MISSION TO DALETH IV

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Foreword.

Author's notes:

Yes, Thrae of Kolchak clan is not only the civilian commander of Daleth Station; he is also the leader of the civilian security forces there. For visuals, he is supposed to be the same type as actor Jay Avacone (Kowalski in Stargate – SG1). For no other reason than that I like the actor. I think he'd look good with pointed Vulcanoid ears.

I hope the switching between the Intelligence people's true names and their aliases isn't too confusing, but of course Thrae couldn't know who they really were.


CHAPTER 09: THE BIG SHOWDOWN

The security office of Daleth Station was a small room, full of viewscreens, on which members of the local constabulary heroically tried to keep and eye on the supposedly criminal activities of the trade of entertainment ring. Thrae of Kolchak clan, a Rigel V native, had been doing this thankless job for fourteen standard years by now, and despite his laconic nature, sometimes he came dangerously close to despair.

His men worked beyond their strength, day and night, but it seemed that they didn't have the slightest chance against S'Bysh's organization. He had a small group of constables under his command. S'Bysh had all the resources of the Orion Syndicate behind him. Thrae was, quite simply, no match for S'Bysh – and he found that thought extremely frustrating.

He had sent official requests to Starfleet security several times. After all, Daleth Station was Federation property – nominally, at least. So far, he hadn't even got an answer, not for the last three years. He couldn't understand it. Daleth Station was strategically important for watching both the Orion homeworld and Rigel VII, not to mention the dilithium mines on Rigel XII. How was it possible that the Federation showed so little interest for the criminal machinations of S'Bysh was beyond him.

Not that Thrae would have more trust in the influence of Madame Vithra's clan. As much as he wanted his own people to finally get over the rural poverty of their homeworld – he was one of the few agnostic Rigelians – he had the suspicion that the clan of wealthy industrials only tried to take over business from the Orion Syndicate, regardless of the consequences. They were barely better than the Orions themselves. Still if Thrae had to choose, he'd have chosen the Rigelians. They were still the lesser evil.

Thrae checked the reports from the previous shift and sat down behind his desk to set up the working schedule for the next cycle. It was a complicated task, as his men were a mixed bunch, from humans through native Rigelians to Tellarites; they even had a Vulcan among them. Not everyone was able – or willing – with anyone from the rest, and Thrae had also to see that each them would be effective enough during their shift.

He was deep in concentration when the door buzzer alarmed him to the presence of someone at his door. He pressed the button that would open it absently, and saw I surprise the corrupt Starfleet officer – what was his name again? Oh, yes, Lieutenant Makepeace.

If Thrae despised anyone, it was officers that accepted bribes. Especially Starfleet officers, who got paid rather handsomely, at least compared with the constables on Daleth Station. Consequently, he wasn't overjoyed to see the human on his threshold. But a constable was supposed to be polite with anyone who visited Daleth Station.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" he asked with a slightly forced friendliness. "Makepeace, is it?"

The visitor made a step forward, so that the door could close behind him, and took a handheld device out of his pocket. He stared at the readings for a moment, then nodded.

"Good we can speak freely…. For the time being anyway. Tell me, Constable, do you know what this mark means?"

He flashed a small, lozenge-shaped badge. It was black, with the golden letters SI and the golden strips of a lieutenant on it. Thrae nodded, his throat suddenly very dry.

"You are from Starfleet Intelligence," he said. "Now I understand why you've been on the station so much… how you could be away from your post all the time."

"Actually, I managed that by bribing my superior," the lieutenant grinned, "but other than that, you are right. I'm Lieutenant Benito Aguilar, and I must ask you to come with me."

"Where?" Thrae asked in suspicion.

"To our temporary headquarters," Aguilar said. "To meet my true superiors. You thought your requests to Starfleet have gone unnoticed, didn't you?"

"The thought occurred to me, indeed," Thrae admitted.

"Well, you were mistaken. We have worked on this action for a long time, and we'd like the local constabulary to take part in the endgame."


Thrae was a little surprised to be led to the private quarters of chief technician Nina Velez. He'd come to value the half-Klingon woman greatly, for her usefulness for the station, despite her harsh manners. He was understandably a little stunned to see he in the company of a uniformed Tellarite, an Andorian female, the two Mo'aris from S'Bysh's, the oily agent whom he'd suspected to be a spy of some sort for quite some time, and a tall, dark-haired, round-faced human in the bright coverall of the station maintenance team.

