally massage her temples, trying to be discreet. It might have fooled some, but Hilus Plormot was experienced enough to realize otherwise. The lieutenant seemed to have taken up orbit around her; giving her space and feigning indifference towards her.

It was mid afternoon when the humming engines quieted and the ship came to a decided halt. Heads poked out of compartments. A knot of crewmen donned bulky EVA suits and stepped into the void. They clustered around the engine ports beneath the dining bay's window, pointing and gesticulating to each other as they discussed whatever it was they found.

Plormot stopped the Taurus Express's purser as he hurried past. The man answered Plormot's questions and pressed on. Plormot turned and almost ran into Miss Hannah Lee who had somehow appeared just behind him.

"What's happened?" She asked him in Xoisk, just barely accented, which took him aback. Definitely well educated. "Why have we stopped?"

"It is nothing, Miss. It is a minor amount of phal that has stopped up one of the engine ports. Nothing serious. They are cleaning it out. There is no danger, I assure you."

She made a small, dismissive gesture, brushing aside the idea of danger as something entirely irrelevant.

"Yes, I understand that. But the time!"

"The time?"

"Yes, this will delay us."

"That is possible, yes," Plormot agreed.

"But we can't afford a delay! This ship is due to arrive at St'aldor at 6.55, and one has to cross the Bosphorus river to reach the Uoldims station on the other side to catch the Orion Express at nine o'clock. If there is an hour or two delay, we will miss the connection." The Orion Express, an intergalactic nexus through parts of Axanar, Orion and Federation space.

"It is possible, yes," he admitted. Her fears were soundly reasoned. His curiosity spiked. Her hand that rested on the dining room's view port window did not look quite steady. Her face looked set in concentration … Well, well, well! Her human eyes were pigmented such a dark shade compared to Xoisk physiology he could not normally pick out her pupils, but this close and with the room's bright lighting, they did not look entirely even to each other. Perhaps this was typical of humans under stress? Some type of oscillation? He was certain she was not the type to use recreational substances that would result in uneven pupil dilation.

"Does it matter to you that much, Miss?"

"I must catch that ship." She turned away and went across the dining room to join Lieutenant Keller.

Her worries were short-lived, however. Ten minutes later, the heat sink in the engine port had been cleaned and the ship started again. It arrived at Nallad-uphah station only five minutes late, having made up time on the way.

The Bosphorus was rough and Plormot did not enjoy the crossing. He separated from his traveling companions on the ferry. She had seemed oddly happy to stay on the deck to enjoy the wind and spray from the water or some nonsense. At least the lieutenant didn't seem so eager to risk choppy waters and remained inside, disappearing to another section available to passengers.

On arrival at the Galata Bridge he took a hovering taxi straight to the Tokatlian Hotel.