"Commander Thrae, thanks for coming," Velez nodded. "Let me introduce the others. This," she gestured towards the Tellarite, "is Lieutenant Tathar, from the planetary forces of Miracht. Ensign Lamia Ar'rhaniach from Starfleet Security," the Andorian wiggled her antennae as a greeting. "Lieutenant Osborne," Velez introduced the man in the bright coverall, "is also from Starfleet Security."

Thrae nodded to each of them. Rigelians, just like their Vulcan cousins, didn't shake other people's hands. Not voluntarily anyway.

"I assume that the rest of you is from Intelligence," he said, "so I don't need to know your real names. In fact, I'm not even interested. Just tell me what's going on."

"We're about to crush S'Bysh's organization, "Velez told him, "and though we have quite a few of our own people aboard the station, we could use all the help we can get. In order to succeed, we need to hit on several places simultaneously – and we need the station to be closed down completely: no ship must leave the docks, full shields to avoid transporter activity, full communication silence. You're the only one who can arrange that – unless we sabotage your operations deck, of course, but I'd prefer to avoid such extreme measures."

"I appreciate that," Thrae said wryly, "but before I'd promise you my cooperation, I'd like to see some genuine orders."

"That can be arranged," Lt. Osborne said and handed him a data chip. Thrae checked it. He was familiar enough with Starfleet encoding to recognize the signature and the code added to it – one of the very few codes that couldn't be falsified. The orders were signed by the head of Starfleet's Security Division, namely Admiral Benei himself.

"Very well," he said, giving back the data chip to Osborne. "What's the plan, and what do you want me to do?"

Velez displayed the schematics of Daleth Station on her viewscreen. Several areas were marked with red.

"As you can see, Commander, there are our targets. First of all, S'Bysh's Bar. In the stage area behind it is a sealed room, holographically disguised from visual sensors and protected by a scattering field. That's where the entire cargo load of kireshet is hidden; we need to confiscate the drugs, so that we'd have some hard proof against him. His private quarters must be secured as well – who knows what else we might find there. Also, there are cargo bays Delta 4 an 5, the six other establishments on the trade and entertainment ring owned directly by S'Bysh or other representatives of the Orion Syndicate, and finally Docking Bay Theta 3, where S'Bysh's ships are docked."

"Those are many targets," Thrae said with a frown. "Do you have enough people to secure them all?"

"Barely," the young Mo'ari dancer answered in Velez' stead. "That's why we need your help. We can't risk to wait for the reinforcements, although they can arrive any time now, or S'Bysh might find a way to get the kireshet off the station."

"Who goes where, then?" Thrae asked.

"We'll go to S'Bysh's ourselves, as we know the area best," the dancer said. "Lieutenant Osborne and his security units will accompany us and go on to S'Bysh's private quarters through access corridor Delta. Ensign Lamia and her people will secure the cargo bays – Andorians are the best in overrunning large rooms without getting shot. Lt. Tathar and his units will take over the other Syndicate-owned establishments. And I'd like you to send your people in the docking bay. As they control the bays several times a day, nobody would wonder what they are doing there."

Thrae gave him a thoughtful look. "You are in actual command of this mission, aren't you?"

The dancer nodded. "We appreciate your cooperation," was all he said to this. "We need emergency procedures established on the whole station," he then added, turning back to the actual topic. "But leave certain frequencies open so that we can perform site-to-site transports. Nina will give you a list of those frequencies. Is there a way to shut down the protective hatches on both ends of the access corridors?"

"Yes," Thrae said. "And I can separate the individual sections of all three rings by that. But in such case operations will need extra protection. That's the first place S'Bysh and his thugs would try to take over."

"Take this," Velez handed him a small piece of equipment; it looked like a portable generator. "If you attach this to the internal shielding of operations, it will double the strength of your shields. Unfortunately, its capacity is limited to three hours – but that should be enough. If we're not done within three hours, we can forge the whole thing."

Thrae nodded. "When do we launch the attack?"

The dancer glanced at the time signal of the computer. "Basically, it's up to you. Will you be able to make your move in two hours? I assume you'll need some time to rearrange the working schedule of your troops."

"Yes, I'd like to do that," Thrae admitted reluctantly. "There are a few among them whom I don't trust completely. Not by such a sensitive action. But two hours will be enough – if Ms Velez is willing to give us a hand with this portable shielding generator."

The chief technician grinned. "Will do. Anything else?"

Thrae shook his head. "No, we can handle the rest."

"All right," the dancer said, "let's do it. But it'll be a tight fit. The timing must be right, down to the nanosecond."

"Will you be able to get through with it?" Velez asked seriously. The dancer glanced at his brother… if it was his brother at all.

"I think so," he said. "But we might better take… preventive measures."

Thrae would have liked to ask what was wrong with the dancer – the actual commander of the entire mission – if he was ill or injured or whatnot, but he had the feeling that the Fleeters wouldn't tell him. It was possibly better so. He had to go and rearrange his own troops, anyway.


S'Bysh finished his daily exercises, had a bath and a massage, and then he returned to the atrium behind his bar to have lunch. As usual outside opening times of the bar, the atrium was filled with musicians and servants. S'Bysh liked music, unless he had to think or negotiate with a selected elite of business partners. His new First had arranged for a light but nutritious meal and for one of the green dancer girls to entertain him.

The potentate was still in a very foul mood. The message from the homeworld – from the chief advisor of the hégemón personally – had been less than pleased… and that could be dangerous for his position. Nobody could remove him from the peak of his family, but his position in the Gathering, the ruling body of the homeworld, was precarious at the moment. His recent failures had been of personal nature and didn't damage his business, but the fact that he failed had already reached the homeworld and undermined his reputation.

He needed a spectacular victory desperately, if he didn't want to lose his rank among the other potentates. With the profitable selling of the new kireshet and the hopefully opening brand new markets for the drug he'd regain his reputation and increase his already considerable wealth massively. Then he'd pay the young dancer back. For the impertinence of refusing him. For the deaths of his valued First and Second. For the deaths of his valuable servants, killed by the rescue action.

S'Bysh leaned back against his pillows, tasting a glass of excellent wine and the sweet foretaste of revenge that was to come. As he closed his eyes, he missed the short glowing of transporter fields, and so he was understandably shocked a little to see the object of his vengeful desire materializing in front of his very eyes – clad in a black uniform and wearing a patch on his arm with the symbol of the only organization that had ever caused the Syndicate any serious problems: Starfleet Intelligence.

For a syndicate boss to realize that he'd tried to forcibly bed an Intelligence officer was quite a shock indeed. Followed right away by the realization that said Intelligence officer had worked in his bar for three years and watched his activities from close proximity.

"Potentate S'Bysh of the family Sesshu," the officer said in a remarkably even tone, naming his official title and bloodline, "I hereby arrest you for dealing with illegal drugs, kidnapping, attempted kidnapping, blackmail, slave trading and conspiration against Federation interests. You'll be transferred to a Starbase and given a proper trial, according to Federation law. You'll be offered the assistance of a defence attorney…"

Pretending to listen to the young man, S'Bysh let his hand creep to the alarm button, hidden on the side of his dais. But nothing happened. The officer gave him a feral grin.

"No need to over-extend yourself, potentate. The entire communication of the station has been shut down. Stand up, please."

"I don't intend to," S'Bysh said, bored.

The officer shrugged. "It's all the same to us," he raised his free arm and spoke into his wrist-communicator. "Dethwe, Greg, your entrance."

Two other transporter fields glowed up, and the dancer's brother – or whoever he might really be – materialized, in the company of a weird-looking, barely humanoid being.

"The potentate is being uncooperative," the 'dancer' said in a falsely cheerful tone. "I guess we need some more… persuasive arguments."

And before S'Bysh could realize what was happening, the weird-looking humanoid shot him with a phaser, set in heavy stun. He collapsed onto his pillows without a sound.

Jonathan Drake shook his head. "Really, Dethwe, was that necessary? I've just begun to play with him!" The clone shrugged and gave no answer. He was a man of very few words and very straightforward actions.

"You can play with the rest of his people," Burt said. "Osborne and his troops ran into heavy resistance in the bar… and in his private quarters. They'll need help."

"Casualties?" Drake asked.

"Four dead Orions, so far," Burt reported. "Six wounded on our side, two of them serious." He adjusted the small device in his ear. "The Andorians have secured the cargo bays. They lost a man and have seven dead and nine injured Orion mercenaries at their hands. The Tellarites are still fighting. Mr. Thrae and his people seem to have the docking bay sealed and under control."

"Good. Let's help Osborne's men, until the Bianchi arrives with the reinforcements. It must be any minute now."

"What about him?" Burt nudged S'Bysh with his foot – and not too gently. Drake shrugged.

"Have him beamed into one of the jail cells, with Dethwe to watch him. As soon as Applegnat is back, we'll transfer them both to the Bianchi. Let's go!"


In several other sections of the trade and entertainment ring, the fights were still going on rather violently. Tellarites were known to fight like berserkers, with little to no regard of their own safety – or that of their adversaries. They also preferred really high phaser settings, ad due to their poor eyesight, they used their excellent hearing to locate their targets, and harder beams produced louder echoes.

Consequently, the floors of the six establishments owned by the Orion Syndicate were cluttered with dead, badly injured or heavily stunned people – mostly Orions or Rigelians, but some Tellarite soldiers and a few unlucky passers-by as well. The members of the Syndicate had their disruptors set at a very high energy level, too.

"Four brothels and the casino are secure," a panting young soldier reported to Lt. Tathar.

"What about the gaming arcade?" the lieutenant asked. That was the worst of their targets – a virtual labyrinth, with who knows how many exits.

"That's bad, really bad, sir," the soldier said. "There must be at least a dozen mercenaries, with heavy disruptors – and they know the place better than we do. We've already lost three men."

Tathar frowned. "Can we keep them besieged until reinforcements arrive?"

"We can try, sir… but we don't know if there are any hidden doors that lead out of the arcade."

They couldn't afford to let any of the well-trained mercenaries escape, and the both knew that. If only one of them managed to get to operations…

"Very well," Tathar sighed. "Go on, then. I'll try to send you more people."

The soldier saluted and run off to help his comrades. Tathar called Lt. Burt, who'd been chosen as the contact man.

"We're having a problem, Lieutenant. A dozen or so mercenaries dug themselves in in the arcade. I've lost three men already, and I don't know if we can nail those Orions down there."

"I'll send you some of the Andorians," Burt replied over the high-pitched whining of phaser beams. "We're in a tight dogfight in S'Bysh's ourselves. Burt out."

Tathar wasn't particularly enthralled by the idea – Tellarites traditionally disliked Andorians, to put it mildly – but even the blueskins were better than no help at all. He hurried after the young soldier into the gaming arcade, where things were getting worse by the minute. They've lost another man before the Andorians arrived – the Orions were shooting at everything that moved, and they had the better positions. They'd reached a deadlock, and there wasn't much hope for any change without help from the outside, for either party.

The whining of the energy beams concealed the approach of the Andorians so well that not even Tathar's excellent ears could hear them, until they began shooting at the Orions. They had crept into positions accessible only for their short-limbed, long-torsoed species, crawling along illumination walkways like some large, blue insects, their antennae providing excellent orientation – and they seemed to have extra power packs for their phasers, by the fire-rain they produced from above. Andorian fighting style decidedly did have some advantages.

But even so, the Orion hugs were not easy adversaries. Two more Tellarites died, among them the young soldier, and an Andorian was severely wounded – shot down from his high lookout and broke at least a dozen bones, despite the rudimentary exoskeleton protecting his torso – before all Orions were taken out. Most of them were dead. Worked up to a fighting frenzy, Tellarite soldiers usually didn't take prisoners, no matter what Starfleet politics demanded.

Besides, Tathar's men weren't Starfleet officers. They were regular Tellarite ground forces from their homeworld, ordered here to help in this mission. A loan from the government of Miracht. They fought as they were used to, and cared little about Starfleet sensitivities.


Not that Jonathan Drake would lose any sleep over a few dead Orions. Personal unpleasantries aside, he belonged to Starfleet Intelligence – a section of considerably less noble idealism than any other Fleet division. They did all the dirty work not even Starfleet Security would do – or be allowed to know about. Though formally they still belonged to the Security Division, they had special allowances and rules. Not even Counteradmiral Nogura knew everything about their missions. There were many details better left unaddressed. The only person ever learning about all of them was the commanding officer of Starfleet Intelligence. And not even he kept records of everything.

Consequently, when the station was finally secured, they got rid of the dead Orions by simply beaming the bodies into space, without rematerializing them. The only trace of them was a record in Jon's specially encrypted tricorder, with numbers and pictures. For statistic purposes.

On their side, they lost six Tellarite soldiers, an Andorian, two of Lt. Osborne's security officers, and a hot-headed Centaurian from the reinforcements brought in by the Bianchi in the last minute. There were four civilian casualties as well, and they also had a dozen wounded, some of them quite seriously. But Ortiz assured his superiors that they'd live – if brought to the nearest Starbase immediately.

"Good," Jon sank onto a chair, his entire body stiff and hurting. He'd fought like a madman, trying to work all the accumulated frustration out of his system, but with little results. "Elena, call Headquarters for the transport ship. I don't want to keep S'Bysh longer aboard the Bianchi than absolutely necessary, not even under double guard. It's too risky. His people must be watched in the jail cells around the clock, too. No more mysteriously dead witnesses. Not on my watch!"

"What about us?" Aguilar asked. "Are we being flown out of here any time, soon?"

Jon tried to answer, but his limbs began to jerk uncontrollably, all of a sudden, and he fell from his chair, shaking on the floor badly. Ortiz practically leaped over the table to reach him, switching on the tricorder – and frowned at the readings."

"This is bad, people, very bad," he stated grimly. "He's going into shock. Damn, I was afraid something like this would happen. You can't go cold turkey on kireshet just like that. It ought to have consequences."

"But didn't you say that giving him what he needed would help?" Haiduk asked, accusation clear in her voice.

"It did help – with the symptoms," Ortiz replied through gritted teeth, shooting Jon with something frantically. "But it can't cure the drug addiction itself. Madre de Dios, I'm losing him. Ben, where's the goddamn stasis chamber? We have to put him in, until he can be transferred somewhere with a real doctor. I'm just a field medic, dammit, I don't dare to try anything drastic."

Aguilar was already shoving in the disturbingly coffin-like stasis chamber. Burt helped him to lift Jon from the floor and place him correctly in the tube. Ortiz' fingers trembled while choosing the right settings, and he only dared to let out his breath when the lid was finally closed.

"Well, that was close. Too damn close. I guess it's up to you to clean up the mess, Elena. Jon's out of it for good."

"No problem," Haiduk said calmly. "I can deal with it. Ben, I leave the calls to you. Lieutenant Osborne haws gone to collect your boss on the relay station – and that Andorian comm tech, S'Bysh's newest plant. Michael, contact Starfleet Medical. Ask for transport and introductions concerning Jon. Greg, can you deal with the Tellarites? I'll talk to the civilian authorities and hope that Thrae keeps being cooperative."

"What about the Andorians?" Burt asked. Haiduk shrugged.

"Lamia can deal with them for the moment. I'll take things over from her when I'm done with the more urgent matters. Dismissed," she added in a military tone, and everyone swarmed out to do their work.


Madame Vithra's establishment was not damaged by the fights. It wasn't exactly owned by the Orion Syndicate – not any more than any other shop, brothel, casino or theatre on the trade and entertainment ring, that is – and Mondral had the mother wit to shut down the protective hatches at the entrance and the panorama window as soon as the shooting started. They were uncomfortably close to the gaming arcade, so precaution seemed a good thing to him.

This semi-siege gave him little to do and much time to worry – mostly about Ishul. He was reluctant to admit still, even to himself, but the fact was that he'd grown very fond of the boy. Almost too fond. He missed Ishul – not only the pleasures of his bed, but also the boy's quiet devotion, his gentle presence in a champion's otherwise harsh life.

Not having anything else to do, he sat down at the subspace comm unit and called the homeworld. The local authorities had established total comm silence a few minutes earlier, but that was no real hindrance for someone of Mondral's abilities and training. Part of the reason why his contract to the clan ran so long was the fact that Bonkuyo had paid for his education. An education in one of the small technical colleges on Rigel VI that he could never have gotten otherwise. In exchange, he was owned by the clan, until he worked off his debt. Which would take another decade, at the very least. But as a Vulcanoid, he could count on a long lifespan and had time. Besides, this was a good life for an orphan without a family, so he didn't complain. Especially not now, that the package included the pleasures of Ishul's bed.

It took Mondral less than twenty minutes to work his way around the comm blockade. He reached one of the new junior wives at Bonkuyo's mussel farm and was told that Ishul had never arrived there. In fact, nobody knew that he had the intention to return home at all. Nor was he particularly missed by anyone.

The champion frowned and contacted the spaceport of the capital – well, what counted as capital and as spaceport on Rigel II anyway. The transporter records showed that Ishul had, indeed, beamed down there, and then used the southern line of short-range solar transporters that should have taken him directly to Bonkuyo's farm.

Somewhere between the fourth and fifth transporter stations, though, his trace was lost. As if he's vanished into thin air.

Mondral frowned again. This was an unpopulated, heavily wooded area, even with carnivorous animals. Ishul couldn't have continued his way afoot, even if he had embraced the idea of running away from his family. Ishul might be strange at times, but he certainly wasn't suicidal.

That left only one conclusion. The boy had been beamed off planet again, in a desolate area outside the limited sensor range of the solar transporters. And Mondral already guessed by whom.

As soon as the shooting was over, he'll have a very unfriendly discussion with a certain corrupt Starfleet officer. And the man better had a very convincing explanation.

TBC